I recently had a conversation with some bereaved parents facing their first Christmas without their son. This is what they wanted me to share with you in the hope that it may bring comfort to others in a similar situation. As well as changing anything that could identify them, I have put their thoughts into words that I hope will do justice to their pain.

I am going to call my parents Joy and Father Christmas. That is not their name of course. But they rather liked the idea of those being their names.

Joy And Father Christmas’s Story

As Christmas and many celebrations of family weddings, birthdays, births approach, we realised we needed to take a deep breath and prepare ourselves for the events and the pain.

We tried to plan for joyous occasions and how we could show joy without breaking down in the morass of our own pain.

We planned ways we could quietly and unobtrusively leave.

We felt we were no longer part of this happy society. This group of family and friends going about their lives as through nothing had happened. And for them it hadn’t. Life went on for them in all its glorious joys and splendour.

The Darkness Of Our Pain

But for us life was dark, devastating and full of pain and tears.

All these celebrations with family at their core were devastating for us when we were bleeding and our family was ruptured by the death of our son.

We dreaded the approaching Christmas.

I Used To Love Christmas

In the before time, before our son died, I loved the warmth and generosity of Christmas. I loved getting together with friends and family. I loved the warmth of belonging to a wonderful group of people.

Cooking For His Absence

I love cooking. It is what soothes me. So I have been cooking. A lot. And I have been inviting people over because someone has to eat the food. They come and there is joy and love and warmth and we are surrounded by their love.

But all I see is the one who is missing. The one who would always have been there.

So much of what I find myself cooking is what our boy loved to eat. And it hurts so much to cook these dishes, knowing he will never eat them.

I serve meals for my family with one less place set. And that hurts so much. But setting a place for him seems wrong as well.

Going Through The Motions

We go places. Dutifully attending events of our family and friends. We don’t want to go, but feel we need to, so that we don’t drown in our misery.

We get into the car and there is an empty seat.

Our journeys are marked by the absence of his incessant chatter at all the things he could see flashing past the car window.

It hurts so much.

But no one ever sees.

Time marches on.

All The Firsts

Our other children have had birthdays since he died. Each one a first birthday for them without their brother.

I watch my other children growing older and feel pain that he won’t grow older.

I see friends son’s his age and wonder whether he would be getting taller. What size shoes he would be in now. What his interests would be.

He is forever frozen in time and we try to move on, but it is so hard to escape.

After The Funeral

It has been a few months now and people have stopped asking us how we are. There are no more casseroles at the front door, cards in the letterbox, emails and text messages asking how we are.

We feel as though we have taken on an extra job. We are trying to support our other children. Smooth them through their bereavement. Attend to their every need. Notice every hesitation or sign of being stuck in their pain.

Reaching Out For Support

We try to look out for each other, but that comes a distant last after the needs of our living children.

We have joined groups of other parents who have lost children. We have sent out children to counsellors and groups to help them work through their grief.

We draw comfort from the experiences of other parents, from realising we are not alone in this isolation of grief.

The Forgetting Of Life Moving On

We wait for other people to notice he is missing. To mention him. Some do. Most don’t. That hurts.

We attended a baptism and then a wedding. Both were excruciatingly painful. We left early, worried that our pain would mar the joy of the happy parents and the happy wedding couple.

I run into people through work who don’t know about my son. They ask how the family is. I don’t know how to answer. Do I say each child’s name and what they are doing then add that my son is dead?

I just change the subject.

There are still people in our community who don’t know. Who ask when they see me. Your son used to play soccer, is he not interested any more? No. He is dead that is all. I usually mutter something and get away as fast as I can.

Some days I come home early from work, before anyone else is home, and I can’t go into the house. He is not there and I can’t bear the silence his absence brings.

Hiding My Tears

For so long I hid my tears from my son. I wanted his last months to be happy ones. I didn’t want him to see my misery. Now I hide my tears from other people. They feel uncomfortable when I cry, so I don’t.

Seeking Counselling Support

After the counselling we received. Something that helped us both be able to express our pain without fear of hurting anyone else. After that counselling I realised a few things.

I can look around and see the many who, like us, are facing their first Christmas without the one they love, the one whose absence has left a massive hole in their life and heart.

I realise this is an aspect of being human that we tend to ignore. My resolve is to acknowledge the universality of grief. In acknowledging the pain of loss. In acknowledging the frailty of our human bodies, of the tenuous and frail hold we have on life. I realise that the present moment, each day, is important and not to waste it by worrying about trivial things.

It will hurt this Christmas. Our little family will feel the pain of his absence, but we will also know that our lives are better because he was in them. Because we loved him and he loved us. Love always carries a cost, that of pain when the living relationship ends. But the joy of knowing him was worth the pain of losing him.

Can I Help?

If you would like to talk to me about how I can help you with your grief, please contact me on 0409396608 or nan@plentifullifecounselling.com.au

If you would like to learn more, I write a regular newsletter with helpful information, tips, information on courses, and the occasional freebie. At the moment I have a free mindfulness meditation for anyone who signs up to my newsletter. This meditation offers a way to safely explore your feelings and learn to be okay with them. If you would like to subscribe please click on the link here: http://eepurl.com/g8Jpiz