Just keep swimming…

claire davies - 16 Jan 16

My son is 7 years old and I never imagined I would have to break it to him that his Dad was dead. But on 2nd December 2015 I had to do just that. His Dad had only just turned 41 so none of us expected it. Well, a part of us always feared it but we put it out of our heads as he was still young. He was an alcoholic and was not doing well but he had peaks and troughs so you just sort of hope/think/pray the worst won’t happen.

Suddenly, my usually happy, cheerful boy who felt safe and secure – literally had the rug pulled from under him. He was terrified of losing me while simultaneously being furious with me over the most minor of misdemeanours. Adult friends and family didn’t know how to react so mostly they acted like nothing happened. I understand they didn’t want to upset him but he really needed the support and love you get from the people you love when someone close to you dies. It helps. It wasn’t their fault, I don’t blame them, they really felt for him; I know that.

Children however are literal. He freely told people his Dad was dead. Which was true, he hadn’t ‘passed over’ or ‘gone to a better place’ he was dead and although that stark word is hard to use in its true context, it was tragically true. His peers were more able to be supportive and I was impressed how they rallied round him. Nothing will pull on your heart strings more than a handmade sympathy note from a child or watching his 8 year old cousin give him a huge hug and a manly pat on the back while saying how sorry he was that his Dad had died.

We got through the funeral on auto pilot and I was surprised how well we had both ‘coped’. I did the eulogy from us both and my boy stood at the front of a packed church while I read it, something I know many adults would struggle to do. He was clinging to my trembling leg, tears running like a fountain but that is where he wanted to be.

I read everything I can find from bereavement charities and I felt able to cope in the initial period but I feel ill prepared for the aftermath. Christmas was pretty rubbish despite our best efforts. Our hearts were just not in it and we were frankly glad to see the back of it. Now we have a daily battle with going to sleep and the nightly heart wrenching sobbing for his Daddy who he will never ever see again, who won’t get to show him how to make a bow and arrow or take him to a football match. I can only empathise and hold him tight. No it is not fair, not fair one bit. Death never is. You want to protect your children as much as you can and ease their fears. I feel powerless to do either right now.

I still have my own grief to tackle which is complicated as we were no longer together in a traditional sense. I still loved him and as he would stay with us for visits we did lots of things as a family when he was down. The school nativity was tough; who else is going to be craning their necks to see him on stage but his mum & dad? Who will want to discuss, at length his school report? My grief will have to wait. I need to keep our heads above water and to quote Dory ‘just keep swimming’.

claire davies

Mother to Cooper. Lover of travelling. Optimist. Organiser.

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