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You are here: Home Life in Blogs & photos Come sit with me on my mourning bench
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17/04/2009Come sit with me on my mourning bench

In his blog 'Fragments: A storytelling approach to life and work' David Willows considers the value of the protective layer that allows us to deal with the loss of our loved ones.

Losing someone you love
Modern parenting is an all-consuming business.  No sooner are we finished with the whole ‘dummy and diaper’ thing, we are all, it seems, magically transformed into general manager of an complex transport service, ferrying our children to and from a never-ending agenda of medical, dental and social appointments in all parts of the city.  We clock up more miles than some national transport networks.

We do all this because we love our children.  We love them dearly and so are prepared to give up ‘me time’, along with the Saturday afternoon shopping spree and Sunday morning lie-in.  Our children need us and we are there for them.  It’s just what we do, in the same way that as our parents and (for the fortunate amongst us) our grandparents were there for us.

And there’s the thing.  It happened almost without us noticing, sometime when our attention was taken up with getting the children up, dressed and to school on time.  Our parents slowed down, got old and, in some cases, even died.

The taxi drops us at the hospital.  My grandmother, now aged 97, lies    unrecognisable, more like a small child, in an oversized bed.  I am aware of how uncomfortable my own children feel, sitting beside me.  I see fear in their eyes and try to hide my own.  But recognition comes in her voice.  Distinct and distinctly belonging to the person I call ‘Nanny’.  One word from her and I am immediately recalling Sunday dinners – minced beef and roast potatoes followed by vanilla ice cream – and silly games around the house.  I take the hand of my eldest son.  For him, this is an important, albeit somber, lesson in what happens at the limits of the human tale.

The protective layer above our heads
Life may be complicated, but most of us apply a simple logic to the important bits.  Take dying for example.  In our minds, it is like waiting at a bus stop.  Those who are first in line – who have been around the longest – get on the bus first.  And normally that is how it works.  First my grandparents, then parents, then me.  (I dare not think about my children after me).




7 reactions to this article

JamesDrew posted: 17-04-2009 | 10:53 AM

Dear David,

A beautiful article, thank you. I lost the love of my life, a Belgian girl, in 2008, and I know only too well what you speak of when you describe 'the mourning bench'. Thankfully, I have been surrounded by the love of friends and family, none of whom has told me 'it will be OK', or expected me to 'get on with it' until I am ready to do so. It's hard, terribly hard, but it's life. What else are we going to do? Best wishes to you.

Irma Claeys posted: 17-04-2009 | 11:36 AM

Dear David,
Beautiful Article and so and simply true, the loss of a love one, has no explanation, even when you may know it will happen as cause of an illness, you still can not comprehend why? I feel the loss as if part of myself had gone away and slowly try to understand that I need to become whole again to continue life in this world. The pain of lossing the person you love most becomes part of your daily life, nevertheless you have to move on. The months have passed since I lost my husband and yet seem as it was yesterday; I hold on tightly to all the memories we shared and all good and bad times; it helps me arm myself again to face the day; I know there will be a time when the pain will subside and my outlook on life will be better, it is the time you give yourself for mourning your loss that will help in the end. I thank you for your words as I understand very well what they mean.

seve posted: 17-04-2009 | 7:08 PM

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Carolyn posted: 21-04-2009 | 4:11 PM

Dear David,

Thank you for such a beautiful article. In losing my mother in 2006 while living overseas, I have lived the experience you are describing and it is pure hell. There is so much guilt on top of the utter emotional pain. But whenever the guilt would get too great, I would always think of two things. First, my brother reminded me to stop beating myself up for not being there when my mother passed. My being there would not have changed the outcome and he was absolutely correct. Second, I would take great comfort in knowing for certain that my mother left this world with nothing left unsaid. She was, quite frankly, my very best friend. She knew exactly how I felt about her and I knew exactly how she felt about me. Time is beginning to heal the wound. Thank you for your very profound words.

David Willows posted: 21-04-2009 | 6:09 PM

Thank you all for your replies. I appreciate anyone taking the time to write back and share their own stories. No story of grief is ever the same - but clearly many times we do share the same strength of feeling when facing these life-changing milestones in our lives. I wish you well and thanks again for reading.

belinda posted: 22-04-2009 | 5:22 PM

Who sits on the mourning bench when no one knows how to? My husband hanged himself leaving me with 5 children the youngest being only four years old at the time. That was over 7 years ago. My mourning has been solitary, guilt ridden and devastating beyond belief. His hanging is a daily haunting with me. People believe I should no longer talk about it - I have had my mourning period - yet I still do remember and the pain is still so deep within my soul. How do you explain to young children that daddy decided to leave the stage of life a little too early. He chose to exit our world and our life.
I never had any one to sit on the mourning bench with me. No one knew how to. I am still there alone.

David Willows posted: 22-04-2009 | 7:59 PM

Belinda. I am not sure that you intended a reply; but I feel moved to do so. Your story affected me deeply. I cannot begin to imagine the pain you and your family have been through these past 7 years. But I appreciate the fact that you took the time to write and am hoping that one day, along with your children, you will find a way beyond the pain. David

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