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).

And the logic brings security.  If I still have two grandparents left and both parents, then somehow I feel that there is still ‘money in the bank’.  If on the other hand, my parents and grandparents have died, then that protective layer is gone and there can be a terrifying feeling of 'I’m next'.

But, of course, life is not always logical.  People, for no apparent reason, will jump the queue.  The death of a child is perhaps the most devastating disruption of the rule and can quickly lead us to the conclusion that there was never a queue in the first place – just unpredictable, meaningless chaos.  

The women in her family were the important ones.  My wife’s father and grandfather had decided to jump ship and explore different lives years ago.  Now, for the second time in a year, we were back in a cold and uncomfortably cold church.  A year ago it was her mum, aged only 49.  Now, her ‘second mum’ and grandma.  As I took her hand and desperately sought for the right words to say, I saw the fear in her eyes.  ‘Who is going to look after me know?’ they said, ‘Who will share my joy?  Who will be there for me when I fall?’  It was all too much, all too soon.  The rules of the game had been broken and, in a single moment, the once strong protective layer had vanished.

On being there
There are a number of things that define an expatriate family, like the inevitable distance between us and our extended family.  To be sure, we enjoy the many benefits of life a members of the ‘global village’, but when the phone call comes, the sense of ‘not being there’ can sometimes fill us with an overwhelming sensation of guilt.  

But what is this ‘being there’ thing all about?  Do we believe that somehow we might be able to rescue our loved one from the inevitable?  Is it about words left unspoken, which can only be said as life finally slips away?  Or is it simply a need to witness the event for ourselves?

It may be all of the above or none.  But how often do we hear our friends describe the same story: ‘I landed.  I turned on my phone.  There was a message saying I had not made it on time.’

I will always feel guilt over the fact that my wife’s mother died during my brother’s wedding.  We had an impossible choice: celebrate with one family or mourn with another.  I thought, perhaps naively, that perhaps we might have the chance to do both.  I was wrong.  And from that day something happened inside my head.  I know I won’t be there when my grandmother leaves this earth.  Perhaps, neither for my parents, sad as it is to say.  But one thing I can do.  I can make damn sure that every time we speak, every moment we spend together was good enough to be the last.   

Room for one more on my bench
There is perhaps a lesson that is hard for all of us to learn, as once a wise man said: If you have something to say, say it today.  If you have the opportunity to share a moment of love, never leave it for tomorrow.  Just in case.  

There was once another man, Nicholas Wolterstorff, whose son died in a climbing accident, aged 25.  Following this tragic episode, Wolterstorff took the time to write about his grief and terrible sense of loss, even addressing the subject of how other people should approach his grief.  Don’t try and explain it, he suggests.  Don’t tell me it will be okay. Don’t avoid me.  Don’t act as if it never happened.  Just ‘come and sit beside me on my mourning bench’.  

I know that so far I have been lucky in my life.  Everything has followed a ‘reasonable’ script.  Joe Black has not knocked on my door to claim those closest to me.  But one day he will come.  I know it will be a terrifying and awful day, like no other.  I have my mourning bench ready. But I don’t know for how long I will choose to stay sat upon it   I only hope it won’t feel too alone, too cold, or too dark. 

Grief is a human condition that will touch us all sooner or later.  For one half of our life (if we are lucky), our parents will offer us some protection from this deep and dark pain.  For the other half, we will surely mourn their passing.  That’s just how life is, I’m afraid.  So when that time comes, pull out your ‘bench’, surround yourself with friends,  remember to be kind to yourself,  talk, talk and talk some more and, most of all, don’t be afraid of the tears.  Tears will ultimately be the only thing that washes away the pain inside your heart.

David Willows is Director of External Relations at the International School of Brussels.  

David’s blog, Fragments: A storytelling approach to life and work, can be found here.

This article was first published in (A)WAY Magazine: The lifestyle magazine for expats and expat families in Belgium and is reproduced here with permission.