My Turn

From the moment my wife died, my son became the solid on which my life is based. An undiminished shining light in a suddenly darkened world.

He gave me focus, when I was unable to focus on anything else.

He gave me comfort and occupied me when I needed it most.

He gave me strength.

And so many more things, all rather unwittingly (I should cut him some slack, he was only seven months old).

In the immediate aftermath, still within the shock of having my whole world, and further plans within it, evaporate without a moments notice, Junior, by just being a being, one that could not comprehend what was going on, and therefore was uninfluenced by it, or changed his persona because of it, was a blessing.

An infinite one.

I did not shield him from the emotion that was going on around him, I wanted him to know I was accessible to him no matter what my state of mind. That seemed much more important, than worrying if bearing witness to the grieving process would do him any harm.

I was also mindful of ensuring that the practicality of who relied on whom, was still heavily weighted in his favour, as tradition expects. And by doing so, he inadvertently became a crutch for me, rather than that being his primary function.

At the beginning the nights were the most difficult times to deal with. The realisation that you are now on your own, practically reaffirmed by the lack of a person sharing a bed with you.

There is little else for the mind to focus on either, not that it would focus on a great deal in the day, but still.

Still, being a very poignant word.

For comfort I would take my boy to bed with me, my one conscious selfish act as a parent, to give me that little bit of comfort I needed to give me any realistic chance of getting some rest.

I do not remember how long that lasted for, a lot of that time is a blur, with details difficult to recall, not that I have a great desire to recall them anyway.

He went back into his cot, and I then slept in the same room, until eventually the previous status quo of each in our own rooms was re-established.

There have been occasions – plenty of them – when we have shared a bed since. Sometimes out of practicality, some out of care, when he’s been poorly, some as it helped the keeping the bed dry process, but not really any through grief.

But over the last few weeks my son has become increasingly aware of his loss, and has become more quizzical on the semantics, as he grapples to improve his level of understanding.

As he grieves.

It is tragically inspiring to listen and react to him, as he asks questions about his mom, how she died, how she is never coming back and how much he misses her.

He has a vastness about him, that I admire greatly, and expect to be dwarfed by as he gets older.

He plays out scenarios, talks about them, compares them to others, gets upset, gets consoled, but mostly amazes.

For all he has lost, it has given him a thirst for understanding and a choking ability to accept and appreciate. He has been cruelly forced to face his emotions, and been given a very early lesson in immortality that will hopefully bring benefits, as well as the obvious negatives, as he grows, both physically and spiritually.

Most of his difficulties seem to come at night. When he is nestling down after story time, then he can get a tad puzzled and distressed.

It is a huge thing to deal with, and I am very proud of how he does deal with it, and how I can play my part in that process.

And my part has been reassuring him, but not sugar-coating the realities, and on a couple of occasions taking him to my bed.

Giving him that little bit of extra comfort, so he can get the sleep he needs for tomorrow.

A tomorrow we shall share together, with smiles on our faces, and warmth in our broken hearts.