personality change. This, apparently, is very common. Where once I was extroverted, upbeat and predominantly happy, I became consumed with sadness and loss. This was all new territory for me. Coming to terms with it required adjustment and acceptance of another secondary loss: I was no longer the person I used to be. I can find myself standing at a party and realise the fun has ebbed away; all I want to do is go home and curl up in bed, the sanctuary of my grief. I’m reminded of the lamentation, ‘Happiness has gone out of our lives; grief has taken the place of our dances’ (Lamentations 5:15).
‘Another loss is the old “you”, the person you were before this loss occurred, the person you will never be again. Up till now, you didn’t know this kind of sadness. You couldn’t even have imagined anything could feel this bad. Now that you are inconsolable, it feels like the new “you” is forever changed, crushed, broken, and irreparable. These temporary feelings will pass, but you will never be restored to that old person. What is left is a new you, a different you, one who will never be the same again or see the world as you once did,’ write Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and David Kessler, summing up my feelings adroitly. 1
Charged with their protection and as promoters of their opportunities, hopes and dreams, our daily interactions with our children in many ways define our sense of self. The day before Abi died I knew, with certainty, who I was and what my life’s work entailed. Suddenly all that changed. I remember in the first week following her death saying to one of her favourite school teachers, who was also a family friend, that I no longer knew who I was. ‘Last week I was a mother of three, close to finishing my PhD. Now I don’t recognise myself,’ I told Bridget as we walked on the beach at dusk. ‘You’ll always be a mother of three,’ she replied, and I cried. I will always be a mother of three. Of course I will. She will always be my little girl. Of course she will. But still I needed to be told.
Part of my grieving process has therefore involved me finding ways to honour the fact that we had three children. The easiest is that I intentionally and consistently refer to Paddy as our middle child. It makes me feel good inside every time I say the words. Early on, I’d find myself referring to ‘the boys’ (‘I must go home and check that the boys are eating/getting up/ gone to bed/not having a party’ and so on), but I modified this to, ‘I must go home and check on the kids.’ One word changed and Abi was not written out of our lives. Over time I dropped this distinction, but it served me well for a few months by acknowledging her presence in our family.
We’ve also struggled being a family of four. No offence to families of four, or three, or two, but after twelve years of being a family of five, there was something familiar and complete and ‘right’ about that odd number. Being a family of four is just too symmetrical, too square, and mainly too small to feel right. I hate being a family of four. It’s all wrong. But, over time, weare slowly learning to occupy our new family shape. I distinctly recall taking a photo of the four of us before we headed off tramping last Easter holidays and noticing that I felt okay about the way we were. We look happy in this new family, we were happy in it: just the four of us, learning to be less.
Equally painful was our loss of all things girlie. Not only were we grieving the loss of Abi’s specific personality, but also her contribution to our family. As a 12-year-old girl she brought the fun and laughter, the singing and dancing, the giggles and occasional shrill screams. She brought pink and sequins and ballet into our home; she brought friends with bikinis, discarded bracelets, apricot-scented body lotions, fluffy cream dressing gowns, a multitude of ribbons and hairgrips festooned with anything from butterflies to polka dots, an endless
‘Another loss is the old “you”, the person you were before this loss occurred, the person you will never be again. Up till now, you didn’t know this kind of sadness. You couldn’t even have imagined anything could feel this bad. Now that you are inconsolable, it feels like the new “you” is forever changed, crushed, broken, and irreparable. These temporary feelings will pass, but you will never be restored to that old person. What is left is a new you, a different you, one who will never be the same again or see the world as you once did,’ write Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and David Kessler, summing up my feelings adroitly. 1
Charged with their protection and as promoters of their opportunities, hopes and dreams, our daily interactions with our children in many ways define our sense of self. The day before Abi died I knew, with certainty, who I was and what my life’s work entailed. Suddenly all that changed. I remember in the first week following her death saying to one of her favourite school teachers, who was also a family friend, that I no longer knew who I was. ‘Last week I was a mother of three, close to finishing my PhD. Now I don’t recognise myself,’ I told Bridget as we walked on the beach at dusk. ‘You’ll always be a mother of three,’ she replied, and I cried. I will always be a mother of three. Of course I will. She will always be my little girl. Of course she will. But still I needed to be told.
Part of my grieving process has therefore involved me finding ways to honour the fact that we had three children. The easiest is that I intentionally and consistently refer to Paddy as our middle child. It makes me feel good inside every time I say the words. Early on, I’d find myself referring to ‘the boys’ (‘I must go home and check that the boys are eating/getting up/ gone to bed/not having a party’ and so on), but I modified this to, ‘I must go home and check on the kids.’ One word changed and Abi was not written out of our lives. Over time I dropped this distinction, but it served me well for a few months by acknowledging her presence in our family.
We’ve also struggled being a family of four. No offence to families of four, or three, or two, but after twelve years of being a family of five, there was something familiar and complete and ‘right’ about that odd number. Being a family of four is just too symmetrical, too square, and mainly too small to feel right. I hate being a family of four. It’s all wrong. But, over time, weare slowly learning to occupy our new family shape. I distinctly recall taking a photo of the four of us before we headed off tramping last Easter holidays and noticing that I felt okay about the way we were. We look happy in this new family, we were happy in it: just the four of us, learning to be less.
Equally painful was our loss of all things girlie. Not only were we grieving the loss of Abi’s specific personality, but also her contribution to our family. As a 12-year-old girl she brought the fun and laughter, the singing and dancing, the giggles and occasional shrill screams. She brought pink and sequins and ballet into our home; she brought friends with bikinis, discarded bracelets, apricot-scented body lotions, fluffy cream dressing gowns, a multitude of ribbons and hairgrips festooned with anything from butterflies to polka dots, an endless
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