Friday 10th April
We still cry at your graveside today.
We cannot believe that you have left us.
It is so hard to understand that we will never, ever see you again in this life.
We see a goldfinch, flitting from gravestone to gravestone, singing it’s heart out. Is that you? Letting us know that your spirit is close by. The bright yellow feathers matching the sunflowers atop your grave. Is that you?
Thursday 9th April
Four weeks ago today our darling son gained his angel wings. Unexpectedly. Without warning. We still haven’t come to terms with it.
Diagnosed with testicular cancer back in October, he battled his way through chemotherapy. Only his body wasn’t strong enough to take it. He was beaten at the final hurdle.
We visited his graveside again today, as we said we would. It doesn’t get any easier at all. We love him so very much, and miss his voice, his smile, his everything.
We sow some seeds along the top of the grave, from flowers in our garden. We try to think of the good times, but our grief is so immense, it just seems so futile. He was such a great companion to have around. Life seems so very empty
In the afternoon, having told ourselves we need some exercise, we go for a walk in the sunshine. Holidaymakers are on the beach, in the cafes and shops. We head for the church, to sit quietly, collect our thoughts, and light candles for our beloved Angel.
Life seems so unfair right now.
Wednesday 8th April
Today we bury our elder son.
Husband and I, younger son and girlfriend, sister, her husband and their daughter. A small family group to pay our very last respects to our dear boy.
The hearse pulls away a little after 10:30am, the coffin adorned with yellow sunflowers, He Man’s sword on a bed of white chrysanthemums, wreaths, sprays and bouquets. And spelt out alongside is his name. F R A N K.
We follow in a black limousine. We take a very slow drive through the narrow, and quite busy streets of the town. Along the harbour front with the sea sparkling, the sun shining in a perfect blue sky. He would walk for hours along the wharf. Then we turn up through more winding roads, and past the surfing beach, where he would wander along the sand. And then up the hill where we live. Countless times he would have walked up and down these roads, so we had to take him on one last journey. Unbelievably heartbreaking to think he will no longer be able to do this
The cemetery is only a couple of miles out of town, and we drive slowly along in silence. Pulling in, the songbirds are a joy to hear, the pink hibiscus are flowering along the driveway, and everything seems peaceful and still. We draw to a stop, get out of the car, and watch the coffin being taken up to the grave. White ribbon straps are attached, and as it is slowly lowered the church Father says prayers and commends our son to eternal life. We are all sobbing. We cast some soil on to the top of the coffin, then a sunflower each, that our younger son has brought along. We each say something, and tell Frank we love him so much.
We ask that the white flowered pillow with He Man’s sword be placed on top of the coffin. After about twenty minutes it is time to leave. We say our tearful goodbyes and head home.
Later on that afternoon though, my husband and I drive out to the cemetery, and see the mound where our son is buried. The flowers look beautiful, and cover the grave completely. There is a simple wooden cross with our son’s name on, and the flower letters spread along the length of where he lays. His final resting place. We break down. We cry and cry. We just cannot believe what has happened. He was so close to kicking this disease. Why did our amazing son have to be so cruelly taken from us?
It is something to which we will never have an answer.
We spend a few quiet moments talking, crying, tending to the flowers. And then it’s time to leave. We tell him we’ll be back tomorrow.
Tuesday 7th April
The saddest day of our lives.
The service for our darling son was attended by many and the choir sang beautifully. The hymns I had chosen were ‘All things bright and beautiful’, ‘The Lord’s my Shepherd’ and ‘Abide with me’.
The coffin was covered with a mass of yellow sunflowers, and a pillow of white chrysanthemums with HeMan’s sword on top. My sister, brother and mum had had the letters F R A N K spelt out using white flowers, linked together with sunflowers too. They looked amazing.
My brother spoke about our son, recalling family memories, and the church Father spoke words written by the care home managers where our son spent time over the last few years.
Somehow I found the strength to deliver the eulogy. I needed to do this for our son. No one else could have spoken my words of love for him. It was down to me, and he would have expected it as such.
Following the service I was told I was very brave and strong, that the words were inspirational and uplifting. But I just did what I had to do. And somehow I stood in front of the congregation and talked about our wonderful boy. I wanted to thank everyone in our town who had ever nodded, smiled, said ‘hello’ or had conversations with him.
Only those parents and families who have a child with special needs will know how difficult life can be for them. To fight for their education, to help them fit in, to give them as normal a life as possible. Our son felt safe in the town despite his innocence and vulnerability.
Following the service, we had a get together with friends and family, then as it was such a wonderfully sunny day, we accompanied our younger son and a group of his friends to walk along the harbour front, to sit outside and talk and reminisce and reflect.
Later, coming home to a quiet, empty house fills me with such sadness and a massive sense of loss. He was our whole life. But his memories will last a lifetime, and we will certainly keep those alive.
Monday 6th April
Today is the last chance we have to visit you in the Chapel of Rest. It is so painful to see you lying there. You have all you need to take to heaven. The dolphin and teddy can play with the angels with you, you can read your books and watch your videos.
No more chemotherapy, no more drugs, no more blood transfusions. Your pain has gone. You are now cancer free.
But I just wish you were here to spend a lot more time with us. We weren’t ready for you to go. We had so much more planned when you got better.
It hurts us so much that we will never hear your voice or your laugh, we will not be able to have cuddles or to hold your hand. You will have to do this with the angels.
We are left with so many happy memories of you, and you will forever be in our hearts and thoughts. Everywhere we go, you will be with us.
Darling child. We love you so, so much xxx
Sunday 5th April
We visit our Easter Angel this morning. So cold, eyes shut, no smiles, lying still. Are you peacefully playing up in heaven? We do hope so. Again we let you know our love for you is boundless, unconditional, everlasting. We miss you even more today, than we did yesterday. We miss every single thing about you. You were so innocent and childlike.
You will be forever young. Your spirit is all around us. We lit candles in the church for you again.
I spent such a long time this evening putting together a slideshow of photographs. So many good times, happy memories, amazing adventures.
We cried a lot today.
Saturday 4th April
We sat with you again today, and the tears just keep on flowing. I’m forever trying to warm up your face and hands, but they’re icy cold. We talk to you, we tell you that you’re safe, we know you’re no longer in any pain. You lie so still, with the teddy and dolphin to protect you. We kiss you; kisses from us, and from your younger brother. We touch your heart, and want you to know that we are there with you, as you are in our hearts forever. Know that your brother loves you, and is just completely lost without you. He is not sleeping properly, and seems so very sad all the time. Withdrawn and heartbroken. He looked out for you, he did.
Later on in the evening, when we leave our younger son’s place, the biggest full moon is shining a path towards us across the sea. It’s you. Looking down upon us. Being a part of us. And we miss you more than words can say. Our full moon Angel xxx
Friday 3rd April
Visiting you is so painful, but we need to come and see you. We cannot leave you lonely, all by yourself.
We have to come and tell you we love you, we miss you, we desperately wish you could be here with us. Our little Angel in heaven.
We love you so much, to the moon and back, and all the world. Today, yesterday and forevermore. xxxxx
Thursday 2nd April
We go for a coffee with all the family, then walk along the seafront with just our younger son. He is very quiet and in a sad, reflective mood. He seems to be bottling up his thoughts and emotions, but we walk with him, stop and stand for a while watching families and dogs playing on the sand.
We have a cup of tea with him, then wander off home.
After much thought and great trepidation, we decide to drive to our local supermarket and coffee shop, where our elder son was so well known.
It’s three weeks this evening since he passed. So suddenly. So unexpectedly. So quickly.
It’s really hard to get out of the car, and go in through the doors. We are met by the coffee shop manager, who has become a good friend to us over the last few years. Hugs, tears, and empathy. We also bump into quite a few more people who express their shock at our loss. It felt quite uncomfortable walking round the aisles. I was almost pleased when we walked out, shopping completed. A big sigh of relief, being able to run away.
When we get home I phone the funeral director’s to ask if we can visit our son in the Chapel of Rest. Within ten minutes we are with him. We did promise him yesterday we’d be back today. And it was no easier. The pain we both felt as we looked upon him was unbearable. We just wanted to warm him up and bring him back to life. Our grief is just immense. We have lost such a huge part of our lives.
But we kept our promise. It was difficult and traumatic again for my husband to go in. But a promise is a promise, and our son would have wanted us to keep to our word.
Night night Angel xxx
Wednesday 1st April
Today I must be strong. Stronger than I’ve ever been.
But I’m floored at the first hurdle. I need to ring the Registrar’s Office first thing to confirm our appointment, and make sure they have the necessary paperwork: the Coroner’s Report. All is in order. I’m actually phoning sitting in my son’s bedroom. As I’m speaking I look round at all his clothes and shoes, and realise he will never wear these ever again. It is such a sad thought. I hug my husband and we sob into each other’s shoulders.
Big deep breath, come on, let’s get on with it. Our next task today is to take He Man’s sword down to the florist, so they can start the design for it to placed on a white flowered pillow. We arrive soon after the postman has delivered their business mail. On the top of the pile is our son’s funeral notice, ready to be placed in their shop window. Grief washes over us again as we leave.
We walk down to the church, light candles, and then sit awhile, silently sobbing.
We really must find some inner strength, for our next visit is to the Registrar’s Office. We go in, sit down in an outer waiting room, and almost immediately are called in. Be strong, be strong. We hold hands tightly as the registrar goes through the set of questions that she must ask my husband and I. Everything we have brought along is used to identify our son. From his passport, medical card, birth certificate, benefits letters; everything that proved his identification. Now, the passport corner is clipped, the computer registers his death. That’s it. He is no more. He ceases to exist in the system. We hold it together. We pick up our paperwork and leave.
But walking out, we both break down. I can hardly get to the car. We cry and sob and hurt and feel such loss. We stay in the car park for a long while, before my husband feels able to drive away.
I need to see our son now. We have a form that we must handover to the undertaker, and we have the big beautiful posters of our son, in the back of the car to give to him as well, ready to go into the church. My husband doesn’t think he can do it. Doesn’t think he can go through the doors and look upon our son. I really don’t know what to expect. It’s far too upsetting. But I must see him, no matter what. We do both eventually go in to the Chapel of Rest. I cannot describe how much my heart ached to see him in his coffin. He was wearing the woolly hat, the black velvet jacket, and the t-shirt his brother had bought for him in Spain. Placed around him were the teddy bear and dolphin, and his books. Into one tiny hand we placed his British Airways executive club card, and into the other hand, some American dollars. We also put with him a photograph of the four of us together.
He looked so peaceful as I held his hand and stroked his face. But he was so, so cold. I kissed him and told him I loved him. My husband told him his granddads would look out for him in heaven. We really cried our hearts out. Uncontrollably. It was difficult to leave, but we kissed him goodnight and said we’d be back tomorrow.
It had taken a great deal of strength for my husband to see our son in his coffin. And I’m so glad he did come in with me, as heartbreaking as it was, we all needed to be together.
Later in the evening, my brother and his wife arrived from their long journey from Chicago. All of us went out and met up with my son and his girlfriend, and my sister. I needed to hold my younger son too, and tell him I love him so much.
Today has been incredibly harrowing and traumatic, but we did somehow find the strength to make it through.
The Journey of My Left Foot (whilst remembering my son) 