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 Withdrawn and heartbroken.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

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.

Tuesday 31st March

We have a 10:15 appointment with the Father who will be leading the funeral service for our son, one week today.

He is wonderful and puts us at our ease, but it is still such a heartbreaking time. We tell a bit of our son’s life story, and his valiant battle against the cancer that ultimately took his life. We discuss the readings, prayers and eulogy. We just want everything to be perfect. In between tears we recount tales of adventure, mischief and happiness. The Father listens intently, offering suggestions and advice to the Order of Service.

We leave, only to move onto the undertaker’s, to deliver our chosen photographs of our son, to be used in the Order of Service. It really was an emotional morning.

In the afternoon we go out in the car, to have two very large posters printed and laminated, of our darling son. These will be placed either side of his coffin in the church. One shows him laughing, having just come out of the water in Aquatica, last year. The second is a pensive one of him reading, with a beautiful blue sky background. He always had a book in his hand. The photographs look amazing, but again bring us to tears.

Having almost reached home, our younger son phones, and asks us to come down to his place for tea; we didn’t see him yesterday, and he wanted to know that we were all right.

We stay for a couple of hours, then begin our walk home. Our town is quite unique in that it places funeral notices in various shop windows, informing friends and the townsfolk of the date and time of the funeral. And of course, as we pass the flower shop, there is the notice for our son.

We walk silently in tears, holding hands, all the way home. We never, ever imagined to see one of those notices for a child of ours

It really felt like an arrow piercing through our hearts.

Monday 30th March

Well, writing out the list yesterday was far easier than putting it into practice this morning. Gathering together the clothes for our son to wear in the coffin was desperately painful. Another sad and sobbing start to the day.

The black velvet jacket, white t-shirt from Spain, black trousers, underwear, socks and woolly hat to keep his hairless head warm. A pair of black leather shoes that my husband would always polish for him.

Then the toys and books: Dot and the Kangaroo, He Man and She Ra’s Secret of the Sword, and Two Brothers Go Fishing. The Ritz teddy bear and cuddly dolphin, too. I looked everywhere for his St Christopher, but couldn’t find it. However upon opening a drawer, right on the top was a sparkly green star-shaped badge with the name “Frankie”. He had worn this whilst visiting Lourdes. I pinned it to his velvet jacket. His tablet wasn’t quite fully charged, so we will bring that to him tomorrow.

A strange assortment of items to take to heaven, but in his own little Asperger’s world, they mean such a lot.

We took these things down to the undertaker, but will not be able to see our son until tomorrow. It was a painful handing over, knowing what they were for, but we want our son to look his best.

Our next stop was the florist to talk about the white pillow to hold He Man’s sword, and then a simple double spray of yellow sunflowers to sit atop the coffin. Again, very difficult to speak about. We want the very best, but it’s hard when you’re feeling so very emotional and hurting like mad.

We don’t want to go home just yet, so we walk around the town, which is filling up with Easter holidaymakers. Even when we do arrive home, we go out again almost straight away; to my sister’s for a cup of tea. We seem to be avoiding our home at the moment.

Our evening was spent trying to put together a fitting Order of Service. Trying to choose five of the best photographs proved hard. Over the last thirty years we must have taken thousands, if not tens of thousands of our son. But we did eventually settle upon what we think is a lovely tribute to him.

On a horse, with a dolphin, two happy smiling faces, and one gentle picture inside a heart.

That is where he will forever be now. In our hearts forever.

Sunday 29th March

It’s been sixteen days, twenty one and a half hours since you fell asleep and gained your Angel wings. And I cannot tell you how much I miss you and love you so, so much. I think about you every waking moment.

Every single morning a huge wave of sadness envelopes us. This has turned into the norm. And I don’t like it one bit.

We wake. We cry. We try. We ask why. The motivation to get going is just not there. Our family is broken. Our home is silent and still.

It takes a huge effort to leave the house this morning, and even as we do, I’m sobbing before we reach the end of the road. I don’t think I’ll ever accept that you’re never coming back. But I want to hold onto the good memories, I need to tell myself you have no more suffering, and I need to believe you truly are an Angel. Your soul is still with us. You will remain in my heart forever.

Spending the afternoon with our younger son and his girlfriend, yet again, is what we do, and it feels so comforting and just right. Copious cups of tea, and a lovely chicken curry are placed before us. We talk, we go out for a walk, we watch some television.

As we are leaving we have to ask him something. We want to know if there’s anything he would particularly like to be placed with his brother in the coffin. Such an awful question to have to put to him, but we need to know his wishes. He says there is a book in my mum’s attic that my father had made for them. A little book about two brothers who go fishing. It is personalised with their names.

So, having left our son’s flat, we go home via my mum’s, and find this particular book. And that then has my husband and I hugging and sobbing in each other’s arms. Such a touching thing to think of. I had completely forgotten about this book. Made for the boys in 2001, whilst we were in Australia.

We finally make it back to our own quiet house. Now I really must think of the clothes we want our son to be dressed in. You see, he’s off for afternoon tea at the Ritz Hotel in London, and he needs to look ‘posh and sophisticated’. The black velvet jacket he pestered me to buy will serve it’s purpose very well. And the white t-shirt his brother brought back from Spain; still in its packet. He will also need the Ritz teddy bear my sister bought for his thirtieth birthday. And a turquoise and white dolphin. His tablet, full of downloaded songs and television programmes. A silver St Christopher we gave to him on his eighteenth as well. All things he will need to travel safely and free from pain.

Tomorrow when we wake, we will have much more of a purpose. We’re coming to visit you, our Angel son. To sit with you. To talk to you. To tell you we love you. To the moon and back. And all the world. Forevermore.

Saturday 28th March

Today we drive over to see my mum in the care home. She is looking well, having just had her hair done the day before. She is still most confused about when my brother will be arriving from America. We have tea and cakes, talk about our son, and have tears and memories to share. She is so desperately upset. Our younger son is with us, and I think all this sadness is really hard for him to cope with.

Having thought we’d made all the necessary arrangements by choosing the date of our son’s funeral, a spanner appeared in the works. Well, a whole tool box seemed to have been chucked at us.

My brother, the one in America, whom I wanted to speak at the service, is now unable to attend the funeral on Wednesday. Despite trying all kinds of combinations of transport, timings, and transfers, it just wasn’t going to work for him. He had booked to return to New York by Thursday morning, so no way was that going to happen, even if he left the church at midday, broke the speed limit, to catch a flight at eight from London. Far too many risks and what-ifs could confound the journey.

So, what to do? What to do?

I wondered, if at all possible, would we be able to move the date forward?

Only way to find out is to ask. So, upon phoning the undertaker, to explain the awkward situation, he was most understanding, and said “Leave it with me, that’s what I’m here for”.

About an hour later he phoned back, having spoken to the church Father, who would be leading the service. Absolutely no problem. Change the date to Tuesday 7th April, at 11:30am. The only slight problem would be the county council, who couldn’t be contacted until Monday, with regard to the interment. But he said he was most hopeful, greater than a 90% chance, that all would be ok.

A happy-ish end to the day. So to speak.