Monday 13th April

I cried for you before I got up out of bed this morning. The hurt in my throat and chest seems to be there each day as I wake. I cried when we met two people on our walk into town, who spoke about you, and gave their condolences. I cried when I went to the bank and cancelled my direct debits into your account ~ your ‘pocket money’. I cried when I bought your brother a birthday card, knowing you will never receive one ever again. I cried some more when we visited your graveside to water the flowers and talk to you this afternoon.

No one really knows the depth of grief we are feeling at the moment. Our thirty year old autistic son, diagnosed with testicular cancer, was our companion. He didn’t go off and make his own way in the world, meet a girl, make her his wife, or have children. He depended on us totally. And we did everything for him, with him, based around him: he was our life. He was there, with us, always. Fun, cheeky, surprising, caring, chatty, loving.

Our lives have been changed forever. An emptiness is there, that nothing it seems, can fill. We will go on, because I’m sure he would want that, but our hearts are broken.

Nothing, absolutely nothing in this world prepares you for the unbelievable sense of loss and grief that comes when you lose your child. Parents should never, ever have to bury their child. His younger brother should not have to bear the pain of losing his sibling. There is no time limit for grief. It remains with us all, in different ways, forever.

Our son is gone, but until the last breath we take, he lives on in our hearts. His spirit is with us. The memories we have are wonderful, and we will treasure those. It’s all that we can do.

Sunday 12th April

All around us, we are reminded of you. Yes, your photographs are everywhere, your books and DVD’s neatly lined up, the many, many sympathy cards along the shelves in the lounge, (and no, I don’t know when I’ll take them down). To your shoes and slippers, your coat at the bottom of the stairs, your toothbrush in the bathroom, and your dressing gown still lying on our bed.

You are everywhere, but nowhere.

Again we light candles in the church, then tend to your grave.

We talk to you, but there is no answer.

How we wish you were here with us now. Our hearts are broken.

We just don’t know what to do.

Saturday 11th April

We bring you a bouquet of yellow roses and white carnations today. I place them amongst the sunflowers.

The letters spelling out your name in white chrysanthemums still look beautiful, and we water them, and talk to you, and tell you we love you and miss you so, so much.

We said we wouldn’t cry today, but we did.

Looking at your Auntie’s wreath, she explains her choices for you in ‘The Language of Flowers’:

Alstroemeria ~ Devotion

Cypress ~ Mourning

Eucalyptus ~ Protection

Lungwort ~ You are my life

Moss ~ Maternal love

Myrtle ~ Love

Rosemary ~ Remembrance

White carnation ~ Pure love.

Night night lovely boy xxxx

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.

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.