What bereaved parents would like you to know

3rd July is National Bereaved Parents Day. Organised by A Child of Mine , it was set up in 2020 to raise awareness for all parents who have lost a baby or child of any age, and from any circumstance.

All grief is painful, and some of these words might resonate with any grief, but the death of a child brings with it particular fear and discomfort that can be hard to overcome. We don’t even have a word for it, in the way that widow or orphan can be used.

Being a bereaved parent can be a lonely place, grieving a person you have lost but also a future they, and you, will never get to have. It doesn’t matter how old that child was. It can feel like living in two worlds at once: the world your child was in and the world your child is not.

A year after my son Fred died, I wrote an article about the rawness of grief. Three years later, as we are now settled in for the long haul, there are some other things that I, and other bereaved parents, would like you to know.

It really is as bad as you think.

“I can’t imagine how hard it must be.”  Oh, I think you can. But most people don’t want to or pretend that they can’t. But you can, if you try.

It is a grief that consumes every cell of your body and remains there forever.

People often want to empathise with their own grief, but it’s not the same. To quote Rob Delaney, “Don’t come at me with your dead grandmother”. It is not to disrespect or minimise your grief, or your love, but they are different.

That’s why bereaved parents often find solace in each other. There is a quiet understanding of how our world is, without drama.  Just like when you buy a goldfish and have to keep it in the polythene bag for a bit, we instinctively know the temperature of the water, and that can be everything.

Everything is harder

“Look closely & you will see almost everyone carrying bags of cement on their shoulders.

That’s why it takes courage to get out of bed in the morning & climb into the day.”

Edward Hirsch

This is true of all grief, but the bags on the shoulders of bereaved parents are particularly heavy, and sometimes the straps really hurt or break completely.

Everything we do, even the good stuff, is just a little bit more tiring, and takes a little more effort than it would otherwise do. We get tired, we can have too many people, we need to rest.

Christmas, birthdays, holidays, weddings, funerals, not to mention the everyday business of living, all have an added sharp edge to it. It doesn’t get easier, but we get better at carrying it.

It’s hard being the bad fairy at the christening all of the time, feeling like people would rather not have you there, killing the mood and reminding them that the world is not fair.

The best thing you can do is accept that things might be hard for us but keep inviting us anyway. These things are difficult for us whether we show up or not, whether you mention them or not; it’s only you who is suddenly faced with our pain and is uncomfortable.

Let us light our candles, cry through weddings or leave birthday parties early.

Don’t say we are strong,

Actually, do, because it’s good to say nice things, and it comes from a good and kind place.

Some days, it really does take superhuman strength to climb into the day (see above), but all of us would give anything not to have to. We don’t want to be strong, resilient, or amazing; we just want our old lives back when we didn’t have to be.

Certainly, don’t say “I couldn’t do it” because you could if you had to, but you don’t and we both know that.

It’s complicated.

Let us talk about our children

The kindest and most supportive thing you can do is let us talk about our children. Not about how they died but how they lived.

We want to talk about our children just as much as other people: the funny things they did or said, what they were like, what we were like.

There is a fear that if you mention them or we talk about them, we’ll remember and be upset. But we’re thinking about them all of the time, so it is a tremendous gift to know that other people think of them too, and know who they are.

The hardest question to answer is “how many children do you have?”

I don’t tell everyone about Fred the moment I meet them, but if someone asks how many children I have, I have to say two and then explain. It’s taken years to work out an answer, and people often ask the question in different ways, which sometimes throws me. However, the best people take this information in their stride, say that they are sorry and ask more or carry on as normal, depending on the situation, rather than recoil in fear and horror, or run away.

Our lives aren’t terrible

In many ways, our lives are terrible and will never be made right.  There is no getting over it, or coming to a point where it’s not that bad.

However, it doesn’t mean joy and happiness can’t sit side by side. In many ways, the sadness amplifies the joy. We laugh. We sing a little louder at karaoke (although for a long time I couldn’t sing at all), we love a little harder. I appreciate small glimmers of happiness more than I did before, even if it’s just a good sky. And I’m very relaxed about my younger son’s exam results because they really aren’t that important in the grand scheme of things (although don’t tell him that).

It is not a terrible life, it is our life, and we live it the best we can. We would all still rather have our children for a short while than not at all, and we are all grateful for the imprint they have on our lives.

I don’t speak for all bereaved parents, but I am thankful to the ones in my life who provide solace, comfort and understanding, and I hope I am able to do so in return.

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Light a candle at 7pm on 3rd July, for all children who lost their lives too soon.