Leaving Bhopal

Leaving Bhopal

It’s taken me almost two weeks to write it our last day in Bhopal. Our time in Goa has been drifting by. I try to get up early, much earlier than I’m used to, and go for a long walk before the sun gets hot. So that means leaving by 7:30. We have “second breakfast” at a beach shack (cafe/restaurant) mid-morning and go for a swim/paddle/splash in the sea. Then we either “take shelter” under the shade of a beach shack or go back to our rented holiday flat before 12:30. Otherwise it is too hot to walk. The sun is burning hot. The temperature is in the low 30s which might not seem much to some of you but it’s hotter than I’ve been for many years.

Then, in the cool of our air-conditioned flat, I do a bit of typing, which has been mostly this blog but I have some other stuff in the works too. Then we go to the pool in the afternoon, and then in the evening we sometimes bring our PC tablets to the beach shack that offers free wifi. The evenings are warm and balmy. We have dinner at a beach shack; we’re gradually visiting all of them. Food is much cheaper than the UK.

We don’t drink much but enjoy just sitting. My mind wanders then sometimes, and the joy is replaced by sadness as I remember... So that’s what being bereaved does to you. It never quite goes away. When we see little children I think of my kids; when we see young women of any age from young teens to 30s, I think of Catherine at various stages of her life. I remember coming to Goa when she was a little girl—I’m fairly sure I’ve passed the hotel we visited. I remember travelling around India with my first husband. In our “pastoral support work”, we travelled up and down the country and saw many places. We got around by train and spent whole days and nights on long train journeys. I would bring a potty for the children to use so they didn’t have to go into the stinky toilets. We had a basket with food—canned fish, powdered milk, canned “Amul” cheese, and we’d buy fruit as it was offered at the stations we passed through. It was always peeled. We had lots of hand disinfectant and always kept things very clean.

We never did much sightseeing as far as famous buildings like the Taj Mahal in Agra (never went there), but we did see the local sights. I remember going down to Cochin in Kerala (which like many cities has been renamed) and visiting an ancient synagogue that goes back to the first few centuries A.D. I guess Jews had travelled across the sea from Palestine. Near Cochin we also saw these amazing fishermen’s contraptions and I have pictures of Catherine sitting with her little friends by the fishing nets on the harbour.

We used to eat out a lot too, partly because we travelled so much. Sitting in the cool of an air-conditioned restaurant can’t be appreciated in cold Britain but it sure is here.

Even when we moved back to Europe when Catherine was 5 ½, I always took her out to eat for special occasions. We never had much money but we always seemed to have enough to eat out. So her photo album has pictures in all sorts of restaurants, from an Indian restaurant in Vienna (7th birthday?) to Hungarian restaurants with violin players serenading us when she was in her teens.

Then there was ice-cream. Both of us liked it. In Budapest there was a place called “Butterfly” near one of the main squares (if I saw a map I’d remember it) and the ice-cream was served in particularly delicious cones. Catherine and her friend would go in and buy one cone with one scoop, then go back in and buy a second. The cones were free. So two cones for the price of one if you bought them separately! When we lived in a little village called Neulengbach in Austria, we used to sometimes go into Vienna for shopping or doctors/optician appointments. Then we’d go to Schwedenplatz to an Italian ice-cream place. There you’d buy it by the small bucket, loads of different flavours crammed in. Delicious! On Catherine’s last visit to us, we’d gone for a drive in the country, a picnic by a small lake, and as we were walking back to the car she said, “you know what we need” (or words to that effect—I can’t remember exactly, isn’t that sad??) and I said, “Ice-cream” and she said, “How did you know?” There were no fancy ice-cream shops in those Staffordshire roads but we stopped at a little supermarket and bought a box of four cones. Catherine ate two. I think that’s fairly good evidence that ice-cream was something she enjoyed up to the last. And that’s the last time we shared ice-cream together. Actually that’s the last time we ate together. Then we kept driving and ended up at a Garden Centre called “Jackson’s” and we had coffee. But ice-cream was our last “food.”

After the coffee, we took Catherine to the station, said goodbye, and that was the last time I saw her alive.

Next time you eat ice-cream, please think of Catherine. If you knew her, and particularly if you knew her during her long years of illness and troubled mind, please try to remember that there were good moments.

Well, you can see I’m talking more about Catherine now. As we sort out things for Pax, as best as they can be sorted, Catherine has returned to the front of my mind.

Returning back to Bhopal now: The last day in Bhopal was the 21 month anniversary of Catherine’s death.

We had another very early start, and a big day ahead of us. The plan: Go to the Church of North India (CNI) which were expecting us, then go back to the Cathedral.

The CNI was a nice white building, quite large, I guess maybe it could seat a few hundred people. (I’m sorry that you’re not getting pictures as you read but I can’t upload large files where we are. Eventually I’ll do some picture pages.) It was simply furnished. The “organist” was playing an accordion type of keyboard. The “9 o’clock sharp” start of the service wasn’t that sharp, but it didn’t matter. A few dozen people were there and eventually it filled up—maybe 100 or 150 people, I’m not sure exactly.

The service was in Hindi so obviously I couldn’t understand exactly what was going on, except when we stood up to sing hymns. As CNI was created from the Anglican church, almost all of the hymns were familiar. So I sang softly in English while everyone else sang in Hindi. They sang all the verses of the hymns though, and I could only remember 1 or 2 verses at best in English, so I repeated over and over!

The Pastor led the service, which followed the Anglican liturgy so I knew basically what was happening. Sandeep co-officiated, as the visiting pastor (his church is in another town). Then I was invited up to give my talk, as we had planned. Sandeep translated for me. Simon was ushered out by the Sunday School lady with the children in tow, and there he went to entertain the kids. I could hear them clapping in the background as he made balloons and “told” the story of Noah’s ark with balloon animals and a big balloon ark he’d made. I don’t think anybody here has seen anything like the balloons that Simon makes. He’s even made them just for fun at the beach shacks for some of the Russian children (most of the tourist families seem to be Russians) and they’ve been a hit.

I wasn’t really nervous about my talk. I was aware it was an opportunity to try to pass on something of what I’d learned and that was my focus. I’ll post the talk somewhere, maybe on the blog, later on. It told the story of my conversion to Christianity, then the loss of my two children, and then the lesson of walking through the dark valley of the shadow of death, seeing neither where I’d come from or where I was going, but the realisation that even in the darkest of places, and even when we can’t feel it, the Lord is with us. And eventually we come through. “I walk through the valley of the shadow...” We don’t remain there. It’s a journey.

There isn’t much audience reaction so I don’t honestly know how it went over.  Except one young lady whose eye I caught literally gasped when I said about losing Catherine after losing Pax.

Then Sandeep gave his sermon. He was quite fired up—not that I understood much of what he was saying—but it was obvious and he was challenging the congregation. Then there was the taking of the Lord’s supper, and finally the service was over. Simon was back in the church by then, and we were invited to walk out with the Pastors and then stand at the door to shake hands with everyone as they came out. I’ve never been in that position before and it felt peculiar.

I gave some people the “visiting card” I’d made of Pax.

Then we sat down and had coffee, and there was lots of picture taking, and soon we left and went home.

After lunch we set out again to the cathedral of St Francis. We got back there early, as I wanted time next to Pax. Chairs were once again provided for us thoughtfully. Simon sat with me and I told him stories of Pax’s life and cried and smiled. Our private peace was not that private; the compound is surrounded by the local Muslim population* who peered down over the high wall and from the apartments. One of the church workers came and talked with us; it was a little difficult for me as I really wanted time alone, but it also seemed important to make friends with these people who live right here and would have an eye on the grave when we were gone.

*(Yes, Muslim rather than Hindu population. Bhopal has a high percentage of Muslims, maybe 40%? They live in the old part of the city. There hasn’t been communal strife as far as I know.)

Then it was time for Mass. It was an English mass and there were only a few dozen people there, including a few nuns. The mass was partly in honour of Pax and of another deceased person. I was invited to take part and I came to the front to read some of the portions of scriptures. That was an unexpected privilege. The mass was led by Father Stan (the young father) and his voice was beautiful. The message was of the baptism of Jesus and of the cleansing of baptism and the opportunity to start again. How significant that is for me!

Afterwards we had dinner with the two priests. We fellowshipped and talked about England, about India, and all sorts of things. The meal had been specially prepared without much spice. The dear cook was so eager to please but we could never eat as much food as we were offered! We had our first beer in India which was cold and very welcome.

I went out to say goodbye to Pax’s grave place. I don’t feel he is there, but is it still his place. One of the workers had placed candles all around. It looked very beautiful and peaceful. I kissed the ground  and took my leave. That took all of my strength.

Then we were back to the house. Sandeep came bearing gifts from his wife.  We said our farewells, finished packing, paid our bill, and went to sleep ready for the early morning flight out of Bhopal.

So on Monday morning we were at the airport and finally we were airborne. I didn’t know how I’d feel, leaving Bhopal, but I was okay. I can’t explain it really, but I felt so much more peaceful. Pax means peace, and to an extent, both had been found.

Of course, that’s not the end of grief. It isn’t “closure” because Pax isn’t alive, he hasn’t lived out his life as we would have wished, and I haven’t had the joy of raising my son. There is no closure but there is doing what I should have done all those years ago.

In the weeks since we’ve been in Goa, we’ve been back in touch with Father Anto as we are trying to arrange for a more permanent memorial to be put up on Pax’s gravesite. We’ve also met up with Joaquim who is continues to repeat that nobody thought it would be possible to find the place; it was a “needle in a haystack.”

But we found it. And one very troubled woman is just that much less troubled.

From the airplane, flying away from Bhopal. 14/1/13

Pax is buried down below,
But at least now his grave is known.
In the shadow of the church
In a little garden
There is his cross.
Remembered with love,
We respect his remains
But look above
His spirit lives,
He was here, yet he was not.

I can't understand everything.
I can't think too hard.
I don't have to understand.
His grave was found without my understanding.
Heaven will be found the same way.

Tell everyone, Pax was here for one day
Yet he has long since flown away.
A body can't be all there is to life.
If it was, we would forget
But we know our loved ones yet.

Remembering Pax with love forever. May he rest in peace.

Finding Pax...

Finding Pax, finding peace, even finding a moment of joy

This is the story of Saturday 12 February, our 3rd day of searching for Pax. As it's written after the fact, I ramble somewhat...

I dragged myself out of bed in the morning. This was all very emotionally and physically exhausting. We were also still adjusting to the time difference from the UK. Getting up at 7 am was something like 1:30 for our body clocks. Rather like a patch of wakefulness in the middle of the night—something that is all too common for me—but without the luxury of being able to go back to sleep. Of course I’m not complaining, just describing how we felt. The heat and food was all so different too. I was very very tired but mercifully was not actually sick.

The taxi came later than we expected. Prabir popped down to tell us that “the Pastor” (Sandeep) had told the taxi he didn’t need to pick us up until 9 am, unlike the original plan of 8, because nowhere opened that early anyway. Because we didn’t have a local phone line, a lot of the time there were communications going on around us but not through us, and we would only find out “later” what was “happening.” A minor inconvenience. We were being ushered through our journey with the utmost care and consideration; that in itself was a unique experience.

Perhaps you feel the breath of optimism in these paragraphs. I feel it now, knowing what the day was going to reveal, but at the time we were far from optimistic. I was struggling to hold back tears.

I didn’t want to have unrealistic expectations and then suffer a crushing disappointment at leaving Bhopal without our task accomplished. So when we picked up Sandeep and Joaquim, I explained that even if we couldn’t locate the right church, I would want to put a memorial cross or something in the main cemetery. If we couldn’t have it in the right place, at least we knew we were in the right city. That was not the ideal, but better than nothing. At least there would be something to show Pax had been there .

We drove into Bhopal. We passed the main cemetery, but didn’t stop. There was no point, as we knew it wasn’t the place.

The plan was to visit every church in a reasonable radius of the Hamidia hospital. However many there were, that’s how many we would visit.

It looked as though it was going to be a very hot, long day.

Our first stop was the St Francis Cathedral—what had been our first stop the night before. The men had discussed that perhaps Catholic priests had more autonomy and one could have buried Pax even without going through official channels. We didn’t know—and in fact I don’t know why we went there first. But the wonderful news is that was the only place we had to visit.

When we arrived we were invited in to speak with the young Father who had only been there about 3 years. The other, senior Father was out at a Bible conference.

Father Stanlio Jerry Anto ushered us in with an offer to sit down for some tea and to talk. He was the picture of hospitality; we were treated with respected and the real Christian virtues of kindness. We hadn’t even sat down before telling him our story and our quest, and we already heard his exclamation that, yes, years ago, they used to bury some people at the church. There was already a Catholic cemetery, however, once this was extended, there were no longer burials at the church.

Now we were excited! He took us out into the little back garden. It looks rather like a piece of waste land with a few trees but that’s because nothing will grow there. Various workers from the church were called, including some who had been born and grown up in the compound—it’s not just a church, but there is a school, and some very old accommodation.  One man would have been around the age of 8 when Pax was buried.

As Joaquim looked at the land, and the descriptions of the changes to the building, including the extensions and recently built kitchen, it all started to make sense.


Then he looked again at the front wall of the compound, where we had entered through a main gate, and saw the markings of a small entrance that had long since been bricked up. This was the small entrance that he remembered!

Quickly the geography of the place was confirmed. Quickly we returned to the plot of land. We were now standing more or less on the spot where Pax was buried. There were no markings, but what everyone said, and the mental pictures that Joaquim carried, confirmed it.

They went inside to take tea. I sat and cried for awhile; there was a chair provided thoughtfully.  Then I joined them. Everyone was astounded we had found the place!

More of the story began to unravel when Father Anto took us into the church proper, or should I say Cathedral. The large pillars were just what Joaquim remembered as having been inside of the church.  We went into the small back room behind the altar. Joaquim had remembered the priest coming out of this room to talk with him, and then going back in and coming back out with a coffin. That had seemed quite incredible; how could he have had a perfectly sized coffin on hand?

There was an explanation for this, which I think really confirmed the veracity of the whole history. We were told that years ago—and crucially during the time we were there before--the coffin makers and grave diggers used to live in the church compound. Coffins were made right here, so it was only natural one was found for Pax.

We went back out to the ground. We discussed putting up a cross. One of the workers said he could arrange it that same day. The Father asked if we would like prayers at the site. He was in touch with Father Swami, the senior priest. Of course I was very thankful! So we arranged to return at 4 pm. I was in a daze. We had found Pax’s burial site.

One other piece of information of note: Because this is the oldest church in Bhopal, and a Cathedral, it has been declared an archeological site. No changes will be made. The church, standing strong, standing long. Thank you, Jesus.

We drove with Sandeep to the church where it was planned that I’d be speaking the following day, and Simon would “entertain” the children. We had tea and talked with the pastor and the head of the Sunday School class.

Then we went to a local restaurant that Sandeep knew for lunch. Joaquim was eager to check out possibilities of leaving that day, after the memorial prayers, so he went off to find tickets. Sandeep went home to prepare for church the next day. So Simon and I went back to the church alone. On the way we stopped and bought a beautiful flower arrangement.

I wanted time to sit where Pax had been.

Then Father Swami came, and Joaquim arrived just in time, and we had formal prayers. Father Swami read the service in English. I cried some of the time. I was astonished when he started his short sermon and it was about the story that I have held onto and repeated to so many people in the past 21 months; the story of Jesus weeping with the two sisters, Mary and Martha. His message was that Jesus understands what it is to grieve and sympathised with the sisters.

It’s hard to express how much this story of Jesus and the two sisters has meant to me, as for many years one of the big blocks to me returning to Bhopal was the guilt I felt at “grieving.” It was as though if I believed in heaven, I had no right to feel sadness; it was only Pax’s “earthly remains” in Bhopal after all. That guilt has held me in; every time in the past 30 years that I was seriously contemplating how to make the trip to Bhopal (because I always without fail intended to do it someday), the guilt over my grief held me in its grip.  There were also practical obstacles to going to Bhopal—lack of finances, feeling like it was a priority to be there for Catherine, work, the “unknown” of a journey to a place halfway across the world that I had only spent 24 hours in. Bhopal isn’t exactly on the tourist trail and it wasn’t somewhere I could travel to directly. And where would I stay, and how would I find Pax? No, it wasn’t only guilt that delayed this journey, but the guilt was a part of it.

The guilt came from a variety of sources. The first, initial guilt over crying at Pax’s death, was from H1. The extended guilt came from being in the company of so many religious people over the years. Not that I want to knock religion, but especially evangelical-type people don’t always deal very well with death. Perhaps they ignore it? To be full of songs, praise and joyful worship is great in its time and place, but life isn’t always happy-clappy. The company I kept were mainly of the school of thought that if you weren’t happy and “positive” you were not on the right track. So how could I work through my grief? And the “older generation” also seem to take the view that you get on with life, you push the sad thoughts away, you “move on.” Yes, I was surrounded practically and emotionally by the “move on from sorrow” brigades of all descriptions, my own family included.  Then my sorrow about the loss of Pax became so deeply entrenched in my soul I could not even talk about him, lest it all came tumbling out, unstoppable.  I kept his pictures, I kept his “anniversary” day and birthday, but kind of secretly. My grief about Pax became part of who I was, but a part that was so private, nobody knew about it, even I didn’t realise how much it was affecting me.

When Catherine died, I had no more control over my grief. Whatever anybody or any church or any religion or any person on earth said, I didn’t care. My sorrow at losing Catherine was total and unstoppable, unmanageable in many respects. Losing Catherine also unloosed the suppressed grief at losing Pax. It was as though he had only just died; now I was grieving two children. It has been so confusing. Sometimes I was weeping for Catherine, sometimes I was weeping for Pax, sometimes I was weeping for myself at outliving both of my children. Sometimes I was weeping for the loss of my dreams, the loss of any possibility of grandchildren. Sometimes the pain of having been left childless seemed almost too much to bear. I came to some very dark places.

Unlike when I lost Pax, this time I would broach no talk of “being brave” or “at least they’re in heaven.” My children weren’t with me. They weren’t living out their lives. There was plenty of cause to be desperately sad. I expressed my grief in tears, in poetry, in writing (including this blog), gardening and art. If somebody was not going to be supportive of my need to work through my grief on my timetable, not theirs, then I didn’t want to see them or hear from them. I simply deleted emails that started out with some trite “positive” story rather than dutifully reading and responding.—Quite unlike my normal mode of operation.

On a spiritual level, I didn’t feel as though I even knew if God even existed. I didn’t know how to operate on a spiritual level any longer. After two thirds of a lifetime of prayer and dedication to serving God, I wasn’t even sure He was there.

But I kept searching, and I would go to church, any church, where I could take communion, the Lord’s supper. And in taking the Lord’s supper, I embraced the belief in Jesus once more. And slowly I started to find him again.

I can’t remember the point at which I read the story about Mary and Mary and “got the point.” But somehow, in that journey through grief, I found it. For anyone reading this who is not familiar with the story: Mary, Martha and Lazarus their brother were friends of Jesus. Lazarus got sick; they sent a message to Jesus to come and heal him, but he delayed. By the time he got there, Lazarus had died. Both Martha and Mary were rather reproachful towards Jesus, and then the scripture says, “Jesus wept.” He sympathised with the pain of their bereavement. (I wrote about this story on my website, www.mayihelp.co.uk, under the tab “Valley Journal”.)

Realising that Jesus did not condemn me for my grief helped me set me free. It has allowed me to grieve in peace. I did other things to deal with my grief, like going to a counsellor, and working on a journal/book. I had my days of crying, of staring into space, of utter despair. But in my heart I no longer felt that it was bad or wrong to be so sorrowful. I let the sorrow carry me, like the waves of the sea I’m enjoying in here in Goa.

Actually that’s a good example. I’m not a good swimmer (understatement) and have a fear of going out of my depth. When we got out in the sea here, I stand chest deep, and a gentle wave comes. At first I would stand in shallower water and the waves would crash into me, almost knocking me over, and that was not pleasant. But now I got the point (thanks Simon!) that if I am chest-deep, standing a bit further out, the waves buoy me up but don’t crash into me. They lift me off the seabed; I float up, which was a bit scary the first few times, but within seconds they put me back on the ground.

And that’s like sorrow. Instead of standing in shallow water and having it crash into me, I’ve voluntarily walked deeper into it, and I’ve let the waves buoy me up. A strange, unsettling feeling, without the security of feeling the ground underneath me, but the best way.

So back to the story of grief. If I have learnt anything I would tell anyone else it would be this: Let yourself be carried with the grief. Don’t care what other people say or how they expect you to behave. Survive in whatever way you can; cry when you need to. And if you’re a Christian, it doesn’t make a difference; it’s okay to cry, okay to search for comfort. “Weeping may endure for a night,” the scripture says. And it continues, “but joy comes in the morning.”  First the weeping endures. It’s easy to focus on the “joy comes” bit. But you can’t escape the weeping; only then can joy come. A night can be very long. Very very long. But hold on; the joy comes.

I didn’t think I would ever find the joy again. In the past 21 months I have had moments when I was peaceful but not one of inner joy. Until about four mornings ago. I had gone for an early morning walk by the seashore, before the heat of the day. I had listened on my MP3 player to my favourite “devotionals” from “Pray as you Go” (Jesuit site that I highly recommend). I had meditated and thought a lot about the story of the woman at the well (I’ll write about that another time.)

Now I was sitting in the shade at a beach “shack” or cafe run by a Christian woman named Maria. I was drinking tea and eating toast, listening to classical music on my MP3 player. The sea was sparkling in front of me; the sky a perfect blue. I looked at the waves folding into the shore, the gentle white surf. And at that moment, I felt joy.

When I came home and told Simon that I had felt joy, I started to cry. If you are a bereaved parent, you will understand what a big thing this was for me. If you’re someone who has suffered through difficulties or depression, you will understand, though if you’re a happy “normal” person, you might not get it. But for me, after a very long night of weeping, I had a moment of joy and it was bliss.

I’ve gone off track, so better get back to the memorial prayers at Pax’s graveside:

Going back to the story of the sisters, the deceased brother, and “Jesus wept:” –Perhaps now you can realise just how moved I was to hear the priest quoting that very same story, drawing that very same lesson. I have never heard anyone else preach that message, in fact, I had been “taught” a completely different interpretation.

So to hear Father Swami talk about Jesus sympathising, it renewed and strengthened my sense of the Lord’s mercy, His encouragement, sympathy, love. He does not condemn. It’s been so hard for me to receive his peace, his forgiveness, but step by step on this journey, I am finding it (as I just described!).

The Father completed his prayers. Then we were sprinkled with water. Then Joaquim asked if he could sing a song—the same he had sung all those years ago, when Pax was buried—and he sang “This little light of mine.” Wonderful voice.

We had already placed the flowers there, and I had lit the candle. The church worker told me later that he saw the candle burning all night.

Afterwards they invited us in for tea. When they told us that there was going to be an English mass the following evening, and I indicated I’d like to come for that, they extended an invitation for dinner. More to look forward to on Sunday.

Emotional and tired, we took our leave. We dropped Joaquim at the station and then went over to to Sandeep’s house.  We were served a delicious dinner. We filmed a few clips of Savita and Sandeep that we hope we can show back home. We were all tired but in a very good mood; purpose accomplished!

We didn’t stay too long as we knew we had another early start on Sunday.  And so we made it home, utterly exhausted, but I was feeling much better.

The search, day 2

Friday 11th January
I had a much calmer and more positive start to the day. I was fairly confident the worst was over. Little did I know what the day would bring forth! We took it easy in the morning. The car picked us up around 12 and we had our first “outing” without Sandeep, our faithful companion and guide.

We went to the mall and looked around a little. First we went to the supermarket on the lower ground floor. That was a surprise! We realised then we hadn’t needed to bring much at all. There was even Waitrose own brand food! Almost every shampoo  and toiletry product that you find in the West was sitting on the shelves, and when we came to food, we could have had Kelloggs cornflake and Cadbury chocolate if we had so wished. We didn’t! But we did get a few snacks to sustain us.

Then we went up to the food court for lunch. Simon was eager for a real masala dosa. I had a paneer (cheese) dosa but it was mixed with so much hot sauce I couldn’t eat it. Simon helped me out, and I helped him with his 4 foot paper dosa. It was served with potatoes, sambar and other sauces and was absolutely delicious. We realised we could have ordered that alone. This was far too much food for us both.

Final task was picking up a candle that I’d be able to light at Pax’s grave. I had it in my mind to buy something made locally, but this wasn’t the place to find it. I ended up with a pair of pretty white candles in glasses. Later I will light the second glass at Catherine’s grave. The first has already been used.

Then we drove to pick up Joaquim, and from there directly to the airport. We weren’t sure what we were going to do, as there didn’t seem much point to go on a hunt for the grave once it was dark. Joaquim’s flight was late and by then we thought we’d just to go the Catholic cemetery. We were fairly confident he was going to confirm that this was the spot.

We arrived at the cemetery. Within moments it was very definite that this was not the place where Pax was buried. Although 30 years had passed, and memories—especially spatial ones—can be inaccurate after the passage of time, it did not in any way match what he remembered. The church was different, the layout different... To say I was disappointed is to understate the deep sadness that entered my soul.

Our description of the other cemetery was sufficient to discount that as a possible location. We had specifically asked if there had ever been a church there, and there hadn’t, and Joaquim had definitely gone into a church, and the Father had come out dressed in a white cassock and with a black belt or (I don’t know what to call the part of the vestment that hangs down like a narrow scarf...need to look it up).  The priest had brought out a coffin, and Pax had been buried in a area where other people were buried, on a small piece of land to the left of the church. This had been a significant and unforgettable event in Joaquim’s life, and though it seemed unlikely to those we told it to, this is really what had happened.

Realising that Pax was not buried in the Catholic cemetery meant we were back to the start of our search. The only “lead” we had was when Pax died, Joaquim and John had asked a rickshaw to drive them to a church, and it took around half an hour.

Although it was getting dark, Joaquim was eager to begin the search so we drove back into Bhopal. It was  a confusing  time for me. Joaquim and Sandeep were communicating in Hindi, and I couldn’t tell if they were disagreeing or something, but it was just the way Hindi sounds when people are speaking together.

In the course of our conversation, Joaquim told me about how he lost his young wife Joy, just three years after Pax died. They had gone on a mission assignment to Calcutta. They were young in the faith and young in years, and he’d heard that Calcutta was very dirty. Within months, his worst fears were realised. Joy contracted malaria and died.

Life is full of tragedy and loss.

Sometimes during this trip I felt a twinge of guilt that in this city where so many people had lost their lives in the gas tragedy, and obviously so many continue to have foreshortened lives simply because of poverty, disease and other developing world problems—and it’s obvious from the cemetery that there is much higher child mortality here than in the West—with all of this death and loss around me, how can I weep so much for one child? Yet I won’t feel guilty about this. He was my child, he is God’s child, and each one is precious to Him. I should have buried him properly when it was the time. Leaving Bhopal so rapidly was a terrible mistake that I have regretted for all these years. This is my time to in some way make amends.

Joaquim and I talked about some of this. He had not understood what happened, but when I explained about H1 taking me so rapidly away from the city, and I commented he was a strong personality, he laughed in agreement. H1 was a very domineering personality and I wasn’t the only one that realised it.

Joaquim encouraged me that at least I have admitted it was a mistake. Poor h1 still hasn’t; he must live with the repression of the guilt and sorrow that surely—deep inside—surely he must carry?

After driving through the dark, noisy confusing streets for what seemed a very long time but was probably only half an hour, we arrived at the entrance of the Hamidia hospital. This was where Pax died. (We didn’t take pictures because it was dark.)

Joaquim was shocked. He said the hospital was unchanged. I have no memory of it; I only remember sitting next to Pax in the intensive care room, surrounded by other tables with dying children and their weeping mothers. But the structure of the hospital, even the arrangement of rooms, was unchanged. I could have gone back and found the room where he died if I had chosen, but this wasn’t the time and then we never went back again during the trip. Perhaps next time. Perhaps there is no need. I don’t know. I kind of wish now I had gone to the room but the focus and desperate hope was to find the grave, and that’s what we concentrated on.

Sandeep, Joaquim and I got out of the car. Simon waited in the car. I think it was all quite exhausting, and the daytime had been hot. What a good man. What a good stepfather.

The taxi driver came with us too. Joaquim approached some of the rickshaw drivers. “Where would you take someone if they asked for a church?” Everyone was told the story of what happened. So many people crowded around, trying to help and offer their opinions. Older rickshaw drivers, who could possibly have been working at that time, were not there because it was evening. How kind everyone was.

From there we went to the church of St Francis. The entire front lot was paved over; it was a parking lot. It was late and there was no one around to talk with. The space between the main gate and the church was too small. Besides, he remembered a small gate, a path to the church. No, this didn't look like the place.

Churches in this city could have changed. Perhaps we were just too late. Too many years had passed.

Sandeep was busy calling around to people and pastors from various churches, and every so often he and Joaquim would lapse into animated discussion. From the sketchy explanation they gave me, everyone without fail were saying it was impossible: no church in Bhopal buried people in their grounds; no pastor would conduct an unofficial burial. It could not have happened as Joaquim described; his memories were not accurate seemed the unanimous verdict.

Over and over he told the story, the priest, the little white coffin with a cross on it, the gravedigger, the prayers, the burial.


It was a bewildering evening. Even the car driver was involved in the discussions and deliberations.
Did the colour of the cassock indicate it had been a Catholic or Protestant priest? But weren't Catholics very particular; surely they would have buried this unknown, non-Catholic child. But no Protestant pastor would conduct a funeral without the proper paperwork... It was a conundrum.

It was hot. The evening had set in properly now but the roads were still alive with hustle and bustle. The sounds and smells were pungent. I felt ill inside, but tried to hold my peace and keep my agitation within, trying to remain quiet, in the hope that these kind men would find the answer.

In time we arrived at another church, also within fairly close proximity to the hospital. This was a Protestant church. There were so small patches of ground from which trees grew; otherwise, this church too had a parking lot in the front that was solid. A lady from the church came out. We spoke with her for some minutes. Joaquim did not feel it likely that this was the place, but he couldn’t be sure. I didn’t find out until the following day that Sandeep had tried to talk with the pastor, but he said he was busy and to come back another time.

We were all discouraged when we set off in the car to go home. It was too late to do anything further today; we would bring the car to pick up Sandeep and Joaquim first thing on Saturday morning. We dropped them home then drove home ourselves. Very tired, very very disappointed. The hopefulness we’d felt on Thursday was well and truly gone.

(aren't you glad this is a recap and you know we DID find it, but can you imagine how I was feeling at the time? It was so bleak.)

The search

Now I'm rewinding back to last week, to the void we entered when we embarked on the search for Pax's graveside. I had been looking for years via the Internet, but here we were physically.

The "in person" search began around Thursday midday. It was achieved 48 hours later, but you cannot imagine how turbulent those 48 hours were, the highs and lows.

So join me now as I recall...Sandeep, the local pastor who was our guide and companion for this journey arrived, and the real journey began.

We had a hired car with driver. We could not have done all of this without a car and our drivers (we had two—they alternated days) became involved in the search as well. I can’t remember their names or if we even asked their names, which was rude, but I wasn’t with it. The whole situation was dreamlike.

The evenings in Bhopal were surprisingly cool, we had a little electric blow heater, but the days were hotter than I’m used to. Being in an aircon car, or at least being in a car with the wind blowing through, made the trip bearable.

The first stop was the closest cemetery, at Bairagargh (spelling?)

It was on the main road going towards Bhopal. Where we were staying was another small township or semi-rural area. Just getting in the car and driving through the most chaotic traffic you can imagine was a lot to take in, but I wasn’t able to let the “tourist” bit of me observe it much. All my focus was...the cemetery.
So we arrived at the gates. It was obviously a cemetery as it was filled with gravestone and small tombs. It was Catholic, with a little shrine to the right hand side as you entered. Unlike the green and verdant cemeteries you find in the UK, this was dry ground, not quite barren, but almost. Various plants were growing that looked more like weeds. There were some trees. There was a path through the cemetery, and at the end what appeared to be an open church or chapel of some kind. (I will post pix later but we don't have a good connection here.)

The grave stones weren’t like British ones. They were white. Some were raised like small tombs. Everything was packed in and though there was some order, it was at the same time a bit chaotic. Many of the stones were in a poor state of repair.  There were also many crosses.

Sandeep had already been to the cemetery and made enquiries. From Joaquim’s description, if Pax was laid here, he would be on the left. The caretaker took us to the place where there were graves and burials from that time. I started to cry. They left me alone. It was my time to cry, to apologise to Pax, to pray.
Meanwhile Simon and Sandeep were looking more at the cemetery, and Simon took pictures which I will sort out eventually.
It felt like it “could” be the place. The cemetery had been extended considerably since the 1980s—I presume after the gas disaster.
The caretaker told us that we could put up a stone or cross marker, even if we couldn’t exactly locate Pax’s grave. My idea had been to put a bench, but it didn’t seem the right thing for this place. There was nothing like a bench here.

My tears dried, we got back into the taxi to drive into Bhopal. We drove along the main road with the hustle, bustle and noise of traffic. The sounds of the auto rickshaws brought back so many memories. There is so much honking and beeping in the traffic. An Indian road has a very distinctive soundtrack.

Sandeep was our guide. He knew more or less what we wanted to do, and we let him take the lead.
After perhaps 40 minutes or an hour we found ourselves driving through a warren of narrow streets lined with small shopfronts. This was old Bhopal and looks now just as it would have done 30 years ago, although I cannot remember it myself. The little shops with clothes or food. Dusty, narrow lanes with broken pavements. Not as many bicycles as there used to be, but many scooters. Goats—this was funny—but small herds of goats tethered here and there, and because this was the Bhopal winter, they were keeping the goats warm. Some of them had been dressed in a person’s sweater, with their front legs fitting comfortably into the arms of the jumper. They looked quite funny.

Well, I didn’t make all of those observations on this particular car ride but over the coming days. On this ride, I was only looking without seeing, waiting, waiting, wishing, wondering, praying silently.

And so we arrived at the gates of the second Christian cemetery. This was very different. There was a narrow entrance, and as we entered, we were aware that this seemed much older. It seemed in better repair. There was a sign about the history of the ground going back to the Begums of Bhopal, which I had seen on the photographs that Sandeep had sent and researched. I’d also looked up the names on some of the gravestones so I knew a bit about some of the people buried there.

The graves were crammed in.

Again the caretaker was very kind and offered that we could build a little white stone tomb for Pax and put up a cross. I thought, even if this isn’t Pax here, at least I could do it for that poor child that was buried there. Perhaps his family had no money or possibility to put a rememberance. Or perhaps he or they died in the gas tragedy.

It seems that “losing” someone’s grave in India is not as completely strange as it would seem to us westerners. Sandeep told me the story of how he had returned to the cemetery where his father had been buried 29 years earlier and was unable to locate the grave. So they put up a cross somewhere in the cemetery. It didn’t have to be the exact spot. That story gave me some comfort.

I feel quite confused about Indian graveyard standards, because on the one hand the caretaker said that once they found the bones, they replaced the soil and won’t use that spot again; on the other, I’ve been told by quite a few people—and earlier than this trip too—that in India graves are often re-used. I suppose the only guarantee is to build one of those little stone tomb things above the ground.

So finally we left the cemetery and drove on.

The next stop was the railway station. That was a very emotional visit for me. I wrote about it already. 

Then we went with Sandeep to the Mall. This was like any Western mall, spotless clean and nicely airconditioned. We went up to the food court, Simon managed to withdraw money from the ATM (it took awhile to figure out just how it worked—it was not quite the same symptom as in the west), and we decided to eat at a Greek place. 

We paid a little extra to sit in the lounge with glass windows overlooking Bhopal. We ate an Indian version of a Greek lunch. Life’s symmetry; Catherine was born in Greece! 

By this point I was feeling much better. Going to the first cemetery had been a gigantic emotional hurdle to cross. I could hardly believe I was there, at the place where Pax was possibly buried. But once I had done that, there was a sense of relief. 

After lunch we drove out to the Bhopal Memorial Hospital and Research Centre. This is located close to the Union Carbide site and was built by Dow Chemicals. It is a whole complex and very nicely presented, although we didn’t go into the hospital proper, apparently it is well equipped. The hospital primarily takes care of survivors of the gas disaster. Besides the initial deaths, there have been ongoing problems for those who survived, including a significant amount of stillbirths and deformed babies. The hospital treats survivors for free, though other patients may pay to be treated at the hospital. 

We went there because Sandeep’s wife Savita is a nurse tutor. This is a government job, and consequently they have an apartment. In fact, a few days before we left the UK, Sandeep had offered us to stay at the little guest house on the campus. By then we had already booked and paid for the homestay, so it was too late, and I was also rather reluctant to stay in a hospital as all I could think of as far as a hospital was what I remembered of the horrible place where Pax died. But as it turned out, it’s like a big campus, very secure, with trees and nice roads, and I think the guest house would have been just fine. (Next time!) Joaquim did stay there when he came so I should find out from him. 

Savita had already been working in this post and living in the apartment when they met at the church, and the rest, as they say, is history, their very own love story. They are a lovely couple. 

The apartments are given according to the grade of the job. The head of departments get “A” flats and doctors—and nursing tutors it seems—get “B”, whereas nurses and others get “C” or “D”. No rent is paid; this is part of the job. 

Savita and their cute daughter nicknamed “Dumpy” were waiting to greet us, along with their sister-in-law and a sixteen year old girl who they more or less adopted. 

We had a cup of coffee and talked and got to know each other. Savita showed me around the flat. It’s on the first floor, simple and very clean, in the typical Indian style. Floors are marble or stone; rooms are relatively largely. There was a large living room, two bedrooms—one ensuite--a utility/storage room, a kitchen, and I think there was a laundry room too. They had a top loader washing machine, the kind I might have found at home when I was a child. 

It seems this continent excels in practical solutions to everyday life. I really liked the open stainless steel cabinet hanging in the kitchen. Washed dishes are placed there to dry, and left there until ready for use. No need to wash, dry, put away the dishes into a cupboard, and then get them out again! 

We were invited to come back for Saturday dinner, which we accepted gladly. After fond farewells, we were back on our way to the house. 

I was calm. We were fairly confident we had located Pax’s grave, at least very close to it. All that we were waiting for now was Joaquim’s arrival, and his confirmation. 

We still didn’t know his arrival time, but as soon as we got back to the house and I checked my email (thank goodness for the Blackberry, it’s made communications and sending, and receiving, email so much easier because of its portability), and there was a note from Joaquim. He was arriving the following day  so we arranged to pick up Joaquim from his house and go to the airport. 

Thursday was over. The disappointments awaiting us on Friday were as yet unknown. But that story will have to wait for the next installment...

Memorial service at Pax's graveside. Memorial service at Pax's grave

Now Simon and I are in Goa. We are here to rest, and that's what we plan to do, but also I am reflecting on everything that happened in the past week. We don't have such a good internet connection so I'm not sure how much the blog will progress, but here's something.

This is on Saturday afternoon, 12 January 2013, around 4 pm. We only found this spot about 11 am. By the afternoon, the cross was in place, we had bought flowers, and we arrived back for prayers.

On the far right is Father Swami. He is the senior priest at the St Francis Cathedral Church in Bhopal. Such a kind man. He said formal prayers, and it was comforting to realise that the same liturgy was used on 27 May 1982.  Whatever some may think of the Catholic Church--and no church is perfect--I find it incredibly comforting to know that the prayers and faith remain constant over the years. Perhaps the form of words may change a little, but the heart and essence is the same. This is actually the thought I had on Christmas eve. In Longton, near where I live, there is St Gregory's church. One of the teachers at the college where I was teaching plays the organ, and our first Christmas in the area, she invited us to the carol service/children's service/ mass. We have been attending every Christmas eve since then. Catherine accompanied us when we attended during the last Christmas that she stayed with us--December 2009. She was very respectful and sang along to the familiar carols. And the two Christmas eves since she died, I have continued attending. The first year I cried a lot; this time I was calmer until they sang about "citizens of heavens above." That reduces me to tears. But when I first walked into the church--I was early and it was nearly empty--and I looked up at the big modernistic statue of Jesus on the cross and I thought, it's so comforting to come hear year after year and find the church standing solid. There may be differences in the liturgy and services, but the foundation remains. That thought has stayed with me, and now I've found another fulfilment in finding St Francis Church.

The man standing next to Father Swami is Joaquim. Joaquim was only 18 or 19 when Pax died, but as the only (?) Indian national living in the community of our co-workers in Bhopal, it fell on him to help with the burial. He and a Greek man named John asked a rickshaw driver for the church, and this is where (we now know!) they brought him. The priest had a little one coffin on hand, a coffin with a cross on the top. This seemed rather incredible, but we now know that at that time, the coffin makers and grave diggers lived right there in the church compound.

They lay Pax in the coffin and the grave was dug. They prayed over him and I think Joaquim also brought flowers. He was so young and so inexperienced. I never knew who had helped with the burial until I posted a notice on the electronic bulletin board of the religious community with whom I used to work. His wife responded. That was maybe a year ago or perhaps even less. Joaquim travelled up from Goa to help us in our search for Pax's grave. He was the only one who could show us where it was, so he has been crucial to our search.

Why didn't I know, you may ask? I will tell you that in another post. I want to finish describing the picture.

Next to Joaquim is the young Father whose name escapes me for the moment. (I will edit this when I have my notebook on hand.) It was his kindness and generosity of spirit, offering us time to take tea and sit down to talk when we arrived in the morning to recommence our search (the previous days had been disheartening, to put it mildly!) and it was from him that we discovered that years ago, yes, they used to bury people next to the church. Later on the main cemetery was enlarged and now it would be unheard of for someone to be buried like this. That's one reason our search was so difficult. Nobody could believe a priest would bury a child in the grounds of a church.

Sitting on the chair, well you can guess who that is. And next to me is the taxi driver. We had a hired car throughout our Bhopal trip and we could not have managed without it. There were two drivers that alternated days. They became involved in the search. Can you imagine how it moved me, on the last day, to be driving past the hospital and the driver mentioning Pax and that was where he was deceased. To have my son remembered, acknowledged, this is so important.

The other men in the picture are staff from the church compound.

Simon was taking pictures.

One very important person missing from this picture is Sandeep, the pastor with a heart of gold, who was our guide and support throughout our stay in Bhopal. I'll write more about Sandeep when we talk about the search, and then the church service on Sunday morning.

There are many things to say about that little ceremony on Saturday afternoon, and how we came to be there, but I'll save it for next time.

Last day in Bhopal, the grave site

(written on 13 April) We're flying out of Bhopal tomorrow morning, so this has been our last day here. So much has happened in the past few days that I have a lot of writing to catch up on, and I want to write it while it's still fresh.

To say I more at peace now than when I arrived is an understatement. Well, I'll save the musings for later and give you some pictures to look at.

This is the cook from St Francis Cathedral Church, praying next to the new cross we have put for Pax. The cross is made from steel (iron?) which is normal here so it will last. The little magnetic visiting cards we made in England that I give to people attach nicely to the cross.

There's. Also a picture of Pax and flowers.

We found Pax's grave!

Indian cemeteries are a world away from what we are accustomed to in Europe or I imagine in America. Here, if a grave isn't visited for 5-6 years, it is reused for someone else. From what I understand, the bones are exhumed and cremated. On top of that, this is Bhopal, where the gas disaster of 1984 took tens of thousands of lives and brought the city into chaos. Many buildings have been renovated and even cemeteries altered.

The possibility of finding the grave where Pax was laid to rest was, to put it simply, very slim. We did not know if there was any marker, but even if there had been in 1982, it was unlikely to be there now, 30 years later, for the reasons above.

To cut a long story short (later I will backtrack and tell the longer part), we HAVE found his grave spot! It is behind the oldest church in Bhopal, actually a Cathedral, and because it is so old it has been declared an archeological site. So that means the ground has NOT been disturbed. Also, they no longer bury people in the little garden plot behind the church, as there is a large cemetery that is used now.

We found it yesterday, Saturday. By 4 pm, we had a new cross in place, the Catholic priests came and we had formal prayers. I lit a candle, took some soil, put the soil from Catherine's plot, and we had beautiful flowers. Today we're going back again to take our leave, we'll attend mass, and say farewell to the earthly part.

Actually I have a lot of news and comments to tell, but I have only a few minutes right now. There will be more later.

Thank you to everyone who has prayed and supported us in this journey.

Bhopal Railway Station - with today's pictures

Today is Thursday 10th January, and a lot of things happened. We went to the two Christian cemeteries, we visited the railway station, we saw some more of Bhopal, and we had coffee at Sandeep's home and met his lovely family.

This post though will focus on one event, and finally, there are some new pictures.

Bhopal Railway Station is a significant place for me. When we were travelling down from Lucknow with little Pax and his sister Catherine, Pax was taken ill, and we disembarked at Bhopal station and rushed him to the hospital. After Pax died, we went back to the same station. Catherine, who was almost 2 years old at the time, asked, "where's Pat?" (She couldn't pronounce the "x" in Pax so she called him "Pat".) I remember that question so clearly. I have forgotten so much about those few days, I was in such a state of shock, but that question has always remained with me: Catherine looking up and though she was so small, she understood that someone from our family was missing. So she asked, "where's Pat?" I don't remember exactly what I answered, certainly something about him having gone to heaven to be with Jesus.

And we got on the train and left for Mumbai (Bombay), and that was the last time I saw Bhopal station. The last place I had two children alive (I'm not crying while I'm writing, the more I express it, the more I face it, the easier it gets to survive it), the place where two days later Catherine asked me, "Where's Pat?", that's where we finally went today, 10th January 2013, around 30 years and six months later .

Here's the station platform with a train waiting. Platform 1. We arrived and left from here.

Here's mum with her children. So sad that they are merely pictures, but I carry them in my heart.

This is the autorickshaw stand outside the station. I guess when we got off the train, we went here for a rickshaw, or we might have taken a taxi. I think the taxi is more likely but I simply cannot remember. 

This is the entrance to the station. Gives you a feeling of what it looks like. I doubt if it is much different now than what it was then, except for the modern cars.

Bhopal station sign, on the platform. someone has posted a picture of a missing child. I miss my children...
the gentleman on the left of the sign with the straw hat is my wonderful husband Simon.

This is right outside the station, and most likely where we would have taken a taxi, if that's what we took.

This picture to the right is thousands of miles away. It is the platform of Stoke-on-Trent railway station. This is the spot where I last saw Catherine alive. She came for a few days visit. We said goodbye right here, she got on the train and went back to her home. A week later she was deceased. We had no idea that was going to be the last time.

So train stations are very significant places for me. They signify the end of journeys, or perhaps--if I can be hopeful for a minute--they also significant the start of journeys? Journeys into the unknown. Please God help each one of those I love who have taken that final journey to be in a place of peace.

Pictures of Pax

I haven't posted any pictures of Pax for a few days so I thought I'd put some here. It's Pax we're talking about, after all!

Around new year 1981, when Catherine was about six months and Pax turned 2, we left Greece. We travelled overland through Europe to Paris. A few months later I flew with the two children to India, but that trip is another story. These pix are from the European trip. Here's Pax feeding pigeons in a town square in Italy, and the second picture he's pushing Catherine in the stroller, something he enjoyed doing .

And here he is again around the same time. He was a very calm and placid child, but look at that cheeky smile. 

Bhopal, day 1: Sandeep, the market

I woke to the sound of birds singing. Lots and lots of them. Not sure what types. And other sounds that were not familiar. We're staying at an old house / former dairy farm that offers "homestay" guest rooms. It's a big, old fashioned house. We're in a guest apartment on the ground floor. There's a dining table and some easy chairs, and a remarkable vase with a relief of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus. The ceilings are very high and there's an electric fan and aircon. We don't have it on as it is cool in the evenings and even in the daytime, the house with its thick walls seems to stay cool even though it was probably in the mid-20s outside.

The bedroom has some beautiful paintings and then there's a bathroom with a western toilet. Oh thank the Lord for that! I don't think either of us have knees that could manage using a hole in the floor!

There's a beautiful garden with a host of plants growing and trees, including bougainvillea which are so beautiful and colourful. Then there's the Lake. Quite a view. I'll try to post pictures at some point.

The host and his wife are very nice. Several of their house servants are preparing food and clearing it up. Nice to be waited on for a rare occasion.

Well, that's the practical, and a little light reading for you before we get back to the serious biz.

Here let me introduce another person into this story. This is Sandeep (I will post a picture eventually). I was "introduced" to Sandeep by another person I had started writing to via Facebook. To be specific, I started sending messages to churches in Bhopal in the hopes that someone could help us once we got to Bhopal. This fellow wrote back and in the end got me in touch with Sandeep. He is a pastor with the North
India Churches (sorry, not exactly sure about the denomination name) and lives in Bhopal with his wife who is a nursing tutor (training nurses) and their little girl, plus their more or less adopted second daughter who is 16.

Was I ever so surprised to find out that Sandeep has taken a few days leave in order to help us! Talk about kindness, that's one Good Samaritan!

Anyway, Sandeep came over and we spent the afternoon talking, getting to know each other, and making a plan for the next days. He looked over the paperwork and seemed to figure out which hospital we should go to, as I want to visit where Pax died. Then we made plans to get a memorial bench to put in the cemetery. There are two Christian cemeteries in Bhopal, a Catholic and Protestant one. We don't know for sure which cemetery but hopefully when Jo arrives from Goa on Friday, he'll help us find it. (I need to check with Jo before I put more details about him on this blog, so for now I'll call him Jo. I don't like writing about other people without their permission.) Jo took care of Pax's burial, and it is a true answer to prayer for him to be able to come up here.

I showed Sandeep pictures of Pax and we talked about what happened. I am amazingly calm. I think I cried so much and so desperately yesterday that I'm a bit "cried out" but we'll see what tomorrow brings.

I think I need to give some credit again to TCF (The Compassionate Friends) and the Dove Service, as being able to talk about my children and some of the deepest concerns of my heart has somewhat freed me. I can now talk about Pax and what happened without breaking down. Most of all, I can say the words that Pax died. To the people who belong to the school of "move on", "be brave", I think you're missing the point. If we as individuals don't grieve, don't express our grief, however painful and emotional, it doesn't just go away. We might try to lock up the feelings and carry on with our lives, but the emotions aren't gone. They're just held inside, smoldering, like a volcano waiting to erupt. And when little fissures appear in our lives, little breaks along the surface because of other troubles or weak times, then the hot lava or hot gases burst out in shooting, brief columns. Then the volcano quietens down again, but all the time the heat is building under the surface. Eventually it will erupt.

That's what has happened to me in regards to Pax. It's so much better to speak it, to cry it, to move through your bereavement at a natural pace. "Being brave" didn't do me any good.  We don't move on (I hate that phrase!) from our loved ones, but we move through our bereavement to the point that we start to adjust to a life without the person we lost.

Well, 30 years on, here I am in Bhopal. I'm sitting here calmly. I'm able to remember Pax, to look at his photos, to share his photos with others. I couldn't have done that if I hadn't spent the past 20 months expressing my grief. Pax has a proper part in  my life again, as it should be. Well of course the "should be" is for him to be alive, but that is not something I can make happen.

(As for Catherine, won't she be there when I get back to England? No, she won't. But I thought I'd throw that in just in case you think I'm "doing better" today. There's no "doing better". There's only coping, breathing, continuing moment by moment.)

Back to the present. It was a very good thing meeting Sandeep and I found it very encouraging.

And then the lady of the house came home from teaching in college, and we had a chat, and she took me and Simon for a drive by the lake, and then to the market to get fruit and veg. We're not in the centre of Bhopal but another small township. The market could have been anywhere in India. The smells of the fruit and veg; the street smells; the sound of the honking vehicles; the cars, bikes, scooters and pedestrians weaving through the roads; the cows walking unhindered, bending their heads down to munch on whatever food they find; the small roadside shops; the piles of mis-shapen tomatoes that would be simply thrown away in the UK; the giant lumps of juggary (cane sugar); the brinjal (eggplant), bumpy little cucumbers, small green limes,  sweet smelling papayas; all of this could have been anywhere in India and was just what we remembered. It was a feast of memory--sound, sights and smells. There was only one thing new and changed from our experiences of India 30 years ago: A mobile phone shop on the corner of the market.

City of tears

We left Mumbai this afternoon. The plane stopped first in Raipur (never heard of it before) and then flew west to Bhopal. The sky was dark and cloudless. Down below I could see the twinkling lights of houses, villages and towns, unnamed people living their lives, known only to them.

Slowly--or was it suddenly?--the realisation dawned. In minutes I would be arriving in Bhopal. The last time I arrived in Bhopal I had two living children. Now I have none.

And so the tears began to flow, and flow. Simon held me close. I am not afraid of tears like I used to be, neither am I ashamed of them. "Jesus wept"--the shortest verse in the Gospels. And Mary wept...

No, unlike the previous stages of my existence, now I will be honest. My heart is broken. I yearn for my children. The pain of realising that I am still alive while they are gone...Those are reasons to weep.

And so we landed in Bhopal.  A city of tears in a world of tears.

I'm quite exhausted so will sign off until later. Tomorrow is another day.

PS. Don't be worried about me. Writing is my therapy, that's how I process. Things should get better.

Travelling, flying over history, getting to Mumbai

So here I am, in an aircon room, the sun shine pouring in through a grubby window, and the sound of vehicles honking and rickshaws, cars, vans and a cacophony of Mumbai morning noises.

We were up at 3 am yesterday. The airport taxi was half an hour later because he couldn’t find us. That caused a bit of tension, but we'd already checked in online so it wasn’t too much of a problem. We flew. From Manchester to Munich, then boarded the flight to Mumbai.

Waiting for that flight made India seem very close, as more than half of the passengers were of Indian origin. On the flight, announcements were in German (it was Lufthansa), Hindu and English.

I had a lot of time to think. Mostly I watched the flight tracker. Couldn’t see a whole lot out of the windows because of the wing, clouds and then darkness, but I kept track of where we were. The route followed my theme of retracing my steps, though I hadn’t expected it. Here are brief highlights of places we flew over that are significant for me:

Budapest. Lived there for years, with Catholic. She spoke Hungarian with an authentic accent and used to tease me for my terrible pronunciation.

Szeged, where live the five half brothers and sisters of Pax and Catherine, along with their bio father. So very sad he did not include Catherine in his second family. I did write to the eldest boy about this trip, and if you're reading this Francis, you can know I prayed for you and your mom as we flew over.

(
Romania, The Black Sea coast. Catherine went on a holiday here--another story for another time.

Let's jump ahead.

Tehran, Iran. The first place I lived outside of Europe. One of my best memory times. Learned to speak Farsi, took care of the children of an American family, did lots of disco dancing and vodka drinking. Yes, Iran! But that was 1976/1977, when the Shah was still in control. And I was 20.

Karachi, Pakistan. That's where Pax was born.

So the only place I missed was Athens, where Catherine was born. We couldn’t Have been too far away.


We arrived last night just before midnight. We'd prebooked a humble but reasonable hotel and we're finally settled in by about 2 am. India looks just the same in respects--I was last here in December 1985--but there are many types of cars, not just the old Ambassadors.

This afternoon we fly  to Bhopal. I can’t put my emotions into words. I know Pax won't be there to meet me but part of me expects him. I look at young men of what would be his current age--34--and wonder, no, it can't be. If only...

Retracing my steps

We left India on 23rd December 1985. Catherine, my daughter, was five and a half years old. Pax had died in Bhopal, and we had never returned to the city. There are various complex reasons why we did not return, including Catherine's illness eighteen months after Pax died. And the terrible Bhopal disaster.

In fact, when I tell people that my son died in Bhopal in central India, the name of the city is familiar to many people (and the typical question was whether he died in that disaster - the answer is no). The briefest of facts about that disaster:

"During the night of December 3, 1984, a Union Carbide pesticide plant exploded in the north Indian city of Bhopal, releasing toxic gases that killed between 15,000 and 30,000 people."

The people of Bhopal are still suffering as a result. Visit http://bhopal.net/ for information.

Bhopal is the scene of tragedy for many people, not just me.

So... going back to India. I had always wanted to return; I've been saving up for it, but either could not afford to go (most of the time!) and/or my priority was the care of Catherine. Caring for the living took precedence. But now she has gone, it's time for Pax.

In 24 hours we (me and Simon, my second husband, no physical relation to the children though he has been as a real father to Catherine) will be airborne, arriving in Mumbai late on 7th January 2013.

It's going to be strange to return to India, and it is a return, rather than a going forward.

But perhaps by returning, I will find a way forward. I hope so.

The mother-child connection (A post for all bereaved mothers)

Think about this:

"During pregnancy, and even decades later, a baby's influence on mom runs deep — cell deep. While the fetus develops inside the womb, its cells mix and mingle with the mother's after traveling through the placenta, and can stay there for years."  (http://www.livescience.com/20781-pregnancy-fetal-cells.html) 

"A mother may always have her children on her mind, literally. New findings reveal that cells from fetuses can migrate into the brains of their mothers, researchers say. ... 

Recent findings showed that during pregnancy, mothers and fetuses often exchange cells that can apparently survive in bodies for years, a phenomenon known as microchimerism." (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/09/27/sons-dna-moms-brain_n_1919190.html)

"Children will forever be in the heart and minds of their mothers.

And, as research shows, in her liver, lungs, skin, blood vessels, thyroid gland, lymph nodes, and spinal cord!

During the pregnancy process, mom and baby are not just connected by an umbilical cord, but they literally become part of each other.  Cells from baby (particularly stem cells, which are undifferentiated until they get a cue from the body to become a liver cell, a heart cell, etc.) pass through the placenta and take up residency within the mothers body.

...

In an article in the winter 2011 issue of Pathways Magazine, Bruce Lipton makes reference to research studying liver regeneration. In one case, liver cells identified as male were found in a biopsy of a woman who had given birth to a boy years earlier. Her liver had regenerated itself using the stem cells that were living in her body from her son!

Baby stem cells can also take up residency in mom’s brain, and may in part explain why mothers always seems to intuitively know what is going on with their children even when they have grown and moved away.

Studies involving mice revealed stem cells from fetuses cross the blood-brain barrier and take up shop in the mother mouse brain and generate new neurons. These fetal stem cells differentiate into neurons within the mothers brain, yet still contain the DNA of the babies. Her babies cells literally become part of her own nervous system!

As you can deduce, this phenomenon must also happen in humans, and therefore we can assume that moms have their children hardwired in their brains for life. Mom and baby literally are one in the same.

The primal bond between mother and child is undeniably strong, spiritually, emotionally and as we now know, physiologically!

So the next time your mom calls just to make sure you are ok, because she ‘just felt like something was going on’ give her the benefit of the doubt! You will forever be part of her."  (http://www.awakening360.com/article/the-deeper-connection-between-mother-and-child-kacie_flegal981)

 So in a very real sense, our children live on in us. And also in a very real sense, how hard it is to lose them. 

What more can be said? 

Bhopal: Where I lost my son Pax: Happy birthday in Karachi, 1979

Bhopal: Where I lost my son Pax: Happy birthday in Karachi, 1979: It's 8 am, already quite warm in the Karachi sunshine. I wake with a start --the first contraction grips my body. It's the 280th day of my p...

Happy birthday in Karachi, 1979

It's 8 am, already quite warm in the Karachi sunshine. I wake with a start --the first contraction grips my body. It's the 280th day of my pregnancy; labour has started precisely on schedule. It's 3rd January 1979, and I'm in the PECHS area of Karachi in Pakistan. How could that be?

After we got married in Manchester, H1 and I went to Pakistan. We were hoping to do something worthwhile. We arrived in Karachi not knowing a soul, but soon made friends with a Jordanian named Tahsin. (After many years we got in contact again via the internet. He is a happy grandfather with a  beautiful family.)

I started teaching English at the "Pakistan American Cultural Society." They gave a day or two of training, and then I found myself in the classroom with eager students and a textbook. This was very different to my actual teacher training as a Montessori method nursery teacher. I had studied and passed exams in the St Nicholas Montessori Centre in London. The Montessori method is very much learner-centred and hands on. Studying for the CELTA (Cambridge English Teaching) in 2008 actually reminded me of Montessori: again learner-centred and plenty of participation. But back in 1979 in Karachi, the teaching style was the traditional classroom approach, "jug and cup." (The teacher "pouring in" their store of knowledge to the student's "empty cup.")

Still, I took to teaching in the classroom quite naturally. I was comfortable there and enjoyed it.

Sometime later, we met an expat Tanzanian who was running a business school, the "International Commercial Institute" or ICI. He had an empty floor in the building and offered it for our use. So we set up our own English language centre and taught there. It was interesting designing a simple curriculum, though I
could have done with a bit more training before I embarked on that!

Meanwhile, I found I was pregnant but I was not very well. I had (have) a type of inflammatory arthritis. I'd had knee surgery in my early teens. I would sometimes get a relapse. My right knee would swell up, then my left knee, then both knees would lock so I could neither straighten nor bend the knees. The range of movement was sometimes just a few degrees. I was in a lot of pain and felt quite exhausted. Over the years, when I had a recurrence like that, it would last for maybe six months and then gradually improve. Then I could go 3 or more years without another relapse, but sooner or later, it would return. I didn't understand all of this until fairly recently, about 2009. Then I discovered that inflammatory arthritis (like what I have--psoriatic or rheumatoid arthritis) is a "whole body" illness. The inflammation  may be apparent in the joints, but the problem isn't only limited to the joints. Even when the relapse passed, I was never very robust, but I never made any connection to my achy knees. (Now thankfully I can get treatment when I'm having a relapse. One steroid shot in the knee and at least I'm mobile again, although there has been lasting damage and eventually I'll need new knees.)

In any case, between the pregnancy, the stress of a less-than-happy new marriage, and the high heat and humidity of Karachi, I had a bad relapse. It wasn't an easy time and eventually I had to stop teaching.

But the months passed. We rented a nice flat, we had some friends working with us helping with the new English school, and I went to a local tailor to have little sheets, nappies, blankets and clothes sewn. Baby was on the way.

I have some nice recollections of Karachi; going out on a boat crab fishing. The pilot would catch the crabs and cook them on the boat, and we would sit on the little vessel, bobbing on the gentle waves, with the view of Karachi in the distant, eating the fresh catch.

But all was not calm in Pakistan. While we were in Pakistan, General Zia ul Haq (spelling?) took control. Former President Bhutto was executed. It didn't affect us at all, although there were gradual changes in the reception of westerners in the country which did ultimately have an impact on us. (I wrote a bit about that in the post about Manchester.)

We found a little clinic. It was very clean and small. There was, as best as I remember, just one lady doctor. I read up about childbirth and delivery as much as I could. By this time, my legs were much better, and I was ready for the big event.

And so it was, on 8 am on the "official" due date, I woke up with a contraction. We timed them and they were 20 minutes apart, regular, but soon became faster. A taxi was called and off we went to the clinic. I won't go into the labour details but it was back pain and not what I expected. (Whoever says that labour doesn't hurt?!) Still, after a lot of blowing, pushing and the general noises of a natural delivery, at around 2 pm my little son was born. Pax had arrived safe and sound.

(And we got in a taxi 2 hours later and went home!)

Welcome to the world, little Pax. How I love you and how I wish your stay here had been longer.

Finite pictures

Most parents love sharing pictures of their children. How many new pix appeared on Facebook over the Christmas period, I wonder. Parties, presents, and little kids looking cute. Grandchildren. Babies. Everyone sharing the joy.

But as a parent with no surviving children, there are no new pictures. No new images. Maybe a scan from an old album, maybe a friend finds a long lost photo. But nothing new.

That is part of the particular agony of the bereaved  parent. Only one part, but pain enough.

PS. Tomorrow is Pax's birthday. He would have been 34. More later.

How Pax died

The unspoken question is "how did Pax die", only 3 years old, in India.

He suffered from a genetic disorder which is relatively rare. His condition is called "Deficit in G6PDD". It causes acute hemolytic anemia. I didn't understand much about it in those days, and it was before the internet where you can find out information at your fingertips.

We first discovered he had it when travelling through France (spring 1980). He was about 15 months old. It was 1980. He appeared to be suffering from anemia, so we took him to the hospital in Aix-en-Provence, and they kept him in for what seemed like ages. He was given a blood transfusion. In the end, they gave us the diagnosis and told us he should avoid eating fava beans and some other substances. He had a mild bad turn a few months later, and then he was fine. Catherine was born, we ended up travelling back through Europe and then going to India. As far as I knew, we had it completely under control; I guarded his food intake with a vengeance.

Here's Pax a couple of months before he died, on a trip with his father and a few friends to Goa. (Another bit of life's symetry: we're going to Goa after we visit Bhopal.) As you can see, he looked fine and we weren't worried about his health at this point.

However, in May 1982, while on a train journey from Lucknow to Bombay, he started to go yellow. That was the indicator he was having a hemolytic anemia episode. (From my understanding, his white blood cells were destroying the red cells.) We got off the train at the next big city: Bhopal. We rushed him to the hospital, but despite a transfusion, it was too late. His blood count had gone too low, and we lost him.

I was too heartbroken for words. Due to circumstances (first husband being a major factor), I did not work through my grief and it was only after I lost my daughter Catherine that I started facing what had happened with Pax--29 years later!!

So last year I finally did some research into this disorder.

I got in touch with an expert and here's some of what he wrote to me.

"When I was 8 I hemolyzed badly and I do not know why to this day. We were getting out of church when I

complained of not feeling good. My mother knew what to look for and told my father to get me to the hospital, which was 30 miles away.

By the time we got there, I was too weak to walk and had to be carried into the hospital. My mother physically forced the doctor to give me blood and, obviously, I lived, but it was a very close call.

Hemolysis can be very severe and quick when the conditions and trigger are right. Moth balls are a huge trigger and hemolysis is usually very severe and quick. My cousin died before they could get him to the hospital from moth ball exposure.

Fava beans are another huge trigger. Most other legumes are less severe and some are rather mild triggers, but triggers none the less. Infections can also be triggers, and when coupled with another trigger can be very severe.

G6PDD was first recognized and named in 1956, the same year I had my first episode.

The [person]  who discovered it was bought out by the pharmaceutical company who financed his work and published a very watered down version of what to avoid and how many people were affected. . . . The real number of people who have died from G6PDD or its complications is unknown because many of the people who die are misdiagnosed or the cause of death is reported as  unknown. We don't even know how far reaching G6PDD really is and what all it affects. All the medical industry will admit to is hemolysis from triggers. But G6PDD is in every cell in our bodies and we don't know what all it affects.

Twenty nine years ago we still believed what Beutler published and we believed that he was an honest man. [This is referring to when we lost Pax.] We had no idea how many things cause hemolysis. ... Your son had three or four [episodes]. Because of our lack of knowledge, he could have had a reaction to something no matter where he was. In fact, the probability of problems is more likely in the civilized world because of all the junk we put in our food."

Knowing more about the condition doesn't bring Pax back, but at the least, now I understand a little more of  what happened.