Progress

Yesterday I went to a new hairdresser for a badly needed hair trim. We chatted, as you do while hair is trimmed, and in the course of the conversation I told her about our trip to India (the reason why my hair is quite so dried out at the moment) and about Pax. Then, a few minutes later I told her about Catherine.  I was very calm and mellow, as I am most of the time these days.

This was progress for me. Let me explain. Before I lost Catherine, my grief about Pax was so suppressed that I rarely mentioned him. I simply didn't know how to begin. After I lost Catherine, that's who I talked about, except for the moments of emotional madness. Then, as time passed and I became calmer, when I would meet and chat with someone on a bus or in the bookshop where I was volunteering, or some other casual encounter, I would mention one or the other, but oh so rarely both, because once they had expressed their sympathy and shock over the untimely death of my child, how could I tell them, well, actually I lost my other child too? I felt bad too put so much sorrow onto one person, but then I felt bad that I hadn't told them about Pax, or about Catherine, whoever was u mentioned. If th

Bhopal cemetery search (pictures)

 More picture-posting catch-up

These are the pictures from our search through the two Christian cemeteries in Bhopal, hunting for Pax's grave.

This is the main Christian cemetery--Catholic--and where we thought we had found Pax's grave. This is the area of the cemetery where the 1980s graves are found. As you can see, even the "real" cemetery is quite rough looking in comparison with UK cemeteries. Perhaps the dry, dusty ground contributes to the rough appearance; plants and trees are growing but without any manicured appearance. This is a caretaker though and there were fresh flowers on various graves. The love that brings us to visit our deceased families and friends in a graveyard is universal.  

This is a stone shrine at the front right-hand side of the Catholic cemetery. I believe it was built after the Bhopal gas tragedy. It's quite large, as you can see by the person sitting praying on the right-hand side. I didn't look at it (Simon took these pictures), I was concentrating on Pax at the time. If I ever return then I'll look at it closer.

This is a picture of the second Christian cemetery, which I believe is older than the first, as there is a sign about it being an archeological site (something to do with the Begums of Bhopal). This particular section looks better cared for but .... 

...this is part of the line of children's graves from the 1980s. There are also graves under this grassy patch of land that were found when they started digging. 

The other cemetery

Yesterday we made it up to Alton cemetery for the first time since we got home.--"Made it" because we're still suffering the after-effects of the gastroenteritis we got on the return journey.

Alton cemetery is where Catherine is laid to rest. It is a small, historic village set up in the hills of Staffordshire, surrounded by beautiful countryside and perhaps just 1 mile from the more famous Alton-- the Alton Towers Theme Park and Resort that gets over 2.7 million visitors a year.

That's a busy and oftentimes noisy spot, but "our" Alton isn't. Save for a stream of traffic going to the Towers during the summer, our Alton is a quiet village with 2 or 3 shops, a couple of pubs, and several historic churches, the remains of a castle, and a Catholic youth retreat.

Actually it's rather a coincidence that Catherine, like Pax, is buried so close to a Catholic enclave, although hers is a municipal cemetery.

But there the similarities end. This is a very quiet village. I've walked through it many times and rarely encountered more than a handful of people on any one occasion. And being winter, it’s even quieter now.

The cemetery is a kite shape. It’s a lawn cemetery, surrounded immediately by mature, bird-filled trees, and then by fields and countryside that stretches into the distance. In spring it is a blaze of colour, but at the moment the deciduous trees are bare and the grass has the deep winter tinge.

As I stood in the cemetery yesterday, it was almost silent. The air was chilly--actually very cold, perhaps 2 or 3 degrees--at least that's what it felt like. I haven't begun to adjust back to "normal" weather...

There's a small brick building where presumably the lawnmower and grave-digging tools are kept, and a large barrel that collects rainwater for visitors to put into their flower vases. My children's vases were full--the recent snows and rain had seen to that.

At Pax’s resting place, we were never alone. There were people from the church, then the local people watching us from the apartments or from the top of the high surrounding walks. There was peripheral noise all the time.

Not so at Catherine’s plot. Almost total silence, but for the wind and a few birds. The only visible observer was a large, fat pigeon that was perched on top of the brick building at the other end of the cemetery which is probably at least three-quarters empty even of graves.

At that moment, looking at the peaceful contrast, I kind of wished I could have brought Pax's remains back, but then again, not.  (Not possible even if I had wanted to.)

Pax lies in the midst of vibrant human life, Catherine lies in the midst of nature. I wish with all of my heart that neither one were lying anywhere, and I still don't understand how come both of my children predeceased me. But they have. I cannot change that back, as painful as it is.

The best I can do now is honour and preserve their memories, and try to make something meaningful of my life. To search daily for the peace of faith, whether in the quietness--as Catherine’s cemetery--or the bustle of life--as in Pax's.

(PS. Didn't do the "exchange of soil" yet. Waiting for a sunnier and less freezing cold day.

Pictures of Bhopal Cathedral where Pax is buried

The Cathedral Church of St Francis of Assisi, Bhopal

 Here's what I've been able to find out about the Cathedral where Pax is buried.

The history of the Catholic Church in Bhopal goes back to 1785, when Salvador Bourbon, a descendant of the French Royal Catholic Family of Bourbons, came to Bhopal to work for the reigning Begum Mamola at Bhopal. 

We meet Salvador Bourbon's direct descendants when we went to the Sunday evening mass. The gentleman was very friendly, beaming, and quite delighted when Simon made balloons for the girl who I think was his daughter. He told us that he's off to Spain soon to meet the king.  

(Update: Actually he is allegedly the first in line to the French throne!! See http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2007/mar/03/india.france
So I finally met a king, kind of...)

And here's one of the Bourbon's tombstones, in the floor of the Cathedral.

History continues: 

It was Bishop Hartmann OFM,Cap., who is in a very real sense the founder of the Church of Bhopal. In 1873 he acquired a plot of land from the Muslim ruler of Bhopal and built the first little church, which, in 1964 became the Cathedral of the newly erected Archdiocese of Bhopal.

The church is located in old Bhopal, which--at least as far as we could see--is still a Muslim area. 

This is the St Francis shrine at the front, in what is now the parking lot.

Here's the original entrance, now bricked up. This small entrance was what Joaquim remembered, and what initially confused him about whether this could be the right church or not. We didn't notice this until later.

Here we are inside the church, on the first day that we realised that this WAS the place where Pax was buried. I'm there with my head covered--I'd been told earlier that women covered their heads in churches here so I played it safe. Joaquim is on the left. I love the picture behind the altar; Jesus is on the cross, but he is also risen. Yes, that's the hope of faith; that we will rise also.

A detail from the altar--the porcelain angels. They are beautiful. I've become so fond of angels since I lost Catherine. I think they are such universal spiritual creatures. Their existence is accepted by most traditional religions and even some of the non-conventional ones. They can't all be wrong, can they!? God's little messengers to just give us a little more hope...

And finally, yours truly. I was invited to read a scripture portion when we attended the Sunday evening mass. This was unexpected and I felt this was a real privilege. God bless the dear Fathers and staff at the St Francis Cathedral. They welcomed us so warmly and treated us so hospitably.

The other mother - pictures

Home at last with a good connection, I can finally start posting pictures again.

A few weeks back I wrote about a mother we met on the beach selling fruit who it turned out was bereaved of her son last year.

Here she is, hacking open a coconut. The wicker basket on the right was filled with coconuts, pineapples, bananas, mangoes, even some bottles of water. She arrived with it on her head, as you can see in the picture below left

And here she is poised to pick up the basket again.





I live here in the comfortable West. We have the blessing of a social welfare system, of medical care when we need it, of support groups and internet forums. We have a lot of blessings that I hope never to take for granted.

Meeting this bereaved mother brought home another lesson:

Sometimes people on the "other side of the world" don't seem quite real. We read news and statistics, "50000 die in 2010 Russian heatwave", "every day throughout the world 40,000 children die from hunger-related causes", "300,000 killed by tsunami." It seems so far away, the numbers so vast.  And then there are the man-made tragedies,  "5 Afghan children among 10 civilians killed in drone attack."

Do we really think that these unknown, unnamed people feel less pain than we do? That they value their lives a little less? That the survivors are less traumatised by their loss? The the mothers of those children are suffering any less than we are?

I think the 37-year-old fruit seller on Anjuna beach is a reminder of our common humanity, our common pain, our common tears. She was reacting as I have done, as so many other bereaved parents that I know personally have done. Her background, religion, circumstances, lifestyle, were utterly removed from our comfortable British life. But her pain at the loss of her son was identical.

We are all God's children.

Journeys

We came to the end of that journey leg, we made it back to England.

I lost Pax during a journey, so can you even imagine how I felt when we arrived in Frankfurt for our connecting flight to Manchester and Simon got very sick? Sitting there at the terminal, having to call a medical, him being taken in a wheelchair to the clinic... It was my worst nightmare returned, made worse by feeling tired and not too well myself.

They got to the clinic and they admitted him. I felt as though it was my fault for bringing him to India, and now he was ill...I wasn’t thinking too straight and as I sat in the reception, I felt sick as well and eventually we were both in our own cubicles being treated for gastroenteritis. I'll spare you the details.

So there was no sad ending; we made it to a hotel for the night and then next day, still weak but much improved, we rebooked our flight and finally reached home about 18 hours later than planned.

No journey is the same. What happened before doesn’t have to be repeated, but what happened before does have an impact on how we react to what happens now.

Well, philosophical thoughts aside, we are back now but I have not finished with the blog.

First reason is we are still communicating with Father Anton about a permanent memorial for Pax, which is still a story to tell.

Then there's all the pictures I've been promising to post.

Then there's the ceremony this end of burying the Bhopal soil in Catherine's grave.

And finally, I like writing this, however many or few ever read it, it helps me to focus. So for now, the Bhopal blog continues.

Love lifted me

Yesterday was Monday 11th February. We went to a beautiful beach in north Goa called Aswem. It's hard to describe--like a large cove surrounded by palm trees, with a small lagoon that fills with water at high tide. It was a great "small pool" for children and there were lots playing around.

I finally made it back into the sea. For the past week the seas have been rough and waves too strong. It seems the weather was unusual, perhaps affected by the tsunami in the Solomon Islands? It seems odd that an event so far away would impact the tides here, but there's definitely been something to cause the surf to be so high. It's still been hot and sunny though, no worries about that.

In any case, thankfully for our very last day at the beach we could both enjoy the water. (As I write this, we're about to eat lunch and get the taxi to Goa airport to start the return journey. So that's why it was our last day at the beach.)

The seas are now much calmer and I got to ride my little waves again. And continuing the theme of waves being symbolic of grief...here's another thought.

Most of the waves were quite manageable for me, but once in a while one would come that was just too big for me to paddle or jump. Simon, knowing how I hate getting submerged by salty sea water, started lifting me up over the waves when they were too big for me.

Hands on my waist, he thrust me up so my head was more or less above the water.

And the words of an old gospel song came to mind:

"Love lifted me, love lifted me, when nothing else could help, love lifted me."

And I thought about those painful moments when the grief is overwhelming. That's what I need at those times, the strong hands of love to lift me above so that I don't drown. God, hold me in your hands, lift me up.

----------------

I couldn't remember the rest of the song, but I just googled it.--And guess what, the "love lifted me" refrain comes from a song about the sea.

"But the Master of the sea, heard my despairing cry,
From the waters lifted me, now safe am I."

---------------------

Here's the original.

I was sinking deep in sin, far from the peaceful shore,
Very deeply stained within, sinking to rise no more,
But the Master of the sea, heard my despairing cry,
From the waters lifted me, now safe am I.

Love lifted me! Love lifted me!

When nothing else could help
Love lifted me!

All my heart to Him I give, ever to Him I’ll cling
In His blessèd presence live, ever His praises sing,
Love so mighty and so true, merits my soul’s best songs,
Faithful, loving service too, to Him belongs.

Souls in danger look above, Jesus completely saves,
He will lift you by His love, out of the angry waves.
He’s the Master of the sea, billows His will obey,
He your Savior wants to be, be saved today.

Love lifted me! Love lifted me!

When nothing else could help
Love lifted me!

(James Rowe, 1912)

Another mother

Yesterday we moved from Benaulim to Anjuna in North Goa for our last week in India.

In the afternoon/evening we explored the beach. It’s quite different, as the beaches here are narrow, in coves between rocky headlands.

Fruit sellers wander the beach, offering fresh coconut, pineapple and mangoes.

One lady approached us. She wore a shabby sari and carried a large basket on her head. I couldn’t help notice as she walked that her knees were bent and swollen in what appeared to be an arthritic condition. It was almost beyond belief that this woman, who appeared perhaps in her 50s, could manage the load she carried with her legs in that state. But necessity must.

Simon helped her put the basket down as we said we'd like some coconut to drink. She deftly chopped the end off the coconut, put in a straw, and left her basket as we drank and she rushed around to encourage some of the other beachgoers to buy her wares.

When she came back, we started talking. She told us it was her birthday. I was very surprised to discover she was only 37. Her life has aged her prematurely.

Then she said her son, age 21, died last year.

And there on Anjuna beach under the swaying palm trees, we had a fellowship of bereaved mothers. I told her about my children and gave her the little picture visiting card of both of them. She was heartbroken at the loss of her boy and it was obvious her grief was still raw and confusing. She has two daughters but losing her son...

Simon made her a balloon flower because it was her birthday. Then a few children gathered and he made some balloon animals. One balloon burst in the process. She commented that life was like that; one moment you are here and then crash, it's over. One minute when would smile--she had to sell the fruit after all--and the next moment she would comment on her son. There wasn’t much I needed to say or could say. We understood each other.

Some of you reading this are part of the same sad fellowship. So you get it that one day I can be extolling the beauties of Goa and the next day weeping, my tears mingling with the salty waves, as the memory that Catherine left without saying goodbye suddenly flashes into my mind. Suddenly I'm overwhelmed; suddenly the waves are just too strong for me to cope with. It's as though I've only just realised it, though of course I've thought of this many times in the last 22 months.

No, the only ones who really "get it" are those who have faced a similar loss.  The loss of a child, of children, is a unique pain.  The fruits seller and I understood each other, and sadly, some of you too.

Goa

And now for something completely different...Goa.

Buffaloes surfing the waves.
Dogs searching at low tide for fish.
Waiters speaking Russian to the many Russian visitors.
Beach "shacks" erected at the start of the season and taken down at the end.
Sitting at a beach shack at sunset, watching the golden orb sink below the horizon, sipping cocktails or mocktails (not alcoholic) and using the free wifi time check email.
Sunshine and a pure blue sky from sunrise to sunset. Sunshine.
Early morning walks on the beach, walking barefoot in the warm surf.
Sand in your sandals, between your toes, in your shoulder bag, sand everywhere.
Tame "wild" dogs at your feet, calmly hoping for scraps.
The smell of the tandoori oven.
The sound of the sea, waves gently crashing on the beach.
Sunshine.
Sunshine.
Fresh fruit salad; rich deep orange-coloured papaya, an explosion of sweet flavour; crunchy sweet pineapple,  chubby sweet bananas, the caramel-flavour of chickoos.
Sunshine, sand, sea.
Laid back, friendly people.
Coconut palms swaying in the sunset breeze.
Balmy evenings eating freshly cooked fish.
No wonder most people we talk with come back year after year after year.
We'd like to do that too but not completely sure when it will be possible.
So that's a bit of Goa... 

Waves

Last year I wrote a poem about grief, comparing it to the waves of the sea, and last week I wrote about going deep into the sea and letting the waves buoy me up.

For anyone who thinks I'm back "to normal"..., think about it for a moment. The waves of the Arabian Sea that land so softly on the fine golden sands of the Goan beaches haven’t stopped rolling in, and neither are they likely to stop in the foreseeable future. And while some days they're gentle and manageable for this timid barely-able-to-swim person, they're not always like that.

It was odd because couple of mornings ago I was feeling very down about the kids and that morning, the sea waves too were too rough for me. I couldn’t ride them and had to sit it out. It took me a couple of days to get my confidence back.

So that's the grief of bereavement; it's not always gentle waves, sometimes it's rough. And just like the sea cannot be controlled, so the waves of sorrow are sometimes out of our control.

May all our seas be calm, but at those times when the winds blow and the surf is up, may we find a peaceful haven.