Three and a half

Pax died aged 3 years and 5 months.

While we were still in India, Catherine got very sick. She nearly died. Age: 3 years and 5 months.

The period between Pax dying, and Catherine nearly dying, was 18 months.

The period between Catherine dying, and my trip to India to visit Pax's grave was 18 months.

These are rather strange coincidences.--Obviously, none of this was planned.

It doesn't make any sense. 

Memorial for Pax - Pix of the work in progress

A formal and permanent tomb is being made in Bhopal, in the main cemetery in Bairagarh, with many thanks to Father Anto Jerry who has been making the arrangements. He told me they are taking some of the soil from Pax's grave to put there.  

Works preparing the ground for Pax's tomb

Pax's tomb, in process of being built.  See that it's right in front of the shrine? 

This shrine, as far as I understand, was made after the Bhopal gas tragedy.  Mary weeps over Jesus at the foot of the cross.  She too was a bereaved mother.

PS. If you want to read about how I became a Christian, visit this page 

I figure that not everyone reading this blog would be so interested, so I made is a separate page. Also, it's a bit of a sideline from the main thrust of this blog.

Memory Lane - Southend

It's a long story that I'll skip here, but this weekend I somehow managed to get myself down to Southend, where I grew up. I've only been back about 3 times since we left here in around 1966 and moved to Manchester.


I don't know why I'm so fond of the place, really, as it's not exactly a beautiful location like Goa. Over the years I've always tried to find a way to visit. The first time I brought Catherine to England, I brought her here on a day trip from London. So that was about 1994 I think. Then I brought Simon and friends here a couple of times, maybe around 2004, I'm not sure.

This was my first visit alone. It was good, so I could reminisce in peace.

Saturday was a freezing March day; Southend  was wind-swept and rainy.--Icy-cold, driving rain.  I took the train along the pier and sat in the little cafe with a pot of tea, watching the sea birds and the waves crashing, and the occasional boat passing up the estuary to London. ....

Here's the view back from the end of the pier. I slipped on that rain-washed decking and ended up flat on my back. No harm done, just a little bruised.

View from the cafe. It was not possible to be outside; the wind was howling and rain beating down.

One thing that fascinated me was watching the seagulls trying to get aloft. They had to really battle with that wind, but they'd get airborne somehow, then stay aloft and soar away. Perhaps the wind is helping them...on balance, an advantage rather than a disadvantage?

It got me thinking about the troubles of life. Maybe they do help us...

I went to see the house where I grew up. For years and years I've dreamt about knocking at the door and asking to see inside. Finally,  feeling like I've got nothing to lose, I went and did it. Oh too bad, I rang the bell three times, but there was nobody there. Looks like the house is being renovated.  

I popped down to the beach where I spent my childhood. Also rain lashed. Picked up a few small stones to bring home to the grave. Placing stones on a grave is actually a Jewish tradition that I rather like. I always bring two stones. One for Pax, one for Catherine. 

(Oh I have good news; the priest from Bhopal is now arranging the proper memorial/tomb for Pax. More on that another day.)

 

I walked along the road where I used to go to school, and then I ended up eating fish and chips in the cafe that I am fairly certain is in the same place where my mum used to bring us. Under new management, 45 or so years later! 

I thought a lot about the move we made to Manchester. Leaving here was a very big disruption in my childhood. I'd already changed schools--from the posh private Thorpe Hall to the rough and ready Greenways with 40 kids in the class. Then in Manchester I was almost a foreigner with my south England accent. The chance of having lifelong friends and links that would stretch from childhood throughout life was lost. Maybe that disruption contributed to my wandering and searching as a young teen.

 

But it wasn't anybody's "fault" we left the seaside for the gloom of the industrial north. (You can tell I'm no Manchester fan!) Nobody's fault; it was simply circumstances.--My dad's job. 

And on my quiet day of reflection in Southend, I mused on how much of our life is affected by circumstances that aren't really anybody's choice. Much of life seems to be governed not by right or wrong choices, but simply by things that happen. We have the majesty of choice only as much as circumstances give us options to choose from. 

So perhaps we're not always as much to blame for things that go wrong in our lives as we think we are. Not to say that we're victims--as we still have the opportunity to choose within the realm in which we exist--but that realm is not limitless. Thinking back to those seagulls--wind, gravity, food, climate, the behaviour of other birds and creatures, their genetic structure, all contribute to the world in which the birds make their  flight. "As free as a bird" is perhaps a bit fictitious. 

Perhaps I'm no different than a seagull. I've been buffeted by winds and constrained by circumstances. Now I'm struggling to soar aloft. Jesus promised, "you will know the truth and the truth will make you free", but it's only truth wrapped up in love that works. (Or so the wise lady at the conference said.) 

Perhaps  freedom from guilt comes from the truth being wrapped up in God's love, the truth that not everything that happens in our lives can be attributed to our own choices, we or "they" (whoever "they" may be) are not always to blame. It just happened, just like that.

Perhaps this doesn't make sense to you. But if you know anything about the story of how each of my children died, you will understand. 

 

  

Mother's Day conclusion

In case you wondered what happened -- I couldn't stand being indoors after all. I suddenly realised that where I wanted to be on Mother's Day was as close to my children as possible. So Simon dropped me in the countryside, and I had a long walk alone in the gentle falling snow up to the cemetery in Alton. I tidied up the grave, had a chat, and then had an even longer walk. Fortunately there weren't many other people out and about (it was freezing!) so I managed to avoid seeing too many families. The countryside was beautiful and I didn't mind the cold. It was fresh.

Another day survived.

Mother's Day

Haven't written much recently, and I don't know how many (or rather, how few) people might still visit the blog, but I have got something to say this evening. So if you're there, hello! And if it's only me, well I won't have to worry too much about it being understandable for someone who doesn't live inside of my brain.

One reason I haven't written is that my work involves writing, and I've needed to catch up on work, and sometimes that doesn't leave much brain-power or mental energy for other things.

But here I am, and here is the subject: Mother's Day.


I don't have any memories whatsoever of Mother's Day celebrations or even any acknowledgement of there being a special day like this during my first marriage or the early years of my children. I guess it wasn't part of the cultural context of our lives. And Pax was only 3 when he died, so he wouldn't have been the originator of any Mother's Day cards or anything.

Anyway,  since being back in the UK (that's since 1998 basically), Mother's Day has been, well, what it is.--Mother's Day, and I have been a mother, so it was a day to mark and appreciate.


In Catherine's adult life, she would sometimes celebrate Mother's Day with me, and sometimes not. Sometimes she'd buy a card and forget to send it. Other times she'd get me flowers and a beautiful card, writing a lovely message to the "bestest mummy" as she called me one year. Mother's Day of 2009--at least I think it was that year, I'm starting to get a bit mixed up--she was in hospital but we took her out for the  afternoon for coffee and dessert to this rather famous pub/restaurant that is literally lopsided, "The Crooked House." You can see it here : The Crooked House

Mother's Day 2011 is another story. It fell on a Sunday. Catherine arrived on Monday morning with two bouquets, one for me and one for my mother, as the plan was to drive her up to Manchester to visit her grandmother. So that's what we did. Cath stayed with us for two days and left on the Wednesday afternoon.

A week later, Catherine was no longer alive.

I still have the flowers she gave me. They are withered and dried, but I have them in the corner of the bedroom and I will weep a new set of tears when they finally fall apart. It feels like they are the only Mother's Day flowers that I will ever be given. It's not literally so, as Simon sometimes gets me flowers. But he is my husband, and not my children, and that makes it so so different.

Last year--2012--was my first Mother's Day without any living children. It was just a few weeks before Catherine's anniversary, and I don't have any remembrance of those days except I can be fairly sure I cried much of the time and probably wrote desperate notes on "The Compassionate Friends" forum (support group for bereaved parents). It was devastating to be childless. It was agony to be reminded of the fact by everything going on around me--the shops decked out and the adverts on TV repeating endlessly, "Buy this for Mother's Day", "Give your  mother a treat..."

It's the same this year of course. Even "Groupon" is in on the act, with a special set of offers for Mother's Day, and a nice offer of a Mother and Daughter Photo Shoot.

It's salt in the wound, a painful reminder of what I had before, but do not have now.

However, I'm glad to tell you that I'm not in the exact same state as I was this time a year ago. The main difference is that despite my children not being here, I still feel like a mother.

Though my children are not alive, I'm still trying to take care of them, whether through the memorials at their graves, or mentioning them in the books I write (for example, there's a dedication page in a devotional book I had published a few months ago), or in other ways honouring their memories. I'm still "mothering."

Then there are a few other people that are making the ride a little less rough:

Besides Simon, who is as caring, patient and supportive as always, there is also a kind and precious friend came to stay for a couple of days earlier this week  (you know who you are! :) . This morning when I was putting my plastic seed germinators onto the windowsill of the spare room (trying to get some tomatoes and flowers started), what did I find tucked behind the curtain but a Mother's Day card and little gifts! Oops, Simon should have warned me not to look. It is a very nice and thoughtful surprise, one that I stumbled upon 2 days early. (Big hugs and thanks to you Avril!!)


And then there's the priest who we are communicating with at the St Francis Cathedral in Bhopal. He calls me "mother" in his emails.

So I don't feel quite as bleak and childless as I did this time last year, but most of all I am more convinced than I was then that having carried and given birth to two children, having raised them (although not as long as I would have liked), I am STILL a mother, even if they're not here. If they'd emigrated, I'd still be a mother, wouldn't I?

If there any other bereaved parents reading this, the same goes for you too. We are still parents, and we mothers are still mothers.

Well, I'm trying to be brave, and I don't know how Sunday will pan out (if you're reading this from other countries you may be confused as the dates may be different, but here in the UK, this coming Sunday  is Mothering Sunday). I will avoid getting unnecessarily miserable--I probably won't go to church, we won't eat out (despite so many restaurants offering free meals for Mothers!), and hopefully I won't even need to leave the house, because seeing other mothers still with their children would be stretching my grace limit. But for the moment, this is how I'm feeling:

If she'd moved to Australia,

Gone to emigrate

I'd still think at Mother's Day

That I could celebrate;

If he'd joined the navy

And gone far away

Though he was absent

It would still be my day;

Even if my children are gone

Where they cannot be seen

Though it feels so very wrong

Yet I'm still their mum.

So this year, on mothering Sunday

As much as my heart is in pain

I think I'll work on remembering,

Despite all, I'm a mum, it's plain. 

(Brave words! Let's see what happens

On Sunday night it will be clear

Whether I've held onto these thoughts 

Or been swimming in a river of tears.)

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