Catherine's birthday

Today is 20th June, and yesterday was the 19th--Catherine's birthday. She would have been 33.

Last year I had quite a crisis at birthday-time. (My birthday is 2 days later and we always used to celebrate together. It was a birthday "season" rather than just one day.) And last year I'm sorry to say I went out and drank a bottle of wine with Catherine. As she wasn't there, I had to drink it all. It didn't have a good outcome.

This year dear Simon has been vigilant to help me not be so silly again. Awhile back I saw a video about Georgia (Eastern Europe, not USA) and how the tradition there on certain occasions is to go to the loved one's grave and have a little feast or picnic right there, to include them in the festivity.

So that's kind of what we did yesterday.

Cherry liqueur: A memory of happy times living in Hungary, and a drink that Catherine liked that we both enjoyed back there. When we opened the bottle and sang her "happy birthday", we poured the first and second helpings onto the grave.

Marble cake: Something we served at Catherine's funeral. White and black symbolising that life isn't simple. There are sweet times and bitter times.

Strawberries: Memories of Catherine's childhood, taking her out "Pick Your Own" strawberry picking. And it turned out that Simon had another more recent memory. I can't say I exactly remember this, but he recalled an occasion that Catherine was visiting and we went out to a market and they were selling off the over-ripe strawberries and Catherine bought loads and loads. We ate a lot, she gave us some to keep, and took some home with her.

We also had ready-cooked chicken legs from Tesco, but we didn't end up eating them right there. Catherine loved chicken, and when we would visit her in hospital we would often bring her the cooked chicken like this, as she liked it and requested it. And when we visited her at home, sometimes she'd cook for us but other times she wasn't well enough to cook, so we'd pick up the chicken on the way there. I must confess I don't like it which wasn't a problem when she was around as she'd eat and eat it, but this time she wasn't here... So I left it all for Simon.

Any bereaved parents who are reading this will know how difficult their child's birthday is. I don't know if this "birthday picnic" will appeal to you, but for me, it helped. Also this year, instead of getting tearful because I couldn't buy her a birthday card, I bought a card and brought it to the grave. Well, I still cried when I bought it, but it felt better to do something than nothing.

Something else that got me through the day was posting on Facebook  the theme I have for each of her birthdays, basically: "Do something kind in Catherine's honour and memory", and there were quite a few comments from this person and that. I so much want Catherine to be remembered with love. I wish with all my heart that she is still aware that she is loved and missed.

So that's Catherine's 3rd post-living birthday. It's difficult to conceive that it is always going to be like this. It's not like she's emigrated and might one day return. I'm not so sure she would want to either.

All of this "being busy" helps me survive, but honestly, with both of my children gone, that isn't easy. But survive I am, and now the next stage of busy-ness, besides earning a bit of a living and my new charity work, is doing things to honour their memory. Hopefully that might be the theme of my next post.    

Memorial service for Pax -- pictures

The cemetery in Alton as it is on this day, 27 May 2013. This is the view away from the grave. The building is a maintenance shed. The barrel collects rainwater which people use to water the flowers on their loved one's graves. It's a very well-kept cemetery. It is incredibly peaceful. 

The soil in the bottle is from Pax's actual grave garden in Bhopal.  This is part of what we brought back from India. 

It was quite chilly and raining off and on  by this time. We sat in the car and  read some memorial-type readings. Then  Simon dug a little hole into which we put this blue metal case with the jar of soil and Pax's picture. We prayed over it and then Simon covered it up.

Candle lit for Pax. We bought a pair of these candles in Bhopal. We lit one and left it on his grave at the St Francis Cathedral. Today we lit the other candle here. 

The grave is busy as you can see, with flowers, a bird, and various angels and candles. I also bring small rocks and shells back from trips.

 In January I took soil from Catherine's grave. Some of that soil is now in Bhopal, India. From Bhopal we brought a little soil from Pax's grave. Now that soil is in Alton, England, in Catherine's grave. We have come a full circle.

There is a certain peace in doing all of this, feeling like I have done as much as I can as far as "stone" memorials. But now it is time to start working on living memorials. Not actually start, because I've been doing that already, but more actively and determinedly. I'll write more about that soon...

Rest in peace, Pax. I wish so much to hold you in my arms once more, to hear your voice. Please God there is a place where that will one day be possible. 

Pax Memorial Walk 2013 Photo Log, Part 2

Long delay in continuing this story: We went away, camping! That's another story. First time camping since I left Europe with Catherine and Pax in around March 1981. We'd been camping with E, my first husband, in the Bois de Boulogne in Paris. That's a very long story so I'll go back now to 27th May 2013, travelling north on the "Staffordshire Way" up the River Dove.

There are many "Ways" to walk. They are waymarked with little signposts; it's a public right of way that takes you through woodlands, on small lanes, over hill and dale, and sometimes through private land and farms. The UK is dotted with cycle ways too, and often I prefer to walk on those because they are easy underfoot--but mostly because it's fairly impossible to get lost. They are a very clear path, which the "walking Ways" often are not. And if there's a chance of losing the path, I seem to manage it.

So as you might guess from this, although I started on the Staffordshire Way, and ended up there on the end again, I ended up on a "longcut". But it was interesting.

Here's the photo route.

Approaching the River Dove, just a few hundred yards from Dovebridge.

The Dove at this point weaves through fields, and to cross it there is there rather impressive little footbridge. It's a bridge from nowhere to nowhere. 

After crossing the field, I came to a stile and a few paths going in different directions. Although I had 3  maps in hand--a local walking map from the village, with written instructions, and a proper OS (Ordnance Survey) map, plus another official map of the Staffordshire Way, I wasn't positive which way to go. But there on the step of the stile was a little ladybird, and I figured she was leading me that direction, and it turned out to be correct (for once!)

Took a little detour to look at the old stone bridge. It's no longer in use; I crossed it and there's no path through on the other side. Traffic now speeds along a new bridge on the A50. But this one looks so much nicer. 

View of the Dove from the stone bridge, looking north. 

Happy moment, I know for sure where I am, I'm on the path! It's just a barely visible track through the fields. I hope there won't be cows.

Climbed a hill adjacent to woodland. This is the view looking back towards Dovebridge

Until this point it was a very peaceful walk; I think I'd only seen 2 people since I started out, and both of those were close to Dovebridge. Then, as I kept walking, I started hearing popping sounds, and they got louder until...the Way took me through a Shooting Ground. Don't worry, it was a safe path! These are the little shooting areas, targets, whatever you call them. 

This picture isn't all that is seems. Looks peaceful, doesn't it? But it wasn't! This was just a few yards through the shooting ground, and very closely  within earshot of the guns firing. But I guess the sheep are used to it and didn't seem to notice. 

This lamb had escaped from the field and couldn't his way back in.  The grass looked greener on the other side. Poor little thing was bleating and bleating trying to find a way back to his mum. It was easier to leave than it was to get back. I guess that's a parallel... 

Pretty spot on the riverside, where I sat and had my little picnic lunch. 

Leaving the woodland through the squeeze gate. Looks narrow! I couldn't figure it out at first as most of these stiles need climbing, but on this one, the middle bar lifts up and you squeeze through. 

Woodland walk in Derbyshire. The River Dove forms the border between Derbyshire and Staffordshire, and at this point I was on the Derbyshire side. 

Looking over at Staffordshire. But I've lost the Way! 

This horse seemed keen on having its picture taken. 

It looked like the Way, but it wasn't. 

Contented sheep.

Wooden ducks in the grounds of a posh private school. I ended up on a quiet lane that took me through the property. I found it quite significant as I had been thinking a lot about starting a charitable fund in Pax and Catherine's memory to sponsor the schooling for the poorest children in India and Africa, starting with some of the children in the tribal belt of Madyar Pradesh, the state where Bhopal is. Bhopal itself is a city but there are other rural areas that are desperately poor. Our friend Sandeep, the pastor who had helped us in the search for Pax's grave, does some work in this belt and he told us it costs about £60 to send a child to school for the year. I'll write more about that later, as it's an idea I'm exploring, but that was my main train of thought as I was walking along, so it seemed kind of significant to find myself in a school. (I bet that school charges more than £60 a day, never mind a year!!)

Here's the school

Didn't take photos for awhile as I had to take a long walk down a winding road until I reached the main road, turned left, and eventually made it back to the River. I wasn't really lost as I knew where I was on the map, but I ended up walking a lot further than intended. Eventually I reached the Dove again at the small town of Rocester.

Historical plaque on an old building, dedicated to Richard Arkwright the inventor of the spinning frame, which I guess was a big step towards the advent of the Industrial Revolution....

But the building (on the right) has been modernised, and new buildings added, and it's an Academy. So that's the educational theme continuing, 

I'm still following the River Dove, but I'm on the Limestone Way now. This should take me up to a Garden Centre where I can have tea and wait for Simon to pick me up (he's working in Nottingham today). Unfortunately, this was a good plan but it didn't happen. The Limestone Way seemed to have even fewer clear markings and I lost track of it. I ended up on a long detour, and by then I was really tired. I gave up trying to get to the Garden Centre and decided to head to a little pub in Denstone instead, looking forward to a long cold drink. But somehow... yes I lost the path again and ended up on a muddy woodland hill, scrambling down semi-dry stream beds trying to get to the path. At one point I could see it through a wire  fence, but there was no way through! But finally, I ended up on...the Staffordshire Way again. 

Not the River Dove this time, but the Churnet

My destination. Unfortunately, it was closed!! But more fortunately, Simon wasn't too far off so I sat and waited for him, and then we went to Alton where we had coffee and went to the cemetery for Pax's memorial ceremony.--Next post.

I hope you've enjoyed these pictures, just a small glimpse of Staffordshire and Derbyshire. This walk didn't have to be so long, especially if I'd had a bit more common sense and stopped in Rocester. I hope someone who's reading this might like to accompany me next year on Pax's anniversary for this memorial walk or another one. At least now I know some of the ways NOT to go in order to stay on the Way.

Life's roads don't always take us where we expect, do they. That's the particular pain of being a bereaved parent. You thought you were going somewhere; you have a child, you expect them to see them grow up, have a life of their own. But it doesn't happen. The path you took didn't take you where you expected. I never expected to be here now, with no living children. It is just so difficult to believe. But it's real. This is where I am.

Pax Memorial Walk along the river Dove

Monday was the anniversary for Pax and I spent most of the day on a memorial walk. Pax means peace. A Dove is a symbol of peace. So what better route for a memorial walk than along the River Dove.

I started in a little village called Doveridge. (Simon dropped me off on his way to a booking in Nottingham.)
Starting point was the church of St Cuthbert., which dates back to something like 1400 AD. In the churchyard there's a yew Tree that's around 1400 years old!  Apparently it's the second largest in Derbyshire.

Walkway under the tree, supported by posts.

.to be continued...

Maps and locations

I have discovered more I can do with Google Maps! So here's a little tour of places.

(Each link opens a map in a new window)

Pax was born here (approximately) --Karachi, Pakistan

Pax is laid to rest here --Bhopal, India

Catherine was born here (approximately) --Athens, Greece

Catherine was living here when she passed on --Dudley, England

Catherine is laid to rest here --Alton, England

But where are they now??

The Christian faith to which I cling...

(Cling is the right word--imagine someone thrown off a ship into a stormy, dark, freezing cold sea. This person is a poor swimmer at the best of times, and now in these dire straits, she is utterly desperate. A hand reaches down from the ship. She reaches up. Her hand meets his; she clings on desperately for dear life. Okay, you got the picture, I'm clinging.  Clinging desperately.)

To continue: the Christian faith to which I cling tells me that my children are still alive in the sense of consciousness. The true being, the true self, lives on. Moses and Elijah appeared to Jesus on the Mount. They weren't too dead to hold a conversation. Jesus taught that our God is the God of the living, not the dead. (Matthew 22 if you're interested)



"Whoever lives and believes in Me shall never die," Jesus taught. Well, obviously in the past two thousand years, countless people who believed in him have died. Physically. My own children included. (Catherine was a believer when she was young, though more confused about it in adulthood. Still, she was  taking the Lord's Supper at services in hospital during her last admission. I have a feeling that she too was clinging, but only she can tell us what she was really thinking...)

But back to the promise "shall never die." Physically, they have, they do, we will. But our inner self, the bit that goes into the light in the near death experiences, the bit you feel even when someone is absent, that bit won't. At least, that's the promise.

So where are my children now? The real true non-dying selves? As a Christian, I will say "with God." But it is by faith (here's the clinging again), because for Him, I have no Google Map link.

Bhopal cemetery

Father Jerry Anto from St Francis Cathedral in Bhopal just sent me the photos of Pax's tomb in the main cemetery, just finished.

Maybe you're a parent or a grandparent. The pictures you post are parties, outings, special occasions, school graduations--your child and their lively self. I wish I could keep doing that, but I can't. I can post old pictures of course, but they  are ever more distant in time. But the only new pictures I have are these. Tombs and memorials. And that is the reality of bereaved parenthood.

Memorial tomb for Pax, adjacent to this beautiful shrine

Location of Christian cemetery in Bhopal (opens new window)

Gardens and hope

Today is 2 years and 1 month since Catherine passed on.

When she was living in Dudley, we used to drive down the A roads to visit her. It was shorter than the motorway and a more pleasant trip. Along this route we would pass an outstanding garden centre called Dobbies, and it became our tradition to stop in, if it was still open by the time we drove home. At this point we'd just moved into our new home and had an empty garden to fill. So we'd scour the bargain section for redeemable plants. We hardly ever spent very much, sometimes just pennies really. Some of the plants didn't survive and couldn't be resuscitated despite my best efforts, but others thrived. The annuals have long since passed away, but we still have a hedge and various plants growing from that time.

Today we went to the Dudley area again for the steering group for the Triangle of Care project, which I'll write about another time or you can Google.

So on the way back, you can guess where we stopped. I was a lot more extravagant in my plant buying than I used to be,  but we still got some bargains that I hope will bear fruit -- literally, strawberries and beans to be precise. I bought 3 lily plants in Catherine's memory--this is the third year... They are hardy so I hope they'll survive a long time.  I think I'll make a Catherine corner in the garden, and another plot for Pax. Lilies are for Catherine and we have a stone dove for a centrepiece for Pax. Hopefully pictures will follow, eventually. Catherine already has a pot of lilies at her grave.

Gardening has probably been the single-most helpful activity for the past 2 years. Watching things grow, waiting almost breathlessly to see what's survived the winter, listening to the birds and watching as they flit around, listening to the wind (thank God for the summerhouse!), watching as the sky changes colour, light blue to dark grey in moments, watching the miraculous springing to life at spring--some days I could almost see the ornamental grass spring up in my sight!; watching the golden daffodils unfold then glow as bright golden trumpets, then gradually fade to be replaced by deep red goblets that are tulips, watching bees visit the white blossom of our young cherry tree, hoping this year it will produce more than the half dozen cherries of 2012, waiting to see if some unfamiliar green shoots are growing into a welcome plant or a weed... There’s so much going on, no wonder I can spend so much time staring at the garden, never mind about the actual time spent gardening.

Having the luxury of time to sit and watch is exactly that, a luxury. I am fortunate in that regard. I am glad to say "thank you Jesus" for the time, and the garden to watch, of course.

I was studying the little willow tree we planted the first year, and thinking we probably planted it a bit too close to the house. But it will take many years before it's too big to be a problem. By that time, I expect it won't be my problem, but I'll be with my children.

Sitting here (summerhouse, where else?), it’s quite easy to see the cycle of life, the seasons of growth, fruitfulness, death and rebirth. The unexpected beauty of a flower, the sadness as it's short life ends, but the knowledge that if it's a perennial, it will grow again. Are we perennials? That's the hope of Christianity, isn't it. And with that thought, I'll leave you with a poem I wrote awhile ago.

To Catherine...

I used to like the scent of lilies
And they were your favourite blooms;
We bought them to adorn your casket
Perfume filled the room.

Each lily now is a teardrop
Leaving my heart, entering the soil
For that’s where they laid my daughter
Yes you, my precious girl.


Can you still smell the lilies?
Please tell me if you can
For then I’d know that you still live
Though how I do not understand.

If you can smell the lilies
Then their fragrance, soft and sweet
Will no longer be a curse upon me
But a promise we’ll one day meet.

One of our plants from Dobbies. I don't know what this is called. It's a perennial and spreads like crazy!

Our summerhouse, my garden haven

Making space

Simon and I are both self-employed. It's necessary to keep copies of our accounts--bills, receipts, paperwork, etc, but basically only for 6 - 7 years.

A few weeks back I did a big sort out of papers pre-dating April 2006, and then a big burning in the garden.

Papers, even receipts, are full of memories. Although these were connected with work, as work was such a big part of my life in that period, the memories and feelings invoked were not all happy. Far from it. Suffice it to say, I thoroughly enjoyed burning that heap of papers!

I kept a few for nostalgic reasons, also as memory joggers in case I ever get around to the book I've started and planned.

Getting rid of the old makes space for the new. Or maybe it just makes space.

I also managed to put together over two banana boxes full of books that we then donated to the Samaritans charity shop. Lots of books that I have never read, or have read and don't need to read again. More memories. There was one box full of Catherine's college books, many of which I'd bought for her as she started various courses over the years. They weren't doing any good sitting in the garage; I hope someone can use them, and also that Samaritans makes some money from their sale. They provide a very important service.

Cath at 3. She could read simple books already. An early reader,  home-educated. 

Catching up, and an invitation

Haven't written in ages. Few reasons:

The anniversary period for Catherine--her passing and the funeral-- is a difficult time for me.

Had some situations with my elderly mum that needed taking care of.

Perhaps not surprisingly, my health wasn't too good with a resurgence of migraines and arthritis.

On a more positive note, I started a new voluntary position on the management board of a charity called Healthwatch. Between meetings and lots to read, it’s taking up a lot of time and energy. It's good to try something new and use what I've learned about healthcare, particularly mental health, but it’s also quite a strain in some respects but it’s a challenge that I'm glad to try it. Still keeping up with other work too.

All in all, I haven't felt so creative.

The next thing around the corner, besides an interview about another voluntary job (!), is Pax’s anniversary.

I had a very special dream last night. In my dream, although both of my kids were dead, they were allowed to be alive again for awhile. Catherine was there, though I don't remember the details--I do dream about her quite often. (Always puts me in a good mood!) But then there was Pax. He rode off on a tricycle.We went to the hospital and he was there, in intensive care. But the doctor let me hold him in my arms and feed him. The feeling of holding him was so real, I can almost feel him still. It is SO rare that I dream about him, at least not so realistically, I am very grateful. It makes me look forward to dying. I think only a bereaved parent will know exactly what I mean.

Well, that leads me to your invitation to his anniversary. If you're reading this, you're invited. May 27 we'll be doing an informal ceremony at Catherine's Alton grave with his soil. Then lunch or supper either locally or at home. If you are in the UK and think you might like to come, please get in touch.

Today

Before I left to get the 2 buses to Alton, neighbour/old friend whom I haven't spoken with in many moons rang the doorbell to present me with a pot of tulips. The variety? Catherine.

Put them in the bag with flowers and headed off. Changed bus in Hanley.  Too late fir direct Alton bus so just took it as far as Cheadle. Went into church while waiting (90 mins) for next bus. Caught the last part of mass. Spent quite awhile meditating and crying. Priest prayed with me afterwards.
Listened in on the first part of the tour of the church. It's a famous and beautiful building filled with scripture and symbolism by architect Pugin.

You. can't quite see it here, but there's still abig painting of Jesus, etc. The guide said on the bottom left the daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury (who paid for the church) , who died young, is in the picture. Yes, all parents want to memorialise their children...

Catherine's 2 year anniversary - Saturday 13th April

I recently got appointed to the management board of a healthcare advocacy charity (unpaid post) and I have an interview about possibly becoming a trustee for another charity. Catherine would be pleased I'm sure. I have 9 books in print, another book sitting with a publisher who's considering it, a comfortable house, enough income to live (simply). I sit here with a view of green hills, on the edge of beautiful countryside. We're getting a bigger car next week, one we can convert into a mini-camper, something we've always wanted. Sounds like lots of reasons to be happy.

But neither of my children are here to enjoy any of this, and for that reason I'm not.

I miss Pax and not knowing him as anyone but a small child, except in my dreams.

I miss Catherine desperately. I miss her phone calls, her visits. I wish with all of my heart that she was here. Tomorrow is the 2nd anniversary of her passing over. I will lay flowers at the grave, I will take photos, I will light candles. But nothing I do can ever bring her back and that hurts too bad for words.

If you are reading this on 13th April, please pick a flower or light a candle in her memory. Say a prayer if that is something you do. I can't bear the thought that she would be only remembered by me, because what will happen when I'm gone?

Catherine in her house, November 2010. Note the bananas! She loved them.
The mirror and dining table are in our home now, used daily.  

Charity walk (scroll down for story)

St John's Ambulance volunteers - bike patrol

Simon in action.

Add caption

 Follow the crown (one of Simon’s creations)

Chilly morning, 7/4/13

It's Sunday 7th April, 7:45am. I'm sitting in the car, parked in the Wedgwood Estate in Barlaston, Staffordshire. Sunshine is filtering through the bare trees, the ground is covered with silver frost, and in the distance, mist shrouds the hills. It's freezing outside, so I'll sit a bit longer in the car, waiting for the start of the Dougie Mac Hospice Charity Walk.

Simon’s dressed in red, blue, yellow, green. He has a bright red nose, a black bowler hat with fluorescent orange hair--a wig made of wool. He's already gone over to the children's play area where he's going to entertain the children with balloon models. He is my "contribution" to the event. I didn't manage to raise money. I couldn’t get around to even trying. So bringing him is the best I can do.

This is our second year at the walk. Last year I was weeping, but at least I had someone to walk with. This year I am alone. Do the organisers even realise how much it's costing me to leave Simon to entertain?

This time we both have a little badge with my children's photos on. Last time I had made a poster-like sheet with large photos of Pax and Catherine, and I wore it around my neck. This badge is better.

So I'm waiting in the car until nearer to the start time. I don't know where I'll be emotionally at that moment. Maybe I'll be calm, coasting on neutral, like I am at this moment. Or maybe I'll burst into tears. There is no way of predicting. That is the overwhelming and unmanageable nature of my grief. Can't say that everyone is like this, but this is how it is for me.

It's freezing in the car! My arthritis knees are not happy at all. We didn’t really need to get here so early but that's what they asked and we always--well, usually--do things the right way. So I sit here waiting, watching the minutes go by, wrapped in coats.

This isn't my only countdown of the moment. I'm in the midst of a bigger, more momentous countdown--at least, that's how it is for me, much much bigger than a walk.

It's 2 years, less 6 days, since Catherine died. Yesterday was the 2 year anniversary of the last time I saw Catherine alive, the day we went for a picnic, drive and then took her to the station. This day, 2 years ago, she went out for a walk with her support worker. Tomorrow, 2 years ago, Leigh persuaded her to go to his mum's birthday dinner. From what I remember, she wasn’t having a good day and didn't get out of bed until noon or later, or at least hadn't dressed.

That means the day after tomorrow is 2 years since she went to the day training as part of the process of becoming a volunteer with St John's Ambulance. (Last year there was a St John's Ambulance crew here at the walk. I expect they'll be here again.)

Do you see where I'm going with this? I'm reliving it all, day by day. Gonna get very rough by Saturday 13th, the day she died, and Sunday, when we went to the house and...that's where she was.

We just finished Easter week. That's a commemoration, day by day. Jesus enters Jerusalem--that's like Catherine's last visit to us. Then he got busy, like her training, etc. She even had a last supper--pizza out with Leigh. And then Jesus died. And Catherine died. Good Friday. It's marked by Christians all over the world. We all remember when He died.

And then it's like the whole of Christendom is holding its breath. Christ has died, he's buried in the tomb. His followers are in despair. His mother's heart is broken. Poor Mary.

Then comes Sunday, and everything changes. Death is vanquished. Jesus rises from the dead. Eternity has been shifted. We enter the era of grace, of the love of God manifest through forgiveness, through healing of the soul and body.

And here my watchful, waiting week for Catherine takes a different turn. There is no resurrection morning. There is no moving of the gravestone. There is no sunrise. I am still holding my breath.

In the depths of my soul, I hope that one day there will be a dawn in another life, an existence beyond the dimensions of our present experience.  From the bottom of my heart, I cling to belief. But my nature is too like Thomas, who couldn't believe unless he could see. Lord, I believe, help thou my unbelief, one of the apostles pleaded with Jesus. If there is any prayer I could call my own that is it.

And so I sit waiting, waiting for the anniversary of Catherine's death, an anniversary that I wish was not. I will wait next month for Pax's anniversary. I wonder how I'll feel next month, now that I know much more closely what happened? (That's the day I'll do the ceremony with the soil from Bhopal. That'll be the right day.)

And I wait for the charity walk to begin. And I will walk the walk, alone in a crowd of hundreds. I will walk, holding my breath, but taking one step in front of the other. There's nothing else to do.

Perhaps alone is not true. Perhaps if someone is reading this, you would have walked with me if you could. It is a comforting thought. And my children are in my heart, the Lord promises to be with us to the ends of the earth, and maybe others I have known who have passed over are here too. There is a lot of bereaved people here, perhaps we will be surrounded and encompassed by a cloud of unseen companions?

But my hands are cold. Whatever we believe about the life beyond, it is beyond, it is not here, we cannot feel or touch it, hold its hand. And that, reader (are you there?) is the agonising reality of bereavement.

---------
The walk. Sunny. The route takes us along the canal and then through the pretty village of Barlaston, then through the Wedgwood Estate, past the fishing pond, down back to the start amidst green lawns and magnificent trees. Last year the bushes were filled with glorious blossoms; this year they are bare.

I walk as quickly as I can. As the walk progresses, I divide the miles in my mind, dedicating them as follows:
Mile 1 - Pax.
Mile 2 - Catherine. Her part of the walk included an uphill stretch. I managed to call her. When she was alive she would call me when she was walking up the hill to her house. We would stay on the phone and chat while she walked; she didn't like the Hill and talking with me to pass the time. That was a nice memory on this walk.

Paused at the train crossing, waiting for the train to pass. This is the spot where at least 4 people died last year. Say no more.

Mile 3 - Catherine's little baby lost in the early months of pregnancy. Never had a chance at life. (I doubt many people know about this...It was a very sad episode in Catherine's life and one that precipitated her illness, or so I believe.)

I walked as fast as I could. Pressing on, ignoring the scenery, just wanting to get there. For the last stretch, we're up on a slight hill. The road weaves down below. I can see the finishing line in the valley.

Walk along talking with St John's volunteers on bikes. Catherine would have loved to do that. It should have been her. I shouldn't be here.

To the finishing line. Simon’s in distance still making balloons, so there is nobody at the finishing line for me, cheering me on. It is the loneliest, saddest feeling. My children are not here. The tears arrive.

I make it through the finishing line in 49 minutes. (Including at least 3 minutes waiting for a train to pass.) I'm given a congratulatory medal.

Then I get up and walk back to the car, where today's story began.

I will walk through this anniversary week, I will walk through my life, in similar fashion. One foot in front of the other, step after step, breathless, aching. May God grant that unlike the finishing line of the walk, at the finishing line of life my children will be there to greet me.

At the start of the walk by the canal. Yellow t-shirts courtesy of Douglas Macmillan Hospice. This was their 40th anniversary and the charity walk is an annual event.