by Helena Tym
I asked for a lock of his hair. I have it in a box, but I want to buy a locket and wear it around my neck. Is that morbid? I just want to know that he will always be close, and I couldn’t think of any other way of doing it. I guess some people might find it a bit weird, but I don’t really care what other people think. He was my son, so I will keep him close. I guess it’s quite a Victorian thing to do... I wonder if he would be horrified. No - he’d probably just think I’d gone mad, and that it was all a bit freaky. He might also be quite flattered that I would want to keep him near. Who knows?
I used to be part of a fifth, and now I’m only a quarter. It’s not a natural way for me to be - none of this is natural. I’ve watched programmes recently about parents who have lost children, and they all have that haunted look about them, I wonder if I look the same. None of them really understands what has happened, and seem to slog endlessly on with their lives, not completely knowing what they are doing or where they are going. I’ve joined this group. I feel listless, my feet are heavy and I find it hard to look at myself in the mirror - to see if I’m still really here. Some days I wish I were somewhere else - or someone else. Let somebody else take this pain and sadness, leaving me free as I was before, free of this tear-stained face and dry mouth.
Because I am adopted, one of the most important things in my life was to become a mother and have children of my own. This was partly because I wanted someone who looked like me, or at least had some similarity to me, and partly because I felt that I had something I could give a child - or maybe even three.
I didn’t pick up any spectacular parenting skills from my adoptive parents. They were/are doctors and had careers to pursue and patients to cure. I felt we were trophy children really, to be presented and talked about but only when convenient, left in the care of au pairs who were not much older than I was when I was a teenager. They didn’t speak my language and I had no interest in them. Odd, to think that my childhood was influenced by strangers - girls away from home in a confusing distant land, where their emotions were not taken into consideration. They were paid to look after us, cook, clean, stand on the side of cold football pitches, and be there for us when our parents weren’t.
I would have loved a mother who made cakes, and was at home when I got in from school. In Henley I had a school friend, Julie Callander, and that’s what her mother did. I was so envious. Instead, we were met at the door by foreigners.
What I did get from my parents was the determination not to bring my children up the same way; our children were, and are the most important part of our lives. Everything we did revolved around them, and we overindulged them with time and love. We have had some of the best holidays, some in far-off and even exotic places. We’ve skied the Rockies, climbed in and out of pools of volcanic mud in Turkey, snorkelled in the Red Sea, driven quad bikes in the desert, waded through freezing streams in Wales, and the boys have all been caving. They’ve learnt how to water-ski, jumped out of aeroplanes and ridden on elephants in the jungles of Goa. They’ve swum in the warm waters of the Bahamas, and made sandcastles on deserted beaches. We’ve been crabbing and fishing for mackerel, skimming stones on Scottish lochs, searched for the fabled monster, clambered over ancient ruins, and made friends with newly-hatched turtles and world-weary tortoises.
I would spend hours reading them stories when they were small, making some up, and retelling favourites. I’d make costumes for school plays, painting faces while Rob made swords and shields from plywood, taught them to swim and shoot air rifles, how to kick-start motorbikes and have apple fights on tractor mowers. All these things we did with our children, watching them grow and learn - watching them smile and bloom, and hearing them laugh.
How can it be that we did so much for our children and yet we’ve now lost one? There are so many parents out there who can’t wait for their children to become independent so that they can get on with their own lives. We’ve always lived for our children, and yet we’re the ones who have been left with this gap in our family.
I know that both Rob’s dad and my mother think that we’ve spoilt them, and spent too much money and time on them - but ‘the proof is in the pudding’ as they say, and I’m not sorry about a single penny that was spent, or a second of that time. I know in my heart that Cyrus went to war having experienced things many of his friends and peers never will, and I’m so glad that we had the opportunity to share all these things with our children.
Rob gets motion sick, but he still took his children to Disney World twice. Cyrus got motion sick - but he still got on the rides, was sick all the way up the slopes on the chairlifts in Canada. He tried scuba diving and even got thrown out of an aeroplane; he had the chance to try all of these things, and I’ll never regret a single day of it. I’d even carry his vomit in a bag, day after day, if it meant that I could have him back here again. I’ve lost count of the days I carried those bloody bags.
Life is too short, however you look at it. He crammed in as much as he could, and I hope that Zac and Steely keep cramming. They have got such a lot to discover in this world, and need to take life by the scruff of the neck and swing it around a bit to see how it feels.
I’m afraid that I might become too over-protective of them. I don’t want to smother them, but I can’t help but worry. Steely feels it more than Zac, I think, yet I hope he still needs me. You can’t switch off how you feel about your children, and as I keep telling him, he will always be my baby and nothing can change that. I have to learn to accept that they have grown up, and one day will have families of their own. Is it that I care too much? Will I stifle them and prevent them from growing straight and strong on their own? I hope not, but I know that I’ll never be the mother to them I was before Cyrus was killed. That person has gone forever.
I do feel, though, that our parents should make more of an effort - or is that just me being selfish and bloody-minded? It makes me angry, because I know that if any of my children were going through this I would be on the phone every other day, even if only to say I was thinking of them. I can’t help but compare - but as I said, we are different types of parents from our own, and this is our hell, not theirs. They’ve not been here, not experienced this, so who am I to judge them when the only way to really understand it is to live it?
Rob’s dad won’t let anyone talk about Cyrus. How stupid is that? Is he not proud of his grandson, and does he not think that he is worth talking about? I can’t really get my head around the way his dad thinks. I told him he should talk about him - or else he might as well not have existed. I don’t think he understood what I was trying to say, and I know that he is still cross with me for saying it, but I hope that one day he will understand, no matter how firmly he is set in his ways.
He is still a huge part of Rob’s life, and even though I find him frustrating, I know that Rob will stand by him, as I know deep down that his dad is there for us. It would be nice though, if his dad could tell him every now and then. If questioned, his reason for not doing this is because he assumes we already know he’s thinking of us, and that he’s there for us - therefore there is no reason to tell us. So this, coupled with leaving us alone until we feel we’re ‘better and ready’ is impossible to understand. What does one class as ‘better’? As ‘ready’ as Rob gets, is biting the bullet and phoning, knowing that he can’t discuss how he feels, and has to avoid any mention of Cyrus - such a shame, but his dad simply can’t deal with it.
I know that people don’t know what to say to us, that they are afraid they will upset us. Believe me, unless someone told me Rob or the boys had been killed, NOTHING would ever hurt as much as this. No-one can say anything that will distress me as much as this situation we all find ourselves in now.
I’m jumping again. I need to keep a notebook with me so I can write down things as I think of them. I don’t want to forget what I think, and sometimes I have to try to retrace my steps so I can get my train of thought ba
ck again.
Sometimes it’s hard to behave normally around Rob and the boys when everything is so abnormal. I try to paint on a face for them, but it doesn’t always work. They see through my mask. I hate it, this new life. I’m not the person I wish I was - I just feel selfish. At times I don’t want to share anything with anyone. I want to curl up and leave the pain behind and be by myself sometimes - but know that they are there when I need them. There are times, like now, when I think it would be easier to be on my own.
Chapter 9: Summer And Forms
I don’t know if I will ever, over the years, get to the place that others reach - the place that allows you to move forward without the constant stabbing pain in your head and chest.
Everything seems duller now. Colours have faded and sounds are muted. Zac talked to me last night, and told me it was time I followed my own advice, and talked to friends and family. I don’t think he realises that I do talk, but I don’t go out much. I never really did before all this happened. Rob and I are private people, and we like our own company and that of our children. Insular, boring, un-sociable - no not really - just content with our lot... or we were.
It’s not that we don’t want to talk or see people - but everything is such an effort. Picking up the phone and talking to anyone is hard, as I find myself having to soothe them and their feelings. Why should I? We are the ones who have suffered most, as it is we who knew him the best and were interested in every single aspect of his life. They have their own lives, so why should I expect them to feel as I do? I don’t like to keep on about his death, in case I bore people too much. Just because I think about it constantly doesn’t mean that everyone wants to - and he was our son, so why should they?
However, it is a very lonely road, and some support from a parent would be nice once in a while. But I know that’s not going to happen, because they don’t understand how much it means, to have that crutch - that bolster. I’m the sort of person who needs to be told that I’m loved every so often. I have always told my children I love them. I hope they take that with them, and when they have children of their own, make sure their children know they are loved too.
I’ve changed. I know that I’m not the same person I was on 1st June 2009. My outlook on life has shifted. Things that I used to think were important simply aren’t any more. All my edges are jagged. I’ve lost the ability to smile properly, and feel the warmth of contentment. I get a strange out-of-body feeling sometimes, looking at the world as if I were in a glass bubble, not quite able to catch the gist of conversations or the smell of flowers - like listening to conversations through a glass on a wall.
Some days I’ve loads of motivation, and I tell myself that I’m going to do all sorts of things - and sometimes I even manage to achieve them. Other days even breathing is an effort. I feel as though I’ve been in a freezer - my fingers don’t work, my brain won’t function, icy cold seeps through my very being. I go through the motions of work because I know I’d go mad if I were to sit at home all day. But there are certain aspects of it that I can’t do, and I can’t put a finger on what they are.
There are all the things that go with death that I’d not really appreciated, such as wills, probate, the Elizabeth Cross - and so many forms to fill in. Everyone asks the same heart-wrenching, gut-twisting questions: date of death, age at death, cause of death. Surely death is death. There seems so little compassion to these questions. Why do the ‘whys’ and ‘wherefores’ matter? The answer is always the same - he’s dead. It’s hard enough thinking about it, let alone having to write it down all the time.
How the hell am I supposed to fill in a probate form when I don’t even know what day it is? This is what I do - paperwork. Rob does the physical work, while I do the bookwork. I was convinced I’d done it, and couldn’t understand why it was taking so long to hear from the court, so when I looked in the briefcase to get the phone number I realised that I’d not even filled in the probate form. Well, thinking about it rationally, of course I’d not filled it in. I move in a daze most of the time, so what the hell I was thinking, I don’t know.
It is the most complicated form I’ve had to complete. Everything has to be cross-referenced. I had to find out all his assets - well, what money he had in the bank and building society as he didn’t have a house or major property. I had to make sure all the ‘t’s were crossed and that I’d dotted all the ‘i’s, but because of the tears it was all I could do to see the pages clearly, let alone know if I’d done it properly. He was only nineteen, I shouldn’t be filling in probate forms - he should be here, not dead.
We have to go to court tomorrow, to get the Grant of Execution; then we can start the unenviable job of moving his money around, sorting out what to do with it. I don’t want it - I just want him. He was supposed to come home, not be a number on a probate form and a sum of money moving from one account to another. I hate it all.
I know that it’s another ‘first’ that we have to overcome, and that this time next year we won’t have to do this again, but it is all so difficult and mind-numbingly painful. There are going to be some horrible ‘firsts’ over the next few months, but I know we will get through them somehow. We are strong, but sometimes summoning up that strength is all too much. My days are sadder, and there is no respite from it - nothing I do stops the thoughts from seeping through.
These days I find myself not being able to look people in the eye. I’m afraid I will see their pity, and I’m also afraid they will be able to see into the pool of sorrow that lies behind my own eyes. I used to be able to look at people and have a direct conversation with their eyes; I’ve lost that. It is all too personal, and I can’t share that with anyone yet. I honestly don’t know if I will ever be able to. There are so many dark and secret places in my head these days, that are too painful to share.
Everything seems to be conspiring against me at the moment. My heart feels one thing, but my head tells me to feel another. I’m all mixed up, and not sure which way is up or down. I’m cold all the time. Loneliness is cold and I do feel lonely, and although I know there are people I can talk to or cry at, I still feel as though I’m on top of a mountain, and no one else is there. It’s a bit like being in a glass tunnel. With the exception of Rob and the boys, everyone around me is carrying on as if nothing has happened. I know that it hasn’t happened to them, but it did affect them in the beginning. It seems that they have moved on while we’ve stayed still. Of course they have moved on, and it’s wrong of me to expect them to feel as we do, but it is a very surreal feeling.
I need to regroup my feelings and try to look at life differently now. I know exactly what Cyrus would want, and what he would say if he could, but it’s very different physically trying to do it. It’s the fact that I choke on it every time I think of him.
It’s the ‘NEVER’ that is so difficult to come to terms with. How can it be that we will never see him again, hear his voice, touch his face, pick up his clothes, make his bed? How can it be? Yes, the ‘never’ is the hardest thing.
I hope that Cyrus didn’t feel his death. I hope instant is instant, and that it was just as if someone had turned off a light. It would add to the horror if I knew that he had suffered. I hope he wasn’t afraid and, that if he knows he’s dead, he’s not frightened. No more pain, no more suffering, no more tears or heartache. He’ll never grow old or have worries - but then again I’ll never be able to hold him. It’s our ‘never’ that hurts.
When you look out through double-glazing at the wind blowing the trees and cars going past, you can’t hear any sound, and that’s what grief feels like today. I’m screaming in my head, but no sound comes out. All the emotions are there - just not the sound. I feel impotent and nothing I do produces anything other than the same sadness. The incapacity to help is frustrating and also very sad. ‘Sad’ is another word I’ve had to come to real terms with. Before it was just something one felt occasionally, now it’s somet
hing I live with, constantly sitting on my chest weighing me down.
On 22nd August, Captain Richard Sellars, whom we’d not seen since he helped organise Cyrus’s funeral, died in a hotel room of a heart attack. How fucked-up is that? He was such a nice man and he was so good to us, arranging Cyrus’s funeral et al. He’d just finished his posting in Northern Ireland and was due to start a new one on the mainland. I know people die every day - but not people I know and like, not in my life. That’s not what I saw my future being; death and all the horrors and nightmares that it brings. We are not able to go to his funeral, but I intend to write to his children and tell them what I’m sure they already know - that their dad was a really decent bloke and I’m going to miss him. I know we are in a bad place because under different circumstances, there is no way that we would not have gone to pay our last respects to this caring man.
I’m exhausted by all this death. It was never personal before. People died and I gave them a cursory thought, then moved on with whatever I was doing. Now every soldier is a son and it hurts all over again. Glue returns on a regular basis. I thought I’d managed to extract myself from it, but I guess it was just waiting, biding its time until I wasn’t ready, and then it slowly crept back in, like smoke through my veins. It’s silent and cunning, lurking at the back of the room, sneering at me when I think I’ve rid myself of it. I don’t suppose it will ever truly go - glue is sorrow, pain and anguish, and those are things that I now have in my life. I wonder if it is true that you get used to it - that it becomes your new norm. As I said before, I was happy with the norm I had before, I certainly don’t want to have to learn to live a new life.
It’s all the little things that go to make a shitty day. Letters that need to be written to the Joint Casualty and Compassionate Centre (JCCC) about Cyrus’s wages, having to enclose probate documents, getting them sent by special delivery because there’s a postal strike. Make appointments with building society managers and close bank accounts. They all add up to make everyday life a huge mountain to climb. I feel as though I’m pushing boulders up hills all the time. I hate having to think about the need to sort things out. I need to put his photos in an album, but I can’t do it. I can’t sort through that series of images where he is so full of life, because I know the future and I can’t stop it, I know where all these photos lead.
