by Helena Tym
I hate it that I think about him slowly rotting in his coffin. How do I stop these thoughts? I think about the way he died, and hope he didn’t suffer. I hope he knew absolutely nothing about his death - that it just felt like a shove rather than actually feeling any pain. I hate the fact that other people can get on with their lives, when ours are now disjointed and painful.
I know that there was life before Cyrus and that there will be life after him, I just have to get to that place - but the glue makes it such a very long, hard journey. I also know that I will never be one hundred per cent happy again, or feel one hundred per cent whole. That is something that truly saddens me. I hope the boys will be able move forward and perhaps, with good fortune and a little bit of luck, reach ninety-nine per cent. They will always have Cyrus in their hearts, but I hope he will allow them to go on and make great lives for themselves. I will wear my coat of sadness always, though I know that over time it will be visible only to me.
September already, and its Zac’s birthday today; he’s twenty-two. Where on earth did those years go? He was struggling last week, perhaps it was the lead-up to today, and the fact that Cyrus can’t participate any more, and won’t be having any more birthdays himself - well not ones that he will know about. Zac too, has bad days, worse days and occasionally unbearable days. Perhaps those are triggered by anniversaries, but sometimes a mere thought or memory can result in an unbearable day.
Thankfully not many people know what it feels like to have lost a sibling or a child so they can’t understand how we feel about things like birthdays. Christmas is going to be impossible. I can’t even begin to think how we will get through the day sober. I know I won’t be sending any Christmas cards this year - who knows, maybe I’ll never send one ever again. What would I write and from whom would I send it? I can’t even begin to think down that road yet.
I’m perfectly aware of the fact that life goes on. I watch people walking down the street, sitting in cafés drinking coffee, pushing prams, breathing and laughing. I simply don’t feel part of it any more. I wish I could paint over it all, and start again each morning.
I’m also acutely aware of how my mood affects the boys. I don’t want to bring them down when they’ve managed to pull themselves out of their holes. I’ve said it before - I don’t want them to think that Cyrus is the only person I ever think of. Yes, he was the middle one and was more demanding; needed more attention, constantly needing to know he was the best, loved the most, was the favourite son - not that he was, though - there were no favourites. I hope the boys know this, even with his death. Competitive to a fault, if there was any competition he would want to win. To be the first to the summit of a rocky outcrop on a beach in Wales, he would push Steely to the floor, even though he was far quicker and more athletic. Even knowing he would get a scolding from Rob, the fact that he had got there first far outweighed any consequences. He had won. That was Cyrus.
I’m sad for the fact that they won’t ever have the chance to talk to him again - to share a cigarette, a Sambuca or a game of Pro. I hate it, and there’s nothing I can do. My powers have gone, my ability to nurture has been erased. It must surely come back in time - but not now.
If you lose an eye or a leg, I suppose it must take time to readjust to your new perspective. You have to rebalance. I guess that’s where I’m at. I have to learn to rebalance my life, and yet I wonder if those who lose limbs ever subconsciously realise that they have gone. I’ve heard that amputees still feel pain or an itch in their missing limb, and perhaps that is what I feel, having lost a child. I know he’s gone, but the itching pain is still there.
Still September, and Steely is eighteen today. He said with tears in his eyes that Cyrus had promised to come home, and take him to the pub. What the hell do I say to that? I can’t help him with the things that were promised and now will never be done. I can’t make this better, and I feel useless - not a proper mother any more. Where is my ability to heal? Only time will help with the pain, but the ability to heal has left now. I’m sorry, Steely my darling, he can’t keep that promise. I hope you will forgive him for not being here to share that first legal drink, to hear you play your drums, to watch you grow into the man I know you’ve become.
Ever since June and the day we were handed Cyrus’s dog-tags, Steely has desperately wanted a tattoo; now he’s eighteen, he can have it. He knows exactly whom he wants to do it - Lal Hardy of New Wave Tattoos in Muswell Hill. He tattoos footballers; he comes highly recommended - only he will do. A tattoo would be symbol of his love, a symbol of who Cyrus was, a permanent reminder of what he has lost. He now proudly carries the tattoo of those dog-tags, Army number and chain as though they were physically wrapped around his forearm.
I wonder about tattoos. What is it about them that makes people want them? I know too that there are many who dislike them, or have had them done and regretted it later. I have one of a Celtic knot in the shape of a heart with Cyrus’s name above it on the nape of my neck, even though I can’t see it I know it’s there - his name carved permanently into my skin, as it is etched into my brain, a constant reminder of a son lost, but never forgotten.
I know that Zac too will have one done - but not yet. He needs to work through it, design it - make it much more personal, so as to not be just another tattoo on his already tattooed body. Rob has tattoos too, but they are the random images from a youth long gone. He will not have one for Cyrus - not because he doesn’t think he is worth it, but more because he would feel it disrespectful to place something so meaningful alongside his eclectic collection of Indian ink.
Many of Cyrus’s friends have had commemorative tattoos since - his Army number, the date of his death - some large and obvious, but most small, secret, discreet. Several of his comrades from 10 Platoon have had them done too. Craig Monahan (Moni) has a scroll covering his back with these words: We few, we happy few, we band of brothers, for who sheds his blood with me, will forever be my brother! RIP fallen brothers of 2009. Elliott has Cyrus’s initials and date of death on the inside of his wrist - always there where he can see it - his constant reminder, not that he needs a tattoo for that.
These tattoos have such a deep meaning because they were there, they fought side by side, and they will carry those memories with them always. Perhaps this is the only way they can externalise those memories, and remind others of the fact that they were actually there, and that all of these men must never be forgotten.
Certainly these tattoos are immensely personal, but I sometimes wonder why some people have had them done. Is it for their own benefit, a mark of respect, or so that they can absorb some of the attention that has been lavished on those these tattoos represent?
Steely has a gig tonight. It will be nice to go and watch him play - it is good for all of us, giving us a moment of freedom. I hope so much that his dreams come true, and his ambition of going to college in Los Angeles comes to fruition. He deserves it. I love watching him perform; he seems to go into a zone I can’t reach, and it makes me so proud. It is lovely to see him relax and leave the anguish to one side for a few hours - smile at Zac and laugh with his friends. I want to stand up and shout that he’s our son, look how good he is. Sad, I know, but that’s what my children make me want to do. I want people to look at them and see them as I do.
I wonder if my friends look at me and think, ‘I told you so’. I would always say, when they asked if I was worried about Cyrus going to Afghanistan, that he was more likely to be killed in this country by a drunk driver, or stabbed in a post-club brawl. I suppose that I used the statistics as a way of coping. But truthfully I didn’t worry about him going to war. He was well trained, surrounded by people who were equally well trained, and who were there to look out for each other. The forces have a job to do, and they do it to the best of their ability - and then some. I did, however, worry every time he came home on leave and went into town. Squaddies are not popular, although quite why I
’m not sure. Perhaps it is their fearlessness or arrogance.
I think that perhaps my rationale was that, had a drunk driver killed him, his death would have been pointless. Some would say that his death has been pointless, but then if we don’t have an army we lay ourselves open to all the evil in the world, and our freedom within the Western World would be overthrown. I think that people forget why we fight tyranny. I personally find it irritating that I can’t take a lipstick or bottle of water on to an aeroplane these days. I don’t think the average person in this country equates that to terrorism and dominance. I don’t want to live in a country where I can’t travel freely, or be oppressed by a regime that doesn’t allow women to work or have a voice. That is what Cyrus was fighting for - our liberty.
These men and women take on the role of protector, and we mustn’t forget that. They chose their paths in life; no one, at any stage, has dragged them from their comfy beds, stuck a gun in their hand and told them to go to war. Those days have gone. They elect to do this job, and they all fully understand the consequences. Perhaps they are metaphorically our kamikaze pilots.
Cyrus said to me before he left that to die ‘Killed in Action’ was the highest honour, and the only way he would want to die. Who am I to deny him that? He was a man, making adult decisions and he didn’t need the pressure of knowing that I would worry and disagree with his choices - which I didn’t. He, along with the other fallen men and women, will go down in history as heroes, and hopefully the saviours of the free world. They will always be remembered each year by those who never met them, but who appreciate the job they did, and the sacrifices they have made. It doesn’t make it any easier for us as a family, but it makes us even prouder. I just wish that it would help take the pain away.
Chapter 10: Medals Parade
I wonder how the other twelve bereaved families are doing. We all have a common thread and yet I think that meeting them in Northern Ireland is going to be very hard. We each go with our own grief, and yet it is a shared grief. We have all lost, and yet our loss is too personal to share. It will be strange. I’m very nervous about it but I know it is something that has to be done; it too is part of the healing process. We need to talk to those soldiers and tell them how very proud we are of them, and that we think of them every day, and hope that they are physically and mentally strong enough to carry on.
I suppose some of them will come to the end of their obligatory four years soon, and I wonder how many of them from C Company will stay in the Army after this tour is over. I would like to think that Cyrus would have stayed on. He was Army material; when he signed up his intention was to serve his twenty-two years, get his full pension and still be only forty when he came out. He would never have settled in civvie life - I think it would have been too mundane, and after the horror of war he would have needed to be with people who were also there and understood the nightmares. Who knows?
I still have nightmares - but theirs are real. Mine are only in my imagination; theirs are fact. I worry about how they will cope when they get back after losing friends, seeing others mangled and maimed. How does the human mind cope with this? I know that there are many people who step up and help, giving them space to shout and scream, listen to them, soothe them with words and actions. I also know that there are people who would help me, but part of me resists their help. How do they truly know what I’m going through or how those boys will feel when they get back to ‘normal’ life? If they’ve not experienced it all first-hand, how do they know what will help? I’m not sure that my grief is covered in any textbook, nor the grief of anyone else. I don’t think that I fall into the category of a ‘standard’ grieving parent. Who set the standard anyway?
We went to Ireland on Wednesday 4th November, 2009 to the Homecoming and Medals Parade. Our neighbour dropped us off at Heathrow, just as we had done for Cyrus so many times. I could feel my body start to constrict as we drew closer. So many memories, so many hugs so many waves goodbye. I wish I had never had to say goodbye.
Ian met us there and we were taken into the upgrade lounge. Free crisps, papers and drinks; the boys were amused by it, as we never normally get anything free when we travel anywhere.
There were other parents there too. Parents who, like us, were lost and parents whose boys had been injured. All wondering what the next few days would bring, all not quite able to make eye contact.
It was such a hard journey to make, and I felt sick on the plane knowing that he had made this trip many times before - and not all that long ago. He hated flying, said he didn’t like the shape of aeroplanes, that it didn’t feel natural to be sitting in a metal tube jetting though the air.
We were met at Belfast City Airport by an army driver in a bus. The only other people I recognised were Jonathan, Margaret, Hannah and Jack Mervis. Driving through the lanes and past the places that Cyrus had also driven past was so painful. How could a house or a tree that I’d never set eyes on before make me feel so bloody awful?
It was dark when we arrived on base and Elliott was there to meet us, shivering in the cold. Slim and long-limbed with mousy hair so short it’s hard to determine its colour properly, eyes drained of colour - perhaps they’re blue or perhaps they’re brown. Eyes that have seen too much.
We gave him a hug but I wish it could have been Cyrus. I can only imagine what strength it took to stand there, waiting for the family of his dead best friend. What thoughts of self-doubt crossed his mind? Should he have saved him? Could he have saved him? Could he have changed something that day so that it never happened? Is he as numb as us? I fear he is and that it will take him his whole lifetime to come to terms with his loss. They had a friendship that only a few lucky people manage to achieve. I so wish he didn’t have to go through this pain. I wish I could absorb it all, take it into my body, and save all those who loved him from the agony his loss has left.
We all appeared quite calm - still in shock. I wonder if we reacted as he expected. Should we have been different, or was it as Cyrus would say, ‘Man the fuck up,’ whenever things got tough. Was Elliott expecting a grief-stricken family? The anaesthetic effect of this whole overwhelming process was protecting both him and us. Was he wondering if we would put the pressure of blame on his already straining shoulders? No, we would never have done that. Cyrus just stepped off the road at the wrong time. Elliott will always have a special place in my heart and I must remember to tell him one day.
They showed us to the house where we would be staying for the next thirty-six hours, a house on the base that would have normally accommodated a military family. They gave us half an hour to get ourselves sorted before going to the Serjeant’s Mess for drinks and something to eat. It was dark and cold as we walked across the barracks to the mess. It just felt wrong. We were here for the wrong reasons; Cyrus should have been there to meet us.
I think we were given a brief outline of what would happen the next day. It was going to be busy - not much time to think too hard about the whole process, just get from ‘a’ to ‘b’ quickly and efficiently, get everything done on time without any hiccups - typical British Army. All we really wanted to do was find Elliott and go and meet the other soldiers.
As we were leaving the mess we asked about Leon Smith. We’d not seen him and wondered if he was on the base. Apparently he had been confined to quarters as it was suspected he had caught swine flu. I couldn’t believe we wouldn’t have the chance to meet up with him. Then we were whisked secretly into an accommodation block, where we knocked on a door.
The last time we had seen Leon was at Paul Mervis’s funeral, where he had looked haggard, full of self-blame and sadness. It is such a pity that we never had the opportunity to meet him under different circumstances, when both Cyrus and Paul were alive.
Momentarily there was a flash of shock across his handsome face, but it was instantly replaced by a welcoming smile. He must have known we were attending The Homecoming, and tha
t he had to represent both the Platoon and Paul, but I’m sure he wasn’t expecting to see us at his door that evening. We had perhaps unfairly taken him by surprise. There must have been a part of him that dreaded this day, meeting us again. I wonder if things would possibly have been easier if we’d been the sort of people who had blame, and couldn’t face him.
His white teeth shone against the contrast of his somewhat Mediterranean complexion - dark hair, even darker eyes - and there remained a slight scar on his chin, a physical reminder of that terrible day in Helmand Province. His is not a very tall man - under six foot - but he is powerfully built, thanks to hours of drills and workouts, I guess. His embrace was warm, and I said I didn’t think he looked particularly ill. He replied that he felt fine, but wasn’t allowed out of his quarters until he’d been seen by a doctor in the morning. He was clearly frustrated by what must have felt like such a seemingly insignificant suspected illness, stuck inside unable to be part of his and Paul’s Platoon’s Homecoming - but orders are orders. We left after a few minutes with the promise that he would, by hook or by crook, seek us out the next day so we could talk properly. It was good to see him. I so wish Cyrus could have been there.
We went with Elliott to the Rifleman’s bar and met some of the soldiers; exhausted men with glazed eyes, trying to come to terms with the fact they were home. At first they didn’t know where to look, how to approach us, what they should talk about. These young men who had come back from war, having faced unimaginable situations head on, looked uncertain in our company - their training hadn’t included this. They are here, he is not. They were gutted for us, gutted for themselves - unable to express how they felt. We all made a huge effort to keep it together, but the whole evening bordered on breakdown by everyone - I wonder, though, if that might have been a good thing.
