Chin Up, Head Down

by Helena Tym

  From him there was no respect for Cyrus as a soldier or a grandson - no empathy shown to Rob, myself and the boys - and my mother was as guilty as Rob’s dad. It was only when my sister Mione called, telling us that we had been in her thoughts, that I learned my mother was on holiday in Iran. No wonder there had been no contact. She wasn’t even in the country. Iran? How disrespectful to Cyrus was it to be going on holiday, over the Remembrance period? How could she have continued with her holiday plans and go to this tyrannical country after what had happened? It had not occurred to either of them how hurtful we would find their behaviour.

  Chapter 12: Soldiers in the Snow

  On Wednesday we’re off to the Dominican Republic for a week. We need to get away. We need some distraction. ‘Go where no-one knows us or our story,’ Zac said - and he’s right. This whole process is intensely private - but intrusive too, as there seems no time or place to sit and try to assimilate all that has happened. Either we are soothing others or we are walking on broken glass around each other at home, afraid to say what we are really thinking and feeling, in case we hurt with our words. We move around each other, not truly being, just existing: this is no life for anyone. We really ought to try and talk, but it is too painful, too personal and too awful, so nobody knows what to say. Perhaps the sun will do us good. We’ve not been to the Dominican Republic before, so there are no memories - only new ones to make.

  Huge empty blue skies, warm sea, a pool and endless cocktails - oh God, Cyrus would have loved it. This is not helping, it just emphasises the fact that he’s not here with us any more. Strangely, the empty blue sky is almost the hardest thing to look at. His eyes were that blue; my heart is this empty, Zac and Steely are still lonely, Rob and I are now broken.

  Getting away didn’t help at all. We were just somewhere else - still feeling awful. There was no getting away from it - whom were we trying to kid? Perhaps it recharged our batteries a little, giving us a few days with moments when Cyrus was not constantly in the forefront of our thoughts - moments like the night we went to the sushi bar and Zac was asked to stand up and help the chef by chopping pieces of chicken and trying to flick them into the chef’s hat that had been placed on his head.

  Both Zac and Steely entered a table tennis competition, knowing they had no chance of winning because neither of them had played the game properly before. It was more a case of why not? Nothing to lose. The eventual winner gave them no end of laughs as he was so competitive and determined to beat everyone. With his large designer-stubbled jaw, they nicknamed him Chuck Norris.

  They spent one morning in little James-Bond-style speedboats, bouncing out across the waves to a reef where they snorkelled and fed tropical fish. These were treasured moments when we could watch Zac and Steely leave the darkness of sorrow for an hour or so, smiling as they were somewhat distracted. It was lovely to see them smile - it seemed such a long time ago that they did; relaxed enough to allow themselves to breathe without pain.

  Back in England, browner but not better - and we still couldn’t talk about how we felt - it was still too soon.

  I know they all have good and bad days, just like me - but I don’t really know how they feel. I hate not being able to help them; my impotency returns to haunt me. It’s only a couple of weeks now until Christmas, and I can’t even start to think how to approach it or anticipate what new agonies it might bring. The tree, the decorations, the food, the presents, family... I don’t know what to get for anyone - I don’t want to go shopping, and I don’t really care if Christmas comes or not. I don’t really care about anything any more. I know that I have to go on because of the boys and Rob, but there truly are days when I just don’t care. I have to drag myself out of bed in the mornings and paint on a fake smile. I hate talking to people who don’t ‘get it’, but then how the hell are they supposed to ‘get it’ when they haven’t experienced ‘it’? What on earth am I thinking about? I’ve gone mad and the whole world just keeps on turning when I want to get off. I got stuck in a shop yesterday. I went into Caversham to buy some Christmas wrapping paper and I just got stuck. I couldn’t find my money, I couldn’t open my bag, I couldn’t do anything but stand there and feel really stupid. I knew the lady in the shop as my boys and her children went to school together, but I just stood there and felt completely useless. We were both in tears. I left and phoned Debbie, my friend from my schooldays. Then I couldn’t remember where I’d parked the car - for crying out loud, how fucking stupid have I become? I never lose control and there I was in a car park (the wrong one, mind you) looking for my car and panicking. I didn’t even need wrapping paper - I’ve got a drawer full of it. I supppose I needed to do something positive about Christmas - but it was a disaster.

  Zac, Cyrus and Steely always loved Christmas - I think it was their favourite time of the year. Rob and I loved it too - it was a time to be together and spoil our children - quality time. Rob and I would start planning for this day in October, and by the time Christmas Day arrived we would have so much food, and so many presents, that our excitement was equal to the boys’.

  Every Christmas Eve we would get the boys to write their Christmas lists and send them up the chimney to Father Christmas. We would leave mince pies, carrots and milk out for him and his reindeer. Once the boys were in bed, stockings would be loaded, and the carrots, mince pies and milk made to look like they’d been feasted on.

  We always woke before the boys, and would lie in bed waiting to hear them stir. They would sneak past our door, thinking we were asleep, and we’d listen as they tip-toed downstairs and fumbled around in the front room - one of them announcing, ‘He’s been! he’s been!’ The fact that Father Christmas had been seemed to be their cue, and waking Mum and Dad now didn’t matter. They would stampede up the stairs and bounce on our bed. We would pretend they’d woken us, and Rob would insist that he, ‘couldn’t possibly get up without a cup of tea,’ and, as this was Christmas Day, his favourite - a shortbread biscuit. They always accepted this but the tea was never finished before they would be pleading, ‘Please, please, please can we go and open our stockings?’ So downstairs we’d all go, and the next hour would be spent emptying their stockings of potato guns, yo-yos, tubs of plastic soldiers, bouncy balls, glasses with eyes on springs, socks and pants, their favourite sweets or chocolates - Zac’s a box of Turkish Delight, Cyrus’s Dime bars or Caramel bars and Steely’s Haribo or Kinder Eggs. As they got older the stocking presents changed to deodorants, after-shave, CDs and Calvin Klein underpants - all opened with the same excitement.

  Breakfast would start with Bucks Fizz, followed by a feast of kippers and kidneys, croissants and jam. Once we’d all had our fill, the table cleared, dishwasher loaded and the turkey put in the oven, we would retreat to the front room, where the next two hours would be spent opening our main presents. The boys enjoyed giving each other presents almost as much as receiving them.

  Our best Christmases were the ones with just the five of us at home, with the door shut and the phone off the hook. One year Steely got a pair of Star Wars pyjamas and he stayed in them right up until New Year’s Day. Visiting relatives always seemed to be hard work, and never relaxed - it would be awkward. Rob’s dad would be uneasy, as he was out of his comfort zone, unable to relax and enjoy himself, and my mother thought the boys were over indulged and spoilt. It seems odd that she couldn’t appreciate the fact that these little boys were simply having a lovely day - so what if they had lots of silly plastic things? We felt it was about us all being together, and sharing the joy they showed at getting those presents.

  One year she decided that she would get them something which would make them think of others. She arrived with three envelopes. They thanked her and opened them - to find a leaflet from Oxfam saying they had been bought a goat. Stunned is the only word I can use for the look on their faces. ‘What on earth are we going to do with a goat, and where are we going to keep it?’ was the question they all a
sked. ‘No, no you don’t understand,’ she replied, ‘these goats are for villagers in third-world countries, so they can build up a herd, and get milk and meat from them. You have so much - it’s time you realised that there are people in the world who have nothing.’

  I know they were aware of poverty in the world - they had certainly seen it on the television and talked about it at school - so it seemed such an odd present to give them. Later, after she had gone home, we all laughed about it, but they never forgot the Christmas when their grandmother gave them a goat each. One of the many conversations we had about it was that, surely a goat eats everything, so is it really a good idea to introduce one to a village already ravaged by drought and famine?

  We did stockings for the boys and each other right up to the last Christmas we all spent together in 2008. They were a huge part of our day, and I will remember those happy children, eyes full of delight and wonder, with peals of laughter ringing around the house. Christmas will never have the same meaning for me. I don’t know about this year. I think I might like to go away but Steely is adamant that we stay here. I’m not sure where I would go as the pain comes along wherever, so I guess here or away will be the same.

  No stockings this year though. No more - not until we have grandchildren. If we have grandchildren. I hope we do, as it will prove that life goes on regardless. But will they too, remind us of what we cannot have, the grandchildren we will never see? I hope that when that time eventually arrives, things will not be so raw. Right now it is too painful to think of what can never be. I wonder if we will ever be able to do anything new without it equating back to three children, one lost and the ‘what ifs?’ and ‘if onlys’. I think I’ll plug myself into a bottle and hope I don’t get the headache that goes with being blind drunk.

  Christmas Day arrived and Rob and I woke early (we are always awake early now - sleeping is a luxury we don’t have any more; a guilty pleasure if we manage a whole hour without waking in a cold sweat). We went to the cemetery and cried and wondered for the thousandth time what the hell we were doing staring at a grave that held such a precious person, far too early. There is no comfort in being there, but it’s something we have to do - the only thing we can do for him now. We just go there and think and cry. Pain seeps up from the ground and engulfs us.

  So many people had been and left him bits and pieces - some reindeer, some silver stars, wreaths, cards, messages of all kinds. I hate what my life has become - a series of tears, tissues and fake smiles and panic attacks that leave me feeling crap and useless, unable to function properly for days.

  By the time we’d got home, both the boys were up and ready to have breakfast and presents. It was so nice that they both wanted to be here and have as normal a Christmas as possible. We ate in the late afternoon and drank a toast to Cyrus. I guess I pretended to myself that he was still in Ireland and couldn’t make it back this year. Stupid, but it helped me cope with the day.

  After the meal Zac, Rob and I went back up to graveside and had a drink with Cyrus - Sambuca of course. Steely had been up the day before as he didn’t want going up there to become a tearful ‘family’ thing that we all hate - because it’s just such a shit place to be. He’s absolutely right and it is a place that we all hate going to, but it’s also a place where Rob and I feel there is a connection - the final resting place of our son. Not a place to go every day - not for me anyway - it is too sad to do that and I don’t think it actually helps or does me any good. I go when the time is right and I feel I can - and admittedly that’s not necessarily every week, but then I don’t think there are any rules, are there?

  There are degrees of awfulness. In mathematics there is an acute angle - is that the sharpest, the most critical? I was never any good at maths but ‘acute’ is the awfulness I feel when at his graveside - that penetrating agony every time I see his name engraved in stone. My soul is not strong enough for that piercing on a regular basis.

  New Year’s Eve already; the days seem to go by and I don’t really notice that one has finished and the next begun. Steely had a gig and about two hundred of the boys’ friends came to watch. So many of their friends were mutual; I guess because they were all so close in age, went to the same schools and had similar tastes in people. It was a nice evening, and to be honest I’d rather have spent it with the young than on our own at home feeling old and sad. The young have it all in front of them and it’s good to be able to share their hopes and watch them grow. They have been fantastic to us - and for us. I know that it has been hard for them too to have lost a friend and to watch us crumble. We try very hard to wear our smiley faces, but those who know us well understand that it’s only make-up.

  Elliott phoned and said that several of the squaddies wanted to come and see us on 5th January - Elliott, Moni, Willo, Reedy, Fun Time, Tommo and Marsh. We were all anxious about how would they be - how would we be, and what we would we talk about? Would it be too awful? They came from all over on the day that the country ground to a halt because of the snow. It was lovely of them to come, and they had lunch with us. The snow came down and we sat and talked, then eventually they decided it was time to go up to the cemetery. Rob gave them a bottle of champagne to take with them.

  We took a back seat and didn’t go, as Elliott and Marsh had been the only ones to visit his grave. For the rest of them it was the first time and we thought it right that they have this time on their own to be themselves and do what squaddies do when paying their last respects to a fallen comrade.

  I wasn’t sure if they would come back afterwards, but they did, having been into town and booked themselves into a hotel. It was really snowing quite hard by this time, and I was a bit worried about how on earth they were going to get back home in the morning.

  At one point there was too much silence - too much not being said, and too many memories, so Rob got the air rifle out and eyes lit up - I guess soldiers will always be soldiers. The game was to shoot out the flame on a candle balanced in the rockery above the pond. They were so competitive. Gradually the target was moved further away and the hoots of laughter rang out. It was lovely, and I so wished he could have been there to see them all. I wish he wasn’t just a memory.

  They took Zac and Steely out in the evening, and my boys showed them the town - at least such parts of it were not closed due to snow. They managed to get kicked out of most of the pubs and have snowball fights with nearly everyone they met. They know how to play hard - they have to because they live hard. I can only imagine the things they have seen and the things that wake them up at night. You can see dark clouds in their eyes. What the hell have they seen? I hope they will make it through and use it to make them stronger. They all miss him. So do I. They all have stories, happy and sad; they all have memories of that dreadful day and others that followed. So do I, but mine are remote, while they were there. I hope they will be ok. And I hope they will stay in touch. I know that I need it, and I wonder if they might do too.

  There is something about boys who join up. They’re all slightly on the edge, which I suppose is what makes them soldiers. I can see why Cyrus was right at home with them. They are so like him in so many ways - loud, fun, fearless, fragile, loving, comradery, generous, men. I love them all for loving Cyrus the way they did. We lost a son and brother, but so did they. Some will stay within the fold of the Army, some will go. Some will go because of their injuries. I hope they all live full lives, whatever paths they take in the future.

  January 13th would have been Cyrus’s 20th birthday - and that was hard. He should have been here to celebrate. Why my baby; why anybody’s? I know that it was what he chose to do, but I didn’t choose to lose a son; I didn’t choose to spend the rest of my life feeling like this. It gets harder every day, not easier. They say time heals; well it’s going to take until the end of my time before I heal. I shall go with open arms when my time is up - anything to get away from this pain.

  My mind is
on fire and everything burns all the time - that searing pain, ripping at my flesh and making everything feel off-centre and raw. It’s like having a migraine in your heart; numbing pain, blinding, crushing agony. Every second, every minute, every hour, every day is spent in physical pain.

  I had thought that 2010 would bring a sense of peace, but it has just come with a slap and I feel worse. I feel sadder - if that’s possible. Perhaps the initial adrenaline that keeps you going in the beginning has worn off; perhaps because the numbness has now moved and just left the festering wound of loss.

  How am I supposed to go on feeling like this? I know it will be like this for the rest of my life... will I make it? It’s like a cancer - the incurable kind that rots your body from the inside, making bigger and bigger holes, weaving it’s malice into my very soul. Nothing anyone says will make it better. How can it? My life as I knew it is over and I really don’t want this new one.

  I’m so tired all the time. Every step is lead-lined. Nothing makes sense and I don’t want to do anything. Even breathing is an effort. If it didn’t come naturally, I don’t think I’d bother to do it anymore. It’s not as though I want to die, because I don’t - I just don’t want to feel like this any more. Where is my normal life? How can I feel so sad, every single day, and not go mad? I want to pull the duvet over my head and never come out again - eternal sleep to join you, my darling, that is what will ease this pain.

  Counselling? No thank you. No-one can give me the one thing I want, so there’s no point in talking to someone who didn’t know him, and doesn’t know me - someone who has read lots of books and might have lost an aunt to cancer. This is unfair as I know there are many counsellors and groups whose work is good and who do help a lot of people. I have been to see our doctor - though not intentionally for counselling, but only because I have an ingrowing toenail and I didn’t need the added pain of this small but disabling thing. In fact he was a great help, just by being there and handing me tissue after tissue. He never offered a point of view or told me that it is all normal, this feeling of complete panic all the time.