Walk With Me

Dear Sproggy,

Can I share something with you?
I've always somewhat envied those who can say with such certainty that they can feel their loved ones around them wherever they are. Those, who say they get 'signs' or have even more tangible experiences.

Sure, there are those special visiting robins that make me think you are coming to say hello but I have had very few times where I can truly say that I could feel your presence.

I remember the first time, probably during the first year after your died. We were in the car on the way back from Corbally and just about coming up to the graveyard. You used to have a certain way of putting your little head on my lap when I was sitting on the couch and sitting in the car's passenger seat, I could almost feel the weight of it in that familiar spot.

I suppose it made me quite sad at the time. The loss was so recent and raw and I remember wishing that I could reach down and feel those curls or reach behind me to tickle those chubby legs dangling off the car seat.

Now, 8 years have passed almost in the blink of an eye. The loss is not as recent but as raw as ever when I stop and think, really, think about it all. It feels as surreal, as nightmare-ish. No amount of time can ever heal that kind of trauma - though we have learnt to live with it in our lives.

Our lives; our crazy busy, rich lives; full of memories; of happy and of sad times. All throughout you are remembered and you are missed. Eoghan misses his big brother, though he never got to meet you. I can hear him telling Caoilfhionn about you to make sure she knows all about her big brother, too.

Along the way, I suppose I accepted that those kinds of special experiences are perhaps not meant for me and that was OK, too.

It was such a special feeling so, when, as I was out walking a few weeks back, I suddenly sensed you pulling up beside me and walk with me. Not your little 22 month old self, but an older version. Blonde curls, almost shoulder height to me, lanky and lively, in an odd way. You stayed with me for a good stretch of my walk, in a kind of a silent conversations, and your presence seemed to be really reassuring even though I wasn't able to make out the details of your face.

It was a surprise, too, because it happened so out of the blue, so randomly, on a bog-standard, ordinary, grey evening. Not on a special mountain-top or beside the vast roaring sea. Just along the Dooradoyle Road with cars driving past. A walking route, that, perhaps, was very familiar to you and I both.

Or maybe my subconscious just really needed your quiet reassurance. I don't know.

Not long after this, I got a strong sense of your presence again. I was trying to rest or sleep and that time, you definitely had been on my mind. And I was sad. But just then I felt as though you were there beside me again; your older self; resting your hand on my shoulder.

Those are the only times so far that I can truly say I really felt you there with me. Perhaps it was all in my head - but do you know what?

It gave me a huge sense of peace and something I never thought I would get: A tiny imagined glimpse of an older you.

So, walk with me. Anytime. Anywhere. Walk by my side.

The Lonely Years That Follow

Just a little over 7 years ago,  I wrote about how Time Flew coming up to Patrick's first anniversary.

It was scary, how quickly that first year went by. Reading back, I had a lot of worries about the passage of time and forgetting.

It is crazy how fast the years have gone by. We will soon be looking at a full decade here. 10 frigging years! How is that even possible?

So what is it like 7 years on from that post?

Well, I recently came across an article on on Facebook (Mitchell's Journey) in which a dad shared his thoughts on grieving and bereavement following the death of his son Mitchell. This below paragraph absolutely resonated with me.

"I’ve said this often: death is the easy part, it’s the aftermath that’s hardest. So, when you see someone who's lost someone – know that they’ll need your love, compassion, and empathy gently at the funeral and the months to come – but more profoundly in the lonely years that follow.

I’ll repeat the last part: they’ll need your love more profoundly in the lonely years that follow."

The lonely years that follow.

Everybody moves forward with their lives. Including oneself. Slowly, you learn to live with the trauma, the memories, the flashbacks, the triggers, the miss. You return to being a pretty well-functioning human - at least most of the time. Needs must and all of that. This process can be exhausting and lonely though.

As the years tick by, there are two dates in our calendar that become so, so important. Birthday and anniversary. People remembering those and telling you about it can literally be a life-line. A reassurance that he is not fading from memory but remembered no matter how many years have passed. I love hearing little stories people remember or how his name still comes up in conversation with some of my friends' children. It is lovely to know their parents are keeping Patrick alive in their lives, answering question and recounting memories. It is humbling to think that even though they are little themselves, Patrick means something to them - perhaps in a slightly abstract way but all the same.

Over the years, grief, ever-lurking on the sidelines, often strikes unexpectedly and manages to take your breath away all over again. Anytime, anywhere. Whenever you may find yourself believing you have become a seasoned pro at this grief-lark, it pounces; ready to teach you a lesson. But you keep fighting and living and loving.

The love for your child does not change because they died. It remains as strong as the first and last time you held them.

You will never stop grieving for them just as you will never stop loving them.