On Grief

One of the themes many stories utilise is that of death, be it a well-deserved ending for an obnoxious villain, a tragic backstory for the protagonist, or a heart-wrenching shock as we despatch a beloved character in a sacrificial offering to the plot gods. It is a theme that every reader will have some experience of during their life, and one which all of us must face at some point – hopefully far into the future.

I am of an age when the latest celebrity’s demise hits home, either because of my own incessant creep towards the same fate, or because I realise I have outlasted many others who have gone before their time. These days I embrace birthdays with passion, knowing it marks yet another year when I have been able to live fully, unlike many others.

Over the past year both my husband and I sadly lost our fathers. Paul’s dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and suffered a swift and painful end which left us all reeling. My own dad had been ill for many years, his list of ailments reading like a novella. Every Christmas I wondered if it would be his last and he always defied the odds and rallied round. This year, he lost the fight.

Having always lived some distance from him, I didn’t miss his physical presence. My daily life was mostly untainted by his passing. But we phoned each other regularly and exchanged text messages. This year, I had no text when I woke up on my birthday, no phone call to tell him of my plans and no-one to send photos of our meal to. It was a day tinged with sorrow and a few tears for me.

Grief is a funny thing. I am an orphan now, having lost my mum to dementia before she passed seven years ago. I was fortunate to be with both of them as they took their last breath. I know some people might find that too difficult, but I’m not a stranger to death, having been a nurse for almost ten years, five of them in oncology wards. I felt it was a privilege to sit with them and hold their hands, letting them know they were not alone.

I found myself grieving in very different ways. For my mum, the grief was mixed with relief as she was lost to me long before she stopped breathing. There were tears, but they were quiet and reflective on the whole.

With my dad I found myself sobbing loudly while feeling like my heart was being pulled from my chest with red-hot tongs.

And of course, the grief never really goes away, and it never dulls. It can hit at the most innocuous times, catching you unprepared and vulnerable to the waves rushing over like a tsunami. Like the time I lost the trolley token my mum had given to me – on Mother’s Day, or watching an episode of NCIS where one of the protagonists has to deal with a parent with dementia. Or, like today, tidying a drawer and finding pictures and embroidery done by my mum when she was well. Even after seven years, the pain is as sharp as ever.

Mum never lived to see any of my books published. I sat with her for two weeks writing on my laptop and reading bits aloud to her as she drifted in and out of consciousness. In Master and Apprentice, my MC is faced with the death of his own mother and I found myself using his voice to express my own regrets and fears, as well as affirming my strong belief in a life after this one. I found it strangely cathartic.

Death is not a subject that we feel comfortable talking about, especially in the west. When my grandson died in 2021 having been born at 21 weeks, I was devastated. At the funeral, I wanted to howl; instead, I wept quietly behind a mask, both literal and figuratively. We are allowed dignified tears until the funeral and then we are expected to keep our feelings private. Grief is permitted for a day or two, or even a up to five days in the workplace, but after that, you are expected to be back at your post and functioning.

Thankfully, I have a great support group of friends who are always there for me. This year, I was given a beautiful card and a plant for my birthday by my bible study group, who rightly guessed that I would have a difficult day and wanted to show their love and support. It means a lot that I can still shed a tear in their company as they share in my grief.

We all need people like that. Bottling grief up or trying to ignore it never works. It can make us depressed and even manifest in physical problems. We were made to live in community, to share happiness and sorrow with others, to hold out a hand of support, and walk the dark valley knowing others have been there before you and understand your pain.

And you can always write it out, whether that's in a private diary or your first novel.