I expected to be many things by the time I hit my thirties: a husband, a father, successful in my career, settled and happy. And my luck was in because by thirty-three I was all of those things.
Just after 8pm on 10 November 2012 I left my friends’ house a happily married man and dad to a wonderful little boy called Jackson. My wife, Desreen, and I had decided to try for another child – we’d even chosen the name, which would be the same regardless of the baby’s sex. I’d recently been promoted to managing director at a brilliant PR firm in central London, as well. Life was perfect.
But by 9.17pm that same night I was sitting in an ambulance, a widower in shock. I only remember the time because I noticed the hands on the clock were in the same position as when our son was born two years and three weeks earlier. An out-of-control car had mounted the pavement where we were walking - it narrowly missed my son and me, but struck and killed Desreen.
A lot of people seem to know our story already because it was tragic enough to make national news and touching enough to keep people talking long after. And I wanted people to talk, too. It took me no time at all to realise that too many parents in my position are expected to just carry on, hide their feelings from the children and somehow bury their grief inside. ‘Be strong’ was the only advice I ever seemed to hear in the days and weeks that followed my wife’s death. Was it even advice? It seemed to me to be nothing short of an instruction at the time. But it was the only guidance I was given.
Some people may be astonished to learn that parents get more support when a child is born than children receive when a parent dies. Although a midwife came to our house to visit my wife soon after Jackson was born, I was offered no medical or psychological support when she died. No one came to check that I was, in any way whatsoever, able to care for him alone.
People congratulated me for the steel I showed in looking after Jackson, organising the funeral and delivering my wife’s eulogy, but inside I was falling apart. I was exhausted but my grief prevented sleep; I was hungry but a gag reflex stopped me being able to eat.
‘Have you tried Gaviscon?’ my GP asked the first time I visited him. ‘Are you the guy whose wife died?’ he probed in front of my child and mother-in-law on the second visit. And that was just days after he insisted that his door would always be open to me.
I had all the support a newly widowed father could hope for from my family and friends, but no one I knew had any experience of what I was going through. No one could offer me the advice I needed or the empathy I craved. I was astounded that a bereaved, broken and barely functioning father would have to take everything into his own hands.
I decided that if I couldn't find the help I so desperately needed, it would have to find me. So two months after my wife was killed, I started a blog. I couldn't help but think that some other poor bastard would wake up one day, just like I had, and realise that their wife had gone forever, too – that it wasn't just something that had happened in a nightmare. I couldn't bear the thought that when they expected to be offered help or searched for someone who could relate to the hell that they were going through, they, like me, would be left disappointed and even more desperate.
Thankfully, it didn't take me long to realise that I wasn't alone. Within a month of publishing my first post, the blog, Life as a Widower, had received a quarter-of-a-million hits and amassed a global audience united in grief. Support and advice came flooding in. It was out there - charities and support groups that know how to support bereaved parents and children – it was just hard to find for the people who need it most.
In contrast, however, it appears that few GPs have any real idea of what advice to offer or in which direction to point or refer people who so desperately needed help. I really believe that this needs to change. I think it’s time for us to ask the question: ‘why are parents offered post-natal but not ‘post-fatal’ care?’
In some ways I'm one of the lucky ones. In opening up about my loss, I have been able to express my belief that it’s acceptable for a British man to be vulnerable rather than stoic when his world has fallen apart. And in banishing the idea that the out-dated stiff upper lip is some sort of badge of honour for the bereaved, I know that I have been able to help my son and myself through our grief. I've found catharsis in the words I've written and support through the awareness they have raised.
Yet I can’t help but think that these words are not enough. How can they be while bereaved children are still so widely prescribed a marginalising dose of ‘resilience’ for their pain, and while grief-stricken parents are offered nothing other than a largely uninformed promise that ‘strength’ will see them through?
Ben’s book – It's Not Raining, Daddy, It's Happy – is available to buy in hardback and e-book now (Hodder & Stoughton, £16.99).
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MumsnetGuestPosts · 09/05/2014 10:41
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