This is dedicated to the son I love

As my birthday approaches so too does the anniversary of my son's death. Sometimes, strange to say, I forget and wonder what is the matter with me. Then I write, as I did with the writing group I held this week, and I understand. What follows has developed out of an exercise we did together and I dedicate it to my beloved son.

To Sam - 28/4/1985 - 14/7/2018

I
Today grief arrived at my door, unannounced.
Knock knock.
Memories of six years past came in.
Have they been rippling through the world 
and now returned to haunt me -
or befriend?
The echo of a policeman:
“An incident”, he said,
“your son has passed away.”
Found, it turned out, already black,
overdosed on heroin.
Heroin.
“I'll never use that”, he'd said,
“I'll like it too much”. He did.
For six years.
It obliterated life and health yet somehow not his love -
or our's.
My shining, troubled boy, extreme, adorable, incorrigible.
No kissing better now, my love,
no rescue packages from mum,
the landscape's changed.
You want your life enough -
or not.

The battle raged for many years and chaos reigned.
One time I met my son, a shuffling drunk,
living rough;
bought pizza, showed him pictures
of a child with his name, beautiful.
He wept.
Next morning on the way to clinic,
a place to tend his rotting feet,
“What do you want?” I asked.
“A bed”, he said.

He found a bed, a dry house and a script;
he found the will, a way, and made amends;
he found a rehab, friends and came out clean;
he picked me flowers, held my hand and hugged;
he wrote a rap - my birthday gift- and loved;
he stuffed down haribos, watched trash TV and laughed. 

Newton Abbot station:
I held my children tight then walked away.
“Don't look back,” I told myself,
“You'll run to them and won't let go.”
		…...............
Knock knock

II
One month before I knew my son an addict,
three months since we had made a nest together,
my man fell.
He broke a leg.
It would not heal.
Against the backdrop of my son's addiction,
we had our own tumultuous road -
ill and jobless, of no fixed abode,
and every step he took was pain.

Years on, we had a home and work of sorts;
they found a way to heal his leg;
my son recovering,
we dared to hope.

“A swelling”, they said, “consistent with a tumour of the brain.”
Their diagnosis was correct.
Seizures followed, operations,
oxygen and therapies,
false hope.
Prognosis: incurable.

III
Train chocabloc
Train chocabloc
Clackety clack
Clackety click
Don't have a fit
Don't have a fit
My man's son to marry
to London we hurry
my son lying still
in the cold mortuary.

The fit comes on return
I nurse and I yearn
when he names me as “Mummy”.
Then comes my son's turn,
his body is burned.
We remember.

I stand at the front
a woman in black, loving her son,
honouring his life,
holding the shock of a hall full of mourners.

“I've come from Chester”, a young man said.
“Your son said “no” to me – the only one.
“We'll talk all night if necessary,” he'd said,
“and you will not use”.
“I never have”, he said, “since then.”

10 days later: “The tumour's back”, they said.
Operation – hospital, one week
Brain infection – hospital, two weeks
Seizure – hospital, four weeks
Profound disablement.
“How's your son?”, he asked, again and yet again.

Home. 
Married. 
Immobile.
Goodbye, my darling, rest now.

IV
Knock knock
Chocabloc
No space
No space
Six years and I'm weeping
listening for the wailing
that never comes.
Around and around,
hot hands holding mine,
bear hugs and posies,
poems and joking.
It's never too late,
make the space, make the space.
Open the door,
“Come in, Grief, sit down.
Cup of tea, cake?
I think I have haribos”.

If you have experienced any of the issues touched on in this poem, please feel very welcome to write to me here. I would love to hear from you. And if you know someone who you think would benefit from reading this post, please do share it with them. Thank you.

With love

Nickie

I offer this blog entirely free of charge – a gift from my heart to your's. Some of you have let me know you would like to gift me in return. Thank you – that touches and inspires me. If you would like to, you can gift me and help my work become more sustainable, by buying me a cup of coffee here.

NEWS

WALKING WITH LOSS TOGETHER

Wednesday 11^th September, 2- 5pm in Ivybridge and then weekly for 6 weeks until 16^th October

Following on fromt he success of last year’s course, here is another chance to join Emma Capper and I for a gentle and creative exploration of loss.

Together we will shed light on the process of grief, walk through beautiful woods beside a river and engage in creative activities which address our losses. These may be personal or global, recent or from long ago.

Here are some comments from last year's participants (I promise we didn't pay them to say this!)

“Lovely space, stunning woodland... professional and sensitive....held skilfully with care and kindness... transforming loss [felt] very powerful... inspiring and supportive...rich experience”

If you live not too far away please do join us. For more information and to book, please click here or contact me here.

We are indebted to local councils for their support in order to run this within the South Devon community, at very low cost.

ONE ON ONE

I'm not planning any further groups this summer; more in person and online events are in the dreaming phase for autumn and winter. (Please also let me know if there is something you would like me to offer.) I do though, have some one on one spaces available if you are interested: shorter or longer sessions, one off or a series. Take a look here or contact me here.