A story of grief by a man and a boy

two years

Today is the second anniversary of Desreen’s death. Seven hundred and thirty days have already passed since she was killed and so I ask myself, What makes this one so special? Well I suppose nothing does really. I find days like this often represent little more than a release from the pain of anticipation and dread that precedes them; in many ways today is just another day.

I must remind myself, however, that I set up this blog to offer others insights into the complex workings of grief, and so to dismiss anniversaries outright as insignificant would be to provide a fairly narrow view of their potential impact on others. Today I will doubtless receive more messages than usual from people who care, because we typically use calendar dates as a way to reach out to one another to offer love and support. Just as Remembrance Day gives us an opportunity to recall those who gave their lives in the line of duty, anniversaries provide an opportunity to show people who have lost someone that they are remembered too.

I realise that I am one of the luckiest unlucky people. I’ve been shown so much sympathy and affection that I no longer really feel like I need specific days of remembrance for that sympathy and affection to make itself shown. But these days I tend to only write with other people in mind. I think about those bereaved people who find it hard to articulate their grief. I worry that they might not be offered the same level as support as me because they are doing such a great job of making themselves appear so strong.

I know that grief doesn’t just stop, though. I know that however resilient a person who has lost might seem to be, there is still trouble and trauma below the surface. And so today I’ll tell you how it feels for me two years down the line. This won’t necessarily be typical of another person’s grief, but hopefully it can help show just how deeply someone else you know might be feeling even when they seem to be ‘doing fine’.

It feels like boredom. Boredom because I’ve realised that, however I frame it, I’m a single parent and my only housemate and companion is a four-year-old boy who goes to bed at 7:30pm each night. Boredom because I can’t recreate the buzz that our home had when we were a carefree happy family of three. Boredom because Desreen was the most fun and funny person I knew and she’s gone. Boredom because I’ve accepted that routine is good for Jackson and me but even the word ‘routine’ bores me to tears.

It feels like consciousness. Consciousness because without the anaesthetic effect of shock and the blinding impact of recent loss I can hear and see Desreen more clearly in my mind than I could before. Consciousness because I’m now much more attuned to how difficult life can be.

It feels self-indulgent. Self-indulgent because when I sit down and think about my own pain (for the billionth time) I realise that I am just one person amongst millions who are suffering in a thousand different ways. Self-indulgent because I realise that however much time I spend on myself I just can’t put things right. Self-indulgent because I want to do something with my pain to help others, but I know that I want that to make me feel better too (and yet I don’t really think that it does).

It feels misunderstood. Misunderstood because people often tell me how far I’ve come when I don’t feel like I’m much past the start line. Misunderstood because however much I detail, explain and share my grief, I wonder if there might always be a view amongst others that I should be ‘over it’ by now. Misunderstood because I’m probably not easy to understand; one day I can be the life and soul of the party and the next I don’t even want to show up.

It feels like an excuse. An excuse because I always have something on which to blame my feelings. An excuse because it doesn’t matter how hungover I am or how ill I might get, it’s always grief’s fault. An excuse because I’m not even able to feel under the weather without worrying that I’m slipping into an abyss of depression.

It feels lonely. Lonely because when I feel good or I feel like I should celebrate an achievement, the person who would revel in the moment the most is gone. Lonely because losing her has taken the shine off any positivity I feel. Lonely because it doesn’t matter how much company I keep, no one can ever replace the person I’ve lost. Lonely because I know what it was like to grow up in a busy and buzzy home and mine is now quiet and low key. Lonely because I feel like I’ve lost more than one person and because a big part of me is still missing too.

It feels like acceptance. Acceptance because I think I’ve accepted what’s happened although I haven’t really comes to terms with it. Acceptance because I think of Desreen as being dead but I can’t make peace with that thought. Acceptance because the numbing and often quite comforting effect of shock has completely worn off and left the sting of reality in its place

It feels self-critical. Self-critical because only when I listen to other parents talk about their kids do I realise how hard I am on myself as a father. Self-critical because no matter how much progress my son and I make, it’s never enough (and how could it be?) Self-critical because even when the people in my life show any pride in me, I feel it impossible to feel any in myself.

It feels like regression. Regression because these second anniversary feelings aren’t what I’ve felt all year. Regression because I understand that this time of year may always make me feel worse than normal. Regression because I had a great summer filled with incredible people and lots of fun, but it’s all too easy for the seasonal shift to wash those more positive feelings away. Regression because sometimes I feel like progression feels impossible. Regression because the more time that passes the more acute my memories of that devastating night seem to grow. Regression because I recognise that my behaviour over the last few months has made me aware that my personality is becoming more like it was before I met Desreen than it became after.

It feels like change. Change because acceptance has made me carve a new way forward for my son and me. Change because I recognised that trying to keep everything the same as it was before only made everything feel so painfully different. Change because I’m trying to establish a life that works around the numbers one plus one rather than three minus one. Change because I’ve already realised the hard way that everything changes.

It feels like a partnership. A partnership because I’m beginning to realise that my son is there for me as much as I for him. A partnership because we each affect, rather than dictate, the way the other feels. A partnership because I know that he deliberately does things to cheer me and make me laugh the same way I do for him. A partnership because neither of us really makes sense without the other. A partnership because we often both look across the room at one another and give each other a private wink, which says, ‘I’m okay,’ and asks, ‘Are you?’

It feels like teamwork. Teamwork because I need my friends and family around me to get by. Teamwork because it’s hard to be independent when you become a single parent. Teamwork because sometimes we all need to prop one another up.

It feels baffling. Baffling because I never imagined life could ever work out this way. Baffling because I have moments when I think I’m going to see Desreen again simply because it seems so impossible that she can gone forever. Baffling because I’m constantly perplexed about what happens next. Baffling because I realise the control I thought I had doesn’t really exist. Baffling because losing feels of control often makes planning feel pointless.

It feels different. Different because I didn’t want to think about anything other than the pain for a while and now I find I’d rather spend my time thinking about almost anything else.

It feels less torturous. Less torturous because I’ve realised that I can’t think my way out of my situation. Less torturous because I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can’t be a perfect parent (or a perfect anything for that matter). Less torturous because I now understand the psychology of the parent/child dynamic, which is that we are fundamentally designed to separate, which in turn means that it’s okay, necessary even, for my son and I to spend time apart. Less torturous because that time apart from him no longer leaves me riddled with guilt.

It feels endless. Endless because I know there is no conclusion to grief. Endless because feelings may change but they never stop. Endless because the questions may differ but they never stop, either. Endless because my son just asked if his mummy had a phone we could reach her on. Endless because he wants to know if she has wings and whether they can help her fly back down to us sometimes. Endless because I understand that only when his naivety ends may his grief truly begin.

It feels hopeful. Hopeful because, two years on, I now have a child I can talk to and reason with. Hopeful because we are so incredibly close. Hopeful because he increasing lets others in. Hopeful because I see him smile more often and I allow the smile on his face to spread to mine.

It feels personal. Personal because there probably comes a time when others can no longer comprehend the ways in which grief can change you. Personal because whilst the common medicine for recovery is time, no one can tell me how much I’ll need to take. Personal because the more time that passes, the less I’m compelled to talk about how I feel with others.

It feels like gratitude. Gratitude because I have so much support in my life. Gratitude because I still have so much to be grateful for. Gratitude because I’m humbled by the opportunities that still present me in life. Gratitude because of the countless number of people who have supported my son and me over the past two years. Gratitude because I have my beautiful little boy to remind me of my gorgeous, kind, funny, loving and completely unique wife every single day.


42 comments on “two years

  1. Janice
    November 10, 2014

    Ben, I can’t thank you enough for this beautiful post – the complex roller coaster of emotions, realisations and ideas you portray are so eloquently written. It’s astonishing to think it’s now 2 years. Your post is a pretty accurate summary for my two years without my husband, confidante and best friend. I thank you for being able to write something that I just couldn’t start.
    All good wishes to you and your darling Jackson.

  2. dianaroggenbuckebrown
    November 10, 2014

    A beautiful post, thank you for sharing. Earlier this year my dear friend lost her husband of 34 years suddenly and it has just crushed her. Reading your post has helped a lot for me to somewhat understand all the things that she must be feeling.

  3. Margaret S
    November 10, 2014

    Ben I have said before you are inspirational. To be able to write such a touching block is very humbling for me. It is obvious that you have a very close bond with Jackson and you love each other very much. It must be so much help to others who have lost someone also.

  4. Natalie hurst
    November 10, 2014

    Cathartic as ever Ben. For no matter how lonely we can be in our own grief, your writing links us in a web of togetherness knowing there are other people that know how it feels, albeit in our own way. Lifting the loneliness of grief and the feeling that I might not be going mad and have feelings that others feel is wonderful. I literally devour your blogs for the empathy, clarity and catharsis of the moment that they bring x

  5. Vikki Vaughan-Jones
    November 10, 2014

    Your words are so eloquently real that your emotions are palpable. Grief is so hard to comprehend that there is a huge mixed bag of emotions as you describe. Losing your spouse, best friend, soulmate leaves a void filled with pain and questions.

    Sometimes we want people to be aware of our loss and suffering as their help, sympathy and attention as you describe is so necessary and comforting, however there are times when we don’t want to be singled out and reminded of our ‘difference’, our ever present pain and emptiness. That’s a hard one to balance.

    Some of your words Ben are almost echoes from my own heart and I want to just thank you for verbalising and making some sort of coherent sense out of them. Your writings over the last 2 years have comforted me on many occasions. I often wonder what your initial intentions were when you set out writing, opening your heart to the world to view from afar. Possibly at first it was just an outlet for your emotions, I don’t know. What I found was that you experienced the painful cocktail of emotions which I did(do) as so it brought some normal to my abnormal new world. Thank you for that.

  6. Samantha N
    November 10, 2014

    Hello Ben, I have followed your blog since the beginning and tried to write to express my awe and appreciation of how you deal with the loss of your lovely Desreen. This is such as accurate representation of grief and how the process never really ends…
    I lost a 45 year old friend suddenly on Friday, and am steeling myself for dealing with her loss, and funeral. I am so glad this blog and your book are there. Thank you.

  7. youngwidow35
    November 10, 2014

    I lost my husband almost 8 months ago. Our daughters where then 2 and 3 1/2 years old. I still count the days and hours since he died in my arms. So much of what I just read is so breath catching, heart breakingly true for me too. Some I’ve yet to reach.
    My husband wasn’t only the love of my life he was also my best mate, the only person that could reduce me in a fit of hysterical giggles with a single word or look. The pain of knowing, yet not always able to accept, that he is gone forever is beyond me to put into words. Thank you for sharing a piece of your heart with us.

    A fellow widower x

  8. Sally Hunt
    November 10, 2014

    thanks x

  9. clairemelhado
    November 10, 2014

    Beautiful words as always and words that I, and many others, can identify with. Anniversaries can be difficult, sometimes it’s the days before that are worse, but for those of us who know your pain,every day can be difficult.
    Anniversaries often remind others of the pain we feel all the time. The regression feeling happens on anniversaries and sometimes the further on we are the harder they become. At just over four and a half years I get a sense of disbelief that such a passage of time has elapsed since he died. Boredom is another feeling I share. The simple pleasures of everyday nothingness with a much loved partner and friend is one of the biggest things missing in my life.
    You aren’t alone, yet you are. Thank you for sharing your words again. Thinking of you and your boy on this difficult day x

  10. Paul R
    November 10, 2014

    I have appreciated and benefited your posts over the last two years. I’ll be unsubscribing because I have met an amazing lady, 2.5 years after Laura’s death, and will be getting married. It is time that we move forward creating our new life together.

    Blessings on you and Jackson as you continue on this journey through life.

  11. Emma Crazywithtwins
    November 10, 2014

    Ben, I have just finished reading your book and I think it is incredible that you continue to do so much to help others grieving, whilst working through your own grief at the same time.

    If there’s one thing I learnt from your book, it’s that grief comes in many forms and that everyone grieving, deals with it and experiences it differently. I also think there are different types of grief. I lost my best friend suddenly and tragically aged 18. I lost my gran slowly after a long battle with cancer. I dealt with both sets of grief completely differently. Despite being closest to my gran, I had had my chance to say goodbye, and it is my best friend, that I still struggle with the grief for, ten years on.

    My grandad was telling me about the two-year anniversary of my gran’s death just the other day. They had been married for 60 years and she lost her year long battle with lung cancer, only six months after celebrating that milestone. He thinks himself lucky that he knew she was dying and she was able to tell him her wishes for his future. She asked him to grieve for her, for two years. She said “then I want you to live again”. Nobody will ever come close to her, in his life. They held hands every day for sixty years. But true to his promise to her, on the 2nd anniversary of her death, he joined a dancing club. He made new friends, he spent less time alone and a few years after that, found himself a “companion”. She too is a widow and I know they both still grieve deeply. But I’m happy he felt able to share that story with me the other day. And I know there are many people, who feel grateful to you, for sharing your story too. Amidst the grief, your story is also one of love.

    My grandparents life was a love story that still brings me hope every day. And your writing, your book, your blog, that reads to me like a love story too. Because your love for Desreen is immeasurable and it shows in your words.

  12. handikwani02
    November 10, 2014

    Ben, all I want to say is a BIG THANK YOU for your openness like I said before your posts make valuable reading. What ever may have been said in some of the reviews of your book, I think you are a prolific writer I just marvel at the way you articulate so accurately how you feel helping others to feel that it is alright to be open about one’s feelings. I am just glad we can share your perception on life.

  13. Fi
    November 10, 2014

    Beautiful post Ben. The anniversary, the time of year and the dark nights will always make the loss feel more marked. My partner died Dec 2012, so I’m just a bit behind you in this grief roller coaster. I’ve followed your blog and read your book and found myself nodding and agreeing with you often. I so agree that now the grief is different and personal because others have got on with their lives and don’t want to hear it any more. However, having met someone who has made me feel happy again I don’t feel the need to talk about it so much either. G will always be in my heart and my memories but I have now accepted he’s no longer in my life. Much love & hugs to you and Jackson xx

  14. Sarah Pointer
    November 10, 2014

    Beautiful Ben and although of course there is still trauma, disbelief and a great deal of sorrow, in your writing I can see through this into the awesome duo you and Jackson have become x

  15. Roberta Rennie
    November 10, 2014

    Thank you for sharing. It was three years for me on Nov 8. Your blog is a beautiful articulation of shared thoughts and feelings but perhaps most importantly the assurance that we’re not going through this alone.

  16. Paul Franks
    November 10, 2014

    2 years for me on the 6th and it is crap to be honest. Got about 5 emails/messages – in stark contrast to standing room only at her funeral. Not even my brother got in touch. Little support, a 14 year old daughter who has little interest in me excepting when what I do or don’t do impacts upon her. So, not much gratitude from me. Seeing yet another counsellor – my 4th! But they all say pretty much the same thing so will bin that.

    • Irene
      November 11, 2014

      Keep going Paul. My husband died 15 years ago when my daughter was 6 and my son was 15. It is very tough. We had family counselling at one point because a court case brought by my husband’s (married!) mistress was causing us so much trouble. My son had counselling at school every week and my daughter had counselling at See Saw (we’re in Oxfordshire). We got through it all eventually. I must say that the most successful widower dad of a daughter did a fantastic job and she’s now at university and doing well. It did seem very dark at times but believe me, there is light at the end of the tunnel. It was about 4 years before I laughed out loud at anything. I don’t have a partner now but I do have a very busy job, son now married with a daughter and my daughter studying civil engineering at university. There isn’t a lot of support – do you belong to WAY? Give it a go. My best friends are all people I met there. After all these years we still meet up every few months for a meal or outing.

  17. witwitwoo
    November 10, 2014

    A beautiful post Ben … x

  18. Cat
    November 10, 2014

    It feels like live theatre. I am the actress and the people around me are my audience. They couldn’t do anything but just watch from a distance and probably try to understand how I feel when they actually have no idea of what to feel. Sometimes I struggle to become the best grieving actress they want me to be.
    Trying my best to get approval from my ‘fans’ even after 13 years but it never worked. We can never be good actors but we can be unique actors by showing to others that we have our own way of grieving and we do not need others to define it for us.

    Well, you are showing and sharing yours through this humble blog. Unique.

    As the years go by, we learn and experience more than those who have never experienced it.

    Being able to learn, experience and share.
    That’s the joy of it.

    Chin up,
    A Daughter

  19. Andy
    November 10, 2014

    Ben, above all thinking of you and sending big love to your family today. x

    Regarding this post for me it’s your most accurate and bang on point of the lot. I could print this off (and probably will) and give it to my family and friends right now and say if you wonder how I am feeling right now read this.

    Read the post this morning and been thinking about it more and more as the day goes by.

    Doubt that this helps you today by any stretch but reckon your so on point you could actually use the headings you’ve used today to framework some kind of a model that could be used by professionals dealing with young widowed parents. An extension/enhancement to Kubler Ross 7 stages for example and poss our journeys in the direction towards acceptance. Appreciate this is a tad strong but feel compelled to say it as it is and share my thoughts.

    Keep on carrying on,


  20. Sarah
    November 10, 2014

    Thank you for sharing Ben. For always putting what i want to say in words. Xx

  21. Nicole
    November 10, 2014

    Thanks Ben, definitely with you on the baffling – 3 1/2 years for me and still hard to understand will never see my husband again.

  22. BronB
    November 10, 2014

    Beautiful way to capture your thoughts and feelings. You don’t ever have to move on ….. Just incorporate your loss into your 1+1 life and keep writing. X

  23. Simon
    November 11, 2014

    Ben, Thank you for sharing, your post virtually captures the feelings and situation I face every day. We have followed a similar journey (I lost Alison in February 2012) becoming a single parent is something I never expected or prepared for!
    Your posts are a source of comfort for me articulating the situation we face in a way I never could.
    Thank You

  24. Emma Crossley
    November 11, 2014

    What a beautiful way to describe the endless multiple dimensions of grief. I lost my fiance on 30th May 2010 and run up to the 2nd anniversary was probably the worst time of all. As you say, the numbness had worn off and the sting of my new reality burnt bright and totally blinded me. It’s coming up to 3 and a half year’s now and whilst the hole that Dave left in my life is exactly the same size as it was the day he died, I am relieved to say my life around that hole has got bigger and has encompassed new experiences, new sadness and new joy, a new career and a new love. Grief throws you onto a new path and a new direction, one that none of us could of imagined or would ever have asked for but eventually you begin to notice the scenery on the new path and begin to experience everything the new path has to offer, both good and bad. The pain of losing Dave will never go away but I am now also thankful for him leading me to where I am today. Wishing you and your son much love, strength and hope.

  25. Hillary Rowley
    November 11, 2014

    Ben, I’ve only recently become a member of WAY having lost my amazingly talented & unique Andrew on the 23rd August. I can relate to everything that you have written so eloquently and plan time to review your blog regularly. This is the most unimaginable pain I’ve ever experienced. X

  26. Carole Hermes
    November 12, 2014

    Ben. Thank you for explaining how you feel. It has helped me to understand just how my daughter has had to cope with the loss of her lovely husband & leaving her to cope with two young children. Wishing you a. Bright & happy future.

  27. sr
    November 13, 2014

    Dear Ben. For some reason I thought to check your blog today having not done so for a while. I cannot believe it was 2 years ago. I was there that night as I lived in the flat above where it happened and saw it all. I will never forget what I saw. I am so full of admiration for everything you have done since. I wish you and your son all the very best and I do so hope that it will become easier. You remain in my thoughts, often.

  28. Tom
    November 14, 2014

    Ben. This is amazing – thank you. I lost my 17-year partner, wife and gorgeous 35-year-old mother to our two little guys (3 and 6) this summer. We’re at different points in our path, but you described very eloquently many of the feelings I cycle through on a daily, if not hourly, basis. This post was beautifully and thoughtfully written – it made me cry and made me smile (I’m grateful every day for my little partners in this journey). I’m going to return to several of your quotes often. I look forward to reading your book and checking back in on your blog. Thank you for your wonderful words.

  29. Lisa Green
    November 15, 2014

    Eloquent and poignant as ever, Ben. I have just passed the two year point myself and have felt similar emotions. It is refreshing that you write what so many of us feel, but are not able to articulate. Thank you. Blessings to you and Jackson.

  30. carol shaw
    November 17, 2014

    I can’t believe how well you can express the feelings probably so many people have had felt myself included but couldn’t find a way to put into words

  31. Helen Looker
    November 26, 2014

    Thanks Ben……. your words truly do help. x

  32. Eve
    December 4, 2014

    Ben (and Jackson, and Desreen’s family) – thinking of you all, particularly with what you are going through at the moment

  33. Julie
    April 18, 2015

    thank you , this has been such a help to me, 3 years on and wondering why the anniversary is more painful this year? The anesthetic of shock has worn off and I also no longer talk about the grief that I still experience .

  34. Richard Smith
    May 26, 2015

    The luckiest unlucky person alive: I love the power and positivity of that idea, Ben.

    But I believe I’m much luckier. I’m so lucky my lovely wife Heather (who died aged 47 just under a year ago), had had all three of our children before she was diagnosed with breast cancer aged 37. I’m so lucky that a range of fantastic drugs and clinicians then kept Heather healthy for a further 10 years, enabling her to fabulously bring up our three wonderful offspring to their teens (nearly). And I’m incredibly lucky to have closely witnessed, during the sunny Spring of 2014 (when Heather’s cancer finally turned terminal), the most inspiring bravery, love and support during her final few weeks and days – although I very often buckle in tears at the remembrance of the sheer intensity of it.

    You had none of this luck, Ben, and I’m in awe of your strength at counting yourself lucky. But I get what you mean.

    Apart from being a stay-at-home widowed dad of three teens (a new full-time job that I seem to be getting to grips with very slowly), I spend much of my time wondering how best to create something positive and meaningful from these almost overwhelmingly powerful feelings, much more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced, or even thought possible. Stumbling across your story and blog this evening has been an inspiration, for which many thanks. It may even give me the push I need to get going – fingers crossed!

    My very best wishes to you and Jackson, Ben. Warmest regards, Richard.

    • Irene
      May 29, 2015

      Sixteen years on – my children were 15 and 6 when my husband died from a brain tumour which was not diagnosed for 12 years during which time he became more and more unwell. My son is now 32, an occupational therapist, married and waiting for the arrival of his second child. My daughter is about to graduate from Cambridge with a Masters in Engineering. I’m still single – though I think most widowers find another partner it’s more difficult for widows. However, happy with my job, I have a good group of friends (90% single) and finally feel as if we are a real family again now we have another generation. It probably took us about ten years to get over it all and it wasn’t until she went to university that my daughter finally blossomed into the fine young woman she has become. It’s a slow slow business. All that theory of grief stuff and stages seems like so much —- to me as it’s a two steps forward, 6 steps back, one step forward, two steps forward sort of thing. My children are not the adults they would have been. I can’t see that my son would have gone into a profession which is about caring if his dad had been here and my daughter would not have been so focussed and might have done more of the normal stuff instead of studying so hard. I’m a lot nicer than I was. I know bad things happen to good people. After a year I reckon you’re doing o.k. if the children get to school in the right uniform and you get their dinner on the table and 7/10 times get them where they need to be on time. It’s fine to ask for help. Make sure the teachers ALL know the circumstances of your children. Join WAY. Get a dog. Good luck!

  35. Margaret
    May 31, 2015

    Just read your post and it could be me writing it. I am 2 years and 2 months on and while it is 2 years, sometimes it is like yesterday. Like everyone else in this situation, I am trying to learn to live a different life.
    Regards to you Ben & Jackson

  36. KM
    June 26, 2015

    Yes, I feel this now. I wonder if – even if – I could be in a relationship again, would it need to be with someone who has suffered as I/we have, to feel fully understood?

    • Paul R
      July 17, 2015

      I don’t know if this will help or not. My wife died 3 years and 3 months ago. Over the last year ad a half I dated a few women, some who were widows. I thought I was finding the companionship I sought, until I met someone truly special. We have been married for 7 months. She is not a widow, but has had troubles in her life. She ended her first marriage because her husband was abusive. Her long time relationship before I met her ended because she got cancer and had a double mastectomy, as well as a few other concerns. So, while we have both had our suffering, it has not been the same time. That said, I don’t know think shared suffering would be a good thing to base a relationship on. What I didn’t know when dating was that I would absolutely know when I found the right person.

  37. Jaym
    August 11, 2015

    I send you more strength, I send you lots of loving and compassionate thoughts, I send you and Jackson lots of love . . . my heart truly goes out to you. Thank you for being you, thank you for reminding me what life is all about. Peace be in your heart.

  38. Ingrid Brawn
    September 16, 2015

    “Personal because the more time that passes, the less I’m compelled to talk about how I feel with others.” ~ So very true ~

  39. Pingback: three years  | Life as a Widower

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