Hello dear Chris , glad you got through another anniversary , it’s not easy, but so glad you had your family around you it helps so much Sending love Maddie xx
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Dear Chris,
I am so glad that you have got through the anniversary and that you have such lovely people around you. It helps so much. Take care 
Hi Chris,
Glad you were able to make it through another anniversary.
With love
Helen 
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Hi Chris…We dread these anniversaries coming for it never gets any easier, but to be able to share them with family and good friends is such a comfort I think it enables and helps you to get through the day…Take care …Marina xxx
Dear all friends. Yes, anniversaries are awful. The build up even worse I think.
On the 15th October it’s Alan’s birthday. In 2018 it was his 70th and we had a meal at a local restaurant with friends up from Cheshire, dearest friends here and our girls. Lisa Brought Brooke over and she was such a good girl. It was a special time, one which I will never forget. We had both our lovely daughters, Alan’s oldest friend from primary school. 6 weeks later Alan was carrying his coffin. He was devasted and tbh, still grieving for his friend when not even 9 months later, he was grieving for our daughter.
Life hits us hard at times but somehow we get up and carry on.
Let’s hold hands in our minds together , reach out and hold each other tight. We need this so much.
Love always, Kate xxx
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Dear Kate…that is so sad, life can be so very cruel at times…
In January 2017 my only sister died and because Christian could not make the funeral I travelled with him up to Grantham so he could visit his auntie and pay his respects to the family, nothing could prepare me for the shock that eleven months later they would be coming to us to pay their respect to Christian at his funeral,
We do carry on through life though I am not sure how, but I am so grateful for all the wonderful Mothers on this forum that help each and everyone one of us to get where we are today ,Bless you all and thank you, xxxx
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Dear Kate…I also wanted to say ,we are also very lucky to have the help of our wonderful families to get us through this nightmare we are all living through…xxx
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A friend sent me this:
Wish I could visit heaven
Wish I could visit heaven
If only for a while
To hold you in my arms once more
To hear your laughter
To see you smile
To tell you how much I love you
How much I miss you so
To hold you in my arms
And never let you go
Wish I could visit heaven
To make sure you were ok
There was so much left unsaid
So much i want to say
I think about you all the time
How I wish that you were here
Though I cannot see you
I know that you are near
I keep a little piece of you
Forever in my heart
It helps me to remember
That we are not that far apart
Wish I could visit heaven
For I know what I would do
You would be there with open arms
And I would run to you
I would hold you really close
And never let you go
For I have loved and missed you
More than you will ever know
But now you are an angel
As beautiful as can be
You sit there on your cloud
Juat watching over me
One day we will meet again
When the time is right
When I step out of the darkness
You will be standing in the light
I have to believe this is what will happen otherwise I think I will totally lose it Deborah 
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Beautiful poem Debororah, it sums it all up what we want is to see and tell our beautiful children , how we love and miss , would be so nice to give them a cuddle and never let them go . I am so sure there is a Heaven , , there has to be. Take care Maddie
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Beautiful poem, Deborah and so comforting xxx
Lovely poem Deborah I also have to believe and it keeps my going knowing our babies are with us always and waiting for us . Thank you for sharing 
Much love Michelle xxx
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A friend posted this recently and think it is so true for us. It really brought it all home for me
It has been one year and two months since Fred died, and it is my second #NationalBereavedParentsDay. That seems an extraordinary thing to write, but there it is. In that time, I have relied on the strength and grace of those that were bereaved before me, and have seen others follow. I have also seen people on the sidelines paralysed by fear and impotence.
I am not the only mother who has lost a child, and there will be far too many others. These are the things I have learned.
Grief is physically painful. People can imagine the emotional toll, but the physical pain of grief and trauma is all too real. There is a reason why we talk of heartache – it has a literal meaning. The chest pains you feel, and will continue to feel, is not a heart attack or ‘stress’ but your heart breaking. The pains in your joints and muscles, and the sheer overwhelming exhaustion is as if every cell in your body is rebelling against this new reality. Your entire body refuses to comply.
Grief is a brain injury. I can’t remember where I read it, but it was the most useful thing I read which I try to remember when things feel difficult. Traumatic grief, or any trauma, rips your world apart and everything your brain has spent a lifetime building is suddenly unraveled. It takes time, energy and patience for your brain to even start to piece itself back together, and plug-in the wires that have been torn out. You may struggle to remember people’s names, you may forget conversations entirely, you may even put an unopened bag of pasta in the dishwasher. You will almost certainly struggle with pub quizzes. Your brain is trying to rebuild itself. I feel like I’ve taken this on the chin. I figured that as my brain had erased itself, I might try and rebuild it differently. I thought I’d replace all that knowledge of 80s sitcoms by learning Italian. Clean sheet and all that. This has been largely unsuccessful but you can’t blame a girl for trying.
Take the drugs – or not. Eventually, my GP prescribed anti-depressants. I was sceptical; after all I wasn’t depressed, I was grieving. No amount of drugs were going to make me feel better about that, or bring him back. My very lovely GP pointed out that if something needs fixing, we don’t refuse to just because we know what broke it. I had to admit he had a point. So I took the drugs. The grief didn’t ease but I felt like I could string a sentence together – so I am forever grateful for his guidance. I won’t take them forever, and they are almost certainly repressing something that will have to come out eventually, but I can wait.
Crying is not compulsory. You may cry all the time, or you may be surprised by how little you do. You would think that crying would increase exponentially with the grief, but it’s not the case. I have to be honest and say I cry a lot less than I thought I would. When I was young, and it was really cold, my Gran would look outside, nod wisely and say ‘no, it’s too cold to snow’ I have no idea whether this is actually a thing, but it feels like a thing. Grief can be too overwhelming, too all encompassing to allow for tears – they literally won’t touch the sides. Instead there is a heaviness, an overwhelming sadness that squeezes the breath out of you. If only crying would help – but it mainly serves to make other people feel better. They know what to do with crying.
Find what feels better. All you can do is look after yourself; walk, read, yoga, sleep, watch Say Yes To The Dress on a loop, anything to get you through the day. Because even when you don’t feel you can get through the day, you will – there is no other choice. This is your life now and it is hard, and unbearable, but bear it you will.
I’ve found reading to be my salvation, sometimes books about grief, more often not (this has included all the Bridgerton novels, just to give you an idea of range). I’ve found reading to be a way to escape, of being with other people and living other people’s lives for a little while, before I had to return to my own. I can’t watch television or listen to the radio like I used to, it seems to require both too much and too little concentration. But lots of people can’t read anything, and that’s OK too.
It’s also OK to not look after yourself, just for a little bit. I wish there was a way to tiptoe through this, escaping the hail stones raining down, but there isn’t. It’s resolutely awful and sometimes trying to do the right things to make yourself feel better, then still not feeling better, somehow feels worse. So if you drink too much, eat too much, sleep too much, that’s OK too. Just try not to do it forever, and know that in the end it won’t change anything. This knowledge has not stopped me consuming a hastily bought Millionaire’s doughnut from the McDonald’s drive through, so don’t listen to me. Occasionally, I had a packet of chocolate fingers for lunch. My sister got cleaning and tidying as a coping mechanism, I got biscuits.
Find your oven gloves. Mister Rogers told us all to ‘look for the helpers’ and there is no doubt that these are the people you need in a crisis. However crises don’t last forever and you inevitably come to terms with the fact that nothing can help.
Grief is heavy, and it burns. There are lots of people who don’t know what to do – they arrive, try to touch it but burn their hands and retreat, thinking they’ll wait until it cools down a bit. Some people grab the closest damp tea towel, which isn’t much use, but at least they know better for next time. What they need are oven gloves. There will be people who come armed with the ability to just hold your grief for a while, to not fix it, or try to cheer you, or wait for you to feel better. Grief is exhausting, and at times really boring, and relentless. They will turn up anyway, and keep turning up. Cling to them.
There will be joy
You feel like you will never be happy again. In so many ways, that’s true. You also don’t want to imagine a time when you can feel joy whilst your child is still dead. It doesn’t seem possible, or acceptable. However you will find moments of joy – just brief ones and gradually they will happen more often. They will be small, but you will notice them, far more than you ever would have noticed them before, and you will be grateful for them.
I could go on, but I won’t. I won’t because nothing of the thousand words I’ve written will make any difference to your pain, or take it away or ease it in the slightest. It’s shit, I’m really sorry.
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Thank you Victoria.
That does sum up the myriad of emotions, the hopelessness we feel and the fact that we somehow survive.
Sending a big hug xx
Purple
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Hi Deborah
I’m sorry I haven’t been on much, sometimes it’s too much to put down how I am feeling in words.
I also can’t accept what’s happened and I find myself constantly shocked by the realisation that my beautiful, healthy boy is gone.
I also lit a candle tonight, I had run out of wine unfortunately.
I had a dream about Scott a few nights ago, I dreamed he had been let of prison and I hugged him and told him I was taking him on holiday, I felt briefly happy when I woke up because it felt so real.
Thinking of you
Anne xxx
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Hi Anne
I know how you feel. I get very emotional when I write how I’m feeling and start to cry. I too cannot accept what has happened and I find it all so unreal. Those dreams are so special as we feel a connection and find some comfort from them. I think of Kathryn constantly, and everything reminds me of her. I sometimes don’t do things because it’s things that she loved doing and I feel guilty that she can’t do them so why should I do something that brings joy. My heart is so heavy and I cry all the time. I drink wine most evenings to numb the pain. I know it’s not good for me but I can’t stop. I haven’t bought any this week and it was torture last night not having any. Are you the same? I think about you and everyone else on here alot and I am amazed by the strength that we all have to just keep on going each day.
Sending love and hugs. Deborah
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Dear All, it is so hard to think about how life can go on in the early days after losing a child. I can remember thinking ‘how can people go out for dinner, book a holiday, go to a concert when my daughter has died?’
But the reality is that life does go on and I try my hardest to live a life now to honour Gemma. I try for the other people in my life who I love … my husband, my other children and my grandchildren.
It took me a long time to get to this place … months of crying, raging, screaming. But I have now miraculously arrived at a place of calm. Most of the time. I still have times when I dissolve into tears at the slightest thing, at the unfairness of it all. Maddie and I have cried together. I miss Gemma every single day.
Some months ago I read something which comforted me so much … my relationship with Gemma continues and that will never change. She will always be my daughter … it is just that I can’t see her. So I talk to her every day and am always mindful of her. It helps me so much to have that mindset. I think it also helps with her boys, Coren and Charlie.
Bereaved parents are a very powerful force as we have survived the most terrible thing that can happen to anyone. So if we drink too much at times, say inappropriate things at times, if that’s what gets us through then that’s fine. I have drunk a lot more since losing Gems and I know she would say ‘oh mum get a grip!’ We know our children so well and that will always be so. Much love to you all
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Dear Anne, it is terrible. I gave Lisa my old car in 2018 as I bought a new one. It was a 2007 Terios 4x4. It was incredibly reliable and always passed its mot. It helped her a great deal, especially in the winter as we had lots of snow.
Well, a couple of weeks ago I had
been walking the dogs and as I was going home I came up the the main road and my old car went by. I immediately thought, ‘oh, what’s Lisa coming over at this time for?’ Then, “omg, that was a terrible dream I had” Just for a nano second I thought she was still with us.
Then, the realisation that it wasn’t her, how could it be? Horrendous.
We carry the sadness all the time but somehow we get through.
Sending love Kate xx
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Hello all dear mums , you have all exspressed yourself so right , your feelings are my feelings , . We have to do what ever we can to get through our grieving . Mine has got me into so much trouble , that I have only just started to see Sarah. again, I have apologised to Matt her husband . but haven’t seen him since last Xmas, and only see Sarah at her house when he isn’t there. . . Yes Victoria we have shared tears together . and I am sure there will be many more . Thinking of you all With love Maddie xxx
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Dear soul, you are in so much pain. Yes, I also drink wine every night. Pur hearts bleed and somehow it helps to calm us.
I was standing at my ironing press yesterday, getting bedding ready for a changeover. I suddenly realised I had stopped after putting a sheet to one side. I was just standing there deep in thought. I feel like I am flat a lot of the time. Neither low or high. I am high and happy when Jemma is home and when Brooke is here. Also when I am with friends who care about me. Well we all know the low times come without warning. However, this flat feeling is odd for me. I don’t feel anything. Don’t care about things that go wrong in the house. Like one of the toilets being out of order as there was a leak and the plumber came but needs to come back to repair it properly as he is on holiday. Something like that would have driven me bonkers before, now it’s just nothing important. When water was pouring through the ceiling at one of the cottages earlier this year, I just said Oh bugger. Need to turn the water off and get it sorted. Nothing bothers me at all now. Or rather, things don’t bother me. Family and friends are all I care about now.
I truly hope your pain will ease my love
Kate xxx
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Dear All,
Everything you all have said is the same for me also, the drinkibg I keep saying that I will stop but then I may need more tablets so what’s best ? I feel a comfort when I have a glass or two of wine as it does really numb the pain, it’s a release from being brave all day putting on a happy front for family and friends I’m an expert as I know you all are, we just have to keep going and try not to drag our loved ones daown with the truth of how we really feel but on here we can be totally honest and that helps so much and when you read others feel the exact same way it makes you feel you are normal, I feel so flat nothing matters to me (especially not myself) but keeping Matt’s memory alive and looking after my family and making sure they are happy keeps me going, my heart aches so bad at the moment but coming on here and sharing how we feel helps so much, big love to everyone you are all amazing
Michelle xxxx
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