I’m prompted to write this week’s article because of a conversation I had with my partner today. It was a chat we’ve had before but one that we haven’t had in a while to be honest. And it was, I’m sure, on a topic that many, if not all, bereaved parents have dealt with.

We decided to go out for a drive earlier this afternoon just to get out of the house. We had no particular plans – just the one of getting out from behind the four walls which often threaten to drive us mad. Anyway, as we made our way out of the drive my partner looked up at the windows and the whole front of the house before remarking, “I’d just love to have the money to get the house completely finished and in good shape.” My instant reaction to this comment was to say “Yeah, so we can sell it and start somewhere new.”

In that single statement, which I said with absolute conviction and honesty, I recognised just how much I’ve changed since my son passed away. In the years since he left us I could never really contemplate ever selling and leaving the house – it was Craig’s home after all. All our family memories were here under this roof. When he was born he came back to this house and together we lived as family here for the painfully short six year life he was given – He died in our bed with us either side of him. His brief sweet life began, lasted and finally ended in this place. The idea of ever leaving it – Craig’s home – never entered my head.

But I’d say, in the last year maybe, I’ve noticed a change in my perception. There’s been a ‘knowing’ that has bloomed within. Somewhere along the line I’ve come to realise that all these things left behind – the house, his room, all his little things, his clothes, even his grave – are NOT him. Were he here now, back living once more, I wouldn’t give them a seconds thought. In the end they are just THINGS. Of course they’re sentimental, and yes each little thing holds so many memories, and to be honest I still won’t part with a lot of his stuff – I’ll probably hold on to them forever in fact. But the feverish attachment I once had has waned significantly.

I know they say time is a healer, and this is true in many ways. But it’s my perception of life now that has moved me along. I know in the deepest parts of me that my Craig is still very much alive. The hows and wherefores still escape me, but for now the acceptance of his survival is enough. So now when I walk into his room and pick up his things I don’t perhaps cry so quickly or as much. I still cry though. I’ll stand in his room and in my mind’s eye will see him playing with his swords or knights and the tears always come. But I talk to him too; and not the ghostly memories. No, I speak in soft whispers, directly to Craig himself – wherever he is now. Because he IS alive, living on in a place where I too will eventually be.

Knowing this allows me to bring Craig back into my life NOW as the person he is still. The pain of his absence is horrific, there’s no doubt about it, and too often are the days where all hope leaves me. Life for me, for all bereaved parents is a juggling act. It’s a metronome that swings unevenly between hope and hopelessness and each day is uncertain. But we amble on because we have to. And for me, just believing that my son is still around is what gets me out of bed.