|
It
is five days before my son's sixth anniversary of
death. There is no nicer way of putting this. After
a call from his brother, 25 years of age, who phoned
to express his feelings in three sentences, `I had
a nightmare about Aaron', I feel so terrible' and
`I love you Mum', accompanied by silence and wrenching
sobs, it occurred to me how grief could be likened
to an octopus.
Like
an octopus, the tentacles of grief are far-reaching
and tenacious. The death of my son, and Jason's brother,
affected many people. Some personally, others by association
of their sons and daughters. His grandparents, immediate
family, friends. In some, the octopus has taken up
permanent residence. This I can state is in my case
and in his brother's. Sometimes the octopus sleeps
until a thought, smell or memory jolts it to a rude
awakening when it stirs its tentacles and again the
effect is of a earth tremor which subsides to occasional
rumblings.
I
have been told that to feed the octopus frequently
will quieten it down eventually. This may be so. At
least it satisfies it for a time but you can never
kill it or remove its presence from your inner soul.
I have tried to be friends with it but like a good
friend you know you can count on it. It's there for
you physically, emotionally, and psychologically.
Other
than my pain living with this creature, the next greatest
pain is the pain of his brother's loss. The loss of
his soul mate, the loss of his pal, the loss of his
confidante, the loss of his future best man, the loss
of an uncle to his children and the loss of the person
with whom he shared his childhood joys and sorrows.
There is no-one that can fulfil that emptiness.
Karmen
|
