The five stages of grief - denial; bargaining; anger; depression, acceptance.
Today, 29th November 2017, marks the third anniversary of the passing of my father, Robert, who died peacefully in his sleep at the William Harvey hospital, Canterbury; he was eighty-five years of age. We spoke the day before; a kind doctor had telephoned me in Thailand to inform me that the time had come for Robert to hand in his dinner pail (as Robert would have quipped), and that she doubted he would last the night. Robert was, as I recall, serene and lucid when we spoke for the last time. He even cracked a joke saying, "the next time you are in church, I will be the third candle on the left." I was lost for words; I would have given anything to be able to reach out, take his hand, love him, and be with him in his final moments.
By contrast, November 4th 2017 marked the fiftieth anniversary of the passing of my mother, Barry, who died horribly as the plane she was flying in crashed into a hillside in Hampshire, England; she was thirty-one years of age. Thirty-seven souls, and sixty-eight sheep lost their lives that day in what is still considered a mystery in aviation circles (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iberia_Airlines_Flight_062). My mother and I had spoken that day as she prepared to put me on the morning plane from the airport in Malaga, Spain, where she kept a villa in the hills above the fishing village of Nerja. As I was accustomed, I would travel back to England as an unaccompanied minor since I needed to get back to boarding school the following day, and Barry wanted to close up the house without having me under her feet. In my heart of hearts, and in all honesty, for many years, I would have given anything to be able to reach out, take her hand, love her, and be with her in her final moments.
I knew something was terribly amiss the moment the telephone rang in the middle of the night. My grandfather answered the phone, and I heard Basil cry out like a man possessed. I went downstairs to where my grandmother was sitting in shock, and it was then that I realised, without a word being said, what had occurred. A part of me died that night. I do not think there exist words which can express how I felt at that time - God knows, I have tried. Perhaps some kind soul who is reading this blog, someone who has experienced sudden loss, could enlighten me.
Suffice it to say that I was given plenty of time to search for those elusive words relating to a sudden, and unexpected death, especially as, in any ordinary circumstance, I would have been travelling on the same plane with my mother. True to British 'form', and with an instilled attitude of maintaining a stiff upper lip, I was sent to school the following day. My school, Victoria College, whose initial patron was Queen Victoria of England, held fast to a tradition which stemmed from the various military campaigns of the latter part of the 19th Century, commencing with the Crimean Wars right the way through to the Great Wars of the 20th Century, and this tradition was that any pupil who lost a loved one (in battle) would stand by the headmaster, and members of staff as the entire student body would stand in line, shake one's hand, and proffer their most sincere condolences. On that cold Monday morning fifty years ago, as I stood there, and accepted the commiseration of my peers, I distinctly recall a feeling of paralysis as I attempted to negotiate the enormity of the void I felt within my being. I was left alone to grieve; I was nine at the time.
To be continued.........