Kelly: Living with grief and anxiety after the death of my child
Five years ago, at around 8.15pm in February, my eldest daughter, Abi, suddenly complained she felt ill and woozy. Within 45 minutes she had collapsed on our bed with me and her dad with her. Her younger sister and brother were in their bedrooms, listening to us scream, cry and panic as we watched her fade away before our eyes. It was the most terrifying night of our lives.
Abi had suffered a catastrophic brain haemorrhage. She was dying, but we managed to stabilise her with CPR and the paramedics rushed her to hospital. She never regained consciousness. Four days later, we were with her when the doctors turned off her life support machine. Abi was just 12 years old.
It felt as though our lives were suddenly spiralling out of control, all that we thought to be safe and true was shattering, and there wasn’t anything we could do about it.
The community rallied round at the news of Abi’s death and we were often in the local paper. We were just an average, happy family, so her sudden death was a shock to everyone. Friends and family did what they could and raised money, which we arranged to go to Wallace grand appeal, for the Bristol Children’s Hospital, to support the care of other children there. This was other people’s way of remembering Abi and supporting us; people needed a way to express their grief that felt positive somehow. But, while it helped, we were the ones living with the loss each day.
My husband and I did our best to support our other two children, who were five and 10 at the time, and kept their routine as normal as possible. Their school was brilliant and did a lot in Abi’s memory, such as fundraising and installing a bench and a tree.
The pain of losing your child is indescribable. 12 days before Abi died, I had lost a pregnancy at 14.5 weeks and was still in recovery. I thought the pregnancy loss was hard because it was so personal to me, but this was loss on another scale. This was when I looked for professional help.
Grief can be suffocating, and my husband and I agreed that we didn’t want to spend our lives forever in mourning. We have adapted through therapy to living without her, but we’ll never ‘get over it’, that’s just not an option. Our two younger children know her as their sister from the photos we have around and we’ll tell them about her as they grow up. We have settled into a new kind of normal, but it’s not too different from our routine before. We live in the same home, do the same jobs, and our routines are similar. We are happy with that though. In some ways, it keeps Abi near us.
We still find it too painful to flick through the old photo albums or watch videos with Abi in them. Even five years on I can remember her voice and laugh, but I fear if I watch her I will break down. It’s like I’ve put the trauma of the loss in a box in my mind which I daren’t open. I have a constant pain in my chest. I simply haven’t had time to deal with it. Most of my life now is spent battling anxiety about all our health and putting a brave face on for the children. It’s this box though that I’m working on in therapy.
I still laugh, though not as deeply. I still smile in photos, but the sparkle has gone from my eyes. I still care about some silly things, but I don’t dwell on them. I lost a big piece of my heart the day that Abi left us. I can only hope to be with her again, one day.
If you resonate with Kelly’s story and are looking for support, know that help is out there. If you’re ready, you can start your therapy journey by simply contacting progressiveprocess@live.com.au or by clicking here.
Bill - a personal experience of my grandfather’s death My grandfather passed away this morning.
It didn’t come as a shock; he was in and out of hospital over the last few months after being diagnosed with throat cancer. Nethertheless, it was a difficult thing to hear.
My sister called me on my way into work. I could tell she had been crying from her voice, and from this, I expected the worst. As she explained what had happened, I remember not being able to really think or feel.
I was numb to it and saw things very objectively. My main thoughts were about how it would affect my family. He passed away peacefully in the early hours of the morning with my father by his side.
After arriving at work and processing the news, I was still very unsure how I felt. I was definitely sad, but I think I had already accepted that it was going to happen. I sat down and just started to work. It felt good to get into the routine surrounded by my upbeat colleagues. I started to feel much more settled. I had a conversation with the office manager explaining what had happened and that I might be a bit quieter during the day. She asked engaging questions about what had happened, but was careful to avoid difficult topics. After letting me know she was there if I needed anything, I then continued with my work day. I started to feel a bit more myself; it really helped to talk about it - a problem shared is a problem halved.
started to think about the time I spent with him in my childhood. I’ll always remember his laugh, it was very wheezy, but always genuine and happy. I hadn’t seen him since I hit my teenage years, but it is strange that the option of meeting up with him again is no longer there. I think this is the hardest part, before, I could have bumped into him in the pub, but now it’s no longer a possibility.
When I knew he was getting ill (he was admitted back into hospital with a throat infection), I was planning to go and see him. I didn’t manage to make it before he passed, but I almost feel better it worked out this way. I want to remember him for all the fond memories I have of him from my childhood, not struggling in hospital and feeling weak.
Even as I write this, it’s still sinking in, I still feel a bit disconnected and confused, but I feel more in control. We weren’t very close and I think that’s why it’s difficult to work out exactly how I feel. After a lot of thought I finally found a counsellor. I’m off to see her this week. She said she’ll work through it all with me to come to better understand my feelings. I’m looking forward to it.
If you resonate with Bill’s story and are looking for support, know that help is out there. If you’re ready, you can start your therapy journey by simply contacting progressiveprocess@live.com.au or by clicking here.