So Close

Ashes to ashes

(Bit of a sad topic. Death mentioned)

As we drove past the Memorial park today, on our way back from the play place, Marko said quietly “Perhaps we should think of putting Ben’s ashes there sometime”, and I went cold. “No. No, I can’t. I can’t do it,” I spluttered. Ok he said, we don’t have to, but can I ask why not?

And it is a question I have been thinking of ever since my friend V buried her daughter Kendra’s ashes there over a year ago. Why are Ben’s ashes still in a small wooden box, tucked away inside his memory box, hidden high up on the top shelf of Kate’s cupboard? Why is it that every time I hear of people doing wonderful things with their loved one’s ashes, like sprinkling them into the sea, or burying them in a beautiful memorial park, I get a panicky feeling inside?

I know that those ashes don’t embody the spirit of my son. Just as I knew that his tiny body didn’t house his spirit after he had passed on.  But it didn’t seem to make a difference then, as it doesn’t now. 

After Ben died, the (people who do this type of thing) came to collect his body. We had decided to have him cremated as I couldn’t stand the thought of his body being buried. Because he died late in the afternoon, he was taken to the mortuary overnight, which was extremely upsetting for me. I begged and begged the (people who do this type of thing) to have him cremated as soon as possible. I don’t know why, but the thought of him lying there, alone, cold was unbearable. 

The very next day, the day after my child had died, Marko and I had to go through to the funeral place to sign the papers, pay the bill. Pick a box for his ashes. Ghastly. Absolutely shocking that anyone has to go through that. 

Anyway, he was cremated and the next day Marko went to fetch his ashes. They were in the small, plain wooden box we had chosen. We put the wooden box inside his memory box and there they have been ever since. 

I know there are people who do wonderful things with their loved one’s ashes. Sprinkle them in forests, in favourite places. The sea. In the mountains. Or they bury them in some special memorial place. I can’t. I can’t bear to part with them. I don’t know why. I just can’t. 

It’s not as if I take the small wooden box out. I never do. I actually hardly ever open the memory box, it is too painful for me still. But I need to have his ashes close to me. I need to know that it is close by, part of us. Part of the family. It sounds macabre, but it doesn’t feel that way. I am not sure why I feel this way. All I know is that I don’t think I can ever let his ashes go. Ever.

I’m interested to know from others who have had their loved ones cremated. What did you do with the ashes and why? 

And of course, there is that

One day I will tell you about my appalling memory.  If I remember.  Luckily my sister can remember both of our childhood.  She sheds further light on the 'first day at first school' jitters:

"Maybe some of this paranoia is cos you were such a pain and your 1st experience was bad with clinging on Mom's leg and the teacher trying to pry you off?"

That 'you were a pain' thing was obviously a mistake on her part (no idea WHAT she is talking about), but I do now remember how traumatic my first experience of nursery school was. I was two years old and THEY MADE US SLEEP ON THE FLOOR!!  THERE IS DIRT ON THE FLOOR AND THEY MADE US SLEEP ON (MATTRESSES) ON THE FLOOR!!

Yes, I remember now.  It was traumatic.  I was crying hysterically, the teacher pulling on my leg.  *Shudder*  (Dirt! On the floor!)

Um, I wonder where Adam gets his foibles from........

Add to the mix that today is the day my first born died, well it is no wonder I am having an anxious week. 

He would have been four today

My son, Ben Albertyn was born this day, four years ago. 

Happy birthday big boy, we miss you.

He would have been three

Ben would have been three today. I wonder what he would have looked like.  Who would he have been more like? Adam or Kate. Maybe a mixture of both. Or maybe totally different. I am so sad that I will never know. 

 In honour of today, I would like to share with you the chapter from my book about the day Ben was born.

(Thank you to all of you who remembered, and to those who sent the emails and text messages.  Thanks for remembering him)

Mercy angel

My mother asked me yesterday how I cope with speaking about Ben in my interviews on TV and on radio etc. How I was doing with holding it all together, especially in public.  She told me a story about a woman she had met at a function the previous week.  This woman had lost a baby 20 years ago.  She told my mom that although she had other children since, and was very happy, sometimes a memory would sneak up on her, at the strangest times, when she was cleaning, or driving, and that pang would resound once again in her heart.  Quite intensely, just for that moment.

 It gets easier. Although you don’t believe it, or even want to hear it when you are the darkest moments of your grief, time really is the proverbial healer.  The pain gets less overwhelming, the wound less raw. And then it just becomes part of who you are.  It’s sad, but you live comfortably with that sadness. 

 Like the woman who lost her child 20 years ago, I too am happy now. I don’t spend a lot of time being sad about Ben. I still miss him. In fact I made myself look at photos of him yesterday.  I say ‘made’ myself because it still is a little raw for me, but I wanted to burn his face into my memory again. I wanted to search his face for any features that his brother or sister might have.  He looks a little like Kate. A mixture of Adam and Kate actually. I stared at the photo of his face and wondered again, for the millionth time, what he might have been like as a little boy.

 I really am fine. I am able to talk about Ben with breaking down.  I am even able to look at his photos and remember back without the searing heartache.  Mostly because I prepare myself ahead, a mental version of taking a deep breath and squaring one’s shoulders. But like the woman who lost her child so many years back, it is when I am not expecting it that it hits me hardest.

 I got an email in my inbox today from the nurse who took care of Ben while he was still alive, who prayed over him while he lay there fighting for his life, and who prepared him so gracefully for his death.  She is the nurse who gently removed all the IV lines, the ventilator tube; who carefully wiped away the bits of stickiness left over from the Band-Aids and sticky tape, and who dressed him for the first and last time in a little yellow baby sleeper.  She placed him in my arms so that I could hold him for the first, and last time. And once he had died, she took him from me again and prepared him to be taken away.  

 After Ben had died, she was so gentle and kind and helpful.  She helped me with the terrible details of where his little body should go, which funeral home would collect him etc – the horrendous admin of death.  She honestly helped me so much. She gave my son and I dignity in his death.  I will forever be grateful to her for that. I thought of her often in the year after his death

 Imagine then my reaction when I saw her again at the NICU where Adam spent the first twelve days of his life.  A totally different NICU, far away from the one where Ben had died.  I could never have gone back there again. I was so pleased to see her, even it was a very emotional time.  When Adam was eventually discharged twelve days later, she was the nurse on duty.  She helped me dress him in his outfit; she removed all the tags and signed him out.  And she said to me “I am so glad that this time the little boy I am handing you is going home with you, happy and healthy”.  It was such an incredibly poignant moment. For both of us. It felt so fitting that she was the nurse discharging Adam.

 So when I saw her email in my inbox today, I was immediately transported back to the days when Ben was in the NICU, when he died… For the first time in a long time I cried.  I miss him; I miss what could have been. 

 “I don't know if you remember me but I will never forget you and I believe that I am amongst the privileged people to have been able to share a small part of your journey. I looked after Ben at xxxxxxx then Adam in xxxxxx…”

 Of course I remember her!  She is such a beautiful person. Young. I think she was in her very early twenties at the time, but so full of grace, so mature.  And she meant so much to me, both with Ben and with Adam.

 I sent her a note back

 “You will never know just how much you meant to me, or how important you are in my life. You gave me a gift that will stay with me for the rest of my life. I will forever be grateful for the way in which you took care of my son and more importantly, the way you handled the situation that allowed him to die in dignity and allowed me to say goodbye in a dignified way.

 Honestly, I wish there was an award I could recommend you for, or a prize I could nominate you for. You were an excellent NICU nurse, not only because of the way you cared for the babies, but the way you treated Marko and I.  Thank you thank you thank you”

 She is no longer working as a nurse, which is such a pity.  She is such an excellent one.  She was really excellent with the babies and with the parents, which is SO important when you have a sick child.  Nurses do one of the most important jobs in the world, and in this country they get paid so badly, it is a disgrace. An absolute disgrace.

 Thank God for people like this amazing young woman, I am forever grateful for what she did for me and my sons. I hope that life rewards her richly.

Ben's webpage