‘In the days since you left’ – Coping with loss in the fourth trimester

We are all, at some point in our lives, obliterated by loss. If you haven’t been by now, you will be in time—that’s for sure. And, of course, if you have been fortunate enough to have been truly loved, in this world, you will also cause extraordinary pain to others when you leave it. That’s the covenant of life and death, and the terrible beauty of grief." (Nick Cave)

It was Halloween. Tuesday 31 October 2023. Our street was alive with festivities – children disguised in fancy dress, neighbours sharing treats, the kind of community spirit that our street was the very best at. I had my 3-year-old daughter by the hand and my 10-week-old son wrapped around me like a koala. We arrived home with a cauldron full of sweets to find Phil – my husband, their Daddy – bent double over the phone weeping; a primal, guttural sound. I somehow knew instantly his dad had died. My mind hurtled through the list of evils that could have taken him – a heart attack? A stroke? A car accident? I knew I needed to protect my children at all costs from witnessing their Daddy in this state of despair and ushered them straight back out the door. What followed was sheer panic – I remember knocking on the door of our neighbours, telling them something had happened and that I needed to be with Phil, leaving the children with them, both screaming for me, and returning to our home, hearing their cries through the terraced wall, to learn that John – Phil’s dad, my father-in-law – had taken his own life. I remember the feeling of being frozen in time – and of the world collapsing beneath my feet. I remember screaming in terror and wondering why my tears were running dry. I remember asking “how?” and knowing the answer would haunt me for the rest of my life. I remember the stark realisation that our lives were changed forever.

None of us saw it coming. John had no history of mental health issues. And while he had endured substantial trauma and chronic health issues due to a rare, unfortunate side effect of his Covid19 vaccine (which brutally paralysed him for two weeks and hospitalised him for a further 7 months), he was now back home and coping admirably – working hard at his physio, setting himself ambitious physical challenges to aspire to, socialising with friends, enjoying time with his family, booking holidays and crucially, recognising when he was struggling, seeking support via his GP and accessing a local counselling service. He wasn’t the typical ‘man of a certain generation’ who might bottle it up – he wore his heart on his sleeve, was always the first to shed a tear, and was emotionally articulate. He embraced life with every fibre of his being, and despite his setbacks, had so much to live for.

Grieving a loss by suicide whilst mothering young children feels like you’re playing yourself as a character in a performance of your own life. I went about my maternity leave in a permanent ‘out-of-body’ state – running errands, attending baby and toddler groups, participating in small talk about nappies and immunisations and school allocations and the return to work, with people I barely knew – feeling like I had SUICIDE written in charcoal across my forehead and wondering why everyone was acting so normal around me.

Friends sent flower deliveries and food parcels and the courier would say “congratulations” as they saw the baby in my arms. “It’s a bereavement actually”, I’d say, and watch as they’d crumble with awkward apologies. My evenings were spent fielding bedtime curiosity from my daughter about when Daddy would be home, and where Grandpa John had gone, while some poor friend would be trying to comfort my baby boy downstairs through the witching hour screams. I’d use the last bit of energy I had left to sing/feed him off to sleep once he’d exhausted himself from all the crying. Whatever was left of the evening I’d spend scrolling through pictures and videos of John and reading through our chat history, drowning in guilt when I re-read the message exchange where I’d snapped at him for telling me to break bad habits and be harder on my 5-week-old who only wanted to sleep on my chest. Sleep-deprived and broken, I’d ‘politely corrected’ him, and a few days later I’d received an apology which he’d obviously been sitting on. I’d wonder if I could have been kinder in my response. He was only trying to help.

I didn’t know where to start with telling my daughter that her Grandpa John had died. We’d been with him only the weekend before when he’d been seemingly fit and well. I found the guidance and resources on the Winston’s Wish website really helpful: to be direct and clear, in a way that is age appropriate (she’d only just turned 3). The conversation went something like this, cuddled up in bed one morning in the days after:

Margot: Mummy, where’s Daddy?

Me: Daddy’s with Nanna, Margot, because Grandpa John has died.

Margot: Grandpa John has died?? But is there someone here with you?

Me: Yes, Grandma and Granddad are here with me.

Margot: [Pause] Is Nanna going to move him?

Me: His body isn’t here anymore. We won’t ever see him again.

Margot: We won’t ever see him again??

Me: No, Margot. But think of it like a cocoon. His spirit is like the butterfly that

has flown away now, so even though you can’t see him anymore, we will feel

his energy in the stars and the blossom and the leaves and the seasons, and we

will look at pictures and videos of him to keep his memory alive. We’ll need to

tell Francis all about him, because he’s too young to remember him.

Margot: [Going face to face with her baby brother] Oh, baby Francis… Grandpa

John has died! We love him and we miss him but we won’t see him or play

with him ever again – because he’s dead now!

Me: And Mummy and Daddy might be a bit sad from time to time, so we’ll all

need to look after each other and have plenty of cuddles.

Margot: Shall we message Daddy and tell him we love him?

Me: That sounds like a good idea.

Margot: Mummy can we go downstairs and play now?

Almost two years on, our grief continues to play out in new and different ways. It sometimes looks like anger towards the children (or one another), when my now 5-year-old is prancing around the room with a blanket over her head at bedtime pretending to be Elsa instead of getting into pyjamas, and my nearly 2-year-old is throwing tantrums over being given the wrong spoon and emptying the packet of cheerios all over the floor. Sometimes it’s resentment towards my own Dad, for the precious grandfather relationship he gets to build with our children that Phil’s dad never will. It’s a powerful engine for justice, campaigning for reform of the Vaccine Damage Payment Scheme that wrongly rejected John’s claim, invalidating his trauma and the reality he was faced with. It’s an overwhelming anxiety that something else terrible is going to happen; a visceral, impending fear of experiencing that level of tragedy and despair again in this lifetime. It’s triggers everywhere, verbal and visual, no escape. Other times it’s a quiet, arresting grief that catches me off guard in a rare moment of downtime and takes my breath away. Most of all, it’s this permanent feeling of absence – that his place at the table is missing; that he should be here, and he’s not.

Bereavement by suicide is a very particular type of loss, and one that is so difficult to find acceptance of. It’s complex, multifaceted, unrelatable to most people and its grief trajectory is anything but linear. There are so many layers to mine. I grieve for my mother-in-law, Christine, who has lost her husband, the love of her life for 45 years. I grieve for my husband, Phil, and his siblings, Adam & Liz, who have lost their wonderful Dad (as I watch him become the most wonderful Dad himself). I grieve for John’s mum, ‘Grandma Cross’ who outlived him, well into her 90s, passing away soon after his death. I grieve for our children, and my nieces and nephews, who have lost their perfect grandfather and been robbed of childhood memories with him. I grieve for his friends, colleagues, walking companions and travel buddies, for whom he was a true stalwart of the community. And just when I think I’ve done enough grieving for everyone, I remember who he was to me.

I first met John when I was 15 years old – almost twenty years ago. He quickly became an important father figure to me and remained a constant, caring and dependable presence throughout my adult life. He welcomed me into his family from day one, officially becoming my father-in-law eleven years later, in 2017. He treated me like a daughter of his own, supporting me through all the highs and lows life had to throw at me, accepting me for my flaws and becoming the proudest and most loving grandfather to my children. His home was my home, and we had countless family holidays and adventures over those twenty years, making memories that I will cherish forever. I miss him so deeply – his wisdom, his wit, his kind-hearted nature and his generosity of spirit. I miss the indescribable comfort of feeling safe in his presence. We will never ‘move on’, but time does heal. The obliterating sense of shock and despair is starting to fade, and the grief, whilst still profound and painful – we are learning to live alongside. Every so often, there are splinters of light – literally, through the trees; or in the way Margot will pick up a conker and say “this is for Grandpa John’ or ‘I think Grandpa John is looking out for us today”. Just recently my mother-in-law said something so unknowingly funny to my sister-in-law that we laughed so hard a little bit of wee came out… I wasn’t sure we’d ever laugh like that again, but there we were, drying our eyes.

Life will never be the same. We’ll never not think ‘what if?’ or ‘how could he?’ The world as we knew it ended with John. But we are slowly rebuilding, one where joy and pain can co-exist – if only we give ourselves permission. Make space, and the light will find its way back in, softening the darkness in its place.

The duration and depth in which you knew a person can nourish your soul for a lifetime – think of that combined matter as the soil. And grief: the water.

‘In the days since you left’

(Written in April 2024, 6 months after John left)

In the days since you left

We watched fireworks through bleary eyes

Danced at weddings

Said goodbye

Made it through the fourth trimester

Bruised and battered but holding it together 

Finding comfort in the kindness of friends and strangers

And still the Christmas lights switched on

Stockings were filled

Crackers pulled

And there was joy

We brought in a new year

6 new months

26 new weeks

182 new days

Each bringing new hope and fresh pain

We smiled and made small talk

About baby sleep, weaning, nappies pungent

The return to work

And primary school allocations

Kidding even ourselves for just a moment

That it was these things consuming us

Pancakes flipped

A leap year lapped

Spring blossomed

The clocks changed

We watched the sun rise and fall

And the tiny newborn hands you held begin to crawl

We move

With broken hearts and heavy shoulders

As the world, beautiful and brutal, keeps on turning

Seasons come and go

The waves of grief ebb and flow

Thrust into a future we weren’t to know

We discover new purpose alongside the sorrow

And there you appear, just when we least expect it, in the faces and voices and

hearts of our children as they grow.