Come sit with me on my mourning bench
Saturday, March 7, 2009 at 5:56PM 
For one half of our life (if we are lucky), our parents will offer us some protection from this deep and dark pain. For the other half, we will surely mourn their passing. So when that time comes, pull out your ‘bench’, surround yourself with friends, be kind to yourself, talk, talk and talk some more and, most of all, do not be afraid of the tears.
Modern parenting is an all-consuming business. No sooner have we finished with the ‘dummy and diaper’ thing, than it seems we are magically transformed into general manager of a complex transport service, ferrying our children here, there and everywhere.
We do it because we love our children. Our children need us and we are there for them. It is what we do, just as our parents were there for us.
In another room
And there’s the thing – it happened almost without us noticing, when our attention was taken up with getting the children up, dressed and off to school. Our parents slowed down, grew old and, in some cases, even died.
The taxi drops us at the hospital. My grandmother, now 97 lies unrecognisable, more like a small child, in an oversized bed. I am aware of how uncomfortable my own children feel, sitting beside me. Recognition comes in her voice. Distinct and distinctly belonging to the person I call ‘Nanny’. One word from her and I am immediately recalling Sunday dinners and silly games around the house. I take the hand of my eldest son. For him, this is an important, albeit sombre, lesson in what happens at the limits of the human tale.
The protective layer above our heads
Life may be complicated, but most of us apply a simple logic to the important bits. Take dying, for example. In our minds, it is like waiting at a bus stop. Those who are first in line – who have been around the longest – get on the bus first. Normally that is how it works.
And this logic brings security. If I still have both grandparents and parents, then somehow I feel that there is still ‘money in the bank’. If, on the other hand, my parents and grandparents have died, that protective layer is gone and there can be a terrifying feeling of I’m next.
But, of course, life is not always logical. People, for no apparent reason, will jump the queue. The death of a child is perhaps the most devastating disruption of the rule and can quickly lead us to the conclusion that there never was a queue.
A year ago, it was my wife’s mum, aged only 49. Then, it was her ‘second mum’ and grandma. As I took her hand and desperately sought the right words to say, I saw the fear in her eyes. ‘Who is going to look after me know?’ ‘Who will be there for me when I fall?’ It was all too much, too soon. The rules of the game had been broken and the once strong protective layer had vanished.
On being there
There are several things that define an expatriate family, like the inevitable distance between us and our extended family. True, we enjoy the many benefits of life as members of the ‘global village’, but when the phone call comes, the sense of ‘not being there’ can fill us with overwhelming guilt.
But what is ‘being there’ all about? Do we believe that somehow we might be able to rescue our loved one from the inevitable? Is it about words left unspoken, which can only be said as life finally slips away? Or is it simply a need to witness the event for ourselves? How often do we hear our friends describe the same story: “I landed, turned on my phone and there was a message saying I had not made it on time”.
I will always feel guilt over the fact that her mother died during my brother’s wedding. We had an impossible choice: celebrate with one family or mourn with another. I thought we might have the chance to do both. I was wrong. And from that day something happened inside my head. I know I won’t be there when my grandmother leaves this earth. Perhaps, not for my parents, either. But one thing I can do is to make sure that every time we speak, every moment we spend together is good enough to be the last.
Room for one more on my bench
There is perhaps a lesson that is hard for us all, as a wise man once said: “If you have something to say, say it today. If you have the opportunity to share a moment of love, never leave it for tomorrow.”
The son of Nicholas Wolterstorff died in a climbing accident, aged 25. Following this tragic episode, Wolterstorff wrote about his grief and terrible sense of loss, even addressing the subject of how other people should approach his grief. Don’t try and explain it, he suggests. Don’t tell me it will be okay. Don’t avoid me. Don’t act as if it never happened. Just “come and sit beside me on my mourning bench”.
This article was first published in (A)WAY magazine in 2008.
The article was then republished, with permission, on Expatica.com in 2009. Click here to read comments from readers left on this site.
Click here to view in PDF format.
Reader Comments (1)
My grandmother, mentioned in this article, died last week at the age of 98. In reflecting upon her life, my father wrote a few lines about her that I would like to share, with his permission:
My Mum
15th November 1910 - 23rd April 2009
On the 23rd April my Mum left this stage of her eternal journey in order to enter the next.
Throughout her life she saw 23 British Prime Ministers (some had more than one season as PM) and 4 Monarchs and 2 World Wars.
She faced changes in technology with the introduction of the telephone, black/white television, as well as all the modern household equipment that most of take for granted. Mum and Dad’s first car – a Standard 8 saloon in which entry into the boot was via the back seat – had a heater fitted in order to add to the 'luxury' of this 'new' second-hand car.
Modern technology was not something that Mum embraced easily. For some time she was convinced that you needed a licence before you could use a microwave.
I have many happy memories of growing up with Mum and Dad, first of all at 186 Higham Road, Tottenham and then later in Sheringham Avenue, Southgate. I can picture Mum leaning on our black and white front gate in Tottenham, talking to a neighbour at the time of the Suez crisis in 1956/57 and being concerned that the problem might escalate into another major war.
I re-call Mum taking me to Downhills Primary school when there was snow on the ground. As we walked through the playground she fell over and I was really upset because she had hurt herself. (Don’t ask where.)
One Sunday Mum made a meat pie for lunch. We all told her how nice it was. Ten years later one of us asked if we could have a change to meat pie, Mum replied: 'But I thought that you liked it!'
Mum and Dad provided both for me and my brother, Derek, and gave us a stable family home. We enjoyed holidays together, going out for rides in the car into the countryside, and driving into the centre of London to see the Christmas lights in Regent Street.
Thank you both for all the love and care and concern that you have given to me and those I love, but above all for the one thing that nobody else has ever given me – MY LIFE. Without you Mum (and Dad) there would be many grandchildren and great grandchildren that would not be here today!
Thank you Jesus for 'my Mum'."
Peter Willows