“The reality of grief is the solitude of pain, the feeling that your heart is in pieces, your mind’s a blank, that there is no joy the world can give like that it takes away.” – Lord Byron

Five Years. March 29th has again rolled around with the passing of simply another 12 months, in what feels like an unceasing march away from Ned’s presence in our earthly lives. The gravity of today’s date sits heavy. Our memories and photos are one year older – there will never be any new ones with Ned; we can only look back. It is now five years since our Ned breathed his last in my arms; surrounded by family, he let go and went to Jesus. I begged God for just another breath, whilst simultaneously praying he’d be relieved of pain.

These last 5 years have been a “valley of the shadow of death”. In the shadow of death. For unlike with older generations, when children die, they take away not only the past, but the future as well. This interminably dark valley has also had some glows – a new baby ‘Bringer of Joy’, delights of our other children’s presences and milestones, work satisfactions and progressions, overseas and cross-cultural experiences. We’ve tried to show our other children some of the world since Ned left us – to learn more of their place amongst billions of others, to find beauty in pain, to recapture the wonder. Yet this wound is deep – like a phantom limb; a visceral ache everywhere, every moment each day, and at its worst when we’re together as a family, yet incomplete.

And there is the aloneness.

“Those who have lost children are, in many ways, forever seen as mourners, forever noted for their loss, on the margin – in the community but not entirely of it.” – Sarah Wildman

We crave understanding, but that’s impossible. For I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Grief of this kind is simultaneously universal and unshareable, with loneliness its inherent point of reference. The oppressiveness cannot be conveyed – being ‘bereaved’ feels too sanitised, too sterile and polite. ‘Bravery’ implies some agency in the matter. We just wanted to keep Ned. We haven’t felt ‘brave’.

We try to memorialise, to remember, to feel; I often try to pinch myself out of our nightmare, to install scaffolding that I can cling to when I feel like I’m crumbling. We will never not be sad. I’ve been listening to and reading a lot over the last 5 years – noting how others navigate, process, articulate grief. I know the wrestle continues despite these written or audio narratives ending.

But surreality is gradually turning to cold, hard reality.

“The acute pain… will weave itself into our lives in a way where threads of our child will be in the tapestry of our lives forever.” – Rob Delaney

Although the heart-ache is pervasive, unbearable grief will evolve into bearable sorrow. I lean on God daily for strength – He carries us; He is “near to the brokenhearted”. This year, Ned’s Heaven Day has aligned with the day Jesus was crucified. His resurrection at Easter shows us that death is not final, and we know that Ned is safe in Jesus’ arms now.

So for now, we try to ground ourselves in each moment as another year passes. The pain will always be there to return to – we need to hold it side by side with the beauty: God’s wondrous creation, our precious four children here with us, our memories. Not letting one crush or crowd out the other.

Edward Isham