We all stacked our hands on his chest. I don’t
remember whose hand went first. But each of us
automatically planted one hand on the next. We were
declaring our unity as a family that would always include
Cathal. Somehow his chest felt hollow, as if it would
cave away. I couldn’t bear the signs that he had been
hurt. The blood compacted in his nostrils, the massive
bruising on his neck, behind his shirt collar, and, easily
imagined, down his entire back.
We took our seats and the doors were opened.
The death of a child is what bereavement
psychologists call a particularly enfranchised loss.
What that means is that it evokes widespread sympathy. And
so it was with us. A great number of people slowly made their
way into the room. It was very moving for me. Yet it was also
an ordeal. I was too devastated to really appreciate it until
many years had passed. I was trying to come to terms with
Cathal’s death and meet all these people. Some friends of my
childhood came to sympathise, and I found this very
emotional. Somehow my own childhood and that of my lost
child became entangled in my mind, as I met those childhood
friends long unseen.
Extract from When a Child Dies. Footsteps of a Grieving Family. Published by Veritas.
Tags: bereavement, death of a child, grief