Chapter 13 - Flanders

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After a number of months I was told of a set of symptoms which I knew were extremely serious and suggested a very low chance of survival. My friend was not aware of the implications and I said nothing. That day I cried in my car before returning home, and then wrote a letter to the boy's parents. It was a letter of condolence and support which would be used if he died. I knew that if I did not do it then, I would never be able to properly express to the family my feelings for this child. When the time came I knew that I would be too emotional to frame any form of letter. Liam died about three months later. I sent the letter. I never met him and have never met his family. He demonstrated the incredible fortitude which we had seen in Max and which made me feel very close to him. I also tried to help the family by sending booklists and booklets which gave practical help on how to cope with a child's death.

Liam's illness showed me childhood cancer from another perspective. This was the view of the extended family. It is very difficult for the extended family to cope with childhood cancer. There is a desperate need to be there, to do something, but apart from moral support there is not a lot that can be done.

My family had a lot of difficulties in trying to help me with my grief. I did not want or could not cope with their offers of help. This was understood by my two sisters, who would occasionally ring to see how I was and would quietly endure the monosyllabic answers they received. This was not the case with my mother. She felt that she had to ring every week, and would try to hold a conversation where there was no conversation to be had. She felt that she had to provide care for her son, but could not understand that this was the last thing that I wanted.

About fifteen months after Max died, between May and July of 1998, I reached my nadir, the lowest point in my journey.

I remember clearly the start of the change. I'd heard second hand of a similar reaction by a friend. His son had committed suicide. Sometime after the death he'd said "I just don't care about anything anymore, nothing matters." I was told this at a time when I thought I was being strong. I just thought that this was someone who couldn't cope. In my case I remember the Road to Damascus except it was the road to Little Haven. I was driving down a small country lane when I was struck by another of those 'It never happens when you expect it' little teasers which throw tremors into an already quake ridden world. Out of the blue with no real precursor came the very same 'I just don't care anymore, nothing matters'.

This was a gentle but major frame shift in my perceptions. It was the subtle difference between the fact that you realise that your world is collapsing around you and the fact that you then realise that you no longer care. There was no massive upheaval at the time but it marked the start of a long and steady decline.

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