Memories of Max - A Father's Story

Chapter 15 - Phoenix

Looking back over the past years has been a strange and yet illuminating experience. Caught up in the swirling mists were events which were very difficult to understand. In this fog were disjointed incidents which only made sense within their own context. Each incident commanded immediate attention. I had no perspective. I had no continuity in the acceptance or comprehension of all that had happened.

During the period of counselling the mists partially cleared and allowed me to start to realise what had happened to us all. I was horrified at what I saw. At that time I started to come to terms with the events of the previous years. What I did not realise was that there was worse to come and that my glimpses of the past would also have to be followed by a reckoning with the times which were to follow.

The writing of this book brought the gentle breezes which blew away the cobwebs and haze that had obscured the reality of Max's illness and death. During the process of writing a book there is a need to examine the content, style and structure of the book in its entirety and eventually the grammar and sentence structure. This meant that I was forced to read the book many many times and this resulted in a gradual de-sensitisation which meant that the subjective became the objective. Slowly I ceased to become an actor and slipped into the role of observer. There were still events which cause tears each time I read them but gradually the horrors receded.

The process of recounting the illness, death and the bereavement meant that there had to be a reconciliation. I looked back and examined our lives in minute detail. This time I was not so horrified with the illness but began to realise what had happened to me during the bereavement. I realised quite how far I had fallen and how far I had to climb back to rejoin the world. I found a couple of toeholds in the abyss and I started the long haul back. I was looking up at a thin pin hole of light instead of the darkness which had been my constant companion for two years. The closer you look at the abyss walls, the more you realise that there is a way out and so the climb starts. I made resolutions which became the little milestones on the way. Sometimes a couple of stones became dislodged and fell but such is the way of things. The important thing was to end the year having moved forward and upward and only forward and upward.

The climb back was hard, but once it started, I knew that I would survive Max's death and that there was much that could be learnt and benefits which could be drawn from the darkness. More than anything else, bereavement needs time. It cannot be hurried. There is no timetable, there is no schedule. Time is a powerful mistress. She can smooth the hard edges of trauma until events are no longer recognisable for what they were, and life starts to return to normal. This vital time varies from person to person.

I realised that I had been suffering from clinical depression. During the actual bereavement there were few thoughts about when it would all end and when or if it would ever become bearable.

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