THE EMPTY CHAIR
Venetia Quick on how family life must go on after the death of a loved one
It’s been two years since VENETIA QUICK’s husband Martin died suddenly, leaving her to grieve and comfort their three young children. Here, she talks about the second year, which is perhaps even harder than the first, and how her children are helping her learn to live with the loss.
Kids are very resilient” – a phrase I was told a million times after my husband dropped dead on our bathroom floor 24 months ago. For the most part, people were right, and for the best part of the first 12 months, my three kids continued to live their lives in the loud, happy chaos which was their norm.
Enter year two, and that daily existence of joy and laughter is now heavily peppered with tears, tantrums, frustration and anger, as they live with the reality that their fun-loving and incredibly adored dad will never pick them up from school again, watch endless movies with them, or treat them to a copious supply of ice cream every time my back was turned.
Martin died suddenly on February 11, 2018, aged 49. He had been diagnosed the September before with stage 3B lung cancer… manageable but incurable. He was given a ten per cent chance of five years. He got five months.
On that bitterly cold, but bright Sunday morning, I left the house to bring our youngest son Casper, then aged five, to his first ever football training, leaving Felix, 12, and Arlo, seven, at home with their dad. As myself and Casper approached Herbert Park, an ambulance and the fire brigade screamed by, to which Casper remarked, “They’re in a terrible hurry.” It was only then that I checked my phone, which was on silent, and saw the endless stream of missed calls from Felix. My heart sank. Martin had collapsed. After the medics failed to resuscitate him at home, he was rushed to St Vincent’s, where we were told, after what seemed like hours but in reality was probably only about 20 minutes, that he was gone. It felt like we were in a familiar scene from a movie, where you never expect to be in the starring role.
The first hours, days, weeks and months now seem like a blur. The “big snow” came a couple of weeks later, and whereas I had worked 60 hours the week in the run-up to Martin’s death, we were now all stuck at home, making his empty chair and untouched laptop even more painful to bear, a daily reminder of the time we didn’t get to just hang out in the lead-up to his death; precious time we would never get back. In the first year, we escaped away at any given opportunity, under the premise of making new memories, but truth be told, we were running from reality.
Nobody tells you about year two until you’re in it; the second year of grief that seems too tremendously difficult to navigate. You’ve done two lots of birthdays, two wedding anniversaries and two Christmases – a time once filled with fun and excitement that now seems so forced and numb; a time of year so family focused that you now need every bit of strength you can muster to push through until the tree comes down and the lights are put away.
Anyone going through the first flush of grief will tell you, it can hit like a train at any given moment; and for kids, it’s no different. They can be happily playing with their LEGO one minute, and the next, out of nowhere, they can be all consumed with their sadness, fear and incomprehension as to what has happened to them. This can be a minefield, as you never know the time or place when this tsunami of grief will hit. There are no rules. As an adult, you can communicate your feelings, but with kids going through grief, it’s an entirely different ball game. The slightest thing can trigger an emotional outburst, whether it’s serving up the wrong pizza, or the chain coming off their bike in the park. This apparent overreaction is often greeted with looks of disapproval from passers-by – something I’ve become very hardened to. However, it has, I think, made all four of us more mindful of what other people might be going through. My youngest son, who is currently suffering from severe anxiety, is particularly sensitive to this, and will often comment, “I have my troubles, but maybe so do they.”
My overriding wish is that Martin’s death does not def ine t hem, and that as their lives continue, they f ind some element of understanding and peace with their grief. That one day, Casper will feel less upset that he wasn’t there when his daddy died, and that Felix and Arlo will recover from the trauma of what unfolded in front of their eyes that morning. That, while they will never stop missing and loving their father, the pain they feel now will ease slowly into happy memories of their hero.
Shockingly, there appears to be little to no immediate help for children suffering bereavement. Waiting lists are long, which leaves little option but to seek help privately. Art therapy has proved invaluable to us so far, where twice a week, Arlo and Casper are gradually learning to manage their emotions. I’m not expecting miracles, and I know the healing process for us all as a family will be a slow and tricky one. There is no fast fix, but taking every day at a time, I am hopeful we will get there. Recently, Arlo told me he doesn’t like Sundays. When I asked him if this was because it was the day Daddy died, he said, “Yes, but also because it’s a family day, and we don’t have our full family anymore.” No matter how busy you keep, or how many friends you surround yourself with, Sunday can be, without doubt, the loneliest of days. Solo parenting at the best of times can be challenging, with days where there is absolutely no let-up. As a stubborn Leo, the most valuable thing I’ve learned this year is not only to accept help, but to ask for it. This help from so many friends and neighbours has literally carried us through the darkest days, and their invaluable support will endure; that the loud, happy chaos will become a staple in our daily lives once again.
I couldn’t be prouder of my three amigos – they have taught me strength, an ability to face my fear head-on, positivity and hope. Martin continues to live on in their inheritance of his incomparable sense of humour, his kindness, charm and refusal to ever be “vanilla”. And as we continue to learn to live without our best friend, I realise, because of Felix, Arlo and Casper, I am truly lucky.
“Anyone going through the first flush of grief will tell you, it can hit like a train at any given moment; and for kids, it’s no different.”
Venetia Quick is co-presenter of Mornings with Liam Coburn and Venetia Quick on Dublin’s Q102 and co-presenter of the Grief Encounters podcast. @venetiaquick