Ethan’s eyes filled with tears and he cried out ‘Has Mummy died?’
Ethan cuddles with Gemma died.” His body crumpled to the floor, a gut-wrenching sobbing began to fill the air. It felt like a tsunami was hitting. As he rolled on the floor, all I could do was hold him. As the waves of grief began to break, I held him as tightly as I could, his innocent face contorted with pain.
Time and time again I told him how much I loved him. I told him how sorry I was, how much Mummy loved him.
And when the storm of emotion abated for the briefest of moments, I just kept telling him that we would be OK. That Daddy would somehow get him through this. My little boy – our little boy – had just had his world obliterated.
It was not a night for any of us to be alone. So as the exhaustion of that day took us, I laid Ethan on our bed. Somehow, we slept.
That Saturday morning I woke wondering: “Why is Ethan in our bed? Where is Gemma?” As my confusion began to subside and the grim reality hit home, Ethan began to stir. As his eyes opened, the look of pain from a few hours before had given way to one of deep sadness. And as he snuggled into my chest, and wrapped his arms around me, the tears began to flow again.
All I could do was tell him, over and over, that I loved him.
As his tears began to subside, he said: “Daddy, you know it’s Christmas soon?”
Christmas was the last thing on anybody’s mind but reluctantly I said, “Yes”. “Well, there are three things I want for Christmas…” As the words began to tumble out our new unwelcome reality began to sink in. “I want the Playmobil set I told Mummy about, there’s a Lego Minecraft set I want. But most of all I want Mummy back.” Those words felt like a punch to the gut.
Five days ago, his mum had been lying in this bed, the clothes she had last worn still lay on the chair by the window. And now she was a part of his Christmas wish list!
A day later, as I got ready to say goodnight again, and say a little prayer, as we had every night, I asked if he wanted to share a Mummy memory.
I knew I had to keep Mummy part of the conversation, however difficult and strange. So I told him that every night we should each share a Mummy memory. “You go first, Daddy.” “OK,” I said, “my memory is her smile.” Ethan said, “My Mummy memory is her roast lunches.”
Part of me was hoping for something a little deeper but at that moment, this was all I needed to hear. My boy was already able to talk about his mum amid the sadness and fear, and that meant everything. I grinned back at him and said: “I promise I’ll learn to cook roasts.”
Ethan’s response was as funny as it was withering: “Good, because you only do barbecues and omelettes!”
The next evening, like the night before, we shared our Mummy memory.
Ethan went first and said: “I’m going to miss her lovely hazelnut eyes.” As I looked on with pride we agreed that, on this night, we would share that memory. ■ Extracted from Love, Interrupted by Simon Thomas, published by Trigger Publishing on June 13, priced £12.99. © Simon Thomas 2019.