Is tragedy a dinner-table topic?

DEAR BEL I DO hope you can give me some help with a problem that has been mine for the past 14 years.

When I was 32 I lost my first husband and was left with our only child, Kevin, then aged nine.

When my son was a teenager, I married John — but by then I was too old to start again, and John was divorced with no children.

Sadly, Kevin died 14 years ago when he was 37. He had no children.

I am 74 and my lovely husband is 82 — not spring chickens, but young at heart.

John and I like to go on cruises from time to time, and this is where the problem starts.

Normally you share a table with three or four other couples. Naturally they love to talk about their children and grandchildren — and, believe me, I would love to join in.

I love children and used to be involved with cubs and brownies. We have sometimes gone for ‘freedom dining’ (which is more flexible) just to avoid the problem.

The trouble is, I prefer to tell people the truth, but then they wish they had not asked.

Because they feel mortified, their natural flow of conversation is inhibited from then on.

Friends have advised me, ‘Just say that you don’t have children,’ but I can’t do that either.

I really look forward to hearing what you have to suggest.

SHEILA

Oh, what depths of sadness are contained within this short email — expressed with succinct fortitude and no self-pity or blame. I feel the pain of this problem so deeply, I want to weep.

Regular readers know how strongly I feel about how we deal with bereavement and how frustrated I feel that people are terrified of facing up to and accepting the grief of others.

So, to plunge into the key issue. No one should ever betray the memory of their dead loved one by denying his or her existence.

why should you be expected to tell such a terrible, unloving lie — just to salve the social unease of strangers?

Of course you are right not to want to deny ever having been a mother. I think the Victorians had the right attitude. they would customarily reply to the question, ‘how many children do you have?’ with the numerical truth: ‘Six . . . four with us still, and two in the churchyard.’

Such a reply elevates love and loss to the correct place at the heart of existence.

I understand exactly why you think this wouldn’t be a cheerful note to inject into jolly table conversation. But honestly, is that your problem?

I have grown used to saying, with absolute cheerfulness: ‘Yes, I had three children but the middle one was stillborn,’ and quickly following that with a bright, smiling, ‘It’s OK — it was a long time ago!’ then the truth is honoured: not denied, but not turned into a source of gloom, either.

You loved your son for 37 years and still do; he died 14 years ago, so I suggest you explain that fact in a similarly matter-of-fact way.

‘Freedom dining’ is perhaps a mistake. at least if you stay with the same group of people, the question will only be asked once. then you can ask lots of questions about their families, and your genuine interest will shine through, vanquishing any guilt they feel (and I reckon that is the key to this embarrassment) over their good fortune.

But there is much more here than this sad, social awkwardness. Kevin’s father died, then you were lucky enough to find John, and I’m sure you must have thought your life would be blessed, one day, with grandchildren.

It was not to be. Cosmic cruelty (for want of a better phrase) has deprived you of the hoped-for future, and now — when you hear others chatting about their everyday joy — you are always reminded of that fact.

None of us should underestimate, either, how sad it can feel for a couple to grow old together knowing there is no one to love and (in time) to mourn them.

AmuCh older journalist once confessed to me how melancholy she felt that ‘ Nobody will be there to pack up my clothes when I have gone.’ It seems to me we have no choice but to face up to these truths, just as the friendly people on your dinner table should have no choice but to take on board the true thing that happened to you, and then continue to treat you as they would want to be treated.

If I were on your table, I’d raise my glass to you, Sheila, toasting your courage, your joie de vivre — and (especially) Kevin’s memory.

Please — everybody reading — do this in your imaginations. toast hearts that are merry and sad at the same time. Share the sadness of others and, in sharing, help to soften it just a little.

toast light in the face of darkness. It’s all we can do, but a vital task.