I thought that the end of the world had come when we lost our precious son, Patrick, to cancer. Eighteen months have now passed, flowers still bloom, traffic races by and little children play happily.

Breath goes in and goes out. It just does. How can this be?

Compassion seems rationed out. I now understand that people are well meaning, indeed so often really hurting for you. Often their words come out wrongly, if at all. It hurts doesn’t it?

Recently I have found some solace in being invited to speak to small groups of caring people who really want to try to start to understand the grief of bereaved parents.

It’s a wonderful thing (I tell them) for a grieving soul to be asked to talk about his or her child. How good it is that you want to hear some of my story and of how the
Compassionate Friends have helped me and so many others along the way. How good that you look at my son’s photograph, bear with my pride in him and allow me to tell of his cruel illness and my sorrow.

What is helping us, (they ask), and what is hindering? Such groups want to know these things. You can see the sincerity in their faces and in their gentleness. They go into the community with kind hearts, doing their best.

My concern is not for such people who are willing to venture out on cold nights to hear about The Compassionate Friends but for those who can only turn away from you.