Loosening the grip of grief

3 March 2021

Hayley with her son William - always in the hearts of his family.

Learning to see in colour again after the darkness of a child’s death

Words Hayley Corben

I watched a movie once, where one of the lead characters had an anxiety attack about her life and shared with her best friend, “I’m so happy it terrifies me … nobody ever gets everything they want.” That line stuck with me throughout the years. I had led a charmed life to that point. I grew up in a loving and supportive Christian family. I had met and married a wonderful husband and was Mum to two healthy and energetic boys. I had great friends, owned a home and had steady and fulfilling employment. I had a great life, yet that line, “nobody ever gets everything they want” was in the back of my mind. I guess you could say a sense of foreboding followed me around and, despite trying to shake it, ignore it and reassure myself that I was being silly, there it stayed, tucked away in the back of my overly anxious mind.

And then one sunny afternoon in February 2015, five weeks after moving into our new home, that foreboding came to life. My boys were playing with the neighbours’ kids in our front yard while my husband and I were gardening beside them. I recall thinking how lucky we were to have moved into a street with lots of children and lovely young families. I could see a long future in this home as my boys grew into teenagers and eventually young adults.

The boys ventured across to a neighbour’s front yard, where their friends’ father was mowing the lawn, and they eventually moved into their home to play. It was soon after that our lives changed forever. We didn’t know that the pool gate in the neighbour’s backyard was propped open by a lump of wood, for convenience while the father mowed the lawn. We had no idea that an innocent game of hide-and-seek would prove fatal for our youngest son, William. We will never know the full extent of what unfolded that day, and how William came to be submerged in the pool, underneath a floatation device.

Rob and Hayley with their boys, Tom (left) and William, before the tragedy.

Sheer terror

The horror that followed will stay with me for the rest of my days. I cannot adequately put into words the sheer terror that unfolded before my eyes as I watched life slip away from my four-year-old son. It was excruciating. Never before had I felt so completely helpless.

Multiple ambulances arrived along with the police, and a rescue helicopter hovered overhead. It was chaos. The paramedics were able to find a very faint pulse and William was rushed to hospital for emergency care. He was wheeled into trauma bay 1, where he was met with the medical team who would fight to save his life. Things began to move in slow motion for me. It was like watching a movie set. I expected that William would wake up, sit up in bed looking for me, and that I’d be able to hug him and cry and tell him what an awful fright he had given all of us. I didn’t let myself believe that this could potentially be the end. He had a full life left ahead of him. I imagined that moment would be something we’d look back on in years to come and recall the story, “Remember that day you almost died, Will? You cheeky little monkey, you scared us all half to death.” But that wasn’t to be.

William was stabilised but still regarded as critical. He was put onto life support and transferred to a specialist children’s hospital. It was there that William clung to life for four days and we began our bedside vigil. A prayer chain was filtered throughout many churches. There were thousands of people praying for William’s recovery, and for healing to his brain. Despite our pleading and petitions to God, we were forced to make the decision to turn off William’s life support on 4 March.

Walking away from the hospital that night, without our child was the most difficult thing I have ever done. My husband, despite being shattered in his own right, carried me out to the car and held my hand as we sobbed the entire journey home. Sleep came that night from sheer exhaustion, but waking the next morning to face the cruel reality of having lost our child hit us like a ton of bricks.

William - never forgotten.

Those early days were dark. I failed to see a way forward and battled the guilt that came with failing to protect my child from harm. I raged at God. How on earth can a supposed loving God decline the pleadings of a desperate mother to take her and spare her child’s life? How can he hear the thousands of prayers and still choose to say “no”? How would I ever be able to trust a God who I felt deserted my family and I in our darkest hour?

Senseless and sometimes downright cruel platitudes came from well-meaning people all over. I was living every parent’s worst nightmare, and the discomfort in not knowing what to say from those around me was evident. “God needed another angel” was bandied about. Perhaps that was easy to say since God hadn’t asked them for their child. “Everything happens for a reason” was another. But what reason could honestly be attributed to stealing the life of a precious four-year-old boy with so much life left to live.

The realisation that I didn’t just lose William, but I lost everything that was ahead of him, was overpowering. I wouldn’t get to see him graduate pre-school, and I wouldn’t be able to walk him to his classroom for his first day of school. I wouldn’t get to celebrate his first A on a school assignment, his graduation from high school, or see him nervously anticipate his first day of university. I would never get to meet his soulmate and witness their wedding day. So many moments had been stolen from us. Grief seemed to plague my every day and the unfairness of what my family had been asked to endure seemed a mountain too high to climb.

So, I looked for medical professionals to give me the magic solution to my pain. Psychologists, psychiatrists, medications. It had been suggested to me in the first few days after losing William that ‘time’ was the only thing that would see us survive our loss. I wanted to lash out at the person who gave me that advice. I wanted to scream and cry out that there would never be a ‘time’ where things were okay. Where I would be okay with his out-of-order death and accept that he was gone.

But the person who gave me that advice was right. I had to give grief time to have its way with me. Grief demands to be heard, felt and seen. I had to give myself the freedom to feel, without self- judgment. To put it plainly, I had to sit with my pain until I was able to see in colour again.

Colour returns

Thankfully, colour did eventually reappear.

I found a wonderful therapist who gently and ever-so-patiently guided me through the darkness. He often sat and cried with me as I recollected the memories of that awful day and the many days, weeks and months that followed. He encouraged me to revisit the places that I feared, including the [Salvos] church where William’s funeral took place. He encouraged me to take back the power, to claim back the good times in those places, instead of letting trauma win. Though it took me a great deal of time and perseverance, I learned to face those fears. I drove my car and sat outside the childcare centre that William attended. I cried, I screamed and I beat my chest at the pain of being in a place where William was, but would never be again. I did the same at the church. I allowed the memories to ruin me in the moment. I allowed myself to feel, instead of trying to be brave. I visited the last shopping centre that I had been at with William, where I refused to go for the two years following his death. I claimed back some of the power that grief held over me.

I read many books written about grief with a highlighter in hand. Some books, I didn’t finish as I felt they weren’t helpful, and others I read cover-to-cover multiple times, constantly highlighting the parts that spoke to me. For years I would read over these highlighted parts when grief threatened to envelop me. I would remind myself that what I was living through really was that bad, and that it was okay not to be okay.

I started a journey to health and wellbeing. I began to regularly exercise and be conscious about what I was fuelling my body with. I came to learn that fresh air and sunshine provided a tonic not found in medication. I recognised that having a healthy body contributed hugely to my ability to have a healthy mind.

I attended a bereaved parent’s retreat and connected with other families who suffered the loss of a child. It was there that I realised we were not alone in this journey. I listened to other horrific and heartbreaking stories shared by mums and dads just like us. Parents who wished with all their might that things were different, but who had been forced to acknowledge that this was the path they too had been asked to walk.

Hayley and Rob with their son, Tom. William is always remembered and longed for. Photo courtesy Katrina Barr Photography.

I slowly began to listen to Christian music again. I took baby steps. I still take baby steps. I am often faced with lyrics that suggest we should praise God in all circumstances. I think that is an easier choice to make when not living a story like mine. I may not always be capable of singing Christian songs with conviction, but I do often find comfort. I feel a sense of overwhelming peace when singing along to songs such as Another in the Fire by Hillsong United:

There’s a grace when the heart is under fire

Another way when the walls are closing in

And when I look at the space between

Where I used to be and this reckoning

I know I will never be alone.

 

There was another in the fire

Standing next to me

There was another in the waters

Holding back the seas

And should I ever need reminding

Of how I’ve been set free

There is a cross that bears the burden

Where another died for me.

Painful acceptance

Acceptance is such a complex term. I can accept that William is not coming back, but I find it incredibly difficult to accept the way that he died. I still suffer horrific flashbacks regularly. These moments are met with a shortness of breath and a pain in my chest. I am regularly overcome by grief and, to be honest, I think that will be the case for the rest of my life. My heart longs for my son. It is a pain for which there is no remedy this side of heaven.

I will never be okay with having lost William, but I would be lying if I didn’t admit that my life is richer now. Sometimes great pain brings great insight. I am reminded that life is a gift and none of us should waste that gift. I recognise beauty in the world that once was lost on me. Sunsets, rainbows, the ocean or a beautiful view now have me stopping to be thankful. I savour the experience of good food and friends that I can laugh with.

I am eternally grateful for friends and family who still to this day aren’t afraid to sit with me during my times of deep grief. I’m thankful for the grace they show me during periods where I’m messy and unfiltered. I walk through those moments now with a reassurance that, although it’s painful at the time, the stronghold of grief will loosen its grip and I will be able to breath freely again. I will see in colour again. I believe that grief and happiness can co-exist, if we simply give each of these emotions the time and space they deserve.

I am now tasked with showing William the world through my eyes. I take him with me wherever I go. I am comforted by his daily presence in my life. I try hard not to focus on the fact that he is gone, but to remember that he existed. That earlier sense of foreboding has now left me. I make a conscious decision every morning to choose happiness. The attitude of gratitude truly makes a difference.

I believe when William fell into the pool that day, Jesus was beside him. And I trust that Jesus will remain beside me as I face all that lies ahead.

Recommended reads

It's Okay That You're Not Okay: Meeting Grief and Loss in a Culture That Doesn’t Understand, Megan Devine, Sounds True Publishing, 2017

Bearing the Unbearable: Love, Loss and the Heartbreaking Path of Grief, Joanne Cacciatore, Simon & Schuster, 2017

The Scent of Water: Grace for Every Kind of Broken, Naomi Zacharias, Zondervan, 2016