Numbness of Bereavement
A Thousand Dimensions
Volume 1 2022
The Numbness of Bereavement
Chapter One
IN MY WORK over a lifetime I have often heard it said that, in time, we will overcome the sense of loss we feel when we are bereaved. This is not so. Bereavement is as unique as a fingerprint.
A lifetime has shown me that none of us actually overcomes the sense of loss of one dear to us; rather, we learn to deal with the loss, to cope with it, to come to terms with it, and in an entirely individual way.
Oh, I know how you feel.
Yes, I feel just as you do.
Ah. But give it time. You’ll get over it … … …
Ah, yes. I know what you mean, but time heals …
… and many other well-intentioned expressions of sympathy.
There are people in my life’s history, whose loss I’m still getting over, and I’m talking decades, not just years. At times, I am annoyed with myself. Come on. Get a grip! The past is the past!!
No matter what people say or write, no two bereavements are the same. They are as far apart and unique as fingerprints. Each bereavement is unique. I say again:
each bereavement is unique
I have a strong Christian faith, albeit, one that is very much outside the box.
If I was in the box I would not dare write any of these dimensions.
My Christian faith does not give me all my answers. Much is up in the air. This is the case with every religion, every faith, and indeed of no religion, no faith.
But I do know this, yet do not know how I know this.
Life goes on either side of the veil, a veil so flimsy that a loved one’s movement will be as a shimmering, a wisp against my face, a gentle squeeze on the shoulder from I know not where, and yet there's no one in the room with me!'
Or my name being called! Clear, distinct, out of the blue, very familial and warm …!
And the room has a calmness about it that is almost ‘other world’ if I can put it like that. Whenever this happens, it is always the same. No matter where I am. I do not tell people, because I suddenly have my peace and calm upturned by well-meaning - and sometimes even not-so-well-meaning - people, who insist on not only proving to me a purely scientific phenomenon but with both a sense of arrogance and of ridicule both in and on their voice.
I say nothing, but I say within, Stop telling people when these things happen. Do not assume they are on the same wavelength. You’re on a hiding to nothing. So, stop it!
Chapter Two
In 2009 I wrote Helmand ... our armed forces in Afghanistan were discovering an uncomfortable and alarming indifference from many of the folks back home; not so much the military families; no. But from the wider public.
Being ex-air force reserve I felt for our armed forces; each day I would receive the MOD bulletins of men and women killed in action.
One day, I sat down, and forty minutes later, unplanned, Helmand was complete, but there on the table in front of me.
It is a very long piece in fourteen parts - not the fashion of today's poetry as I’m forever being told - but Part V I'm often asked to repeat, and so I do so at the end of this reflection.
“Reader, please keep in mind, none of my poetry is the fashion of today’s poetry. If longevity is not your thing, just quickly pass on. ”
My memories are the very tissue and fibre of my soul ... they are the cement in the bricks that hold my wall up, and it is right for me to revisit them in just the same way as my brother-in-law or his son visits the physical wall to render and repoint weakened areas. If I let go of my memories, then my wall will eventually tumble, leaving me with nothing.
Walking my life’s timeline, many of my memories are for me alone; the family know nothing about them, or of the people who make up those memories. They believe they do. Regarded very much 'as an open book' I'm inclined to sometimes want to say to the family, "oh, if you but knew!" But then that would be like the mud hitting the fan ... I don’t know. Isn’t life such a mess living in this cruel, frightful and judgmental age!
Chapter Three
Hence my writing and this website.
This website is my garden. It is where I can go for a walk. It is where I can look the world in the face and say, dare not challenge me. It is where I can wander around my galleries, or sit in the movie theatre and watch old favourites. And look here, the moss and lichen, how it covers and provides life to a veritable host of little creatures, hurrying and scurrying about beneath.
Yes! Life goes on.
What did He say? In my Father's House are many mansions. I would not have told you if it were not so.[i]
Here, are a thousand dimensions and more.
Here, at last, can I grasp the concept of a house containing mansions … something that most truly exercised my odd-bod mind in secondary school’s religious education classes. I might be entirely wrong. But the glove fits my hand, so that is fine.
[i] John 14:2 KJV
Here is Part V. For me, it truly struck home when I received an online comment from a soldier who had just completed his first tour in Helmand. Hell’s Corner. His message is one of those once-in-a-million written communications that, literally, are hearts in silent and earnest conversation and understanding with each other.
Excerpt from Helmand by Kenneth Thomas Webb
Part V
The wonderful
moments too
Our Florence Nightingales
holding a trembling hand,
oh God yeah,
they’re still all here...
whispering encouragement
to a sightless mind
or to glazed expressions
or just soothing
morphined weariness.
The most beautiful smiles
Alighting the Soul
that serve to nourish
next year and
even
sixty, seventy and
ninety
years on.
The smiles,
the banter,
and laughter
Life goes on ...
Wounded eyes
of silent warriors
stupefied
but resting now,
following all the ward activity ...
offering a silent prayer,
… the only part of them
left free to move …
others staring blankly
at the ceiling
or
transfixed by the
rotor blades
of the Chinook
,
not seeing
the air conditioning system;
and a lone lance corporal
half here-half gone,
mutilated,
and wondering whether
he has the guts
to ask that nurse out
when all this is over.
A whisper of encouragement
to rest,
as an unseen hand
from behind the veil
soothes his troubled mind
and gently holds his soul departing ...
… … … …
She turns
and peers at the bed
holding back
with iron determination;
and in decades to come
children talk
… of the day Grandma
on Ward in the War
felt a movement
feather-like
across her cheeks…
24 November 2022
All Rights Reserved
© Kenneth Thomas Webb 2022
Helmand Written 2009
First published in Idle Thoughts September 2009
Republished in Meanderings 2011
This Dimension was written on 21 December 2020
And look here, the moss and lichen, how it covers and provides life to a veritable host of little creatures, hurrying and scurrying about beneath.
Ken Webb is a writer and proofreader. His website, kennwebb.com, showcases his work as a writer, blogger and podcaster, resting on his successive careers as a police officer, progressing to a junior lawyer in succession and trusts as a Fellow of the Institute of Legal Executives, a retired officer with the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve, and latterly, for three years, the owner and editor of two lifestyle magazines in Liverpool.
He also just handed over a successful two year chairmanship in Gloucestershire with Cheltenham Regency Probus.
Pandemic aside, he spends his time equally between his city, Liverpool, and the county of his birth, Gloucestershire.
In this fast-paced present age, proof-reading is essential. And this skill also occasionally leads to copy-editing writers’ manuscripts for submission to publishers and also student and post graduate dissertations.
