Tag: grief

The story behind Burrowed

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I am delighted to welcome Marissa Mortimer back to my blog as part of her tour for her new book Burrowed.

Burrowed is my latest Young Adult (YA) novel, set on the fictional island of Ximiu. I love using island settings – perhaps because it’s limited so it means I don’t have to invent entire continents!

Tackling grief in Burrowed

I had been thinking about grief and how we look at the different people who seem to live forever and how those we love get taken too soon. It’s not always like that, but it can certainly feel like it. Even Asaph, when writing Psalm 73, complains about the way bad people seem to have such smooth lives and even their death is peaceful. Until he saw into God’s sanctuary. As Christians, we comfort ourselves that our friend or relative is now with Jesus, it’s all for the best etc, but deep down we can still question, ‘Why? Why him, why now?’ Of course, this can come with a lot of guilt as well.

Losing people can make the light leave your world for a while. So while thinking of this theme and the prospect of writing a YA novel, I found the picture that is now the cover of Burrowed and it spoke to me. Life might feel grey and stormy, but there are still so many blessings around us, so many light moments and beautiful blessings, touches straight from God’s heart, and it’s easy to lose sight of this when grieving. It’s tempting to wallow in our sadness and ignore the beautiful moments or maybe even feel guilty for feeling a moment of joy. Grief is so complex, as it’s not a linear process, so some days can be filled with more bright moments than others.

The sustainability theme

Thinking about the island, I thought about sustainability and how going Green can have implications. I was imagining hidden people wanting the old resources. One way to achieve this was by making the island give up those old resources. What if the hidden people had bad intentions and weren’t satisfied with asphalt? That was an interesting research point as well. Tarmac can’t be reused; asphalt can. I grew up in the Netherlands where we use asphalt, so I have always seen road surfaces being recycled. My editor grew up around tarmac, so wasn’t familiar with this – when I talked about tarmac being reused, we had to look into it and change it to asphalt.

Finding the main character

I don’t normally write books in the past tense, as I’m a bit of a Pantser; I write and plot at the same time, simply allowing the creativity to flow. More recently, I have become a little more of a Plantser, which means I now like to think a little more about items I want to include, verses that come to mind or characters and what they might struggle with. Knowing I wanted a teenage wannabe detective, I decided to make her my main character. Not only that, I was going to impersonate her. A lot of her teenage attitude and ideas were edited out, but I still had a lot of fun writing from her perspective!

Enjoying the various elements in Burrowed

I loved all these different aspects, as it’s what makes writing so interesting. The different story ideas, as well as some dubious characters, made the story grow until it turned into a book. It blessed and helped me too, having to look at my character’s grief and how people supported her. I feel more encouraged to look for and enjoy moments of God’s blessing during difficult days.

Maressa Mortimer is Dutch but lives in the beautiful Cotswolds, England with her husband and four (adopted) children. Her debut novel, Sapphire Beach, was published December 2019, and her first self-published novel, Walled City, came out in 2020, followed by Viking Ferry, a novella. Beyond the Hills, the second book in the Elabi Chronicles, was released in 2021. Burrowed is her latest novel and it is available now.

Maressa is a homeschooling mum as well as a pastor’s wife, so her writing has to be done in the evening when peace and quiet descend on the house once more. She loves writing Christian fiction, as it’s a great way to explore faith in daily life. Her books can be found on her website and you can follow Maressa on both Instagram and Facebook @vicarioush.ome

Love and loss in lockdown

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It is my pleasure to introduce Tony Horsfall to my blog today. Tony is a wonderful, wise writer. This year has been particularly difficult for him, and yet he has shared with such honesty not only here, but in his new book (pictured above).

During 2020 the experience of lockdown has impacted all we do, and in particular caring for loved ones who are terminally ill, and grieving those who have passed away.

My wife Evelyn had been struggling with a recurrence of breast cancer for over four years when she was eventually told in February that her condition was terminal, with just months to live. The cancer had spread to her spine and she quickly deteriorated. We tried to care for her at home, but it became increasingly difficult, so she went into the local hospice. Because of visiting restrictions, I was allowed to go and stay with her. After a week she had improved sufficiently to be transferred to a local care home. Again, I decided to go with her – Evelyn in nursing care and myself as a resident – otherwise I would not have been able to see her.

DEALING WITH THE UNEXPECTED

The transition to a care home was a huge shock to the system. It was hot, noisy and full of hustle and bustle. It took us time to adjust, but gradually we got into a routine and had six good weeks together. Evelyn’s condition was deteriorating daily, and it was painful to watch. She needed a hoist to get her out of bed, and was slowly losing control of her bodily functions, which was a huge loss of dignity. We were aware of the risk of coronavirus in such a setting, but it was a risk we had to take.However, we both caught the virus. Surprisingly Evelyn recovered fairly quickly, but my condition worsened and I ended up in intensive care.

As I fought for my life, I thought I would never see Evelyn again. Intensive care was a lonely and frightening place. No visitors allowed; you were on your own. Across the room from me two other patients were on ventilators. I cried to God, ‘Lord, don’t let me have to go on a ventilator.’ A stream of prayer was going up for us, and with this and the medical care, I began to recover and after two weeks was allowed to return home, but not to the care home.

THE PAIN OF SEPARATION

I was physically very weak but what hurt the most was that I could no longer be with Evelyn. We had an occasional phone call, which was far from satisfactory, and soon she began to be confused. One afternoon the home called me because Evelyn was disturbed and wanted to come home. They asked me to reassure her that she was in the right place. Patiently, with tears rolling down my cheeks, I explained to her why we had taken the decision for her to be in care, and she calmed and seemed to understand. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done.

I began to feel guilty that I was at home and recovering while Evelyn was still in the care home and struggling by herself. I could be with our family, and see the grandchildren, but she was denied that pleasure. I felt I had let her down, that I had failed, since my aim had been to be with her to the end. Fortunately, God spoke a word to me: ‘She was mine long before she was yours and I won’t abandon her now’, he said. That lifted my despair, and I began to entrust her to the care of her heavenly Father.

SAYING GOODBYE

After a month of separation, we were allowed into the care home to see her as she neared the end. It was a healing time, even if a painful one. I was able to sit with her, hold her hand, feed her sips of water, give her a little food to eat and pray with her. Slowly she slipped away. Her lasts words were, ‘Thank you Jesus, you led me all the way.’

We held a Thanksgiving for her life over Zoom, which was strange but enabled people from all over the world to take part and mourn her passing. Then we had a service at the graveside, where about 70 attended, socially distanced. It was a moving tribute to her life, which was lived for Christ from a young age.

ADJUSTING TO LIFE ALONE

Grieving has not been easy during lockdown. I have missed seeing friends, being hugged, having the chance to share memories of Evelyn. Just when you most need your friends, they are not able to visit you. I have had to learn how to cook for myself and manage the house and garden. I have found eating alone especially difficult as I adjust to being single. 

Looking back, although it was a traumatic time, I can see how much God helped us. Our story is a story of love, the love we had for each other after 46 years of marriage. But also, the story of God’s love, from which nothing can separate us. Time and again he comforted me through Scripture, worship songs, acts of kindness and amazing provision. It is a story of the love of friends – those who prayed in tears, sent cards and flowers, wrote letters of encouragement, shared our journey. It is also a story of the love of strangers, of those health service professionals who cared for us, showed us kindness, went beyond the call of duty.

Perhaps this is the great gift to the world from the pandemic – the reminder that love is the most important thing of all.

Tony Horsfall is a retreat leader, author and mentor. Finding Refuge tells this story more fully, and is available from the author at tonyhorsfall@uwclub.net

Poignant poem for Mothers’ Day

Georgina (left) and her sister Bec

I read this post on Georgina’s own website and asked her whether it would be okay to include it as this week’s Unmasked: stories of authenticity blog. She is so honest, so raw and vulnerable, and I know this will speak to many for whom Mothers’ Day is bitter-sweet.

I have found Mothers’ Day hard before, trying to hold in tension my gratitude for the beautiful children I have and my sadness for the one I didn’t get to keep.  It is a day countless others find hard too.

This year feels like a whole new level of struggle is looming as I must face yet another difficult day, where my raw emotions will be dragged to the surface and shaken and beaten just a little more. It is six months since my sister passed away; Mothers’ Day without her is another hard ‘first’.  This time last year we had no idea our worlds were about to implode.  She was diagnosed a week later.  Writing this poem has helped me to face it better.  It is not a cry for pity or a judgment on those celebrating – just a pure reflection of my thoughts and emotions as I continue to walk this road of grief.  I hope it will make fellow strugglers feel less alone.

Mothers’ Day  

Last year, 
My sister took the early slot, 
Taking flowers and chocolates to Mum,
Mid afternoon,
Chatting casually 
Over coffee,
A Mothers’ Day like any other.
Her words scrawled in the card,
One of many down the years,
A relic now.
I went later,
With a now-forgotten gift,
For a glass of wine
and child-free conversation,
A luxury.

This year it’s just me.
I can never be enough,
Feel enough, write enough,
Say enough, do enough,
To plug the gaping hole now left,
One we hadn’t even seen coming then,
That ordinary Mothers’ Day last year.

Mothers’ Day looms.
I’ve survived it before,
The times it has threatened to suffocate me,
As a Mother, minus a child,
Taken too soon.
I’ve learned to live with that.

This time round I have a Mother and a child – two, in fact.
But Mothers’ Day threatens to swallow me whole in a different way,
As I face my own Mother,
With one child less and a pain 
No gift from me can dull.

And it threatens to swallow me whole 
When my niece crawls onto my lap 
Motherless,
Adapting, adjusting,
But with parts missing that will never be whole.
I cry as I imagine her,
Surrounded by classmates,
Gluing tissue paper to make-shift bouquets,
Wondering in her six-year old way 
If Mummy still sees,
Somewhere out beyond the stars.

Mothers’ Day.
I’ve learned to live with the pain
And the kick-in-the-teeth, 
It doles out, once a year,
Learned to count up the blessings as well as the cost.
Countless armies of others join me,
Teeth gritted through Facebook outpourings.
I’m not on my own.

But this year, 
Is harder than ever.
I lock my hands for the ride,
in the tightest of grips
As the Mothers’ Day rollercoaster plummets again,
Wondering if anyone will hear my screams.

Post-natal depression unmasked

Wow. I am constantly being overwhelmed by the honesty and vulnerability shown by those who have agreed to guest blog for my Unmasked: stories of authenticity series. Today, Helen Hodgson bravely shares about the horror of experiencing postnatal depression. Having experienced it myself I resonate with the power and truth behind her words. Thank you Helen for sharing so openly. I’m sure Helen joins me in praying that her post helps anyone reading who is suffering from postnatal depression. Please know that you are not alone…

‘Can’t you just smile and put your worries to the back of your mind?’

‘Maybe you should just drag yourself out of bed and you will feel better.’

‘You just need to enjoy them while they’re young – the time flies by so fast!’

‘You’re just tired. Everything will be better when you have some sleep.’

‘Just pray more. That should do the trick.’

‘Haven’t you got enough faith?’

‘It’s a choice, surely?’

Post-natal depression is still so misunderstood and such a taboo, particularly in church circles. My unmasking involves not simply writing about my experiences, but including some photographs that now send shivers down my spine. Pictures explain more than words ever could. My memories from this time are patchy at best and raw at their worse.

Just over 16 years ago, my beautiful boy was born after a traumatic emergency Caesarean and my first words on seeing him were ‘is that mine?’ This baby was like an alien to me and I was already a disappointment. I’d wanted a water birth. Instead, I had a general anaesthetic while they tore this child from my body. I didn’t meet him until I had come round from surgery. I’d had expectations of being the kind of mother that you read about in Enid Blyton books. This wasn’t part of my plan.

No amount of antenatal classes or well-meaning advice could have prepared me for the weeks and months of utter darkness that followed.

Post-natal depression took over as irrational and scarily angry thoughts swirled through my mind. I resented the intrusion of this screaming baby who never slept. I cared for his daily needs but I didn’t feel this mythical surge of love for him I was meant to feel. I watched other new mums cooing over their babies and felt jealous. Instead of nursery rhymes, I sung songs of destruction over him and thought about how to escape. I was so very lonely. I couldn’t connect with my baby and I couldn’t connect with other new mums who seemed so in love with their little ones.

Popping to the shops became a nightmare.

‘Isn’t he just a joy!’ An older lady cooed over him

I was horrified. I couldn’t understand how someone could even feel that way.

‘No.’ I replied. ‘He’s a monster.’

She quickly moved away from me as all I could think about was how this child had ruined my life.

Some days I raged and cried. Some days I numbly got on with the tasks in hand. I knew I had already failed and he was only months old. I was never going to be the mum he needed, so what was the point in trying? Actually, he would be better off without me.

Being part of a church only intensified my feelings of isolation and guilt. Well-meaning people gave me platitudes and I stood by as other mothers seemed to do a far better job than me. I watched them smiling and laughing and wondered why I couldn’t feel any connection with my child. I didn’t know where God was. I knew that I believed He was good and that He loved me. But I was failing Him too. He’d given me this son but I wasn’t able to nurture him the way I knew I was supposed to.

Support came from my health visitor and a few friends, but cups of tea and putting on brave smiles never removed the emptiness, anger, guilt and sense of failure I felt.

It was only after a dramatic sleepless night where my anger spilled over onto my precious baby that my kind and patient husband marched me to the GP. I was prescribed anti-depressants and counselling. By that point I was so numb and so desperate that I followed like a sheep.

And slowly, slowly, over time, the days began to be less dark. I discovered I could find joy in small things again. I could sing songs of hope and faith over him. I began to fall in love with my little boy. And, instead of finding me rocking in a dark corner after his return from work, my faithful husband would see I had made the tea or hung the washing out.

I began to heal.

Post-natal depression was my illness.

It wasn’t a choice.

It wasn’t simply tiredness (although sleep deprivation certainly didn’t help).

It wasn’t difficulty adjusting.

It wasn’t a lack of faith.

It wasn’t laziness.

It wasn’t failure.

And there is hope.

My boy, now 16, stands taller than me. His grin makes my heart melt inside. He sleeps – for too long sometimes! We share ‘in jokes’ and laugh together a lot. We talk about the deep stuff. He hugs me with his long gangly arms and buys me chocolate at just the right moments. Despite my feelings of failure and regret over his first few years, our ever-growing relationship is one of joy and trust. I’m so glad to be his mum.

And that surge of love isn’t mythical anymore. It happens everyday.

Helen is Co-Founder of Hope at Home, a freelance writer and youth worker.  She’s wife to one active husband and mum to three even more active young men.  She also loves running, squelching through mud in her wellies and reading her book in front of a fire.