Things, stuff and grief

I remember a poem written by a prominent Liverpool supporter many years ago called Dave Kirby. The poem was titled ‘The Justice Bell’ and was about the Hillsborough Disaster back in April 1989. It really struck a nerve with me. Not because of the frustrations of the establishment to deny justice - that was frustrating enough in itself - but the imagery in the first few verses.

A schoolboy holds a leather ball

in a photograph on a bedroom wall

the bed is made, the curtains drawn

as silence greets the break of dawn.

The dusk gives way to morning light

revealing shades of red and white

which hang from posters locked in time

of the Liverpool team of 89.

Upon a pale white quilted sheet

a football kit is folded neat

with a yellow scarf, trimmed with red

and some football boots beside the bed.

In hope, the room awakes each day

to see the boy who used to play

but once again it wakes alone

for this young boy's not coming home.

Chilling right? I wasn’t a father back then and so couldn't even comprehend in anyway at all but still those words hit me deep. That imagery of a bedroom, just left untouched and waiting for the boundless energy of a child to burst through the door and fill it with joy. Yet it isn't going to happen.

This isn’t to compare grief, how can you when theirs is rife with injustice and a lack of accountability. For all we went through and I've written this before our grief is in someway eased because of a lack of regret over the decisions we made and a comfort those who loved and cared for Hannah gave their all for her.

This is more about that imagery of the untouched bedroom. Toys, pictures, notes, writings, papers, school work, random things she had made, clothes. What do we do with all those things?

A ‘normal’ family keeps some of the pictures and a few of the toys but the rest of it gets donated or a becomes a good old fashioned hand me down. At that point you can put them in a box or bag to give away and hand them over with a little twinge of your heart at the memories they bring but with a comfort there a many more memories ahead of you.

Not the same for families like us.

A year ago we bought a new house and so we went through the trauma of packing up a lot of Hannah 's things. I say ‘we’ when what I really mean is ‘Kate’ as she did most of it. I didn’t have it in me and somewhat selfishly left it to her. I’ve already written about moving and how it was easier because the girls wanted to share a bedroom so a lot of it was not untouched like Dave wrote about.

In the days after Hannah died our nieces came to stay and so that bedroom was used. Little girls will pick up little girl toys to play with right? Besides for most of the time Hannah was sick and when we were not in hospital she slept in our bed. Mostly because of the grueling medicine routine but also because we wanted to keep a constant eye on her. This made the bedroom issue easier to deal with - her bed still sits in the garage though.

The new house is quite a bit bigger than the one we left and so it's taken a while to turn this house into a home.We are still not there (at least from Kate’s perspective) but it's very much a home now and that means the rooms where we dumped a lot of Hannah’s things are being taken over and we constantly seem to have these conversations of what to do with it all. It can't just sit in boxes in clear daylight and be constantly moved from place to place.

The other thing is the blessing of having another Daughter. Nora is constantly hunting and finding things and wants to play with her things. It’s fine, and not really an issue, but it's the small little silly things like her shopkins or these little squidgy things she had. It's almost like the more simple these things are the harder they are to give up. I think its because the smaller and simpler toys are, the more they have to use their imagination to play with them and that in turn makes them a little more personal.

Some of her clothes are in bags and then we have a set of her draws hidden in our closet. We kept them exactly as they were and then moved them with the clothes in, completely untouched. I think I wanted something to be the same when we moved. They sit there though, taking up space and serving no real purpose other than what, keeping her alive somewhat? Maintaining a reassurance it was all real?

Just last night Nora was in there and found a box of head bands and hair ties and things. She came walking in with these on, looking all cute and gorgeous, completely oblivious to what she is doing to us. It's fine and it doesn't break you but it smacks you right in the feels all at the same time.

Anyone who has had to deal with a critically ill child and prolonged stays in hospital will understand the sheer amount of toys, teddy bears and craft items you receive. Its great, kindness is precious and it kept Hannah and us going but there is so much of it. There are some days I need to sit and go through these things. Hold them, laugh, cry, try and smell something in them. But most days not.

We got a big sack thing to throw teddies in. It basically acts like a bean bag but it’s full of teddies. Great idea actually and its surprising how many you can stuff in there but I doubt it's ever going to be a scene on Toy Story any time soon. Well anyway, Nora found the zipper the other night and so teddies are again all over the place.

“It's my favorite doggy teddy” she would shout. When it isn’t, it wasn't, it was Hannah’s.

That's the thing really. This stuff is beyond precious because it's hers, it was touched by her and it reminds you she was real. I don’t begrudge Nora playing with her things. Its nice but it’s also a tug at the heartstrings. Maybe in a way grieving parents want those heart tugs because in a strange way I think the pain makes it real. Grief hurts but grief stems from love and love, with all it's heart ache and complexities, is the best, and sometimes all, you can have.

Don’t get me wrong. We don't hide her away. She is everywhere in the new home. Pictures of her will be the first thing you will see and you’ll see her in almost every room. Our fridge has pictures of her just like yours does. It's just that where you can throw things out, we cant.

I wish I had the answers. Maybe this is another series of firsts we have to get through too. I think maybe storage is an option. But what is the point of it all being there in boxes just locked in time? All these toys have a story and a lifespan but that simply stops when the child is suddenly no longer there. They don't grow apart, they don’t say a tearful goodbye as they are passed on, just sit there locked in time and become a reminder and a holder of memories for grief ridden parents. Not a storyline Pixar would be interested in.

I wish I had a ‘hey do this’ for you. I wish I had answers, but I don’t. We’ll take our time, move things around, embrace the heartache and hope time continues being something of a healer and we’ll figure it out. That's the hope in your heart I guess.