November 1 , 2003
Birrell Update

Some time ago Rebecca said to Pam and me "You two are always remembering days that happened." It wasn't an accusation, just an obvservation. She is quite right, this "remembering the days" habit that her parents exhibit. Today, November 1st, is one of those days, for it is the birthday of James, and for the grieving parent there is no way to avoid wondering about what kind of boy James would have been on his tenth birthday had he lived.

It's been a long time since I wrote a Birrell update. The world moves on, and almost two years later I feel left behind, the grieving parent label still firmly attached. "Ancient History" is how I interpret the silence around me, and likely that is the way it should be. For Rebecca and Ben are thriving, happy, growing, loving, maturing, embracing life, and I am very proud of them. But I am learning that to be a grieving parent is not a phase of life that you pass through and then leave behind you, but rather it is your new identity. Every day for ever I will be torn in two by the loss of my son. Word reached me of a ninety year old woman in a nursing home who thinks daily of her young son, snatched so many years ago by the same disease that took James. You hide your grief, you get on with things, but you just can't escape the reality that your child is gone. It is a very lonely road, for you find that this bit of ancient history has a limited shelf life with many of your friends. When you write an email, or talk on the phone, or walk into a room, the last thing you want is for your friends to think of you as a dark cloud, best avoided if you don't want to spoil your day. Sometimes I think I am like an amputee, who has lost, say, a hand. One is equipped with a prosthetic, learns to use it, and gets on with life. But you are an amputee, and part of you is undeniably missing. Likewise I think I have successfully picked up the threads of life, I think I am making a contribution to the world around me, I experience moments of great happiness, fulfilment and satisfaction, but.....life is full of but's these days.

I dreamt of James, and then woke. I didn't remember the dream at first, but something triggered my memory and there it was. I was in a boat on a nice summer's day, and as I looked back, I saw a small sailboat, actually a sailboard (though that doesn't sound reasonable to my daytime logic), and I could see at once that it was being sailed by a small boy, and that the boy was James. At first I couldn't see his face very well, but as I screwed up my eyes suddenly I saw very clearly that it was indeed James, a confident, happy and very healthy looking James, a shock of brown curly hair, and those engaging brown eyes, full of delight. James, sailing with supreme confidence. And that was it. No sooner had I figured out that the sailor boy was James than the dream ended. I thought I would tell Pam about my dream, but I found that even the first steps towards putting the dream into words unleashed powerful emotions, my throat choking up, tears welling, so I decided instead to type. Same problem, but more manageable.

The sailing dream is a gift, I have no doubt. "Tomorrow would have been James' tenth birthday" said Pam to the children at supper last night. "and there is no way that we can avoid thinking about that. I think that we should do something to remember him, and to celebrate his birthday. But we don't want you children to think that your parents think James' birthday is more important than your birthdays. We can't do anything too exciting." The response was immediate: "Oh, we don't mind that! Let's go for a train ride! We always go on a train on James' birthday." said Rebecca and Ben. Last year's celebrations did indeed include a train ride, and a rather spectacular day it was. So we will catch the GO Train to Toronto later this morning, embrace the adventure of the day, and I will try to shed the grieving parent label and think instead of sailing.
Syd