It was 7 o’clock, on Monday morning when the phone rung and my mother’s deadly scream shocked us up from our dream. We were living in a block house. I guess, the neighbours also woke up on it. I shared a room with my grandma. She immediately ordered me to stay in bed. And there, yet I didn’t know, but that was the first day of my journey to my self destruction, my ride to deep down to the hell, where I shook hands with devil. I was only eleven and almost twenty, the days I came back.
When my grandma turned back to our bedroom, she asked me to dress up, put on black pants and black long sleeve. I do not remember my brother, what he was doing, was he at all there, but I guess he was, we were only kids. Anyway, I knew something was wrong. I felt it in my stomach.
I was daddy’s little girl, we were always walk hand in hand. Never missed me to walk to school, and I never felt shame to hold his hand, because I was daddy’s little girl. We used to take long walks at the nearby forest, almost every weekend, and every weekday around five o’clock I was sticked to the window watching him from distant coming home from work, and then I run down to meet him. We were living on the 6th floor, the ride with the red coloured elevator seemed to me an eternity. – I remember, one day, 3th of May he arrived with a pink toy dog and I got a golden necklace from him, because I was daddy’s little girl. –
It was a cold winter day, before Santa. Based on the plan, we were expecting him back home, but instead, when we went to the hospital there was an empty bed. It was still early. The corridor was dark and the only light coming in was from the staircase hall. The whole floor was echoing of the nurses’s talk. I wasn’t allowed to step in his room, but I could steal a glance on his empty bed. They said he died. But I didn’t believe that. The bracelet I made to him was missing. He always worn that, no matter what, so he just left us, I thought. That’s the way I started to build a story, a great ice-cold wall around my soul, to protect my heart from breaking into million pieces.
If you see or know kid(s) in grief, please help them find the right help to process the pain they go trough. Help them to cry, help them to drive down the pain they suffering from and don’t let their hand go.
There are thousand of families like our was. My mother couldn’t spare time for my pain, she had to provide food and pay the bills, and I didn’t know how to ask for help. So my grief toke years, more then normally it should have taken. I believe, the recovery with the right help is always faster than the journey alone. Reach out your hand and help. Help them to forgive themselves, ease their blame. Hold their hand, patiently mind the stages of grief. Help if you can.