On Grief

As some of you will be aware, my beloved dog Kip died 2 weeks ago after many years of being loyally and lovingly beside me, day in and day out. It has been truly awful and so I thought today I would write a little about my thoughts on grief and why this time it has really knocked me over.

By my age (61) most of us will have experienced the loss of a loved one, whether it be a friend, partner, parent or a companion. In my case, on the 20th August 2025 it will be 30 years ago that my son died in my husband's arms, 3 days after he was born on the 17th. Losing a child is utterly devastating, losing a baby means that you grieve the immediate loss and the future you will never have together. He died in the Special Care Baby Unit in Brighton, I had sat with him all night, holding his hand, the SCBU was almost at the top of the tallest tower and so I recall vividly watching the sun rise over the sea, a bright orange globe and I thought if I could just keep holding his hand that by sheer willpower alone he would survive. He didn't. 

I had no idea that on the day he died my breasts would swell with milk in anticipation of months of breast feeding to come. I had no notion that my arms would feel so empty, useless somehow. I hadn't known the distress of walking out of a hospital labour ward leaving my baby behind, amidst the joyful chatter of new parents. I couldn't imagine the pain of packing away all those tiny baby clothes that I had washed, dried and folded ready for use, especially the little silk vests I'd carefully knitted and embroidered. Taking apart a crib, emptying a space that I had made just for him. And at the same time recovering from an emergency c-section battered and bruised.

I didn't know that when I went to register his death, I would also need to register his birth and that I'd leave with a birth and death certificate in my hand. A beginning and an end. 

I had 3 other children at the time. It must have been impossibly hard for them, so much pain and distress and then having to go back to school a few weeks later with the weight of it. A summer so different to any other. I think his death has left a lasting deep impression on all of them. 

From my own perspective I felt the need to hold that grief and store it away, visiting it in the wee small hours, so that I could function for my children and my husband who was utterly devastated. I remember a couple of weeks later forcing myself out of bed and desperately trying to find some small shard of normality. 

When there is a death in the family, there is an outpouring of support, gifts of food left on the doorstep, cards, flowers, messages and then, after a month, everyone is busily getting on with their lives whilst your life is shattered.

With my son, friends visited and were so incredibly kind, sometimes the comments were ill judged but still very much appreciated 'better luck next time old girl' still stands out as the best/worst. I was grateful that so many people were strong enough to come in and try to offer comfort when there simply weren't adequate words. Some people crossed the street rather than engage and I understood that too - sometimes when you don't have the words it's easier not to try.

6 months later I became pregnant again with Oscar who has been a shining beacon of joy. It was a very stressful pregnancy and birth but all went well.

18 months after Casimir died, when Oscar was tiny, I woke in the night and thought I was dying, I had a pain in my chest that was so acute I couldn't breathe. A few nights later it happened again and then again. It was treated as a suspected pulmonary embolism but in fact it was grief. All that I had stored up, all the fear and distress was making itself felt. 

There is a Homeopathic remedy called Ignatia, it is incredible. It is indicated when grief is held but acute. It has the sensation of a lump in the throat when you try to speak, it has acute cramping spasmodic pain and a lot of sighing and sadness. It was prescribed for me and after I took it, I felt that cramping pain lift and it has never returned. Grief, if not worked through, settles in the body.

In 2022 my mother died, my sister and I were with her. It was a journey over 3 days or so of her gradually leaving us. She was a very determined woman and it was clear that she was going to choose her moment, so we sat with her, talking to her, reading her the odd poem because she loved poetry and then late at night when there were no more voices, no more distractions, silence and dim lights, she died. It's not peaceful, that's a myth. It's hard just like birth, but in that last moment, as she died, there was a rush of swirling energy and she was gone.

Being with someone as they go through that process is an incredible privilege. I was really struck by the similarity to birth. So many of the same conditions prevail - the need for quiet and privacy to do the work, the way the mind folds into a different place and the way the body undergoes an unstoppable process - in birth it is an opening, in death, a closing. The release of matter which can neither be created nor destroyed.

I remember being in advanced stage 1 labour with no drugs, the energy it needed to abandon myself to the process, to withdraw from thought, to stop responding to voices around me, to let myself lose control, to trust my body. It was hard but then when I did it, the labour flowed, my body did the work and my baby was born. Watching my mother I was really reminded of that. The energy of dying, the amount of work that the body needs to do. To Stop. Being.

I miss her a lot. 

When a parent dies, there is at least a natural order however awful it still is. And it is. My son's death was devastating not just for his loss but because it felt so wrong to be burying a child. It was the wrong order.

The grief that followed my mother's death was immense, but we were incredibly busy up here running the Apothecary and the bakery and the cafe. So I came home 2 weeks after her death, still shocked and sad and was thrown into work. One of our bakers, a young girl, left almost as I arrived with incredibly bad timing, so I recall standing in front of a pile of butter, yeast, eggs and flour, tears running down my floury cheeks, trying to remember how to make croissants. They were not my best effort! It was very challenging.

And now my dog has died, he was the best of old boys and I loved him dearly. He was terrified of the vet and I couldn't have his last moments full of fear so I decided that if he seemed ok and not in too much pain, he and I and Lily my little dog, would do that last journey together and I would use whatever herbs, remedies and essences at my disposal to see him safely to the other side.

Just like my mother he left over a few days, bit by bit. I sat quietly with him, I cried a river and eventually he was ready to go and I was ready to let him. He died with me at his side as it had always been and we buried him in the garden where he had last chosen to lay, wrapped in a flowery cotton duvet in a grave that I lined with Mint and other flowers that he had loved to sit amongst.

He had been my protector for so many years, the bringer of unconditional love, the eater of bun dough, the compost scavenging, chicken chasing wonder that he was. 

The grief I'm experiencing is truly awful but as I sit with it, I've realised that it is the first time I've ever let myself feel that depth of sadness without having to stop it. It's the first death where I am able to not manage it. I don't have a funeral to arrange, other people to consider. Without the cafe and the bakery, the Apothecary is a gentle salve not a burden. And allowing myself to do what I need to and to feel how I feel, I have let in all the other grief that I suppressed along the way and that is actually a gift.

One of our customers emailed me such a useful practice which I'll quote. It has been so helpful "The idea is to sit somewhere in a chair that you don’t usually sit in and, if you can, choose somewhere that is only for this ritual so it feels like a new place, and you sit there in that place at a set time every day for at least seven days, but potentially longer if you choose to extend it, starting with 20-30 minutes, or however long is enough for you to feel fully immersed in the feelings of the loss. 

The process is for you to sit quietly, you can have a picture of him, or an object, then take a deep breath and allow your mind to clear, and then allow whatever comes into your mind on that day, in that moment, to be welcomed. It can, and will be, anything at all, and there’s absolutely no judgement, especially no thoughts like “I shouldn’t be thinking this…!” and just sit with it and be with it, whatever it is, and whatever form it takes. It may be happy memories, or even anger at the loss, or laughter, or whatever arises, it doesn’t matter, just let it be what it is, and gently watch it come, appreciate it, and then watch it go."

I have found this practice along with our Heartease Tincture and a Findhorn Essence called Acceptance to be really helpful.

Birth and Death are the bookends to life, how we navigate them really matters. Suppressed grief settles into the mind and body. It's not a linear predictable process, it is a series of feelings and sensations that are triggered by memory, place, scent, photos, music and all the rest, the unexpected triggers. Allowing ourselves the space and time to sit with the discomfort and distress in the end allows us to access the happier memories and it avoids the cumulative damage that suppression creates. 

I rarely post personal things, I like to keep my personal life private, but in this instance I thought it might be helpful for anyone who has experienced loss to know that I understand a bit of it and I wish you well.