by Helena Tym
Today the sky is the colour of Cyrus’s favourite blue jumper. The spring flowers are creating a yellow blush across the country - and I don’t care. Everything is wrong. How can the sky be such a reminder of what I don’t have any more? Perhaps if I were blind I would feel differently. I wouldn’t have to look at people’s ‘sad’ eyes or watch them look away because they dare not look too closely.
Self-pity is not pretty, and that’s what I’m wading through this morning. Sticky, clawing, invasive and murdering - that’s what self-pity is today. I know I need to move on, but I can’t today. Perhaps tomorrow will be different.
When I have to look at myself in the mirror, there are so few outward signs that anything is wrong. There are perhaps more lines around my eyes and slight shadowing under them. My neck has ‘turkey skin’ as the boys call it, and I look awful in a polo neck these days - but unless you have the ability to read people’s eyes, I don’t think anyone would ever guess... unless they knew. There are some days when I look worse than others. Rob too has days when his skin is greyish and he just looks exhausted, as though he’s not slept for weeks. Mind you, neither of us sleeps well.
My dreams have returned - not the gory ones that made me wake in a sweat, but those that still wake me wet from tears. The feeling of doom in the middle of the night has not gone, and I suppose it will take years to go. Lying awake reliving all the awful moments - moments when we had to tell everyone; moments when we had to wait for the plane to land; moments when we had to see our child lying dead in a coffin; all those moments that, no matter how hard I try to erase them, glide through my thoughts and poison them.
The only person who understands me completely is Rob. This nightmare is ours, and together we’ve faced the worst - together we will survive this. We gauge each other’s mood, and even if the moods are opposite, we meet in the middle, adjusting them to suit. We’re in this together. There is no, ‘I’m feeling worse than you,’ or ‘Why are you in a bad mood?’ We’re equally devastated. If we laugh there is no guilt in that laugh, as we both know the agony underneath it. If we cry, our sorrow is shared. I don’t know if I could have come this far without him.
The photos hurt. Dusting them always makes me cry - not the ones with him in uniform so much, as he didn’t wear it at home so I don’t really equate him with khaki. It’s the ones of Rob and the boys in Turkey at the baths, covered in mud. Holding up crabs they’d caught in rock pools on the beach in Devon. Cyrus standing on our drive in front of a blue Rolls Royce that he’d organised and paid for. The owner was someone he’d delivered morning paper to over the years, and he’d knocked on his door and asked if he could pay him to take himself and his friend Charlotte to the School Prom. He offered £50 and we always presumed this had been accepted because of his audacity - or perhaps it was that irresistible smile. It’s the photos that we have scattered throughout the house - those are the ones that make me catch my breath.
Last Sunday we reached the eleven-month mark. How could eleven months go so fast? And yet it all seems like several lifetimes ago that those men walked up our drive. Most of 2009 was spent in a blur. We’ve been left a legacy of sadness and I don’t want it. I can’t share it, I can’t rid myself of it, and can’t help anyone else with it.
Maggie tells me that time will change how I feel, but not stop the pain - just dull it. How much time? Forever, I guess. Every day of every year until I die. I don’t want that, but it’s now my lot. Can I, with this weight around my heart, help others move on? I don’t want them to feel the burden of my pain; I just want to help them free themselves of theirs.
I worry about Zac hiding himself away from his friends, but I know what he means when he says, ‘They don’t understand.’ I also know that they can help him by being a distraction, even if it’s only for a short while. After all, a distraction is a distraction. However hard it is for us and Zac, their lives go on and they will never know what it is like - but I also realise that they want to help. People mean well, but when you are in such a lonely place, no-one can really reach you until you push through it, take a deep breath and step forward.
I’ve shared thoughts with people on the radio and in the papers, but those are my public thoughts. The private ones are buried deep, and honestly people don’t really want to know those.
Next week we have been invited to Prince Edward’s Garden Party next at Bagshot Park with its gardens and halls - with the bereaved and seriously injured. I wonder if any of the soldiers from 10 Platoon will be there, and how their lives have been over the past eleven months. They too have secret places in their heads - too secret to share, as the average person would not be able to handle the scenes they keep there.
On Monday we planted hundreds of poppy seeds in our garden. They will always remind me of Cyrus and all those thousands of white gravestones with words of love carved into them. Crazy how a flower can make you cry. I think it’s because the petals are so delicate, tissue paper thin, vulnerable like the human body and yet purposeful and beautiful. Just like the human body.
We met in a hall at Sandhurst, with all the other families - some with young children, some faces familiar some not. I wonder if it’s more difficult to live with the young who don’t understand, or the old. I’m not sure how I would behave if I had young children - children who didn’t really know him and wouldn’t share the agony of having lost him. They would grow up never really understanding the sorrow of losing something so precious.
It was not the sort of gathering where you can waltz up to someone and say, Hello, is your son dead or injured? So we stood there in limbo, listening to the murmuring of voices but not able to catch a whole sentence - not that I’d much to say to anyone anyway. The only other family I felt any kinship towards was the Mervises, and they were not there yet. I wondered if they would come.
As we were moved towards the buses that would take us to Bagshot Park, Margaret and Jonathan arrived. It was lovely to see them - I felt at ease with them. They remained my connection to all that has happened, although I couldn’t really explain why.
We arrived through large gates and drove past huge rhododendron hedges - not many flowers as it had been a strange spring and most flowers seemed to have gone already. Then the house came into view. The buses parked on a large circular drive in front of a rather lovely red brick manor house - not huge, not over posh, just a nice, attractive country house and gardens. We were greeted by staff and given maps of the gardens. There were several trails through them and even though it was quite cold, we set off in little groups. We joined the Mervises for a while, and this gave Margaret and me a chance to catch up briefly.
We parted and Rob, the boys and I went up towards the Orangery which is, or could be, such a lovely old building. However, there is no money in the coffers for this costly repair and anyway, no one but Prince Edward and his family would benefit from it, so sadly it stands in disrepair. One of the garden staff asked if we’ve been up to the swing, so we followed a grassy path up through lovely pine trees of unfathomable age until the path opened up, and there was a lady standing beside a wooden swing. We approached, and she told us it was the Queen’s grandchildren’s swing. ‘Could we have a go on it?’ we asked. ‘Only if you don’t tell anyone - mind you it would be fun to say that you’d swung on the Queen’s grandchildren’s swing.’ she replied.
Zac went first while Steely pushed, then jumped off it as it was high on its forward arc. Steely then sat on it and Zac pushed - and he too jumped off, but was not as fortunate with his landing and ended up rolling down the hill. We did laugh, which was strange as it wasn’t the sort of day when you felt that you ought to be laughing. In fact, there have actually not been any days when I’ve felt it right to laugh since Cyrus was killed. The only funny part was that we were all dressed up in our ‘Sunday best’ and Steely had got grass stains on his knees and elbows.
A buffet was served in the house, during which we were t
o meet Prince Edward. Two dogs were roaming around and they acted as a distraction - everything was very odd. We were to meet Prince Edward, the Royal attached to 2 Rifles who has an awful lot to do with them regarding the injured, I believe. I was not sure what to expect - should we stand and bow?
He then appeared from a doorway slightly to our right and spent a few minutes at each of the tables (there were some hundred and fifty people attending). He was dressed in corduroys and a tweed jacket and was actually much slighter than I’d imagined. Then he approached our table and shook our hands - he was quite humble and quietly spoken. He said he was so very sorry - but what could we say in reply - ‘Thank you’? I’ve never been quite sure what sort of thing I’m supposed to say to that. We moved on to neutral territory to save embarrassment, and we asked about the dogs. It was weird, but I’d no idea what to say to him and he really was at a loss as to what to say to us because, in the face of it, nothing is really quite right.
He moved to the next table and we continued with our sandwiches and cakes. Before we left there was time to go around the gardens again. We walked around the house, which was just as beautiful from the front or back, whichever way you look at it. It was a lovely, understated house that you could feel really was a home - but I just didn’t want to be there for the reason we were - but then without that reason I’d not be there anyway.
As we stood on a slight hill overlooking a large ornamental pond, Captain Andy Pemberton and the new colonel (who has taken over from Colonel Rob Thomson), whose name I’ve forgotten but who seemed very nice and surprisingly young looking, came up towards us, with what looked like a large photo under him arm. It was a framed certificate and medal that he presented to us on behalf of ISAF (International Security Assistance Force), for the time that Cyrus served in Kosovo.
Another medal - another reminder that he wasn’t there to receive it himself. He would have so loved these medals. How do you react when you’re supposed to be so proud - but all it does is twist the knife in a little further? It is an honour I know, but it should be his not ours - not one more thing to add to the little corner in the sitting room above his wooden chest. It just hurts.
We were loaded on to the buses again and headed back to Sandhurst to pick up the car. Matt Wilson (Willo) sat beside us to the right and Paul Jacobs (who had been blinded by a blast, been awarded the George Medal for bravery, and who had asked Margaret Mervis to be his advocate) sat in front, while Zac and Steely sat behind us. There was some banter on the way and laughter from both Matt and Paul, but what struck me most was the hollowness of that laughter. It was a show - not deliberate, but a show to the world that all was well, even though one was blind and one had only one leg. The laughter was so chilling that it has remained with me. One more sign of how this has affected these boys; one more thing they have to learn to do. I paint on my smile; they perfect their hollow laughs. Perhaps if you’d not known their circumstances it would have seemed like a good-natured ride on a bus, but to me it was frightening to listen to. Had he lived, would Cyrus have perfected this laugh and learnt to apply his make-up?
Later that evening, as Rob and I talked about the day, the conversation turned to Paul Jacobs, both of us realising we’d seen him in one of the photos Cyrus had taken in Afghanistan while in FOB Gibraltar, Helmand Province. He was sitting on the dusty ground, knees bent up, holding a small brown and white puppy that must have barely been ten weeks old.
Forward Operating Base Gibraltar was the name given to the secured military base they used to support tactical operations and Cyrus had taken many photos. Together with his letters, they gave us an insight into their lives in the FOB - their cramped sleeping quarters, operation and communication rooms, the pipes dug into the ground used as urinals.
Afghanistan - 1st May 2009
If you saw what and where I’ve been sleeping you would be shocked!! So pictures will back me up! Unfortunately 3 blokes died 2 days ago in an IED explosion in one of the FOBs ‘bout 2 kilometers away - we visited that FOB 2 days before the attack - fucking mental - quite scary actually!
Images of the sand-bagged walls they rested against, smoking, preparing before they went out on patrol. The same walls whose shadows they sat in to keep cool while they cleaned their weapons. Meals of goat that the Afghan Army had slaughtered and shared with those hungry enough to try it. Quad bikes and equipment, and dust blown up by the Chinooks bringing supplies, welfare parcels and letters from home.
Afghanistan - 12th May 2009
Hello Mother,
Yesterday was a massive day for morale, an American chopper came in. URGE people to send photos - they keep morale SKY HIGH. I thought Steely and Zac’s (poses) in the garden were quality. I can only prove how much a letter or small parcel means by finding the time to write back - that’s probley the most precious thing I have and I’d trade hours for a letter.
I can’t explain how good it is to get pictures and stuff. You get grown men close to tears at the sight of their kid or a good night out - it’s really strange how this place fucks with your head and emotions.
During one of the rare occasions he was able to phone, he commented on how close they were to the Taliban - he estimated 600 metres away while in the FOB, and that there had been times on patrol that they could hear bullets cutting through the air just centimetres above their heads. He was amazed that no-one from 10 Platoon had been killed.
Only two weeks now until the anniversary of that awful day. Two weeks - and it’s the same feeling of dread that I had before Christmas. How would the day pan out? What do we do? Will I feel it’s just another normal day in my now abnormal life? How do others cope? How would I ask? Who would I ask? I know that we are not alone in this, but it seems it. That twist of fate that has led us to this awful day. One step in another direction and we’d not be here. One step, oh Cyrus. Step by dreadful step, we move through this newly created life. It might be a year, but it is still new, fresh, daunting - agonisingly difficult. I stumble through it now. Stumbling steps.
They came knocking at our door again, those soldiers, this time to mark the anniversary - a year to the day they last saw him alive. Those young men whose lives have also been turned upside down by all of this. It is always with slight apprehension that I greet them at the door. How are they? How are they coping? Will we be able to talk normally and have a conversation that isn’t studded with long pauses and ghosts?
We had lunch and it was hot, so we sat in the garden. Last time they were here it was snowing, just to prove, I guess, that life goes on like the seasons. At one point Rob was in the kitchen on his own and Elliott joined them. They talked for ages, and I think it was what Elliott needed to do. I hope it helped him a little. I knew it wasn’t for me to join in - my presence would have stopped the conversation cold, and I didn’t want that to happen. He is so sad, that boy. He misses him so much. We all do, but they had a friendship that only comes along once or twice in a lifetime. I so wish they had had more time together. Cyrus’s life was too short for so many people and for so many reasons.
By mid-afternoon they needed to get going. They’d been given an extra day’s leave to come to see us and they needed to get back to Ireland, so they went up to the grave and then made their way back to airports and train stations. In the end they were a distraction - they made the day go faster and they helped us, and I hope it helped them a little too. It is so sad though - they miss him so much. When they tell stories, their eyes light up, but then the reality hits again and they mist over and go back to those blank exhausted eyes we saw in November.
Elliott is in a place I can’t reach. How do you cope at that age when those who surround you are unable to help with the nightmares, loneliness, anger, guilt, sorrow and pain? I know it is how Zac and Steely feel too.
These lads, like Zac and Steely, are boys still, dressed in men’s clothing - but still boys at heart. They need to be held and told that it will
be ok. I’ll always love them all for being such friends to Cyrus and for wanting desperately to help us in some way. They will all always have a place in my heart, and I hope their ghosts fade, leaving them able to move forward - not to forget, but move towards a future.
Rob and I went up to the cemetery at 6.30 to meet friends. On the way we saw groups of Cyrus’s friends whom we’d just missed at the cemetery. They waved and made their way down to the pub on the corner. I knew we were welcome to join them, but it somehow doesn’t seem right to be in a pub drinking, talking and laughing - not yet we’re not ready. We may never be ready. There were many others at graveside, and judging by the amount of flowers, cards, bottles of drink and cigarettes left for him, it was apparent there had been a constant stream of people throughout the day. I was very touched. I have this irrational fear he will be forgotten by those friends left behind. I know this isn’t true, but in my darkest hours, doubt rears its ugly head, bringing me to my knees, time and again. We all hugged, kissed, cried and thanked them for being there, knowing there was no need for thanks - but we said it anyway. It was the same with any greeting; people falling into the ritual of politeness: ‘Hello, how are you?’ or ‘All right, mate?’ We were all guilty of it - it was such a ridiculous thing to ask under the circumstances.
Looking back, the day went in a blur. Like so many days this past year, it merged into another one, and pushed us towards the next. I can’t believe we’ve gone through all the seasons and have come back to the start again. It’s frightening how times goes by and you don’t realise.
More nightmares last night. It seems such a long time since I dreamt of Cyrus. This was a dark, damp, cold dream where everyone was going to die or had died but they kept on marching past. Grey men, grey uniforms, no hope. I woke several times in a cold sweat and in tears, only to fall asleep again and continue the dream. I felt like shit this morning. All I wanted to do was crawl into a space where the nightmares couldn’t find me and sleep for a hundred years. Why is the brain so cruel? Why now, after weeks, do I have to have these visions and feel the touch of his soft face, knowing that it’s not real and that I have to wake and face the reality of a life without one of my children? Where are those cool hands that caressed and soothed the pain away? As a mother I used to do that - but not any more. My hands are hot and scratchy, and they leave deep grooves of pain and sorrow. They’re not able to heal any more.