Chin Up, Head Down

by Helena Tym

  Rob and I went up to Cyrus’s grave for 11 o’clock, and Chris and Claire Green were there for Richard. Chilly (Rob’s most supportive friend) came too, five of us all locked in our own grief. Our thoughts are also with someone else today - Joan Walkling, a little old lady for whom Rob had done odd-jobs and known for over thirty years. She died yesterday after battling cancer for more than five years. She was in her eighties and always used to say she knew she’d had a ‘good innings’, but nevertheless her death was very sad. She had become a huge part of our lives. Zac, Cyrus and Steely had become her surrogate grandchildren and she their surrogate grandmother.

  Over the years she had become very dependent on Rob, as even changing light-bulbs and batteries in a bedside clock were tasks she struggled with. She had been a huge support to Rob over the last eighteen months, and they would have done anything for each other. Rob had been to see her at the hospice at 9 o’clock the morning before, and later received a phone call with the news that she had died that lunchtime. He will miss her - she was a true friend.

  On Friday we went to Micklands Primary School once again for their assembly, which was given by Ian Tindall about ‘The Poppy’. Listening to Ian talk, I’d not known about half of the things that he told them, but one thing that really struck me was that 1964 is the only year since the end of WWII that no forces were killed on active duty. It now made sense of those sixteen thousand plus names on the memorial at The National Arboretum. How many pebbles thrown into millponds whose ripples have been felt all over the world?

  There had been a change of plan for Remembrance Sunday. The Regiment were sending Elliott and Malou over to represent 2 Rifles, and several representatives from 3 Rifles were going to be there for Richard, together with two buglers. I called the Caversham branch of the Legion and explained that we’d not be down at the river with them at the War Memorial, so asked them to please send our apologies to everyone who attended their service. They had been so kind getting Cyrus’s name engraved, and we felt it right to let them know why we wouldn’t be there.

  Elliott had arrived on Saturday, driven from London by his mother, and we asked her in to have a cup of tea. It was very hard to watch her as she talked about how he was struggling to come to terms with everything. He would be leaving the Army in January. He had also had another blow - in the early hours of Friday morning two of his friends from school were killed in a car accident. Fucking hell, how much more? There is just nothing I can say.

  Zac and Elliott went out for the evening, and eventually crawled into their beds at 5am - not much time to sleep before we had to be at the graveside. Malou arrived to a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich, and my mother arrived too, bringing with her crosses and a wreath from herself and Mione’s family.

  Rob and I had already decided that, as we weren’t quite sure how the whole thing was going to work, I would (with the permission of Richard’s family) say a few words and read the Rifleman’s Collect just before 11 am, which would be followed by two minutes’ silence and the sounding of the Last Post and Reveille. I stood between their headstones and read - it was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. It’s the ‘Swift and Bold’ that always gets me and then those clear haunting notes from the bugle. Even after hearing it several times the feeling of utter desperation still closes in on me, making it difficult to breathe and concentrate.

  We laid wreaths, two families and friends wrapped up against the cold and wrapped up in grief. The Sambuca made an appearance; everyone had a little sip and privately toasted our boys.

  Pete Bevan turned up in motorbike leathers with a wreath. Such a nice man, he was a Corporal when he trained Cyrus in Bassingbourn. I don’t know if Pete has lost anyone else he knows in this war, but it was very kind of him to come for Cyrus and to show his support for us. He came back home with us and had a cup of tea before braving the rain and heading back to Abingdon, where he is now stationed. It still surprises me how many people Cyrus touched in his life, and how many people miss him.

  So that’s it. Another Remembrance Week come and gone. Exhaustion overwhelms me but sleep is still as evasive as ever, ruined by dreams and a mind that refuses to shut down. Christmas next, I guess. I’ve already planned that we won’t have a tree again; too many memories associated with that ritual, too painful to do, sorry boys - I hope you’ll understand.

  People often ask me how I am and that they can’t imagine how I feel. How to describe it? I never sleep through a whole night any more, and when I do sleep I wake in an instant, no warm gentle sleepy awakening, but a sudden heart-stopping wake when I know in a split second that it’s all true. The feeling is almost a hunger, gnawing in the pit of my stomach like stage fright; that butterfly kiss that is so cruel. That moment when my heart breaks all over again. That is what it feels like, all day and every day, with no change over the days and months - no peace, only deep sorrow and the huge feeling of loss that no food, drink or medicine can ever heal. It’s a wound carved into my very being. This is how I feel, so how do I break that to the person asking such a question, without making them feel embarrassed that they asked it in the first place?

  In reality, I’d like to tell them to imagine someone who is nearest and dearest to them, and out of the blue they are told that person has been blown to pieces. For an instant this may give them an understanding, but the truth is they will have forgotten that feeling by the time the conversation is over. The difference between us is I am reminded of this every time my brain thinks it can relax for a moment. But I know that’s not what they want to hear, so I just smile and say I’m getting there or I’m ok. But that is just a lie, like my make-up.

  Chapter 17: The Second Christmas

  Fewer cards have dropped on to the mat this year, perhaps because I’ve not been able to send any myself, who knows? I don’t really care, but the question lingers. I guess people don’t know what to say that they haven’t said already, heartfelt words that fall on a wounded soul, words that are unable to comfort or bring peace and that’s what Christmas is all about, peace and harmony I’ve none of those things any more.

  Steely is due home on 22nd December and we are so looking forward to him being back, even though it’s only for a few days. He will breathe fresh air into our lives again, be able to share his adventures, and tell us about his life in LA. I can’t wait.

  I’ve not been into Reading to shop. I can’t face it - too many people smiling, laughing and jostling each other with their bags and tubes of wrapping paper. I’m not brave enough yet, so the boys will have to have things bought via the internet or the supermarket.

  It’s snowing, cold and icy and travel is getting harder. I have that underlying feeling of dread. I daren’t say it out loud in case it comes true, but I have a terrible feeling that flights are going to start being cancelled. Stay positive, don’t worry - it will be fine.

  Seven o’clock on the morning of 21st December and the internet is screaming at me the words I had so dreaded. Flight VS008 from Los Angeles cancelled. This simply can’t be true. Surely we are due some luck this time. No.

  I’d not realised how vulnerable we all still are. ‘Gutted’ is the only way I can describe it. The worst news we’d heard for over a year. How can this possibly be happening to us? He still doesn’t know - they are eight hours behind us. All day we have to live with the knowledge that we have to ring him and tell him he can’t come home. It’s been a black day, my eyes are red from crying and I feel sick all the time. Ridiculous - I know he is well, he is safe, he is alive - but not going to be here with us. All the feelings of panic and the inability to function properly return with a vengeance. It’s hard to breathe, my chest tightens and nothing is in focus. How can I be feeling this all over again? The news is almost as devastating as if we’d been told he too had been killed. So much hope had been pinned on him coming home. We’ve soured over the months and he would have been there to sweeten us all again.

 
Rob rings him. There is a silence and all I hear is Rob asking, ‘Are you still there, mate?’ Oh God, why this pain all the time? Why do we have to be breaking bad news to our children again? ‘I’m here Dad, it’s ok, I just needed to take it all in really.’ He’s so brave and adult about it. He’s comforting us - surely that’s all back-to-front? He the parent and we the devastated and disappointed children, how odd.

  He’s ok. We’re not. Now Christmas without two of my boys. We Skyped him and he sat on the end of the table, framed by a computer screen while we opened our presents. It was lovely to see him - Skype... what a magic invention. Seeing his face made it all seem less dark. He reminds me of Cyrus in so many ways, all three of them had/have something in common - a bravery that runs through their very beings. I wish I had some of it. I’m not brave, I just feel old and terribly, terribly sad.

  We made it through, but it wasn’t the same. It will never be the same again and I knew that last year. I guess I hoped it would be easier this year - but how stupid am I?

  Once again I find myself teetering on the edge of insanity, feeling the need to metaphorically slit my wrists, peel back the flesh and rid myself of the pain that lives under my skin. The inky blackness of night consumes me during the day - that ‘full moon’ feeling that never strays far from my conscious thoughts. I’ve tried to rationalise it, put myself into a ‘category’ to reason my way out, but those are tools used by counsellors who think that we are all basically the same creature, who can be reached and healed with words that are hollow and meaningless. I’ve lost my future and my past, my meaning and my children. My children disappeared on 2nd June 2009. They became adults out of necessity - the need to survive, the need to cope - and the innocence of childhood became a distant memory. We all lost our past that day. The memories are still there but the ability to see them clearly has gone; they are defused with pain and sorrow, they are opaque, rather than crystal clear. That is why we have lost our past.

  My life is not a corridor whose path has been blocked. There is no ‘other’ way around that blockage. I had a life - we all did - and now that life has gone. It’s not hidden or been moved - it has simply gone. Snuffed out, stolen. There are no soothing words, no book, no recipe for ‘better’; there is a new life needing to be learned, new paths to be woven into the fabric of our souls. Different, and at times hateful - a life I don’t want but have to take. There is no choice that isn’t a completely selfish one and I still have no desire to take that option.

  2011. I wonder what this year will bring. Last year was a blur, and looking back I can’t really remember anything in great detail. Strange, as I thought that I was less blank than I had been the previous year. Odd, how we move through our spaces in life, not really taking it all in, and yet living as though we are; going through the motions of living, but not living. Surely to have a life you have to appreciate it - or at least take part in it. I don’t feel as though I’ve been able to do that these past months. I wonder if this will change with time, and whether or not I will continue to merely exist rather than live.

  13th January: Cyrus would have been twenty-one today. There is a balloon announcing it on his grave - a gesture made full of good intentions and love but excruciatingly painful to see, bobbing almost joyfully in the wind. How dare it? Rob untied it, releasing it to the wind and we watched as it disappeared into the distance. It seemed symbolic somehow. I miss him so very much every second, minute, hour, day, month, year - every birthday and forever more.

  The past is hard to conjure up sometimes, but it is my past, shared with Rob, Zac, Cyrus and Steely. It is who I am, why I am the person I am, what makes me strive, even through this awfulness, to continue to be who I am. Cyrus was a huge part of everything we are, and without him I wonder, would we have had the great times we did. He, as part of my family, has given me some of the best years of my life - times of laughter, peace, love, joy and pride. The pride of seeing him join the Army, taking that vow, Passing Off after a long physically and mentally hard period of basic training, and becoming a man. Without him in my life I wonder if I would be able to say that I have truly experienced everything that this life can throw at me. He has left a huge hole in our lives, but we will continue to love and support each other, move forward - knowing that it is exactly what he would have expected of us. It would be so disrespectful of me to just give up - he would never have given up on anything in his life, and I intend to honour his memory by being the best person I can, despite this massive mountain I have to climb.

  When Cyrus was in Year 8 he wrote a poem, and I came across it again recently as I was looking through some paperwork. It was part of some things that the staff at his school had found and put to one side for us. The words are those of a young boy not knowing what he wanted to do with his life or what road it would take. It is completely ironic.

  I’m on a Kamikaze mission, so follow no laws,

  I can be big and dangerous but have no jaws.

  I’m sometimes bright colours, pink purple and red

  But if you touch me, I will steal your leg.

  I can be hidden in fields, jungles and such

  There are thousands of me, I don’t cost much.

  My life is dedicated to terror and fear,

  I rip through the flesh of those who come near.

  It’s not only people, animals as well.

  My purpose in life is to make your life hell.

  To rid this world of me and my friends,

  Would take years and months, days upon end.

  The life I live has a very long line,

  In case you’ve not guessed, I am a landmine.

  Cyrus Thatcher 8LC

  Oh Cyrus, I love you my darling. I wish I could tell you. I wish I could hold you. I wish you were here. Mum x

  Cyrus in Sangar 3, FOB Gibraltar, Afghanistan

  Cyrus with me - whilst home on pre-tour leave March 2009

  Cyrus, Zac and Steely - the last photo of our boys together March 2009, Reading

  Steely, Cyrus, Rob and Zac with the crabs they caught off the Devon coast - summer 1997

  Zac, Steely, Rob and Cyrus - Disneyland, Florida 1998

  Steely, Rob, Cyrus and Zac - Mud baths in Turkey August 2002

  Steely, me, Zac and Cyrus relaxing in the Jacuzzi after a day skiing in Fernie, British Columbia, Canada 2004

  Rob, Cyrus and me - open day at ATR Bassingbourn - April 2007

  Namur Platoon, Marlborough Company ATR Bassingbourn 2007.

  Pte Cyrus Thatcher is top row, second from right.

  Cyrus, Chief-of-Police, Lt. Paul Mervis - Kosovo 2008

  Cyrus with children whilst protecting a monastery in Kosovo with Rfn Marsh in the background.

  Artwork by Lcpl Strachan, done to pass time whilst in the FOB, which stood outside the tented living area

  10 Platoon, FOB Gibraltar, Afghanistan May 2009.

  From left to right front row: Lcpl Strachan, Rfn Thompson, Lcpl Wilson, Cpl Waldron, Cpl Childs, Lt Paul Mervis, Sjt Smith, Cpl Kirkham, Lcpl Ells, Rfn Cyrus Thatcher, Rfn Vaughan. Back row: Rfn Elliott (behind 50cal gun), Rfn Monaghan, Rfn Franks, Rfn Malou, Rfn McGinn, Rfn Gordon, Rfn Reed, Rfn Young, Rfn Preist, Rfn Jacobs, Rfn Hughes (behind 50cal gun)

  Cyrus and Rfn Stewart Elliott in their sleeping quarters, at Camp Bastion, Afghanistan

  Paul Jacobs with Lasam the puppy in a patrol base outside FOB Gibraltar, Afghanistan

  Cyrus waiting to go out on patrol, FOB Gibraltar, Afghanistan

  Funeral of Cyrus at Reading Minister of St Mary the Virgin Photo: Geoffrey Swaine / Rex Features

  Cyrus proudly wearing his Rifles beret

  The death of a family member, especially while still young, changes everything. We each cope with loss in a different way, but it can help to share feelings with someone who has been through a similar
experience.

  The Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen and Families Association (SSAFA) Forces Help is an established military charity that takes care of those currently serving, their families and veterans. As an increasing number of British troops became casualties of the recent conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq it became clear that the families of those who had died needed and deserved additional support.

  The death of a son or daughter can only be truly understood by those who have experienced it. The SSAFA Bereaved Families Support Group was established by families themselves and helps whether a death occurred in a combat or noncombat situation. From coping with emotional turmoil to the practicalities of dealing with the MoD and inquests. Those who have recently suffered loss are able to gain strength and knowledge from those further along the path.

  The families meet around the UK with special support groups available for the siblings of those who have been killed. A similar mutual support group operates for those families where someone has suffered a serious life-changing injury.

  For further information regarding SSAFA Forces Help and the Support Groups visit www.ssafasupportgroups.org.uk or call 0845 1300 975.