Daily Prophet Feature: Stirring
Brought to you by Daily Prophet columnist Roxanne Weasley
Welcome to an all new edition of ‘Stirring.’ This week, we have a reader from Wiltshire, who has asked to remain anonymous, that recently lost a loved one, and he has chosen to share his story with all of us. Of course, I would like to convey my own deepest condolences to this fellow, and I hope that his family recognises him and applauds his determination.
The reader writes:
“Hello, Roxanne. I have noticed the number of rerun articles in this portion of the paper, and it got me thinking that if more people shared their personal experiences, told their story, that this world would be a better place for our children to grow up in. It has been expounded time and time again that those who don’t know history are bound to repeat it, but do we listen to our own counsel? I daresay we do not. Advice, oddly enough, is a strong reason why I am writing to you today.
“You see, recently, my father was murdered by a man he had called a friend since he was a boy. It wasn’t premeditated, it wasn’t slow and torturous, but more than any of that, it wasn’t deserved. His death was brought about because that old friend of his had drunk a little too much and tried to get on a broomstick. My father, noticing that the man could barely stand, let alone fly, tried to keep his friend from getting on the broom, but that just angered the other man, who, in turn, gave my father a Killing Curse in recompense for the concern over his safety.
“Now, my father had borne the hatred of our whole society for decades because of something he was coerced into doing as a mere sixteen-year-old boy, and his life was defined by that dark period, no matter how many times he tried to erase that wrong. Now, as it seems, my father had more friends in death than he ever had in life, for every single one of them has seen fit to dole out advice for the poor, grieving son that they had never bothered to stop on the street, just to say hello. How infuriating it was for a slew of people to fancy themselves as friends of the family, yet not once had a single one of them wished a happy birthday to either of my children, or even sent a greeting card on a holiday. Yet, everywhere I go, it’s the same thing”a hollow ‘sorry for your loss’ that I know said nameless individual was just saying because it’s supposed to be the thing to do. And being this close to Christmas, their done up sympathy is only worse.
“I was angry, I was upset, I was grieving, and I didn’t want platitudes or pity. I just wanted to grieve my father’s loss with the people who actually cared about him, which was sadly a small number of individuals. Not even my wife understood how I felt, but really, how could she? Her father was still alive. For a while, I couldn’t even imagine a life without this enormous weight on my shoulders, because the burden was one that I didn’t think I could share with anybody, or at least anybody that understood.
“For quite some time, I found myself shut in the conservatory of my father’s house, because it was his favourite place, his sanctuary, and I wanted it to be mine, too. I barely ate, barely slept, and barely did anything but act the role of layabout, oddly enough, only stirring from my nonchalance to read this particular section of the paper. I desperately wanted to see one person, just one, who had a worse go of it than me, which I guess isn’t the most admirable thing in the world, but it’s the truth. Besides, since when is the truth ever what we want to see or what we expect? I consider my illusions on the subject well and truly shattered ages ago.
“But then, something rather incredible happened; I was approached by one of my in-laws, my wife’s uncle. It would not be a stretch to say that he hated my father (and me by association) in life and probably still did in death, but I’ll never, for the rest of my life, forget the words he said to me. It was not the patronising ‘I’m so sorry,’ or the self-serving ‘if there’s anything I can do.’ He said, ‘Son, I imagine you’re in a right state. You want to yell, you want to scream, and you want to crawl into a dark hole with a bottomless bottle of Firewhiskey, self-destruct, and never come out. If that’s what you want to do, then fine, but you’re a bloody coward if you do. Just remember who really matters to you, and if they love you half as much as you do them, then let them help you when the time is right. You’ll know when that is.’
“That was all he said, but it was enough to fill my brain for days. It was then that I realised that I had shut out my mother, my best friend, but worst of all, I had shut out my wife and children from my loss, because it was not just my loss”it was all of ours. I had been selfish, I had been a coward, and it was time to let that go, because I refuse to shame my father’s memory by becoming some sort of hermit or worse, a worthless sot.
“After that day, I sat down with my wife, and I did something that I hadn’t done since the moment I found out he was dead”I cried. Men are bred from childhood to think that tears are weak and foolish, but afterwards, I felt like I had lost that burden of grief that had followed me around for months. I told her what I was feeling, what I was thinking, I told her everything, and she did not judge, she did not say that she was sorry, and she did not try to tell me how to feel. She did what I had hoped someone could do from the start, and that was to just listen.
“Life has this strange ability to keep going, even if you haven’t gone along for the ride, but I was fortunate to snap out of my melancholy in time not to let it get too far away. After I came back to the land of the living, so to speak, I found more pleasure in the mundane things in life, such as reading my daughter a bedtime story or helping her make her first snowman in the front yard. Even explaining to her, or at least in terms a three-year-old can understand, that her grandfather wouldn’t ever be able to see her again was a relief, because in the ever-innocent way of a child, she simply asked if he was in a better place. I found that I didn’t hesitate in telling her that he was in some better place. Whether there is or is not an afterlife, I believe that if someone leaves this world and his absence is felt, then he would have truly made his mark, not unlike the damning one that was eternally tattooed to his arm.
“So, in retrospect, had I turned to the people that I cared about from the start, I could have kept those valuable weeks that I had wasted on self-pity and fancying myself the misunderstood loner that I had geared myself up to be. Those weeks could have been filled with life, love, laughter, and several more snow-filled afternoons with my children. I could’ve honoured my father by celebrating his life rather than lamenting his death, because I’m fairly certain that he would have wanted it that way. I’ll probably regret a great many things, such as things I never said when I had the chance or not visiting on every holiday as I probably should have, but regret is much like a potent spice; a little bit keeps us honest, but too much makes everything taste bitter.
“I know that many people have lost loved ones, whether in the War that was fought before I was born, to natural causes, or even at the hands of another. With that being said, I can’t believe I was foolish enough to believe that I could not find one person who would know how I felt, who understood that no, everything was most definitely not all right and never will be. Even if that ‘one person’ was my wife’s cantankerous uncle that hates me, my family, my name, my heritage, and in general, everything about me.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that no matter what, in times of trouble, your family will more often than not come through for you, despite whether you believe that they have any idea about what’s going on in your head and in your heart. Find solace in the ones you care for, because if you turn them away, you just might find that the loneliness that you craved in your time of grief will be your bedfellow for longer than you’d care for it to be.
“In closing, I’d like to say that grief will always be a constant companion of mine, but unlike its first vestiges in my life, I no longer allow it to hold dominion over me, to dictate how I live my life. I suggest to anyone reading this who has experiences similar to mine to do the same before it’s too late.
“Sincerely, Anonymous.”