Time... waits for no wo/man ~ Guest Writer Esther Stanway-Williams
- spacetofeelings
- Feb 10
- 6 min read
I was sorting through some drawers recently and found a small black bag with a collection of interwoven watches inside. They were ones which I’d inherited from my mum (she obviously loved her watches) plus an older one of mine which I’ve replaced, many times.
As I began unravelling them, I found myself considering our individual experiences of life. And wondering what my mum would have made of the many directions mine has taken since her death (less than a month after she’d been diagnosed with the ‘silent killer’, ovarian cancer.) This year marks my officially being older than her which feels both weird and significant. But it’s not exactly a cause for celebration since I’ve always been aware of how much life she’s missed out on, over the last 33 years.
In a week’s time it will be my Substack anniversary: exactly one year since I began writing about losing my older son, Dom, to suicide. In the very first post, I wrote about how we were marking (rather than ‘celebrating’) his latest birthday. Now, a year later, that date is looming again, and I’m reminded of the words with which I ended my piece:
Because, whilst it still feels right to mark their birthday, it seems so very wrong that they won’t be around to see us doing it.
Those of you familiar with my Substack will know that I’ve taken my love of the number three and used it as a basis for writing recent posts. Perhaps a little explanation is overdue. First, and very foremost, I am the mother to three wonderful young adults, two who have outlived their brother; my firstborn, Dom, is now very much my ‘spiritual’ son. One of the (many) difficult ‘social’ choices we make, after our child dies, is whether (or to whom) we divulge how our new-shaped family now looks. Whilst we each handle these occasions in our own way, I will always introduce myself as a mother of three.
And then there’s the spiritual context behind this number. Creating a triangle, which is one of the most stable structures, ‘three’ speaks to me of achieving balance. A sacred triad (the Holy Trinity is a central doctrine of Christianity), it’s a reminder that seeking harmony (in contrast to dissonance) helps return us to a place of peace. And in finding ways to make sense of my life as a whole, I am now in an ongoing process of seeking to forge a helpful relationship between three different timespans: my Past, Present and Future. And finally, modern psychology also encourages us to pay attention to the inter-play between our mind, body and soul. In many posts on my website (subtitled with the three words Hope, Healing and Joy) I’ve used this knowledge on a ‘journaling-journey’ to recover from the trauma of losing my son so tragically.
And that’s why it’s felt so right in recent posts to define the life I’m now living as containing three strands. Firstly, The Hard Stuff that still exists, and always will; because as all parents know, we don’t ‘get over’ our child’s dying, we instead find means to carry the heavy weight of this loss. Then the Helpful Stuff, in essence, our individual ways of continuing to walk forward, and finally the Healing Stuff, which is where I celebrate the progress I have made in living a life beyond my tragedy.
So, without further ado, let’s begin…
THE HARD STUFF
The dates which are coming up will always feel heavy. Dom’s birth-day, which should have been a celebration of his new year unfolding, is just one of them. In the days that follow this there’s difficult dates: the last time he was home, the last occasion I physically saw him, the last phone conversation, the last time we texted, the last voice message he left. And then heaviest of all, the day he died. All of these are ‘lasts’ which shouldn’t have existed. Because I wasn’t supposed to have outlived my child.
This sadness doesn’t end, even if others may seem to have forgotten, because I/we live with this loss, every day. However ‘well’ I appear to have integrated my son’s death into my own life history, he’ll always be dead and I’ll always grieve him. The shape of our family is forever changed, and there will always be a huge gap where Dom used to be.
There are no second chances, no way to build anything positive out of my son’s death. It can feel particularly hard when our child made the ‘apparent’ decision to take their own life; often referred to as their having found a permanent solution to what was only a temporary problem, something in this wording seems to imply that we missed the chance to save them.
THE HELPFUL STUFF
Whether we like it or not, the clock keeps ticking and the days/months and years keep passing. At the beginning this feels like an insult to the deep pain we’re in, but now I’m able to give myself credit for holding on through those incredibly tough days and to recognise that it’s got easier (something I would never have thought possible at the start.)
With time the traumatic memories of Dom’s struggle with depression and the devastating way in which he died have receded, and instead I increasingly think about how he lived, wanting to celebrate this. What helps me in committing to doing this is knowing that my son would 100% approve.
Ways to connect with my son present themselves very regularly nowadays. Sometimes I wonder if this is the ‘reward’ we get, when we discover how to combat the self-condemnation that can so often come in the aftermath of their death. I like to think that Dom’s much happier now I’ve released myself from that prison and is enjoying dropping in on me outside the previously limited visiting hours.
THE HEALING STUFF
So much of our focus when our child dies is on their absence, which is unsurprising when they were a central part of the very fabric of our lives. For a long time, I was acutely aware of where Dom wasn’t and this impacted on how I experienced events, weddings (and other celebrations) as well as family occasions. Time has offered me a different prism, and nowadays I focus on ways to keep him present, and to notice where he still is. Increasingly this feels like everywhere.
Since facing the trauma head-on, I’ve found myself able to access the happy memories of times I spent with my son, and to be grateful that there are so many. Undoubtably, there were sad times, too, but I don’t doubt which memories Dom would want me to actively rekindle now.
Simple pleasures don’t feel so simple anymore. Walking my dog in the sunshine, playing a favourite piano piece, reading a good book, cooking and eating a delicious meal, finding exactly the right wool for my next knitting project…. the list goes on. What a joy it is to find that nowadays I can achieve peak satisfaction level in such uncomplicated ways. Just as Dom so often did.
Finding my mum’s old watches again reminded me of how much I’ve missed her presence in my life. She wasn’t there to see her grandchildren grow up, or to support me when I became a single parent. But she did avoid watching my dad’s rapid descent after she’d died, culminating in his dying of dementia. And she was also spared the heartbreak of knowing that her beloved grandson had taken his life. Because Time is two-directional: I’ve even found myself relieved that Dom, as a deeply humane person, is able to be so blissfully unaware of the current state of the world.
But this doesn’t mitigate against a harsh truth: sometimes the Universe makes some pretty devastating decisions about how our lives are going to unfold, most significantly when it decides our time is up. Far too soon for my mum and granting what can feel like an unforgivably short number of years for my son. Time doesn’t wait for any of us, either, after tragedy, throwing us carelessly into a changed world in which our child no longer lives. Each year freshly presents us with those difficult days, looming now for me, when we can’t be other than acutely sad.
And yet, here I am, still standing and in a very different place from this time last year. Ready to take on new challenges of which I know Dom, with his trademark energy and determination, would thoroughly approve. I always smile when I remember how, on family walks, my son would look for large sticks so he could stride through the woods pretending to be Gandalf. So, I’m sure he’d love me ending with the words Tolkien gave this wise old Wizard:
“All we have to decide is what to do with the time we are given.”
‘Watch’ this space guys…
Find other posts by Esther @ Losing My Son To Suicide; Hope Healing and Joy (HH & J) | Esther Stanway-Williams | Substack
This is so powerful Esther, "I will always introduce myself as a mother of three." Thank you for sharing about sweet Dom.
Thank you Joanie, that's so kind! I've loved sharing Dom with you, just as you so generously share Douglas with us other mums. You have brought so much healing to me, and I am deeply appreciative x
Esther, this is such a beautifully written essay. I too appreciate the balance of three, and I love the idea of giving equal attention to what's hard, helpful, and healing. It's a simple but important reminder that we can experience each of those at once, or at different times; that it's never all one thing. Your series "Tears Tools and Treasures" is truly a gift to other bereaved parents. I think Dom is proud and approving of the ways you keep him present and help others through your writing. Sending love and understanding for Dom's birthday; those milestone days are tough. Thank you
Beautiful post Esther. I love hearing about Dom so the Gandalf stick reference was delightful! I have also been without my mother for 33 years (unknown cancer) and can’t bear the thought of her finding out that Sanjay, her 1st adored grandchild had died. The 3 Hs are a useful framework. Thank you for these gifts xx
My deepest and heartfelt gratitude, Esther, for your willingness to share Dom, and yourself here with us. My readers are a loving bunch, and I know will welcome you, as you already are acquainted with a handful of them. Please go and check out Esther's Substack, it is a healing sanctuary. 💜🪶