“People do remember, but I think they often forget to let you know they do. Or they’re too scared they’ll say the wrong thing, or they might upset you. I would much rather someone share a memory with me about Mel that makes me cry than say nothing.”
Remembering Melissa
Melissa was our first daughter, she was born in August 1987 and died aged 20 in May 2008. Nine months prior to her death, the day after her 20th birthday, she had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin lymphoma. The initial prognosis was positive, but it soon became evident the treatment wasn’t working as
effectively as it should be doing and on 1st April 2008, we were told her condition was incurable. She died in the early hours of Sunday 11 May aged 20.
Melissa loved being around people, particularly her family. She was football crazy, a Liverpool fan and whilst I supported Everton, we both followed Burton Albion. We would spend most weekends watching Burton Albion and for Mel it was the social side that attracted her, as much as the game itself. She loved a chat and would regularly relay her day to anyone willing to listen. They had to patiently listen, just in case Mel would test them later in the conversation.
Following Mel’s death, I quickly discovered that my way of dealing with my grief was to keep busy. I started putting together the blogs we had written. The aim was to turn them in to a book to help people understand more about daily life when caring for someone with cancer. In late 2008, I began training for a London to Paris cycle ride to raise awareness and funds for charities who had supported us during Mel’s illness. As time went by, I was regularly invited to speak at conferences on end of life care and bereavement support and I helped to train health professionals around good end of life care. It kept me busy, but it was also about keeping Mel’s memory alive.
I’d post regular updates on Facebook about family life without Mel. Facebook has been very interesting. I always say that as a grieving parent, social media can be your best friend, or your worst enemy. It can give you unbelievable highs and awful lows. In the months and indeed the first few years that followed Mel’s death her Facebook page would be lit up with messages from friends and family. “Missing you Mel”, “Thinking of You”, “Remember when we . . .” and then they slowed down. Fourteen years on and there are only two or three messages on Mel’s Facebook page on the anniversary of her death, or her birthday and rarely at other times during the year. Maybe if Liverpool win a trophy there may be one or two. I have now deactivated my Facebook account as I found it a difficult place to visit.
Deactivating my account was quite a pivotal moment. It made me realise that just because I no longer leave messages, it doesn’t mean I don’t care, or I’ve forgotten her. I remember her every single day and I’m sure I always will. The same applies to her friends and family. I know they remember her and think of her, but people’s lives grow, and other life events take over. I’m sure that people still remember her.
Recently I posted on social media about our visit to Mel’s former university and how we’d helped set up a media room in her memory. The post had the most views and likes of anything I’ve posted in years (including photographs of the Bailey’s Cupcakes that I recently baked). People do remember, though I sometimes feel a need to jog their memory!
I mentioned about the highs and lows of social media. My heart soars when someone remembers Mel and writes a post about a memory they have of time spent with her. The lows don’t come in the form of people not doing that, but more so when I see her friends getting married, having children, going on holiday and doing all the things we wished for her.
A couple of years ago I was at a football match and one of the directors of the club talked quite spontaneously about Mel, saying how we were always together, and she was always happy. Just a simple sentence can make your day, your month or even your year.
People do remember, but I think they often forget to let you know they do. Or they’re too scared they’ll say the wrong thing, or they might upset you. I would much rather someone share a memory with me about Mel that makes me cry than say nothing.
If you know a bereaved parent, make their heart soar. Share a memory about their child or ask them to share a memory with you. Show you remember them.
