I hadn’t known much about grief in my early life. Growing up we’d lost a pet or two. When I was in my early twenties, my cat, Tyson (god rest him) died and then my grandad (a truly great bloke – hard as nails but soft on the inside) was taken a few years after that.

Before I turned 30, I didn’t know much else of grief. Bit of a first time caller, long time listener you could say. My thirties have not been all that kind to me, belting like a Queensland hailstorm with more grief than one woman can possibly handle.

I’ve got a close friend who has her own shitstorm brewing in her life right now. She hasn’t lost anyone in the true sense of the word of actually losing them to death but she’s pretty cut up nonetheless. She’s lost the life she knew. She’s lost the future she thought she had. She even feels as though she’s lost her identity and now, in her very early forties, has to start over. She says she feels empty, alone, defeated. And possibly pretty shit-assing ripped off. As if everything she knew has just gone up in smoke. Her life unplugged. It’s all too familiar.

She asked me something I’ve heard so many times I could almost stamp it to my forehead but when you’re plunged into grief head-on, it feels better to talk to someone who’s tread the waters before you. ‘How did you do it…how did you keep going?’ she asked quietly. If you’ve got a spare thirty-eight hours or so, I can go over it in absolute blow-by-blow days of darkness but like everyone else who is going through their own pit of grief, you just do. Shit, you might not even feel truly a human at times, no actually make that all the time. Days go slow, nights even slower. Especially Sunday nights, which are utterly the most shitful day of the week. Everyone’s tucked up on the couch with their family – a spag bol in their belly and a glass of red in their mits. You’ll never quite know loneliness as much as when you no longer have that person who used to occupy the space beside you.

I’ve been doing it so long I don’t even realise. Shelving grief might not be everyone’s idea of healing – and certainly not a qualified psychologist’s view…but what’s the alternative? What do you tell your teary toddler who asks why his dad can’t get out of the six foot mahogany box he’s shut inside? Who asks if heaven has a door because he wants to go and find him. How do you keep going when you’ve had five cycles of IVF, nine failed embryo transfers and one early miscarriage that you thought really was the one that would work this time? As a widow and as a mum, you attempt to do as best you can and hope like shit you make it through another day. Each one is a tiny brick in the great wall towards healing. The pain won’t get any easier and the loss won’t ever go away. Grief will permanently occupy a firm position in my heart till my last breath.

Even though her pain is different to mine there is a certain sameness that comes with a woman’s grief when she loses the partner she knows and loves like a limb, an extension of herself. I’m no expert but all I can be is an ear and a voice. A voice of experience that life will one day be better. So so much better (a greater soul in The Vet who found me and helped me back on my feet again sure is testament to that). To anyone who has ever known grief like a second skin, big biggest hugs, Lady MamaG xox

I remember exactly where I was on Friday, October 6, 2006. I could tell you everything about that day piece-by-piece. Painting my toenails Chanel ‘coral’. Reading a gossip magazine. My pink and white bikini strapped under my shoulders so I wouldn’t get strap marks. I remember it like it was yesterday. This picture was taken on that very same day. My 8 y o was just two-and-a-half in that photo. Look how happy he is. Look at that cheeky little smile. Look at the chocolate smeared all over his face. He is a typical toddler. Chubby little squishy arms, rounded cheeks and his too-long fringe tickling at his eyelashes. He is young, innocent and sweet. Just like a little boy should be. But he is also utterly oblivious to the world of horror unfolding thousands of kilometers away in Sydney’s Blue Mountains.

This week will mark the sixth anniversary since we tragically lost his Daddy and I will always get shivers through my spine when I look at this photo. For so many reasons, most of which that I wish I could protect him from a world of pain and sorrow but also I am glad that on the worst day of both of our lives…he is happy. He’s not in the ICU unit of the RPA hospital watching his Daddy hooked up to machines helping his heart to beat, his lungs to breathe. He is not surrounded by people we know and love all praying that his Daddy will come out of his coma. He doesn’t have to watch as his Mummy keeps a bedside vigil, hoping and praying with each passing hour that the broken man beside her will open his eyes. He won’t have to hear the screams and cries as the doctor’s tell her it’s just no good. He’s not coming back.

He was too young to remember that day. Not even old enough to go to school, or to ride a bike. And sure not old enough to understand that his Daddy was never coming home. Ever. It was my job to protect him from harm, from grief and from sadness. I left him behind with a friend when I flew to Sydney to be beside his Daddy as he lay dying. I’ll never regret that decision because that is what a mum is supposed to do. I couldn’t bring his Daddy back to life but I’d make damn sure I spent the rest of mine shielding him from the grief we would both have to live with.

As he gets older, he wants to know more. He wants to look at pictures of his Daddy, wear the same clothes as he did and even likes to listen to the same music. He is almost entirely made up of the genes of his Daddy and I see it more and more with each day. He wants desperately to be around anyone with any link to his Daddy, as if trying to keep his own faded memories alive. There will never be a time when I don’t look into his eyes, the exact same eyes of his Daddy’s, and wish I could change things. Wish I could bring his Daddy back. There’s never going to be a time that I don’t mourn for the Daddy he never got the chance to know. All I can do is be grateful I have my strong, courageous and cheeky 8 y o to remind me of the beautiful soul his Daddy left behind.

Oh but we are lucky. We are lucky that his Mummy has found the most incredible man to fill our lives with happiness again. A man who respects the shadow that is left behind, while doing a mighty fine job at standing in – for us both. While we may have seen great sorrow and sadness in our lives, we will never ever forget to be grateful for what we’ve got.

Hugs, Lady Mama G x