A Father Chronicles the Heartache of Losing a Son Too Soon

Death comes at us, unyielding and immense, offering its only gift, infinite absence. Often, we face away from it, faintly reminded of its presence only when we experience losses. Elizabeth Bishop captured this connection poignantly when she began her famous poem of loss with, “The art of losing isn’t hard to master.”

Alfred Lord Tennyson, at the age of 26, confronted the sudden death of his close friend and soon-to-be brother-in-law and wrote, “Break, break, break/On thy cold grey stones, O sea!” His words seem to howl at the vast inhumanity of death.

It is one thing to observe the presence of death in the world and quite another to experience it when someone you love—a person you might have raised from childhood or known intimately for decades—suddenly and prematurely dies. Such an event exposes those left behind to nearly unbearable pain and near-total darkness of the soul.

Warwick McFadyen, a journalist and poet, has embraced this darkness, publishing two short books detailing his thoughts, feelings, and memories in response to the sudden death of his son, Hamish, who died at the age of 21 in 2019.

Much like Nick Cave in his discussions with Sean O’Hagan in “Faith, Hope and Carnage”, McFadyen articulates his experience in powerful, honest prose while also delving into song, lyrics, and poetry.

In their grief, some people may find solace in prolonged silence, others in painting, dance, meditation, or renewed friendships. Any discipline can become a negotiation between denial and acceptance, celebration and curse, ongoing love, and love arrested in its tracks.

McFadyen’s book, “The Ocean”, begins with a poignant reflection:

Every day I stare into the abyss and say good morning. Before sleep, I go to it and say good night, adding, See you in the morning. The abyss sits on a shelf.

“The Ocean” is a series of short prose reflections, ordered chronologically from two months after his son’s death to three years later. He describes his anguish at two months as a “monstrous wave” and a dense, black, dead star in his heart. Through his writings, McFadyen shares moments spent with his son, their conversations, and shared interests, making the reader feel a deep emotional connection to his loss.

Sometimes his writing transforms into poetry or references poets who have moved him—Shakespeare, Rilke, TS Eliot. He also addresses everyday interactions, such as struggling to answer the well-meaning question, “How are you?”

At the two-year mark, he writes:

The here and now of him is like a small boat sailing from me on an ocean too wide and too deep to hold it back. Sometimes, in the ever-widening parting of the years, I think I can hear him say, let go dad, I’m gone.

The evolution of his feelings is evident, though the pain and profound sense of loss remain palpable in every line. McFadyen’s writing continues to be a powerful testament to the enduring impact of grief.

Nearing two and a half years after Hamish’s death, McFadyen uncovers a diagnosis for his condition: prolonged grief disorder, as defined in the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5). This diagnosis allows doctors to ask insurance companies for compensation payments and prescribe medications aimed at relieving such suffering. For instance, Naltrexone, a drug for heroin withdrawal, is being tested for this very purpose.

McFadyen vehemently criticizes this approach, seeing it as a deafness “to the murmurings of the soul.” His writing and marking of time are acts of expression rather than signs of illness or a manual for recovery. If grief is taken from the landscape left after losing someone you love, he asks, “what is left?”

“To lament is to love even when the object of that love has gone,” he writes, emphasizing the importance of continuing to feel deeply, rather than pathologizing natural grief.

The later pages of “The Ocean” are filled with poems that range from specific memories of Hamish to broader meditations on nature, its cycles, seasons, and moods. As a surfer, McFadyen often turns to the ocean, using waves and the “lapping of each moment” as metaphors for his ongoing grief.

In the final passage of this deeply honest book, more than three years after Hamish’s death, McFadyen tries to articulate his reasons for writing about his loss. For him, “language is the bridge for one soul to cross to another.” He strives to find the right words while staying true to the unplanned “tidal surge of giving voice to thoughts in prose and poetry.”

Who knew that ashes would weigh the same in your arms as when you held him as a baby.

The companion book, “The Centre of Zero,” comprises poems categorized under Water, Light, Earth, Voices, and Time. The opening section celebrates his passion for water—waves, currents, and the movement of light on rivers and oceans. Later sections, especially Earth, contain heartfelt reflections, such as the plaque prepared for Hamish.

Simplicity and direct emotions permeate McFadyen’s poetry, portraying the enduring love for his lost child. Both books serve as poignant tributes to Hamish’s brief life and as profound expressions of grief. They may not be something everyone wants to read now, but they could become a source of solace in times of need.

Source: The Conversation