These are some of the songs and the stories behind them.  I have written a little about the way I was feeling when I wrote them and how I came to write them.

At first the songs that I wrote were very raw.  They were often angry or desperately sad.  They were ‘in your face’, painful, uncomfortable to listen to.  They were mostly just for me, to help me find words for the grief.  If anyone read them or listened to them they would know something of the anguish I was going through.  It must have been very hard for Bob to listen to those first songs and travel that first part of the journey with me.

It was a long, hard journey and it still goes on, although I am in a very different place now from where I was then.

As the time passed I began to be more able to understand other people’s grief and to sympathise with them.  I started to write songs about things that had happened to other people as well as my own grief.

I began to write songs that were less raw, easier to listen to.  They used metaphor to describe the sadness, painting a picture in words and music. They were less ‘in your face’, less brutal and I think people found them easier to listen to and to identify with.  They were more comfortable to listen to, but underneath there were feelings of deep grief and sadness.

* * *

‘Sitting beside you’ came to me first thing in the morning, not long after I had started going to Bob.  I woke up with some words and a tune in my head.  I thought “I mustn’t lose it!” but I went back to sleep and when I woke up again I couldn’t remember how the song had gone.  Gradually, during the morning, it began to come back to me.  I had been feeling so guilty that I had let Sharon die, that I hadn’t been able to help her more as she died. I had a very strong feeling that I had let her down.     This was a song that tried to say how it felt to be sitting beside someone I loved as she was dying. I knew she was in pain.  In my heart I knew she was dying, but I didn’t want to believe it.  There was nothing I could do to help her.  I would have given anything, anything, for her to live, to be able to make her well and strong again.  But there was nothing I could do.  At least I was with her.  I hope that it helped her to know that I was there, holding her.

Is this the hardest thing I’ll ever do?
Sitting beside you when you die.

* * *

When you lose someone close to you it’s so unbearable that you can’t take it in all at once.  It was as though I had put all that sadness into a box and only got it out at times when I was alone and I could just be sad.  The rest of the time I lived in the other compartments of my life: being at work, being with my family, being with friends, just getting on normally because that’s what you do.  But sometimes the sadness finds a way to break through; something just sets you off and you are in tears again.  Sometimes the sadness just seems to seep out gradually and makes you tired.

* * *

‘Trying to be normal’ is a song about how Sharon carried on as normally as she could when she was ill.  She didn’t make a fuss about anything or go on about it.  She tried to make it easier for the rest of us by chatting about normal things. She always wanted to know how you were doing and talk about you, rather than go on about herself.  No, she wasn’t a saint!  She got frustrated with it all. She’d grumble about how long it took for test results to come through and how long it took for forms to be sent.  But she didn’t act like an invalid and she made it easy to forget sometimes how ill she was.

She was determined to fit in as much as she could in her life, even though by now she was in a wheel chair.  So Sue Herbert took her up to London to visit Harrods and they went on the London Eye together.  They had great day together.  Sharon talked about how she had enjoyed it and I could see from the photographs what a good day they had had.

A few weeks later I took her to the Ideal Home exhibition.  We travelled on the train and got taxis to get round London. Then I pushed her round to see all the stands.  We had a go on various things and found the freebies.  Sharon chose a couple of lovely velvety throws, one bright red, one bright blue. She found a bright shower curtain with dolphins on it to match their bathroom.  She wasn’t hungry, but she made sure that I found somewhere to have a bite to eat and have a drink.

It was an impressive exhibition.  A river to cross and even a waterfall.  Sharon didn’t want to miss anything.  She wanted to see all of it.  There was just one time when I saw what a strain it was for her, wanting to do it all, but having to rely on someone else to do things for her.  All that sadness that she kept inside about the things that she had wanted and now could never have.

In my clumsy attempt to push Sharon’s wheel chair through the crowds, I nearly bumped into a young woman.  The wheel chair had not gone very close to her, but she got very cross.

“I wish people would look where they’re going!” she shrilled, staring at us in fury.  “I don’t want any more bruises on my legs!”  Before I could apologise, she stomped off with a quick glance of disdain.

I pushed Sharon off in a different direction, calling “Sorry!”  Sharon said nothing at first, but she was upset.

“We never touched her! What is she grumbling about?”  Sharon motioned me to stop so she could look down at the river and the waterfall.  A tear trickled down her face.

“She can walk. She could have easily moved out of the way. She’s healthy and strong.  And I bet she can have children.”

We stopped there for a few minutes while Sharon got herself together.  We had a bit of a grumble together about thoughtless people who should think more carefully before they spoke, and then she wanted to go on and see more of what was there.  She was back to her normal self, wondering where the water features were, asking if I was tired.  I had just had a brief glimpse into the sadness she was carrying with her, but mostly she didn’t mention it.  That’s courage.  Courage doesn’t mean not being afraid or not being sad.  Courage is being afraid, being sad, but going on anyway.

‘Trying to be normal’ is about Sharon’s courage.

* * *

I wrote ‘ Happy Birthday’ because I was missing the fun that Sharon and I used to have around birthdays.  We would go shopping together to choose a present for one of us, maybe something to wear or something to plant in the garden.  We would maybe plan a meal out together, so we could meet up and talk.  I was remembering all the happy times we had had in the past.

This was the year after she had died and it was just coming up for her birthday again.  I was going down to the allotment and then picking the runner beans when the words and tune together started to come into my head.  Again, I took the song to Bob and sang it to him and he made up some chords to it.  It helped to put it into words.

Bob said, “The music will hold you and make it OK to be in this place.  It becomes a vessel to carry the pain.”  I don’t understand how it works but it does seem to carry some of the sadness away, to make it bearable.

Also I was really pleased that I had managed to write these songs.  They were something I had been able to make at a time when I seemed to have so little to give.  I suppose I was proud of them.  I didn’t want people to forget Sharon.  I wanted to talk about her, but it was hard to put into words, so I hoped the songs would say it for me.

When I went down to Jenny’s with Sue that autumn I took the words of some of the songs with me to show her.

There was a folk night at the local pub and I stood up and sang ‘Happy birthday’ to them all.  It felt sad but good to be singing about Sharon in a place that she had loved so much.

This was the pub where Sharon and M used to go with Jenny and Tony when they had visited.  Sharon had loved that place: the estuary with the haunting cries of sea birds, the hills and the valleys of the Devonshire countryside.

A year before M and Sue and I had made the journey down to see Jenny and Tony – it felt like a kind of pilgrimage to a place that she had loved.  We had planted a rose in the garden of the pub as a memorial to Sharon.  Things we do to remember.

* * *

‘Envy’ is a song that I wrote about all the envious feelings I started to have.  I watched mothers and daughters together and wished I could have my daughter back again.  I grieved for the good times we might have had, for all those things we never got round to doing or saying.  I still wanted to see Sharon and talk with her and hold her, but she was gone.

I wished I still had my mother too, so I could spend time with her and talk with her. We could talk about so many things together. Yes, I still miss my Mum; she was a real friend and I miss the times we spent together.  But to lose one’s parents is the normal way of things; that is how it goes.  Your mother and father get older and then they die and you miss them.  You don’t expect that you will lose someone younger than you.  You don’t expect to lose your own son or daughter.

That feeling of envy is only natural, I suppose, but it is not a pleasant or attractive emotion.  I don’t really want to own up to it, but I noticed it was there.

I started to notice mothers and daughters everywhere: around the shops or on the bus or at the garden centre.  Every time I saw a mother and daughter together I would feel a pang of sadness, with sometimes a feeling of resentment or envy.

I still see mothers and daughters walking together, talking together, shopping together and laughing together.  Sometimes they have a bit of a moan at each other, but that’s all part of it.  You can see the love underneath. I envy the time they can share together.

I also started to notice the granddads and grandmas with the children at the park.  So many mums go out to work these days and quite often the grandparents help out with childcare.  Some of them are glad to do it; some of them grumble.

I saw grandparents having fun with the grandchildren, taking them to films, taking them to fun parks, chatting with them and taking care of them and I envied them. I had wanted the chance to see Sharon’s newborn babies and to help her in any way I could when they were little.  I had wanted to get to know each child of hers and watch with love as they grew up.  Perhaps I would have taken them for walks in the country and told them the names of trees and flowers and birds.  Perhaps I would have read them stories and helped them learn to read and count.  I miss all the things that might have been and I envy those grandparents who have those special times with their families.

I am very lucky now because M and his new partner make me so welcome into their family. I am even treated as an honorary granny to their baby girl and that is wonderful!  But at the time I wrote this song I could see no prospect of that; I could only see all the things that I had lost.

When I see mums and daughters happy together, it reminds me of happy times with Sharon, so there are lots of good memories there, but it also still brings a sting of regret for the things I miss and will never have again.

I watched Jo Brand on ‘Play it again’ some time ago. She had learned to play the organ over a period of just a few months and now she was playing it in front of thousands of people in the Albert Hall!  The person who had taught her was there and a vicar who she knew well.  Her Mum was there too; she was so pleased and so proud.  It was a wonderful occasion for her. Jo played brilliantly, even though she was so nervous.  She carried on through it and it was a wonderful performance.

Afterwards she was so pleased to have done it and all her friends and family were so proud of her.  I couldn’t help but weep to see a mum and daughter, the mum so proud of her daughter’s achievement.  I felt sorrow, having lost the daughter that I was so proud of; I felt envy for all those mums and daughters who still have each other’s support and pride and company; but I also felt a sense of sharing in that role of being a mum, being proud of a very special daughter.  I’m still a mum.  I’m still proud of Sharon.  I always will be.  I’m hurting, but I’m not destroyed.

Later on I wrote other songs about how my life and my roles had changed.  I wrote ‘My life is different’, about those changes:

Sometimes I cry to think of all the things
That might have been
And sometimes I weep
To see the children of strangers.

I wrote ‘Needed’ about the way it feels not to be needed in the way I thought that I would be.  It’s all about roles and the expectations we have and what it is like when everything changes.

But it’s too late, nobody needs you.
There’s nothing useful to do.

I look at all the busy people who have ‘useful’ things to do and I envy them.  I wish I had ‘useful’ things to do, like helping Sharon out in a crisis, like babysitting, like being on the end of the phone for her so she could tell me about her day.  Also other ‘useful’ things, like teaching and all the things you do as a teacher.

* * *

In the early days of my loss I felt very much alone.  I wrote ‘No-one understands’ to try to express this sense of isolation.  I knew other people were grieving, but I felt trapped in my own grief.  Each one of us was missing Sharon in our own way depending what our relationship with her had been.  No one else had been a mum to her; what they felt was not the same.

It was also about how difficult I found it to communicate my grief.  I couldn’t talk about it without crying and that would make people feel uncomfortable.  So I pretended to be OK.  I didn’t talk about it.

I don’t want to talk.
I’d rather just keep busy
And then I can forget
What I have lost some of the time.

My friends and colleagues tried to say the right things to sympathise with me, but I felt so isolated in my grief that whatever they said I still felt that they didn’t understand.  How could they?  They hadn’t lost a daughter.

Another song that tries to describe this sense of isolation is ‘Loneliness’.

Loneliness, I’m isolated on the other side.
Loneliness, so long I’ve waited
And this world’s so wide and empty,
Empty without you.

I wrote ‘Sometimes I cry’ about those times when I was busy and getting on with life, and then suddenly I remembered that she was gone, lost forever.  I wanted to scream in pain and anger, but what good would it do?  I wanted to shout out that I still loved her, but she felt so far away; there was no one there to tell.  So I would wait till I was on my own.  I would talk to the photographs and put on the sad music. And just cry.

It was some time after I had started going to Bob when I wrote that song and I don’t know where the words and music came from. Again I was going for one of my sad walks and thinking that there was no way I could express those feelings.  Already it seemed that some people were feeling that time was moving on, that I ought to be moving on with my life, but the pain of losing her was just as bad as ever.   I knew time was moving on, but I didn’t want to leave those memories behind.  I know some people think you have to leave the memories behind and forget the person you have lost in order to leave the sadness behind.  Maybe some people handle it that way and that’s OK.  I didn’t want to forget Sharon.  She had been, and still was, such a big part of my life.  She always will be.

* * *

One of the poems I found in ‘Do not go gentle’ (a collection of poems for funerals, edited by Neil Astley) is called ‘The Five Stages of Grief’ by Linda Pastan.  It talks about the ‘five stages’ that some may experience in the process of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance.  It seems that the bereaved person will be all right, but then it describes grief as a ‘circular staircase’; the person knows it is true that their loved one has gone but there is still one small, sad fact: “I have lost you.”

I don’t know that ‘acceptance’ is the right word.  I know that Sharon has died, but ‘acceptance’ sounds as if that’s OK and it definitely isn’t OK!  However much I may be moving on in my life, however much I have reached that stage of ‘acceptance’ in my mind, I have still lost Sharon and I still ache for what used to be and what might have been.

* * *

So many songs.  Where did they all come from?  I think that Bob was surprised that I kept bringing him yet another new song.  But each song came from a different emotion or memory or idea that was going through my mind at the time.  Sometimes I seemed to be trapped in a sad state of mind and then I would make up some words, or a tune would come into my head.  It gave me some release from the sense of being ‘stuck’ in a sad place.

Lots of the early songs were just for me – to help me express things and try to make sense of things.  I had no thought of sharing them with others.

Sometimes the words just seemed to come into my head; sometimes I really had to work at them.  Sometimes the tune came first and I wondered what words to put to it.  Sometimes I made up a tune in Bob’s music therapy room and we worked on it till it turned into a song.

The act of creating a song felt worthwhile, as though I was doing something useful, not just for myself but also perhaps for others. Sometimes I would worry that I wouldn’t think of any more songs, but then another one would come along.  I would listen to them in the car or while I was cooking the dinner.  I began to take them to friends and let them read the words and listen to the songs.  It helped me to share the feelings without the embarrassment and pain of explaining, because the explanation was in the song.

Sharon with Janice and Leslie, Elizabeth and her daughter at Lancaster. Sharon is about 16.