Notes on the Queen's Passing -Public and Private Grieving
The recent death of Queen Elizabeth II in the UK has been quite something in terms of a shared, public grief – even many people who are not royalists have been drawn in. That queue to see the queen lying in state! Incredible. The awe-inspiring processions of the funeral. The Queen’s corgis and her pony waiting to wish her a final farewell at Windsor! Guaranteed to pull at your heart strings.
I felt saddened by the Queen’s passing myself – she had always been there during my lifetime. Governments and Prime Ministers have come and gone, but she provided continuity. But I don’t suppose I was alone in finding that my sadness at her death was fuelled by more private griefs. For me, it made me realise how shallowly I’d buried my grief at my mum’s passing, four and a half years ago. Grief never goes away, does it? It just hides for a while, but easily pops up again. Which is quite right really, if you’ve loved someone. I have drawn on my experience of losing my mum for my writing, and I know she wouldn’t begrudge me that, since she was such an avid reader and an enthusiastic fan of everything I produced.
The Queen lived a very long, fruitful life, as did my mum, who died at 92. It is so much sadder when people die before their time. One of my students tragically died around the same time as the Queen – I don’t know how old K was, but if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say late thirties, early forties. Her death was both sudden and completely unexpected. She left behind a husband and a primary school aged son. K was an exceptional student – so talented, so enthusiastic, so creative. She specialised in the macabre and loved to write dark short stories, although she would turn her hand to writing anything and also produced an amazing play and a moving poem, even though she wasn’t a poetry fan.
Halloween was K’s absolute favourite time of year – she always went to town decorating her house and choosing an incredible costume for herself. K was such a vibrant presence in our creative writing sessions, that when I learnt of her death, it was all too easy to imagine her somewhere observing events and emotions with a view to writing about them.
I shan’t forget her, and I, for one, will be raising a glass to her memory on 31st October.
I felt saddened by the Queen’s passing myself – she had always been there during my lifetime. Governments and Prime Ministers have come and gone, but she provided continuity. But I don’t suppose I was alone in finding that my sadness at her death was fuelled by more private griefs. For me, it made me realise how shallowly I’d buried my grief at my mum’s passing, four and a half years ago. Grief never goes away, does it? It just hides for a while, but easily pops up again. Which is quite right really, if you’ve loved someone. I have drawn on my experience of losing my mum for my writing, and I know she wouldn’t begrudge me that, since she was such an avid reader and an enthusiastic fan of everything I produced.
The Queen lived a very long, fruitful life, as did my mum, who died at 92. It is so much sadder when people die before their time. One of my students tragically died around the same time as the Queen – I don’t know how old K was, but if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say late thirties, early forties. Her death was both sudden and completely unexpected. She left behind a husband and a primary school aged son. K was an exceptional student – so talented, so enthusiastic, so creative. She specialised in the macabre and loved to write dark short stories, although she would turn her hand to writing anything and also produced an amazing play and a moving poem, even though she wasn’t a poetry fan.
Halloween was K’s absolute favourite time of year – she always went to town decorating her house and choosing an incredible costume for herself. K was such a vibrant presence in our creative writing sessions, that when I learnt of her death, it was all too easy to imagine her somewhere observing events and emotions with a view to writing about them.
I shan’t forget her, and I, for one, will be raising a glass to her memory on 31st October.
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