Bereavement

Bereavement

Bereavement Service 13th July 7.30pm

This will be livestreamed. You can join us at  https://www.facebook.com/ourladys.hitchinlsmass/

Click below for the service sheet

OL Beareavement service July 2022

Our parish want to  support you at a time of bereavement.

We have a Parish Bereavement Team

The bereavement team are not councillors but they are trained visitors who listen and offer support to bereaved person or any family member.  They will visit if asked after the funeral has taken place, either at their home or speak on the phone and occasionally “meet in town for a coffee?” whichever is most convenient to the bereaved person. To ask for a member of the team to contact you please ring the Parish Administrator on 01462 459126

Please click on the link below for a guide to planning a funeral.

Funeral Booklet Plan

Please click below for the sheets to help you make notes for the funeral for use when you see the Priest or Funeral directores.

Funeral Service Planner for family

 You can also view readings for use during the  funeral.

These readings are sourced from the Jerusalem Bible and have been grouped into themes. The Gospels follow after:

Death is not the end

Goodness of God

Gratitude

Grief – Sorrow

Hope

Person of Faith

Trust in God

Gospel Readings

If there is anything else that you would find useful to have on this page, please contact Trish Bonnett.


Talking Elephants  Bereavement Support Group

Talking Elephants is a network of support groups where people who have been bereaved meet to support each other through their grief and loss.

If you find it hard to talk to those close to you about your bereavement, why not come to our free, informal support group at Holy Saviour Church Hall.  Held monthly, it offers a friendly face, support and companionship to those experiencing similar thoughts and emotions.

4th Thursday of each month 1pm-3pm

Holy Saviour Church, Radcliffe Road, Hitchin, SG5 1QG

24th Feb, 24th March,  28th April,  26th May,  23rd June,  28th July,  25th August,

22nd September,  27th October,  24th November,  22nd December 2022


Reflections on Grief

The Way Home

A daughter with Down syndrome comes to terms with her mother’s death.

By Erna Albertz

November 30, 2021

It was late September, 2018, when I realized that my mother’s health was rapidly failing and she might only have days left to live. My thoughts struggled in a maze of questions and considerations. I desperately wanted to make her home-going a good one, to smooth her path in any way I could, but I felt like a blind woman in a forest full of vines.

One thing, however, stood out sharply, the lens of my troubled mind focusing on it and forcing everything else into the background: What about Iris?

Iris is three and a half years younger than me and twenty-one months younger than my sister Ria. She has Down syndrome.

a young woman with Down syndrome sitting beside her elderly motherIris with her mother Photographs courtesy of the author

Mom was never one to worry about the future. Perhaps her remarkable life had taught her how futile that was. When she’d been diagnosed with cancer two and a half years before, she accepted the news with surprisingly little emotion or drama. She had immediately decided that the best thing to do was to do nothing different at all. She’d always lived energetically, welcoming others, and that seemed to be the best way to continue for whatever time was left. We, her family, were sometimes tempted to question that course, but she was so sure of it that her confidence and peace rubbed off on us, sometimes almost lulling us into thinking that she didn’t have cancer after all.

So we had never really discussed her wishes for Iris. She had written a letter for us to give Iris after she was gone. She and my dad and I had recorded the childhood favorites she’d sung Iris at bath time and bedtime – songs that had never grown old. But not knowing what her final days would hold, Mom hadn’t wanted to waste time on what-ifs. The only thing we did discuss was that Iris should not be lied to, and yet should be spared the awfulness of cancer and death as much as possible. For the rest, Mom trusted us.

In a way that no one else could, Iris was paving the final, sacred yards of Mom’s path, putting up shimmering signposts, and sending her strength for those last few steps.

Now the final days were suddenly upon us and, as the oldest daughter, I could feel the weight of my mother’s confidence upon me. Making sure Iris was okay during this time felt like one of the most important and lasting ways to show my love to my dying mother. But only God knew how I was supposed to do that.

And of course, He definitely did know. For years, I’d been following Confessions of the Chromosomally Enhanced, a blog (now mostly Instagram posts) written by Elizabeth, whose older sister Leanne has Down syndrome. Elizabeth and her husband decided to adopt a child with Down syndrome before having kids of their own, so their household includes two chromosomally-blessed individuals. I had been too busy to read the blog much, but something prompted me to take a look one evening. Maybe I was craving some of the comic relief it often provides by holding a mirror to situations I know so well from my own sister.

As it happened, Elizabeth’s family had just been given devastating news of their own: her and Leanne’s beloved mother had suddenly fallen ill and was not expected to live more than a few days. Elizabeth was scrambling, just like me, to help her sister process it all. An obscure web listing led her to a woman named Melissa Levin who’d given a seminar on Down syndrome and grieving. Elizabeth posted a series of immensely helpful blog articles on this – right when I needed it.

Melissa Levin’s key piece of advice? Create concrete, activity-based final memories between the person with Down syndrome and the dying loved one.

It seemed so obvious once I read it. Iris’s memories are almost always connected to concrete objects such as the outfit she was wearing when a particular event took place. She is extremely direct and linear in the way she remembers things.

I immediately set about finding an activity that Mom and Iris could do together. The next morning, I had them page through the elaborate album of baby photos and stories that Mom had put together when Iris was small. I put considerable effort into setting up a surface over Mom’s recliner and getting Iris a chair of the right height. I videoed much of their exchange. Iris loved looking at the photos of herself, and Mom loved telling all the old anecdotes. I figured the album itself – not to mention the video – would serve as concrete reminders later on.

Then I breathed a sigh of relief. At least I had done one thing well, had chopped down one fat vine in that dense forest and made the path just a little bit wider. All things considered, I had done my best for Iris.

Iris, however, was about to show us what she could do for us.

a young woman with Down syndrome sitting beside her elderly mother

In her final week of life – in early October – Mom became too weak to get out of bed. Iris came to visit her every morning. Often, it was just the two of us together at her bedside (Ria was busy packing her four young children off to school and usually arrived later on). Because there wasn’t really anything to say, Iris and I fell into the habit of singing. Iris always wanted to sing a song that went like this:

In heaven, in heaven is jubilant joy;The angels are singing for they are with God.

And singing and dancing their praises to GodCreator of all things in heaven and earth.

This wonderful joy is a City of PeaceWhere love and rejoicing will ever increase.

I was not able to get through even the first verse. Iris was baffled, and my tears distressed her. Her bewilderment seemed to say “Mother is going to heaven, right? So what is there to cry about? Isn’t heaven the most glorious place?” The next day, I turned my head away and managed to make the words come out in a choked semblance of song. When she still noticed my tears, I told her I had a streaming cold and was feeling awful (at least the latter was true). That day, she reported to all her friends that she was praying for her sister who had a bad cold. No mention of prayers for Mother. (Iris always called her Mother, while the rest of us called her Mom.) Somewhere in her heart, Iris knew I was the one who needed them more.

Once, when Iris stopped by, she brought brilliant red leaves and placed them on Mom’s blanket and pillow, as if to invite the splendor of autumn into the room. Another time, she bent down to kiss Mom, then held her cheek out, demanding reciprocation, as she often did: “Kiss me!” The kiss she received must have already been as light as an angel’s feather because Iris – solidly planted on terra firma – did not feel it. “Mother! Kiss me!” she insisted again. “I did!” Mom triumphantly replied, repeating the kiss with a sparkle in her eyes.

Later, when Mom had fallen into a coma, Iris found it hard to be in the room for long. She tried to talk to her and was puzzled when Mom didn’t reply. So Iris went outside and found the swing that stood not twenty feet from Mom’s ground-floor window. Swinging has always been Iris’s “me time,” her way of processing the day, and (I believe) her form of prayer.

Again, God knew what we needed when we needed it. Those early October days were unseasonably warm, so the windows were wide open. As Iris swung, she sang, her voice floating above the noise of the metal hangers that creaked against the swing frame. With surprise, Ria and I noticed that all of her song choices had a common theme: they all spoke of the journey to heaven. “Hold out your light, you heaven-bound soldier.” “We are climbing Jacob’s Ladder.” “Let the heaven-light shine on me.” And, of course, “In heaven, in heaven is jubilant joy.”

In a way that no one else could, Iris was paving the final, sacred yards of Mom’s path, putting up shimmering signposts, and sending her strength for those last few steps.

Mom died peacefully in the early hours of October 11, 2018. We had decided not to wake Iris or the grandchildren if it happened at night. Perhaps Mom showed her approbation with that plan by going when she did. Later that morning, Iris came over as she always did. Dad was too overcome to speak with her, and Ria and her husband had gone home to tell their kids. So it fell to me to tell Iris. I had no idea what to expect.

“Iris, I have something very special to tell you,” I said. “This morning early our mother died and went home to heaven.”

“Oh wow!” Iris responded with reverence and awe. “My mother went to heaven!” She paused between each word, her tone suggesting that this was the best news I could possibly bring. “Wow!” she repeated a few more times in wonder.

Then she turned and looked straight at me. I waited to receive the profound wisdom or comfort that was surely coming.

“What’s for lunch?” she asked, wholly unaware that – no matter what I was expecting – it was not this.

I was too surprised to speak. You have just been told that your mother has died and you are wondering about … food? It was my turn to be baffled.

But as I pondered it, I realized that Iris was not burdened with “the correct way” of doing things. She did not worry about any seemly display of emotion or feel the need to pause for an accepted amount of time before moving forward. She simply lived and let that fact be known. Her question told me, “Mother is in a wonderful place. She has fought the fight and finished the race. But I am on earth, and down here we do still have to think about things like food and clothing. Even if the how has changed, there are a few constants, and I’m going to hold on to them.”

Tears and laughter simultaneously erupted from me. And I think that’s just what Mom would have wanted at that moment: Sorrow and joy are sisters, after all – with honesty anchoring both.

When our mother had been laid out for her wake, I took Iris to her side and gave her a bouquet of roses to place in Mom’s hands. Three pink roses for three daughters (a friend had just brought them to us from her garden – the last roses of the year) and one white rose for the baby she’d lost and whom she was looking forward to meeting. Iris had sometimes been anxious at wakes and funerals, so I wondered how she would react.

Once again, she surprised me. Iris walked right up to Mom’s bedside and triumphantly arranged the roses, then bent down to give her a kiss. Not a whisper of anxiety or fear, only love. It was as though the shadows of death could not come near the purity of her heart.

Iris remained joyful and positive throughout the funeral and many days beyond, marveling with us – in her way – at the wonderful blessing and providence of God. It was only after a number of weeks that she began to experience the finality of death in the absence of her mother. I’d begun to wonder if Iris had actually understood that Mom was not coming back. There were no tears, no outward signs of distress. As if sensing this, Iris started saying, “I miss Mother.” It has become a mantra, repeated whenever Iris sees me, which is often daily. These simple words open up space between us for memories and thoughts, or even just a simple, “I know. I miss her too.”

I have longed intensely to feel my mother’s presence or to see her in my dreams, but have not. Perhaps Mom was reminding me to look through Iris’s eyes.

Another way that Iris grieves is by asking where Mother is, and how or what she is doing. After a few awkward attempts to explain things that none of us can truly fathom, I figured out that the best way to answer was to put Iris’s question back to her: “How do you think Mother is doing?” “Mother is happy. She is in heaven,” is all that her sweet heart needs as reassurance. Once again, her directness opens realities that my more labyrinthine mind tends to stumble over.

This was driven home when, about a year after Mom’s death, Iris had to undergo a medical procedure that involved general anesthesia. She was anxious although I stayed with her until she was asleep. The first words out of her mouth in the recovery room were, “Mother was watching over me.” In the months since then she has referred to this by saying, “Remember when Mother watched over me when I was in the hospital?” I have longed intensely to feel my mother’s presence or to see her in my dreams, but have not. Perhaps Mom was reminding me to look through Iris’s eyes.

If it seems as though Iris is a candidate for sainthood, I can assure you she is not. Like every human being, she has feet of clay. Spending time with her can be draining: she verbalizes every thought and asks questions incessantly. She’s capable of being as selfish and ornery as the rest of us. The experiences I’m relating here have been filtered through months of the mundane and exhausting.

Yet as I reflect on the three years since those unforgettable October days, it’s clear to me that Christ worked through Iris to illustrate deep truths. “Do not grieve like those who have no hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:13). “Unless you change and become like little children you will never enter the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3). And the comfort that Jesus gave his disciples before his own death – “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid” (John 14:27).

But it’s Matthew 6 that I think Iris most embodies. This chapter tells us not to worry about food and clothing – and while the casual observer could be forgiven for thinking that’s just what Iris does best, the deeper point I think Jesus makes is to be heartfelt and unpretentious, not calculating or future-driven. Hey, if you are going to think about food – and who doesn’t? – don’t put on airs about it! Just spit it out: What’s for lunch?

Before the funeral, I quietly took three of Mom’s best dresses from her closet and asked a local seamstress to alter them to fit my sisters and me. When our mother was laid to rest, we each wore a tangible piece of her, as if to solidify the legacy that we would have to carry on in tangible ways.

Because, I realized, what was good for Iris in her childlike closeness to all that was most genuine in life was probably good for Ria and me too.

Pain and suffering make life beautiful. This might be hard to believe while you’re suffering, but the lessons you can learn from hardships are jewels to cherish. If you’re suffering, it means you have a heart. Suffering is evidence of your capacity to love, and only those who understand suffering can understand life and help others.

The world needs your suffering, your courage, and your strength. Don’t try to kill your pain. Share it with another, communicate it. If the first person you talk to isn’t the right one, find someone else. Somebody somewhere wants to listen to your pain, to connect with you and understand you. When you find them, when you lighten your burden and discover the jewels and joy that are alive beneath the pain, later you’ll be present for others who are suffering.

Cuong Lu, Wait: A Love Letter to Those in Despair


If you or someone close to you is dying, you can talk to us

We know that facing the end of life can leave you feeling isolated and alone. Our trained helpline volunteers are here to listen and support you.

The Anne Robson Trust Telephone Helpline Launching on 
Monday 8th of March 

0808 801 0688
Lines are open: Monday to Friday 12-6pm

 Calls are completely free from all UK landlines and mobiles

We’re here for you, if you or a loved one is facing the end of life at home, in a hospital, care home or hospice.To find out Why we de

cided to set up our helpline please visit our new website

We are working with our existing partner hospitals to enable Butterfly volunteers to begin to visit the bedside of dying patients as soon as it is safe to do so.

We very much look forward to supporting new hospital partners in the setting up teams of end of life volunteers.

Please support us

By making a donation you will help us bring company and comfort to families as they or their loved one dies.
From our helpline and hospital work, to our workshops and online resources,  none of it would be possible without the generosity and commitment of our supporters.

*****

The aim of the It’s Time To Talk workshop is to encourage confidence to have conversations about the end of life and last wishes and what might happen if you became ill.

We hope that by demystifying death and talking about it, we can go some way to reduce the fear and confusion around how and where we die.

We explore:

  • What does the term end of life actually mean
    How to talk to someone who is looking after a loved one who is dying or has been bereaved.
  • The small things we can do to help create a nurturing environment for everyone involved.
  • How to look after yourself as you support a loved one as they die.

It is important to us to try to tailor each workshop to participants needs.

We hope to make the workshops as interactive as possible, so that, if you feel comfortable, you are able to join in the group conversations. That way we can listen and learn from each other’s experiences.

Next Workshops:

Tuesday 11th May 10 -11.30am

 Wednesday 13th May 2 – 3.30pm

To support Dying Matters awareness week 10 -16th May 2021 we have designed a shorter Time to Talk workshop aimed at helping you to begin to think about, talk about and plan for last wishes at the end of life.

Join our workshop and let us help you start the conversation.

At the end of the workshops, members of the Anne Robson Trust Team will remain available online to chat further should any participants wish to continue the conversation.

The Dying Matters movement wants to make sure that you and your loved ones are in a good place to die.  #InAGoodPlace

For more information visit

book a place



Click here for https://www.artofdyingwell.org/reflection-isolation-during-the-coronavirus-covid-19-pandemic/


Welcome to our Spring Newsletter 2020

We hope you and your families are keeping safe during the Covid-19 pandemic.  Whilst it is a truly difficult time for all, in-particular the NHS, we wanted to let you know what is happening at the Anne Robson Trust.
We are responding to this unprecedented public health crisis with agility and compassion. When my mother, Anne Robson, died in 2010 we were not allowed to visit her for 6 days prior to her death, as she had suspected norovirus. My heart goes out to families who are unable to be with their loved ones in their final days and we want to do all we can to alleviate some of the anxiety and stress caused by this.

Our Responses To The Covid-19 Crisis
Message to a Loved One
As you know we work hard with our partner hospitals in order that
“No One Should Die Alone”

During these challenging times, when volunteers and visitors are not allowed on wards, we wanted to create a system whereby relatives and friends could send messages to patients being cared for in hospital.

Working closely with Patient Experience and Voluntary Services teams at Princess Alexandra Hospital in Harlow, we launched the “Message to a Loved One” service just before Easter. In the first two weeks over 250 messages have been received and delivered to wards. We are continually working to improve the support we can provide – and this week have added a ‘call back’ option for anyone who is feeling distressed and anxious, needing someone to talk to.

We have had some wonderful feedback from families of patients

“I was very pleased to hear about this service. My 93 year old Grandpa was admitted to hospital 3 weeks ago and we haven’t been able to have contact with him since as he tested positive for Covid-19.”
“Thank you so much, it’s such a lovely thing you are doing. It makes such a difference, it is so hard when you can’t see your loved ones. Take care and keep safe x”
How do we communicate with openness, compassion and dignity? Read more here ……..

My Wishes Checklist

We have created a simple document for you to download, and use to record your wishes. You can do this with your family, or if you find talking about these things distressing, you can complete and put it somewhere safe (ie with your Will).

Make sure someone knows you’ve done it. And should the worst happen, where they can find it.

We hope you’ll find this resource useful – please do share with your family and friends!

In the first few months of this year we asked Nurses at one of our partner hospitals about the impact Butterfly Volunteers have on their day to day work

This is what they told us….

“Butterfly Volunteers are a huge support to patients and relatives at such a difficult time. They are all the kindest, most caring and professional people, always sensitive to the needs of those they support. We are lucky to have them.”


“From a nursing perspective, when we are unable  to spend time with a patient as we would wish, I am grateful and relieved to know there is this specialist team of volunteers available. Thank you.”


“A family told me how kind and supportive the Butterfly Volunteers were to them and how they were reassured when they had to take time off to go home.   They did that safe in the knowledge that these wonderful volunteers were with their relative.  It was a great comfort to them”


“The nurses on my ward cannot praise this service enough.  Butterfly Volunteers offer support to patients and their relatives and being there for staff too.  A wonderful, much needed service.”

Would your friends like to hear about our work?  If you shared this Newsletter with ONE person – it would help us to spread the word.
If You Agree That
‘No One Should Die Alone”
Please Support Us Now

As someone interested in our work, we would like to ask you for the first time to consider setting up a direct debit in aid of The Anne Robson Trust.

We have worked tirelessly to build our income, but for small charities like ourselves, the current challenges to charity funding due to the Covid-19 pandemic could be fatal to our vision in delivering real change for people who die in hospital.

We are so appreciative for every donation we receive from individuals in the community, no matter how large or small.

If everyone reading this were to set up a £10 monthly direct debit, this would make a transformational difference to us over the next year: immediately supporting our work with NHS partners through Covid-19; but also helping us to grow and work with more hospitals in the future.

For charities our size – the difference your support makes, especially at times like this – cannot be overstated.  Thank you.

Please Donate

Copyright © 2020 Anne Robson Trust, All rights reserved.
Our mailing address is:

Anne Robson Trust

1 Bassus Green

Walkern, Herts SG2 7JG

United Kingdom

“It’s Time To Talk” Podcast Series with Bill Turnbull 

If Covid-19 has done anything – it’s made us all think about our own mortality.

By creating these podcasts we hope to empower listeners to feel more able to talk about their last wishes, as well as help outline some of the things to think about when getting life’s admin in order.

Bill Turnbull, TV and Radio presenter and Anne Robson Trust Patron, talks to professionals about their experiences during the pandemic
  • Nick Hulme, NHS Trust CEO
  • David Collingwood, Co-op Funeralcare
  • Nancy Fontaine, Chief Nurse
  • Roy Lilley, NHS Commentator
  • Rachel Clarke, Author and Palliative Care Physician

Listen here

“It’s Time to Talk” –  Live Discussions 

Hosted by our experienced facilitators via video conference, these free to join sessions will help small groups of participants learn more about how to start the challenging conversation about death and dying, and how to help others do the same.

To register your interest please contact us at:
info@annerobsontrust.org.uk

The Anne Robson Trust is funded entirely funded by individual donations.
To support our work please donate here

Click on link below

A hospital chaplain talks about delivering spiritual care during the coronavirus pandemic


The ‘D’ Word Workshop

Notes from a workshop looking at preparing for and dealing with the death of a loved one.

D word workshop notes


Please see below for a Bereavement support activity at Walsworth Road Baptist church

News from the team

On 9th December 2017 the Bereavement Group held a service where they created a Jesse tree. The tree was made by Alan Dutt to be used during our Bereavement afternoon of Sharing and Reflection.  The idea was for people to write a thought/prayer on the provided shaped pieces of paper to  hang them on the tree. After the service the tree was put on the Altar of Remembrance in church for the use of parishioners.


On 13th February the Bereavement Group held a service for those who have been bereaved and 26 people attended. Part of the service was to create a mandala reflecting something about the person who had died.  Below are examples of what was created.

Mandala 13th February 2016Mandala 2