Midowed: a mother's grief

By Debbie Enever

How does a mother cope without her teenage son? 

When 15-year-old Dan dies unexpectedly, Debbie Enever's world shatters.

Turning to the solitude of memories and the company of her dog, Debbie pens a journal to help her cope with all the grief.  

As she

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zsa Zsa Publishing
• Release date: Apr 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9781739710989

Book preview

Part One

Chapter 1.

Year One

Saturday 26th May 2018 7.20pm

There’s always a moment, when passengers are waiting for the doors to open so they can alight, where there’s silence. Everything pauses. Dust motes suspend in the sunlight. Breath is held. Thoughts, midway through a sequence, halt. In that tiny instant, our hindbrain prickles and our anticipation rises. Will the doors open and send us on into the lives we planned? Or remain closed, turning anticipation to irritation or worry? Will the life we assume is waiting for us on the other side of those doors still be there if we’re delayed? Will an extra 30 seconds make even the slightest difference?

In this moment I just want to get home with Dan, let Maggie out for a wee, bring in the washing I pegged out this morning, get the pizzas cooked and get the footy on the telly. Me, Dan, dog, pyjamas, food, and the Champions League final. Perfect. But we only have 25 minutes. I stare at the closed door and the sunlit flecks of dust, and I feel Dan’s warm arm against mine. Relax, I tell myself, there’s plenty of time.

The tram doors hiss open, I breathe again, and Dan and I step in tandem onto the platform in the early evening sunshine.

‘Pizza for tea,’ I say.

‘Oh. I don’t want pizza, I’ve had too many recently,’ Dan replies; he’s probably right, but it’s a bit late for a change of plan.

‘Well, it’s what I’ve bought, so it’s what we’re having.’ I just want him to say okay. 

‘Yeah, but I don’t wannit. I need protein. I’m gonna go to KFC.’ My son, the 15-year-old athlete, wants protein when it suits him. I feel small next to him, six-foot-three and rising. I take two steps for each one of his strides as we weave through the centre of Hillsborough, heading home.

‘No Dan; just come home. We can watch the final and have pizza.’

We’ve had a great day in Manchester watching the matinee of Blood Brothers, and I’d hoped to now watch the Liverpool v Real Madrid game together. Football’s always better with Dan. Although he’s Manchester United and I’m City, it’s still the last match of the season, and football is football. Plus, Liverpool might get totally thrashed, and we can both enjoy that.

But now, striding up the road, he’s saying, ‘Mum, I just don’t want pizza. What’s your problem?’

In his customary black skinny jeans, T-shirt and Converse hi-tops, red headphones slung round his neck, he looks like a grown-up. He turns, blinking his big blue eyes at me. The planes of his face are smooth and angular, his nose straight, the set of his mouth full and firm. His Adam’s apple protrudes as he swallows. His light brown fringe is unruly, wavy, and thick over his forehead. He’s shockingly handsome, as if carved by Michelangelo, and he has no idea of his beauty. He stands tall, and flares his nostrils as he comes to a halt, looking left and right as the cars pass. He shoves his hands into his jeans’ pockets.

The traffic weaves steadily through the knotty one-way system, pitting cars and trams against cyclists and pedestrians, and we cross to the bottom of Middlewood Road. The bustle’s behind us now, it’s just the two of us walking at a clip up our road. Dan lifts his headphones and adjusts them, their red cups covering his ears. I touch his arm to bring his attention to me and he jerks it back, frowning at me. I’m not supposed to touch him in public: too embarrassing.

‘Look, Dan, I’ve bought food, the football’s on, I don’t want to waste it.’ I use my firm-but-fair tone.

He scowls. ‘I’ve got my own money. All I want to do is get some protein.’

‘Fine! Right, just go.’ I can’t hide my irritation and I can’t look at him. I shake my head and try not to scowl like him. My summer dress is becoming tangled round my legs as we stomp up the hill past the nail bars and bakeries.

He waves an arm at me. ‘Oh right, now you’re acting all mardy.’

‘No, Dan, just go and get KFC. I’ll see you at home in a bit.’ I quicken my pace.

‘Fine.’ He turns away and drops back out of sight.

For the next few yards, I complain to myself about what a pain he’s being. We rarely argue, but when we do it heats up and cools down quickly. Recent rows have included him not coming in at the exact time we agreed, not helping round the house enough, and not doing homework. Typical teenager v parent arguments. When it happens, we put it right before the end of the day. We’ve learned, as a single-parent unit of two, not to let the bad stuff linger. Life’s short, so there’s no point wasting it being moody.

He’s right though; I am being a bit mardy, and selfish. I just wanted things to go the way I’d imagined earlier. I hadn’t considered Mr Independent and his plans. Dan’s diversion down to KFC on the main road means he’ll miss part of the first half of the match. I consider the route he’ll take, down to the constantly busy dual carriageway of the A61, past McDonald’s, B&Q, Pizza Hut, to KFC, then left up past the park before re-joining Middlewood Road and reaching home. He’ll be at least 20 minutes behind me, I think. 

The house is cool; the sun doesn’t reach the front room. Maggie, our eight-year-old black Staffy-Lab, wags her tail, stretches, and jumps down from the settee to greet me. 

‘Hello, baby girl.’ She gives me her Staffy smile and swipes an opportunistic lick on the back of my leg as she follows me through to the kitchen.

I shove my mushroom pizza in the oven, leaving Dan’s margherita in the fridge for later. Here’s me getting us a treat, something other than the veg-laden teatimes I usually insist on to build a healthy body, and he wants a bloody KFC. I bet he’ll still eat the pizza though, Hollow-Legs Robinson, even if he has had a fried chicken something-or-other.

The music from Blood Brothers is still in my head, and I sing to Maggie as I let her out and bring in the washing from the line.

I laugh as I sing, at Dan’s comment before the show. ‘You know you’re going to end up crying your eyes out, right?’ And of course, I had, sobbing at the devastating tale of a mother’s loss of her twin boys. I carry on singing as I pour a weak Pimm’s and lemonade and take it through to the living room. I’m feeling quite pleased my predicted timings have worked out, apart from Dan’s detour, and he’ll be back soon anyway. I flick the switch on the light box in the window. The one reading ‘MCFC Champions’. Just to wind up Dan when he gets back.

I remember my phone’s completely out of charge and plug it in, then begin Chromecasting YouTube on the telly. It’s the pre-game pomp in Kyiv’s Olimpiyskiy Stadium, the UEFA strobes, flares, and music outstripping those I’ve seen in the theatre today. I get comfy on the settee, and Maggie settles herself at the other end.

‘Enjoy it, dog, cos Dan’ll be sitting there soon,’ I warn her. She ignores me and shuts her eyes.

The smoke in the stadium dissipates and the voices of the fans fill the space instead. The game kicks off and I check my messages. There are two from Dan.

You need to change your attitude

I was probably coming home anyway

Both sent a minute or two after we’d parted. Cheeky sod. I text back:

Home now, phone on charge.

I know he sent those texts in a mood as frustrated as mine when we went our separate ways. I’m fairly sure that, with a KFC snack inside him, he’ll feel less out of sorts. 

The pizza’s good, the long Pimm’s tasty, the football’s okay. The food and the fizz of the drink melt away any residual narkiness. I feel a pang of warmth that’s more than the little hit of booze, it’s a tingle of satisfaction, a sensation of contentment I’ve begun to recognise in the nine months since we moved here – life in Sheffield is good for us. Dan’s back over to Manchester tomorrow to meet his dad for lunch, but then it’s half-term and he has plans to see friends – playing footy, going to Meadowhall. I’ve kept my diary free for Tuesday, and we’ll use it to go on a spontaneous mini-adventure somewhere we’ve not been before: find another hidden corner of the city we’re coming to know and love. I refocus on the match.

It’s 20 minutes in, no goals, but Liverpool are pushing, while Madrid are cool in possession. I reckon Dan’s taking his time, and still feeling stroppy. I pick up my phone to text him.

You’re missing a reasonable game here. 

My phone pings a couple of times; neither are a message from Dan. They’re from friends who are also watching the match.

Another ten minutes into the game, I text Dan again. He uses Snapchat and Messenger, but I don’t have those, so I can’t nudge him on any other apps.

Where are you? Sitting in KFC, probably, watching the football on his phone and ignoring my texts until half-time. The novelty of having so many fast-food outlets to choose from is still fresh for Dan. Since we moved from Glossop, he’s tried every one, several times, sometimes by himself, sometimes with friends. He’s settled at school; making the move to the city to study Sport Science was, without doubt, a good idea. He’s met new people, joined a football team and gym, and I guess exploring fast food joints is what you do before you can explore pubs. That’ll be next year’s worry for me.

There’s still no reply to my text so I ring him. No answer. His phone’s always on silent. If he’s not replying to my texts, there’s even less chance he’ll pick up a call. But still, we have rules. He can have freedom, but he must stay in touch.

I feel a tiny flutter of concern but stifle it. I’m just being the overprotective mum. Whether kids are five or fifteen, the worry never stops.

Dan, answer the phone. I’ll start taking privileges off you unless you phone me.

The football’s still on screen, but I’m not concentrating properly now. The light flutter somewhere round my diaphragm persists. I’ll be taking his Xbox controls away for the rest of the weekend if he doesn’t respond soon. Much as I love single-parent life, there are times, like right now, when the reassurance from another adult in the house would be bloody welcome, a simple he’ll be okay, to dampen my anxiety.

I phone again. No reply. I’m half cross, half worried. Is he so grumpy about a spat over pizza that he’s refusing to send a text? It seems like a huge overreaction, not like Dan at all. He’s always quick to get over stuff. I sip my half-finished drink, tell myself he’ll walk back in any second, give me a ‘yo’ greeting, we’ll smile at each other, and everything’ll be forgotten and back to normal.

I want him home though. Football’s better with Dan. And with it 0-0 at half time, it really could go either way. The flutter of concern flaps harder and lifts me from my seat.

Right, I’m coming to look for you, happy now?

I change as quickly as I can; pyjamas off, and on go the dog walking clothes hanging on the banister. They’ll do for a quick trip to KFC. Jeans, sweatshirt, trainers, no underwear. I grab my car keys.

‘Bloomin’ kid, eh?’ I pat Maggie on my way out, leaving the telly on for company. I’ll be back in ten minutes.

I drive down the street beside the park. Has he been waylaid in the footy area by a friend? As a United fan, Dan was a bit ‘meh’ about this final. If he’d bumped into an equally uninterested Sheffield Wednesday fan in the park, there’d be every chance he’d have stayed there and practised his goalie skills instead.

I scan the part of the park where the permanent football nets are erected. There’s no one there. That’s one option gone, and my stomach drops like I’ve driven over a big bump in the road. My brain tries to take over from the warning vibrations in my body. Statistically, things are likely to be fine. What are the chances of something really bad happening between him leaving me, getting to KFC and walking home? Almost none.

I can’t drive the way I intended as there’s a police car blocking off part of the main road. Another police vehicle is blocking the opposite carriageway, and there is a further one some way up the road, close to McDonald’s. Oh no, no. No. Adrenaline bounces up and back down through my body. I’m held at the traffic lights and my hands are slick on the steering wheel. The evening sun streams through the windscreen. Dust motes hang. My scalp prickles and a tingling sensation runs up my throat and squeezes and I swallow. The lights change. I take a complicated route back round to the park, pull up, and text with fumbling fingers. 

Dan there’s police cars outside KFC, please text me to say you are OK.

There’s nothing to show what’s going on, just police cars protecting a big empty dual carriageway. I’m rapidly flicking through possible, statistically more likely, explanations, trying to use logic to overcome the inner trembling. Perhaps someone’s been attacked at the nearby dog racetrack or casino; there’s been a spate of stabbings in the city recently. Or maybe something else apart from the football is kicking off on this warm Saturday night, like a fight in a fast-food restaurant.

From here, I can just make out cars using the Pizza Hut car park, so whatever’s going on can’t be that important, can it? I need to tell myself this now, shout it at myself to drown out the rising panic. I’m striving to ignore the picture emerging as each detail slots into the frame – the unanswered texts, the phone ringing out, the police cars. It’ll be fine, I say to myself, Dan’ll be fine. I need to get to KFC. Dan won’t have been stabbed or got into a fight. He’s a sensible lad.

My phone remains silent.

I turn the car onto the A61 again and follow the diversion. This time, I manage to swing into the KFC car park and straight into a parking bay. Dan must be here.

I lock the car, stuff my phone in my back pocket and walk to the building. The smell of fried food wafts in the warm air. I scan the inside of KFC through the plate glass windows. Only a couple of tables are occupied. At one, there is a family of four; at another, a man and child. There’s a young couple at the order collection point. Other than that, it’s empty. No Dan. I give a low groan as I will him to be there, sitting in a small booth, headphones on, looking at his phone. But he’s not. There’s a blank space where Dan should be sitting, looking up and waving at me with a smile that means our daft little falling out is over and we can go home and have pizza and watch the second half of the game. No matter how hard I look, he’s not there. Option two, gone.

I mentally run through the dwindling reasons why Dan isn’t where he said he’d be, and why there are police cars instead. Maybe he was just walking behind a row of trees in the park, so I missed sight of him as I drove past. Maybe he’s in the loo in KFC. I try to put these pieces in the frame, but I can’t make them stick. I don’t know what to do now. I don’t even know which way to walk, so I stand in the car park, petrified.

The world is very quiet, and very still. I hear nothing but the thumps of my heart in my ears, beating fast once, twice, then skipping a beat. Whatever I do next will force me to face the fact that Dan might not be fine, that all might not be well. That everything is, in fact, very bad. 

Parked on the slip road on the far side of the KFC car park, there’s another police car. Two officers stand beside it, a man and a woman. I set off with knees that feel they might unhinge with each step. The officers turn to me as I approach them. If I’m scared of voicing my fears, I’m even more scared of hearing their response.

I force my feet to keep walking. I’m frightened of the words I’m about to say.

‘Hi, I’m looking for my son. He was going to KFC then coming home, but he’s not turned up…’ I’m not quite sure what I’m asking. The words feel like they’re coming out of someone else’s mouth.

‘You are?’ asks the male officer.

‘Debbie. Debbie Enever.’

‘What’s your son’s name, love?’ asks the female officer. I turn to her. 

‘Dan. Dan Robinson.’ There’s a glance between them, and I feel my body become light, as if I might float away. They recognise his name. There’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears. The male officer moves away towards his colleagues at the farthest cars.

‘Who does he bank with?’ The female officer is reaching for her radio.

‘Santander,’ I reply. I let out a loud breath, trying to anchor myself. I curl my toes in my shoes, pressing the ground so I can’t drift away. I want time to slow, to reverse. The ringing in my ears gets louder. She holds my gaze. Thoughts tumble. Why have they got Dan’s bank card? Has he been mugged? Is he okay? Where is Dan? If I ask, I’ll make it real. I don’t want to, but I must.

‘What’s happened?’ I ask. My lips feel numb, my mouth thick with saliva. My body now feels heavier than granite. I can’t move, I’m trapped in the moment.

‘There’s been an accident. We thought the person was from Manchester as they had a return ticket in their pocket…’

My vision darkens, then it is too bright and I blink. Sweat. Go cold all at once. The ringing in my ears is replaced by the loud thump of my heart crashing in my chest. ‘We were in Manchester today. We went to watch Blood Brothers.’ My voice is low.

The officer turns from me and speaks on the radio, and I miss the first bit. ‘…I’ve got the mother here; I’ll bring her up to the hospital now.’

Option three: he’s scraped his arms, he’s broken his leg, he’s just bruised and shaken. Option four: the picture tiles crumble and fall away, leaving nothing I want to look at. 

The female officer looks at me and nods to the car. My legs seize. I walk stiffly to the police car. I’m still not sure what’s happening. Dan’s been in an accident, and they have his bank card and train ticket. Did he drop them?

Darker possibilities are pushing to be seen in my mind, but I force them back. I can’t think like that. I need to stay focused, in the moment. Whatever is happening, I need to be completely alert. It’s going to be vital. I take my phone from my back pocket and climb into the front passenger seat. I fasten the seatbelt. My mind freewheels, my heart bangs, my legs are leaden.

I’m sitting in a police car to be taken to Northern General Hospital where Dan is. I’ve left my real life and walked into someone else’s. This is not real. This is some other parent’s worst nightmare. It can’t be mine.

Sirens and lights are blaring and flashing as we set off, fast. Sheffield passes me in a blur.

‘How old is he?’ the officer asks, ignoring lights, undertaking cars.

‘Fifteen.’ My mouth is dry now.

‘I think he must have looked older, or they’d have taken him to the Children’s Hospital.’

She stays quiet, eyes on the road. I throw up a burst of words. ‘He’s six-foot-three. We had a row and he stomped off to KFC. What happened?’

She says nothing, looking in her mirrors but not at me. I guess she doesn’t want to tell me, which in itself says too much. My heart pounds.

‘It seems your son was hit by a car as he ran across the road,’ she says calmly, ‘but I don’t know the details.’

My mind skitters over what the details might be. That they had to find out his name from a bank card means he couldn’t tell them himself. A sweat breaks on my face and scalp.

‘How bad is it?’ I shift in my seat and stare at the side of her face. I don’t want to know. But I have to know.

‘Very serious,’ she says. She does not look at me. 

I have my phone in my hand and grip it so hard my fingers hurt. I will not let myself picture Dan or what might have happened. I spurt out more words, blocking my thoughts. ‘I’m not wearing underwear. I thought I was going to the park to collect him. The telly’s on.’

We’re close to the hospital now. I haven’t stopped here before, always driven past, cursing the on-street parking that turns the road into a slalom.

‘Is there someone you need to inform about where you’re going?’ the officer asks, staring ahead.

Steve. My stomach lurches. I need to tell Dan’s dad. Steve, so proud of his son and the person he’s become. My phone’s barely charged. I find his number, still saved as I.C.E. Steve, from when we were newly separated and Dan was only two, when phones didn’t have locked screens and when everything was going to be okay. Now it legitimately is In Case of Emergency.

I know he’s with his partner Tina, on one of his rare trips to the UK, attending a wedding. He’s expecting to have lunch with Dan in Manchester tomorrow, to hear all about how school and footy training is going, and to plan which capital city in Europe they might visit next.

He doesn’t pick up. I text him Phone me. It’s about Dan. It’s urgent. Come to Northern General Hospital.

My bladder suddenly feels full to bursting. My body is preparing itself to fight or run. We pull up at the back entrance to A&E, where the ambulances are. This isn’t the entrance people use when they’re only cradling broken bones. This entrance is grey. Inside is an entrance bay, and ambulance crew members are having muted conversations with people in green, blue, white scrubs.

The way everyone’s eyes fall on me as I walk in the back door tells me everything I need to know. 

The police officer drops back; a doctor wearing a blue cap and white plastic apron takes her place and guides me into a curtained cubicle. At first, all I register is two people in scrubs on either side of a gurney, adjusting drips and prodding pads on a beeping monitor. 

Then I see Dan. He’s lying on the gurney. His head and neck are encased in a padded cage. His nose is blood-crusted, packed with wadding. Thick clear plastic tubes run from the corners of his mouth, with more tubes running from his chest. Thin synthetic lines protrude from his arms and neck. I see, through gaps in the head brace, sturdy metal staples running in a line down the back of his head; they do not quite close the long fissure in the back of his skull. His usually big blue eyes are slightly open, fixed. They are sticky, and the whites are yellowed and dull.

The scene is too horrific to be real. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m screaming. But there’s no time for that. The idea of Dan existing in any form less than whole and healthy is devastating. The sight in front of me distorts into a fleeting vision of feeding tubes, no speech, learning to walk, eyes pleading. That cannot be our future. I snap my eyes back to here and now. I’m Dan’s mum, and he needs me.

I lean in very close. I can make out individual flecks of dried blood that have poured from his ear and then clotted. I can’t immediately grasp his hand; it’s full of cannula. I touch his fingers. ‘You can go Dan. Don’t hang on if you don’t want to my love,’ I murmur. In my mind I shriek you’re not really here Dan, I can’t see you. I scan his pallid face for something, anything, a movement to let me know he can hear. He’s motionless. There’s nothing there. My only baby: brilliant, alive Dan, is gone.

Chapter 2.

Saturday 26th May 2018 9.00pm

I’m whisked from Dan’s