“But we both know now that terrible things can happen in your life and you will come through them and survive”*
*Times Magazine, 18th February 2017
I honestly don’t know if that’s what you prefer to go by, and apologise if it seems either a) condescending or b) over familiar, for that is not my intent. I’ve just sat and read your article for The Times Magazine, and I suppose this is fan mail of sorts. I just wanted to find a space to let you know that I’ve admired you for a long time, and whilst I can predict and see on social media a surge of criticism and scorn for your words, I for one want to stand by you. Offer you my thanks for all you have represented and continue to represent. And I think going by Sam suits you- you refer to your husband as Dave, and surely you two have had a giggle about being Sam and Dave, the non soul singing power couple.
I think you and I would strike up an easy friendship in real life, we’d certainly have plenty in common: an art degree, a career in retail head office, a love of good clothes and fashion, a husband that we love fiercely but understands none of those things and drives us crazy at times and, our children. We may have differing political leanings and religious standpoints, and levels of middle classedness, but you look like you laugh easily. I hear in your words the overarching belief in good humanity. And you seem like you can kick arses all whilst being thought of in really high esteem. In short, I think I’d like you to be my mate. As long as you let me take the piss out of Dave a fair bit.
Perhaps this letter should be private, a fist bump, a little note of solidarity. But well, I don’t know your address apart from Notting Hill, and actually this is a bigger message about our children. This is me saying to you, that I know you’re bracing yourself for impact. You see the criticism arising, you’ve seen it waged time and again against your husband. That speaking of Ivan, the life you had together, will be criticised as being used as a vehicle of promotion for your new fashion line.
It’s not fair is it? That this, our joined experience of parenting, could be held against us. Nothing like disability and death to make people feel uncomfortable. For every move that you make during or after feels defined by that whether you speak of it or not. Never before has the line ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t’ felt more prurient. But I want to tell you that every word that was quoted, the raw honesty embedded, has touched me really deeply in my heart, in that discernible bit of chest cavity that feels ever wounded by this experience.
Truth is, I sort of meanly want to dislike you because you’re so elegant, and your hair always seems so wondrously glossy, but I can’t. Because you admit to being sweaty with the Obamas, that you’d look like you’d wet yourself because of the sweat. Maybe after too many glasses of wine we’d be laughing raucously about how you managed to keep fancying Barack in check too. And whether you’d given Michelle’s arms a little squeeze because they’re impossibly gorgeous.
Then after glass three, we’d maybe have that ‘isn’t it just fucking shit that our glorious, innocent boys had to suffer so much and come through so much. Be such beacons of light in our life, show us that they’d always try to overcome. And then they die. And that is gone, and we’re left to be the strong ones, the ones that keep going. But the truth is, that’s what they taught us. And now, it’s in honour of their lives that we still push forward, get out from under the duvet and drive that seasick like energy forward’. And we’d then laugh again as it became too much.
And we’d only need to exchange a look then. One that says, I’m sorry for you but I’m glad that I can talk like this with you. And laugh about Florence and DD and their dictatorship that we live under with them, but just how fiercely we think they’re the best things ever. And you’d tell me more about Nancy and Arthur, and how they make memories of your time with Ivan so much more alive, the glorious way they remember him or talk about him.
Perhaps we’d go for a run together, and talk about work (not currently obviously, I’d seriously impede your pace). About the importance of taking time away from it, but also finding space for it again. About how difficult it can feel to be a working mother, but the crystallisation of that guilt when your child has such specific care needs and also the flip side of that, the irony being that you seek out that connection to your existing identity even more.
You give me hope Sam. I think you’re ace. I want to read and hear more of your experience. And I know how much the launch of Cefinn will mean to you, and the epic amounts of bravery it has taken to get this far. The next bit of time will be the most challenging, but I know you’ve got this. Continue to speak Ivan’s name, for I know it’s not a vehicle for promotion, he’s the very reason you’ve got this far. Plus the clothes look awesome.
Love, Mrs D.
PS: if you ever expand the brand into homewares…
“From the moment he is born you are living in a situation that is quite surreal and difficult to deal with. It is intense every day, in and out of hospitals. So you become used to dealing with situations week after week that are totally different from [those experienced by] anyone else”*