Pictures of You

Here's a question for all the mothers (and otherwise weepy women) out there - do you cry easily?

By that, I mean do you get emotional over the little things? Do you clasp your hands together and get little happy-sobs in your tummy when your kids do something particularly beautiful? Do you cry much too easily during movies that are sad / maudlin / unbearably sweet? Do you tear up over slo-mo Huggies ads featuring snuggly newborns?

Or is that just me?

As you already know, I am an ugly crier. Blotchy, red-eyed, uncontrollable once I get started. Something strange happened immediately following the detachment of Jack's placenta - I lost the ability to control my tear ducts. As a result, I have since found myself welling up at the smallest things...labrador puppies, the aforementioned Huggies ad, watching Phoebe, Harper and Aurelia walk three abreast, hand-in-hand at the birthday party yesterday.

Most of the time, my eyes get a little damp, my nose prickles, and I regain control. With a so-gorgeous-it-makes-me-cry occasion, I can usually get my composure back relatively quickly. However, with a proper reason to cry, I am a hopeless case.

Lately, I have been at a distinct disadvantage. I have on a nightly basis been struggling to stop my emotion. But I'm sure you'll agree, it's for a good reason.

Are you familiar with the TAC campaign called "Pictures of You"? It's a few years old now, but has been resurrected recently and the ads play several times a night, every night. It features families of people who lost their lives on the roads, clutching photos of their loved ones. It's all they have left.

The song on the ad has only to start, and my stomach contracts. For you see, every time I see that advertisement, I am reminded of a friend of mine. A cheeky, funny, rather naughty boy who I went to school with. A very, very clever young man who was on his way to great things. A mate who I last saw when he crashed at my uni flat with a group of friends, and we played indoor cricket with a broom and a toy rabbit called Squidgy (long story!).

Alex was 19 when he did a favour for a mate, which resulted in a road accident. In return for doing the right thing by a friend, Alex lost his vibrant, outgoing, wonderful life. At the time, when I and my school mates were also 19, it was the hardest thing most of us had ever faced. At his funeral at our old school, we wept to the tunes of Guns 'N' Roses; laughed at the many stories of Alex; and did not fully comprehend what had happened.

Now, at 35, I am beginning to see the complete tragedy of his loss. I look at my own babies, and see the children he never had. I celebrate their birthdays, and think of what a short time Alex's parents had with him. I try and remember what it was like to be 19, and it seems like such a long time ago. Because it was. In December, it will be 16 years since his passing. It seems so incredibly unfair that I have almost doubled his life span. 19 years is a blip. Nowhere near enough for a lifetime.

All his family have left are photos and memories. And being amazingly strong people, they have bravely given their story to the TAC in an attempt to prevent others from experiencing their pain.

If you pay attention to the "Pictures of You" ad, you will see Alex's parents. And you will see Alex. Take a close look at the very last couple featured on the ad, sitting together on the couch, cradling a picture of a beautiful, blond-haired, smiling boy. Their heartache is written on their faces. Their grief is still raw. If I am reminded of my sadness over my friend every time that ad plays, I cannot begin to imagine how Alex's parents feel. If it were me, I think I would leave the television turned off.

In a perfect world, that ad campaign would make every speeding or distracted or tired driver slow down, pay attention or pull over. It would make slippery roads safe, keep wild animals out of the path of cars and motorbikes, and prevent gravel from sending drivers into a spin. In an ideal universe, people would learn from the deaths of others, and there would be no need to have horrendously emotional images of grieving families in the media.

As we all know, we live in a world far from perfect. Amazing, yes. Beautiful, horrible, fantastic, cruel, incredible, stupid and wise. Wouldn't it be wonderful if the only ads we got teary over were the ones with new babies in them? Unfortunately, it's not how it is. So can you do me a favour? Can you look out for the "Pictures of You" ad? Can you pay attention to it, and look carefully at Alex and his parents? And can you cry for him, and for them? Cry long and loud. And then you might remember Alex, and his message.

I do. Every time I drive, I think of Alex. And I drive more carefully, more thoughtfully. Because I want to be the one taking the pictures of my children, not cherishing photos of them instead.