It seems hard to believe that I sit here and it has already been 35 days since I lost my little boy. Do those 35 days mean I am coping? Do those 35 days mean I am ‘getting through’? To me each one of those 35 days has been a tortuous journey, a lifetime. People say to you ‘baby steps’, ‘take one day at a time’. But it doesn’t mean anything. There are no steps forwards, perhaps sideways, but at least not backwards.
I don’t have a choice but to exist each day through a haze of tears, exhaustion, confusion and questioning. Why am I here? Why is Wiliam dead? Why him? Why didn’t any of the doctors do anything? Why isn’t it me? Some questions may get answered at the inquest into his death, but nothing will bring him back. Nothing will re – write history. I will never be able to cradle my little boy again, rock him to sleep, cover his face in kisses, or get lost in his deep brown eyes.
People say to you that you have so many lovely memories, a plethora of photos and videos, some with his little laugh. But they’re not William, they’re not tangible, William should be here.