100 days without you

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Yesterday was 100 days since William died. That’s 2,400 hours, 144,000 minutes or 864,000 seconds. People say to me take one day at a time, hour by hour, but even that seems too unbearable. The next hour seems to far away, part of a future that I’m trying so hard to resist, a reality that I don’t want to be part of.

There is no glossing over the hard facts of William’s post-mortem report and the care leading up to his death. I find myself once again in shock, physical shock. The tremors taking hold of me, my hands clammy, my pulse racing, the adrenalin surging through my body, in a constant state of fight or flight. The medication no longer touching the sides. I am exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally. My mind feels scrambled, whirring round and around like a washing machine, trying desperately to process the devastating fact that William’s death was avoidable. So utterly avoidable.

Getting through each day, each hour is just too much to comprehend. This morning I rocked up to my appointment with my care coordinator in a mess. Immediately she was able to notice the difference in my demeanor, agitated, perched on the edge of my seat. My eyes darting round the room unable to focus on anything, our conversation flitting from one thing to the next until she asked me ‘how do you feel, right now, in this moment?’ When she asked this question I was busy thinking how the view from the window was very much like the view from the relatives room in the hospital the day William died. How the sky was the same colour, grey, but not just any grey, that grey, the grey that depresses your mood the instant you look at it, it was dull, sullen, with no break in the clouds for as far as the eye could see. That’s what my mind felt like, cloudy, no light seeping in, laden down with darkness. My mind left the relatives room that day and I was trying to focus, how do I respond to that question? How do I feel in this moment?

I pondered for a while, the silence in the room being broken only by the sound of scratching, I realised it was me, scratching aggressively at the palm of my hand. The skin hard and broken yet again, anxiety was destroying me. I could imagine William holding on to the table in front of us, walking round it and removing all the items, discarding them on the floor, ready to play with when he’d finished. I could hear his little voice, babbling to himself as he kept busy, the sounds almost becoming recognisable as words, the pitch in his voice changing as he progressed through each sentence. My goodness how much I miss him, the despair and grief the price I so willingly pay to love William so much. How did I feel in this moment? I could think of many things, I am feeling a mixture of emotions, but right now in this moment I just can’t comprehend how I will live without William here.

And that was it, it occurred to me, how do you feel in this moment? A single moment. Lunchtime seemed like a lifetime away, let alone tomorrow or what lay beyond. With every fixed period of time an unbearable prospect to live with, perhaps I could just live with this moment. Survive just this moment in time. I could just get to the end of this appointment. I could just walk back to the office. I could just turn my computer on. Getting through to the end of each day an impossible task to comprehend, but maybe I could just get through this moment.

Time has been standing still for me since William took his last breath. Many moments have passed, each bringing with them a fear of the unknown. Grief so underestimated. Like the septicemia that silently took my William, grief silently ravages you from the inside, destroying you, debilitating and relentless. To feel so much pain is to feel so much love.

So, how do I feel in this moment? In this very moment I feel tortured.

27 thoughts on “100 days without you”

  1. I have been reading your blogg and I am sorry. I can not imagine how much pain you should be in. You are a wonderful mom, the best mom. You did everyhing right and your little angel will be proud of you. I am sorry. I send you lots of Love and admiration to be such a wonderful mom.

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  2. Can’t stop the tears as I read this. Keep on writing…as it helps to be able to express your feelings. There’s no words that I or anyone can say to make your days go by a little faster, a little easier. Take care –

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  4. I couldn’t help the tears! I am so sorry for your lose. I can only imagine the immeasurable pain you are going through. I hope the writing helps you through.

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  5. I just wanted to let you know that I am thinking of you, and sending support from across the globe.
    I have been surprised by the physical toll of grief as well. You are right — to feel the pain is to feel the love, and a mother has so much love for her child.

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  6. I’ve been following your blogs and your a mum any little boy would be amazingly proud of! Your Strength is amazing and no doubt William is looking over you smiling telling all his friends up there how amazing his mummy is! Stay strong hun your doing fantastic! X

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  9. You have so perfectly nailed the debilitating feelings that accompany the loss of our children. I wish I could just hug you right now! I know every ounce of your pain, and I’m so sorry that you know something that I so wish that I didn’t have too. I’m only on day 80 today, so I commend you more than you know for making to to day 100! You are a survivor! You are a superhero Mama! ❤ xx

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  10. Praying for you as I read your “100 day” entry, my heart goes out to you from Canada. Watching the video of William, such a beautiful little life. It is good you are sharing pictures and videos, in a way it helps us share your grief and loss, even though our sadness is just a shadow of what you’re going through. I lost a sister when I was 7 and she was 18. That was 47 years ago now and her life has touched me more than almost anyone I know. I’ve always believed she is my angel watching over me. My mom (now 88) also still loves talking about her. So your son’s life will always continue to be a part of you. You don’t ever have to stop loving him.

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  11. You continue to be in my thoughts. I wish you so much peace as you take every day moment by moment. I’m so sorry this happened to your sweet and much-loved boy.

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  12. I first met your parents in a small beach front cafe in Los Alcazares just over 2 years ago when my daughter was 10 months old & bumped into them again this morning with my second daughter who is now the same age & they told me what had happened to William. They also told me about this blog & reading it has been heartbreaking. I recently had to take my youngest daughter to hospital in Spain as she had a temperature that wouldn’t budge. When I arrived I was seen within minutes & within about half an hour they’d taken blood, urine, a chest X-ray & fitted a cannula as a just in case. At the time I was almost hysterical as they’d taken her off me & she was understandably screaming her head off. I was ranting to my mother that it was surely over the top for a temperature however I am now extremely grateful that they took such precautions as had anything serious been wrong it would have been picked up. Fortunately in my daughters case it was just a virus but reading Williams story has reinforced my gratitude for the medical professionals in Spain who took such good care of my little lady. I only wish William had received similar.
    You are incredibly brave to write this blog & if it saves one life then it will be worth it.

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    • We were very unlucky to have seen 2 doctors that did not treat William to a proper standard. To miss such basic observations is beyond me and that is what I am struggling to cope with. He died from something that was so easily treatable and so easily diagnosable. I am glad your little one is ok xx

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  13. I don’t know what else to say but you are not alone on this terrible journey. That your beautiful little boy is always with you. That you have every right to feel destroyed by the loss of him.
    One grieving mum to another I send you love ❤️

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