You can’t fix this kind of broken

Facing the world without you is a daily uphill climb. I have been finding it increasingly harder to manage to get through each day, but you probably know that, you can probably see me, I just wish I could see you. The reality of you never coming home is starting to sink in, you’re not coming home.

I’m never going to be woken up by you gently babbling to your reindeer. I’m never going to watch you struggle to pick up the pieces of peach that were too slippy for you to grab. I miss my little companion who used to help me post the balls from your ball pool through the stair gate into the kitchen, some of those balls still sit by the dishwasher. Touched last by you, posted so meticulously through the stair gate, and picked so carefully from the box of balls.

Your toothbrush and toothpaste still takes pride of place in the cup under the sink. We didn’t even get through your first tube of toothpaste. Your bath toys still hang in the basket on the side of the bath, although really you preferred the shower. When you knew it was that time in the evening, you’d crawl to the bottom of the stairs and wait. Daddy would follow you as you climbed each step, every movement an achievement, watching you learn to become independent. You’d wait patiently by the shower, waiting to be undressed, and that was it, you’d climb in and sit right under the shower head, clenching your little fists with excitement. The first time you climbed into the shower with mummy, she was watching you, observing your big brown eyes taking everything in, your facial expression changing, mummy could see you making your decision, slowly you turned to look at me ‘it’s ok sweetheart’ I encouraged you, you understood in your own little way, your fear subsiding and your curiosity taking over, you climbed straight in and sat right by my feet. Your new discovery became part of you bedtime routine. You were making your own choices. Learning by discovering.

Your little coat still hangs on your peg. Untouched. So small and dwarfed by mummy and daddy’s coats but so prominent. Your little coat hanging there holds so much meaning, it is still YOUR peg, you are still part of this family, our refusal to move it a constant reminder of what was, we didn’t choose this. Your bibs are still in the drawer, your cereal boxes still on the shelf. Your toys are all still lined up in the lounge where you left them, mummy has had to dust them occasionally, imagine that, dusty toys, that wouldn’t happen if you were around. Nothing staying still long enough to become dusty. Some of the DVD’s on the shelf are still upside down, although you know mummy likes to have things just so, she’s left them, the way you left them, a constant reminder that you touched them.

Spring is upon us and Summer seems to be just around the corner. The world seems to be waking from the cold winter. Flowers are starting to blossom, filling the garden with their fragrance and beauty.  The birds singing as they enjoy the leafy trees that were bare only a few weeks ago. Somehow it seemed apt that it was cold, bleak, and gloomy outside. It doesn’t seem right that the rest of the world is warming up and soaking up the joys of what Spring brings, new life, new baby lambs, the gardens awakening under the heat of the sun and you are not here to enjoy it with us. To know that you’ll never hear the birds singing, never sit in your paddling pool in the garden splashing in the water, never sit on the beach and eat the sand. All of those plans are gone, our whole future that we planned with you is gone. I was sitting on the bed the other day looking out the window and as my eyes focused they noticed your hand print. Mummy used to hold you whilst you stood on the windowsill looking at the cars and the birds. ‘wassat’ you’d say as you pointed eagerly at the birds. Putting your tiny little hand print on mummy’s windows. It’s still there. Mummy looks at it everyday, a reminder that you were once here. You touched that glass. You left your mark.

On your last day at nursery,  you made us a Christmas tree, and when you came home you had glitter in your hair and your ear. Then just 36 hours later it didn’t seem possible that mummy was sat cradling your tiny little body, when just a few short days earlier you had been busying yourself making that Christmas tree.  There is a fleck of glitter that remains in your cot, sometimes it catches the sun and I imagine you sitting in nursery with your hands covered in glitter, enjoying yourself, discovering new textures and shapes.  Mummy used to love sitting and watching you play, watch you thinking, watch you figuring out a shape and making a decision, then you’d catch my eye, mummy couldn’t help but smile and you would crawl over for a cuddle. How can you be gone?

The last thing you ever touched, your blue sippy cup still lays in exactly the same position, in your cot, right where you left it, after you had your last drink at 5am. Mummy has picked it up a couple of times, wrapping my fingers around the handles, mimicking your tiny little fingers around those exact same handles. Mummy misses you, but you probably know that. Do you watch me every night standing at your window? I talk to you, do you hear me? Missing you isn’t the problem, it’s knowing you’re never coming back that’s destroying me. Sometimes people tell me that you’re in a better place, but we both know that a better place would be right here with me. The simple fact is I don’t know how to live without you, and I just don’t want to.

21 thoughts on “You can’t fix this kind of broken

  1. I have sat here and read this sobbing.. This has broke my heart to read, the pain you must be feeling is unimaginable. I am so so sorry for your loss, I can’t begin to imagine the grief you are suffering. All I can send are hugs and prayers your way. I am so very sorry xxxxx

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I’m so so sorry for your loss! There is nothing comparable with the pain of losing a child, and nothing or nobody will ever replace your son, but if you have the strength to go on, this pain will calm down, and hopefully you’ll be ready for another child. That’s what I’ve heard from other parents who have lost their kids. Keep strong, don’t give in to despair, it won’t get better, but it will be less painful in time. You’ll meet your son when it’s your time, but don’t cut your life short, you’ll never know what’s in store for you in the future. Thinking of you…

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Melissa, I don’t know you other than as a fellow Hong Kong mom. Your story only came to my attention after I joined the group a few months back. As all of us moms, I grieve with you! No mother should have to know the pain of losing a child. I am not one to flaunt my faith or religious beliefs, but tonight my heart feels like this is something you need to hear. A small simple message that FAMILIES CAN BE TOGETHER FOREVER! God, our Heavenly Father loves each of His children and wants us to be able to return from the challenges of this life to live with him. His plan put families right at the center. Marriages don’t have to be until death only, and our children aren’t only with us for this life. You will have a chance to be a mother to your baby boy! You are absolutely right, he does see you! He is watching over you! He wants you to have that peace that you can be with him for all eternity. You can learn more about these eternal families at
    My truest heartfelt compassion!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Iam so so sad for your loss.. I cannot imagine a mother going thru this difficult and sad time… No words can make you feel better right now , but i will be praying for you and your little angel. More strenght and courage to live.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Wow this has touched me! It’s the first blog I’ve read of yours so don’t know what happened to your son. I’m sorry for your loss. If you want to and my Facebook please do. I feel for people like you, such hard times you have dealt with. Sending love and kisses x x

    Liked by 1 person

    • Hi David, thank you for reading my blog. You can read ‘my story’ and the other posts i’ve written by using the menu. It is the hardest time of my life, and i’m sure it’ll continue to be, it’s lovely to know there are people like you out there that care so much to get in touch. xx


  6. I came upon your story a few months ago. I stop to read it because I myself was going through a scary time with my baby. I was devastated for your loss. I cried myself to sleep every night at your tragic loss. I have since joined your blog to support you in some small way. Though we are very far apart and i know this really doesn’t help, I just wanted you to know William will never be forgotten by me I see his beautiful face every time I close my eyes and pray for you daily. So sorry for your horrible loss. Hugs xxxxxx

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you lovely, it brings me so much comfort to know that Williams face and his life have touched so many people. I’m sorry to hear about your worrying time with your baby. Your words are very kind, thank you xxx


    • His beautiful little face is the most wonderful memory. It is the hardest thought to know that I will never again see him. I never expected to find William the way I did, and it just shows how fragile and precious life is. xx


  7. A friend of mine shared another blog post with me today, and as I read it, I thought of you and wondered if you might like to read it too. So I will share it here in the hopes that it will lift your heart in some small way.
    This lady has many other posts under the heading of ‘grief’ on her page. It may or may not be something you choose to read, but I wanted you to be aware of it as another resource if you want. Much comfort and peace to you, as always. And sending a prayer for your sweet baby as well.

    Liked by 1 person

  8. I’ve never responded to a blog in my life. So this shows how much your posts have affected me. I can’t even type this without tears running down my face (good time to have just done makeup). I have a boy a couple of months younger than William and some of the details described – the handprint, the peach strike such a chord. I cannot begin to imagine your grief. Please know that there are many people out there thinking of you – and I hope you are getting all the support you need.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I am getting lots of support thank you, professional and family and friends. It is the little moments that hurt the most 😦 i’m very touched that you commented when normally you don’t, thank you for such comforting words x


  9. I stumbled upon your blog accidentally today. I too, am a mother without her child. My vibrant and loving 4 year old son Adam passed away 5 months ago today. Your words resonate so true. The knowledge our babies will never come back to us is almost unbearable. Every day is a struggle, and sometimes I don’t know what I am even fighting for.
    I’m so sorry that you too feel the pain that Im feeling. Sending you prayers for peace and healing.


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