On Sunday I went to the beach with my nephew Rowan, he is 6 months older than William and turns 2 next month. Standing at the water’s edge, with his toes curled up in excitement, he would steal backward glances to his dad to make sure he was safe. When the waves had receded he would throw his ball and run away, stamping his feet from side to side, impatient for his ball to be returned by the tide. William would be walking by now, and I’m certain would be playing with his big cousin, both working each other up, both screaming in glee at what seems a tidal wave to a small person but gentle breaking waves to me and you. The magnitude of William’s absence overwhelming. To watch the way that Rowan would wait for his dad’s words of reassurance, the trust so deep-rooted, Rowan hanging onto his every word. The bond so inextricably woven into their eyes. I miss that. I miss having a little person being unconditionally dependent on me.
There was not a moment that passed without me thinking about what William would be doing, would William like the water, what would he be thinking. It’s moments on the beach that drive home the loss. Other parents playing with their children, building sandcastles, exploring rockpools, I want to do all of those things with William, but I can’t. To everyone on the beach that day I was a twenty something woman taking pride in observing her nephew overcome his fear of the “bubbles” getting closer. Edging a little bit closer to the waves with every throw of his ball, being careful not to let the “bubbles” roll over his toes. After all, it was a Sunday, the weekend, surely if she had a child they would be with her on the beach. The ‘people watchers’ who’ve decided that Paul and I are a childless, young couple, enjoying our weekend off. I know I am a mummy, but I almost want to broadcast it to the world, a big sign above my head which explains in big bold letters “I am a mummy too, I didn’t choose this, my baby is in heaven, we are a family.”
It is very hard to distinguish between love and grief, because they are one of the same thing. Grief is all the love you want to give but cannot give, the more you love someone the more you grieve. The happiness and joy love brings turns to sadness and despair when unspent. Grief is just love with no place to go. Missing William and grieving for William is not about not moving forwards or living in the past, it’s about me loving him in the present.
The moment those words were spoken “I’m sorry my love, but he’s gone” just like that, it was over. William was gone. In that moment, my soul died too. Leaving behind a broken shell to walk this earth. I feel like I’m stuck in purgatory, somewhere between heaven and hell. Since losing William I have read a vast amount online from similar bereaved parents, not wanting to go on, not knowing how. Finding that their surviving children, the only reason to put one foot in front of the other. Some of us in this club don’t have other children, trying desperately to find another reason amongst the pain to forge on an impossible task. My only drive is to get to the inquest, to be William’s advocate, to be William’s voice, to not just tell people how losing him has impacted our lives but to make them feel it, feel it for just one moment, the enduring pain that we feel, that we will be feeling for a lifetime. Beyond the inquest is a black abyss for me, not wanting to stick around the most desirable choice, to be reunited with my baby again. See, it’s very hard to understand these feelings, unless you’ve felt them. Some may say that taking ones life is selfish, but step back for one second and think; it is selfish to ask me to endure a life sentence, a life of pain with no desire in order to save the heartache of others. What you are asking is ‘please put up with your pain, because if we lost you, our suffering would be unbearable.’ To be there for me, to listen, to love, to help guide me, and sometimes just to know that you love me and that you would miss me is ok. But to say it’s selfish is not something anyone else can judge. You do not feel my pain, you do not feel this pain. You do not have to live through the agonising seconds, minutes, hours and days waiting, waiting for this to all be over.
I’m not asking you to accept it, to like it but just try to understand it. Suicide is the most significant part of my care plan. Knowing that I can do it tomorrow, discourages me from doing it today. My get out clause. My safety net. I know this will sound alarming to you, but try to understand. If you don’t want to know the real answer about how I am, it’s probably best not to ask.
I do not want to hurt, I do not want to die, I did not want William to die. It would be a waste of my life, but it was also a waste of William’s life. I know all of this, but mostly I know that I cannot live without my beautiful little boy. I did not choose this, it has been chosen for me.