This day last year you pulled yourself up for the first time and stood without mummy’s help. You stood and looked at the floor trying to work out exactly what you’d done and how you’d get down, but not before reaching everything you could on the table and gently placing it on the floor. I thought you would throw it, make a noise and want to repeat until bedtime, but not you. You were curious to work out what you could do, how far you could reach, you always carefully worked out your limitations. Once you had gently placed the television remote on the floor, you looked at it and knew that your body wouldn’t balance on your little legs and you wouldn’t be able to bend down to pick it up. So, when you figured it out, your bum hit the floor and the television remote was once again within your reach. You leaned over, grabbed it and popped it back on the table. Shuffling closer, out shot your chubby little fingers, gripping the edge of the table, once again you pulled yourself up. After you had practiced this several times, your eyes met mummy’s, the pride on my face sharing your own delight. It was time for a congratulatory cuddle.
These are my memories. This was the first time my little boy stood for the first time. I remembered every detail even then, I remember them even more vividly now, ingrained in my memory where no-one can touch them. Mummy had 382 days of firsts with you, 381 days of beautiful memories, until day 382 when death walked in and made the most awful memory. In that single moment, the most painful memory would be etched in my mind for a lifetime. As clearly and vividly that I can remember the first time you stood, opening the curtains to find you staring straight through me, cutting me in half with the eyes that once held your soul is a weight that I carry with me wherever I go. It is no less prominent today as it was back then, if you asked yourself, if you found your child like that, would it ever become less painful?
As every new day begins, it is a new day without you. The pain of reliving this nightmare is re-ignited. As the monotony takes hold, I imagine what I would be doing now if you were here? Would daddy still be coming in to pick you up in the morning, or would you be running into our bedroom? You would be able to stand on your own to brush your teeth, rather than mummy juggling a toothbrush and an excitable toddler. You would be able to pick what clothes you would like to wear and help dress yourself; then my imagination shatters. I collect my jacket and there was your little coat, on your peg, bright red with blue stars. As reality hit me at 100mph I took it down and held it to my face, inhaling your scent. I held it up next to my legs, imagining how tall you might be now. Imagining your excitement of putting it on ready to go to nursery. It took mummy an extra 30 minutes to leave the house, having to hang your coat back on its peg was like leaving you behind. It feels wrong.
To use the phrases with anyone that is grieving, especially a child, ‘moving on’, ‘coming to terms with it’, ‘letting go’ and ‘acceptance’ is like a knife through my heart. I don’t want any of these things. The pain doesn’t lessen, the days get longer, and the nights even longer. How can you move on? How can you come to terms with it? How can you let go? How can I accept it? How can I possibly accept that my little boy died, in avoidable circumstances, how can I accept that this is my life now, how can I accept that I will never see him again, the truth is, I can’t. So my acceptance is ‘i’m not going to accept it’. Yes, I’ve accepted that I’m not going to accept it. That is my acceptance.