I suspect most of you have seen the extensive coverage we managed to achieve in Williams memory yesterday. We are unreservedly proud to be Williams parents. Please please help us save lives from Sepsis and support the UK Sepsis Trust please donate via the link below to help save a life like Wiliams.
On behalf of My little angel in William I would like to pass on my sincere thanks to the world for supporting my mummy and daddy in sharing me with the world… Little Angel William xxxx
Www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead
Finally, after all the interviews yesterday I was told, that my dear 98 year old nan, Winnie May had passed away in the morning, she never managed to see her beautiful great grandson on the television. I’m sure, in fact I know, my beautiful nan is looking after my beautiful son in Heaven, this is for you both, with all my love and thanks, Melissa xxxx
After months of waiting, and what seems a lifetime, we are finally in receipt of the NHS England serious incident report into William’s death. This will go to press in the Daily Mail on Tuesday 26th January. William’s story will cover 5 pages including the front page. We have worked closely with the Daily Mail, and in collaboration with NHS England, and the paper are paying us a fee of £8,000, with my gift aid, we will be donating £10,000 entirely to the UK Sepsis Trust as part of William’s Legacy.
Paul and I are heading to London tomorrow, and on Tuesday morning from 6am until 8:30am I will be appearing on Good Morning Britain on ITV. I will be interviewed by Piers Morgan and Susanna Reid, and I’ll be sharing William’s story. We will be using this huge media platform collaboratively with the UK Sepsis Trust and NHS England to drive forward the recommendations made in William’s report, as a direct result of his death.
I know many of you follow my blog and William’s story from all around the world, but please go and buy the Daily Mail on Tuesday and if you are unable to buy a copy, please read the paper online; and tune in to me on the TV. There is no doubt that William’s story will be covered on the national news BBC and ITV. It will be confirmed tomorrow whether I will be appearing in person or via video link on the news. It is expected for me to be appearing on the radio too. So please, if you are outside the UK, please tune in online.
As a family we will be doing our utmost to educate the public and spread awareness of sepsis, so others do not have to suffer the same tragedy that we are enduring. This is William’s lasting legacy.
It costs £85 to save a life from sepsis, £10,000 will save over 100 lives, and in addition to the fund-raising we have been carrying out, this will push William’s Just Giving account to nearly £20,000. Help us raise funds for the Sepsis Trust by donating below, and please share this, buy the paper, tune in to the TV on Tuesday 26th and make sure you know what sepsis is.
N.B. The release of William’s story in the news is subject of course to world news, according that World War 3 doesn’t break out it will be fine.
Life is very busy at the moment, but not busy how I ever imagined it would be. I never imagined that I would be sat here preparing press statements, comments, being interviewed and scrutinising every document I receive in relation to the death of my little William.
I remember so well receiving William’s death certificate and putting it in the folder with his birth certificate. You don’t get a folder with the death certificate, it’s not free either, we had to pay for the privilege. When I opened the folder I thought, do I put it in front of his birth certificate, the OCD inside me needing it to be in date order, but the mother inside of me knew that it always had to be William’s birth certificate that had to be right at the front. William’s birth such a defining moment in my life. A moment that re-defined me as a person. No longer Melissa Mead, personal assistant, friend, sister, girlfriend, but mummy, a title that supersedes any of the former. A title I never thought I would have, a title I took seriously, a title that I did not treat lightly. A title that some are not blessed with, others blessed with children, but perhaps not deserving. Not me, I have the best title. I am William Mead’s mummy. I was born to be William’s mummy, I will always be William’s mummy, but I can no longer look after him like most mothers are able to. As I sat there for half an hour, reading William’s death certificate, I knew what the answer was, that it would be placed at the back, at the bottom, behind everything else that mattered. The world was a richer place when William was born and so much poorer when he died. Simple tasks insignificant to others, but tasks that consume me. Sad isn’t it, that I have to worry about such silly things, I should be worrying that William isn’t putting his fingers in plugs or staying up to late not how to file his death certificate.
The worry never stops. I worry about him now, is he ok? What is he doing? Is he sleeping ok? Is he lonely? Does he have little friends? I hope they’re not feeding him broccoli, he really doesn’t like it. William went to Heaven with no instructions. He wasn’t prepared, I wasn’t prepared, William was never supposed to go. It is not something any parent should ever have to knowingly prepare for, or have to endure. We are all used to death, and what it means. As we grow older, we begin to lose grandparents, eventually parents. It is not something that we invite, or wish to even happen, we hope that it doesn’t happen when we are young. We do hope that our parents, and older generations live a rich life, live their dreams and see younger generations being born. The natural order. The order we don’t like but expect and have come to accept. We have wonderful memories of our grandparents, tales of times gone by, always being able to get that extra packet of sweets because ‘we’re cute’. When we begin to lose loved ones as we age, what we are left with is memories. Memories of them, memories of their life, their achievements, memories we have created together, that we can look back on with happy tears. What I’m left with is imagination. For those who have lost a child in pregnancy, a baby born sleeping, or a child lost like William, we have some memories, but mostly what we are left with are imaginations. Would William enjoy school, what would be his favourite subject, would he prefer to read a book or play sports. Would he want to become a lawyer, a train driver or a professional footballer. I will never know. I will never know whether he would marry, whether he would marry a man or a woman, I will never know what his children would look like, what my grandchildren would be called. I will never get to experience that love, that pride of watching my little boy grow into a perfect young man, watch him create his own life, and have his own family.
Like you, when you share on social media precious moments you have with your children, when they master how to walk, when they swim 25 metres, when they are in their first nativity, when they ask silly little questions that only little children can ask, I need to share William too, but how can I share William? I cannot post that William started school today, I cannot share that William won his first spelling competition. I cannot share William like you are able to share your children. Regardless, I have to share William with the world, to teach you all about the little boy who lived. William did live, he lived for 382 days, and William’s 382 days have made more of an impact on this world than my 29 years ever will. The world needs William, just like I do. When I share William, I share with you little stories, but mostly I share with you William’s legacy. Sharing William’s story enables me to raise awareness of what happened to him, make sure the mistakes in his care do not happen again, and to make sure that anyone I come into contact with, whether that be physically, or online, knows what Sepsis is. That is William’s legacy, to save the lives of other children, and in doing so, for every person I engage with, I get to show them William’s little face. And that is how, a mother who has lost her child is able to feel pride.
…Your smile was the most captivating I have ever seen.
…Your smile made me smile.
…Your eyes came alive when you smiled.
…Your eyes were full of love and trust.
…Your eyes emanated the true depth of beauty.
…Your eyes made mummy’s eyes leak.
…Your little face made mummy’s heart burst under the pressure of love.
…Your presence allowed mummy to feel entirely at ease with the world.
…Mummy is entirely in love with you.
…Giving birth to you defined me.
…When you arrived my soul was purged of any hurt.
…You fixed me and were the glue that held mummy together.
…When I cuddled you, you made everything ok.
…You gave me moments I wanted to freeze in time.
…You gave me ten little fingers and ten little toes that mummy could count.
…You gave mummy a cute button nose that she could ‘beep, beep’.
…You allowed me to sit up to the wee hours and watch you sleep.
…You were that little baby my arms had longed to cradle.
…You always kept your hat and gloves on like a good boy.
…You had already decided you didn’t like broccoli.
…You knew how to be perfectly cheeky.
…You allowed mummy to act silly.
…You were the little person I could make up silly nicknames for.
…I have never giggled so much as when we were together.
…You had mummy wrapped around you chubby little finger.
…Being wrapped round your chubby little finger was the best place to be.
…We had our very own family meal (with no broccoli).
…When you learnt something new, mummy would feel nothing but accomplishment.
…You taught me how to be patient.
…You taught me that the little things are the things that matter.
…You taught mummy not to be selfish.
…You made mummy realise that she is a good mummy.
…You gave mummy the best job.
…You taught me what it is to love unconditionally.
…You showed me what pure and unguarded love is.
…You taught me a kind of love that has no boundaries, that is limitless and endless.
…Mummy knew she would never be alone.
…Mummy has never worried about anything as much as she worried about you.
…You are the beat in my heart and the pulse in my veins.
…Losing you has given me courage that I never thought I had.
…Your life and your existence taught me endurance to continue.
…Losing you has made mummy feel agonising pain and heartache.
…Losing you has made mummy very forgiving and compassionate of others.
…Losing you changed me.
…Losing you has destroyed me.
…You are the reason I love and the reason I’d die.
When mummy looked at YOU she knew that she had got one thing absolutely perfect.
Your death sparked feelings I never knew existed;
and I want YOU; not feelings about you.
“The days will always be brighter,
because you existed.
The nights will always be darker,
because you are gone.”
This time last year was the worst journey I made of my life, the journey to visit you for the last time, knowing it really was the very last time. Knowing that later that day your forever bed would be sealed, never to be opened again. As your family arrived to see you, I carefully lifted your fragile and broken little body from your bed and cradled you, rocking you backwards and forwards, treasuring what would be my last few moments with you. All eyes were on you, waiting for God to undo it, all watching you, waiting, waiting for a miracle. That miracle never arrived. So as your family kissed your tiny beautiful fluffy hair for the last time, their tears like a leaking faucet landing on your skin, they said goodbye, goodbye William. Then it was just mummy and daddy. Mummy stood holding you, the need to rock you to sleep long gone, but mummy did it anyway, still instinct, those rocking motions part of mummy’s being, part of what mummy is for, to soothe you, to comfort you, to make it better. But, mummy could no longer make this better, the primal screams from mummy’s body gone from the day you left, replaced only by muted sounds. Daddy pulled us in to a big daddy bear hug, his arms wrapped around mummy, you our baby tucked safely between us, for the last time, for the last time ever, we stood as a unit, as a family, for the last time ever we stood there completely whole, we were one. We were us, we were three. We cried for you, we cried for us, we cried over you, haunted forever by this defining moment. Daddy loosened his grip, he placed his hand on your head, left a lingering kiss on your forehead and he told you that he loved you pickle. Then he left.
It was just me and you. Me and my baby, my baby and I, William and Melissa, mother and son. Just us. I returned to the seat, I drank you in, after nearly four weeks, your beautiful pink plump skin was starting to give in to nature, a purplish, grey hue, but you were beautiful, your long dark eyelashes extending from eyes that mummy would never see again. Mummy traced her finger down your perfect button nose, taking in the contours of your lips, little lips that hid your first teeth. The glitter in your ear catching the light, mummy had asked the pathologist not to wash you, you needed to still be you, still needed to have that silky soft hair, and you still needed to have glitter in your ear from the little Christmas tree that you made mummy and daddy two days before you went to Heaven. As I sat there, holding you, my mind could not accept that you would not wake up. You were so peaceful, I expected you to scrunch your little face up any moment, kissing goodbye to milky floating dreams and coming back to reality, but it didn’t happen, you remained still, you remained silent, mummy remained broken, just like you.
I hadn’t really thought about what I would say to you that day. I just begged, I begged and pleaded with you to wake up. “Please sweetheart, please wake up, mummy’s here. Mummy loves you so much, please little man, please.” But you didn’t, my chest heaving with every breath, my heart aching with every beat, the pain palpable. “I’m so sorry sweetheart, I’m so sorry that I couldn’t protect you, that I couldn’t save you, I’m so sorry that it’s you and not me, sweetheart I love you so much, I love you, please, baby.” But no matter what I said you didn’t move, there was no sharp intake of breath where you woke me up from this wretched nightmare. I had to say goodbye, I had to put you down for the last time. I knew my time was limited, your funeral approaching, I knew that at some point it would be the last time I touched your foot, stroked your cheek, ran my fingers through your hair, held you and kissed you. I knew that in a matter of moments I would see you for the last time, ever. I wanted to open the door and run away, run down the country lane with the wind in our hair, I wanted to keep on running and never stop, to never be apart from you, for them not to take you from me, but I couldn’t. So, with the heaviest heart, and the hardest footsteps I rose and made my way over to your coffin, but I couldn’t do it, under the weight of the world I sunk to the floor and I could barely catch my breath as I tried to talk to you. My beautiful little miracle baby, the sweetest natured little boy, the most angelic and perfect little man this world would ever see was gone. I stroked your cheek one last time, I gently rubbed my thumbs over your eyes, I ran my fingers through your hair, I cupped your head in my hand and bought your head towards my face, as my lips met your forehead I kissed you, a mother’s fingerprint on her child’s skin. I squeezed you so tight and inhaled your sweet scent for one last time, and with the most agony I have ever felt I stood and I gently placed you in your forever bed. Never to hold you again.
Your legs naturally crossed, mummy placed a photo of mummy and daddy on your chest, your arms hugging it close. We were going with you wherever you went. You looked so peaceful in your beautiful satin white coffin, like you would wake at any moment, but I knew you wouldn’t. I just wanted to curl up in the coffin with you and die, our arms forever intertwined, our bond inextricably woven, untouchable. Just me and you. But I couldn’t. Your little coffin only 30 inches long. There was no room for mummy. I took one step back and just looked at you, this was never meant to be, a sight I could never have imagined I would ever witness. I came closer, I knew it was time, I had asked them to give me a time limit, knowing I would never leave you given the chance. I felt you chubby little foot in my palm, I allowed the shape of your legs to lead my hand up over your body, taking in your little legs, the little legs that had just taken their first steps, over your little belly, and down your arms to your hands. I placed your hand on mine, finger to finger, fingerprint to fingerprint, your little nails, perfectly formed, I placed your hand on my cheek one last time, I placed my hand on top of yours and felt your delicate touch against my face, if I close my eyes now, I can feel you, I can feel your touch and your tiny little fingers pressing on my cheek. I placed your hand over the photo and for one last time I leaned over and I placed my cheek on yours, I put my arm under your shoulder and I hugged you tight, my hand on your left cheek holding us together in unity, as one, as we had started out, our life as one, in one body, death had broken you, it had broken me but it would not break US. I removed my arm and I held your head in my hands, our noses touching, I kissed your lips, I kissed your cheeks and you little button nose, then I planted a kiss on your forehead. As I held your head to my lips, tears streaming down my face onto yours, I knew this was it. I had to let you sleep. I had to let you go. So, mummy made you comfortable, she straightened your hair out, tucked you in to your little blanket, “I’m so sorry baby, I’m just so so sorry, please don’t blame me. I love you, I love you so much, my boy, my everything, my life, I miss you, I’m just so sorry my darling boy. Goodnight sweet William, I love you, mummy loves you.” One gentle kiss on your head, the last kiss, I reached my hands up and I closed the heaviest object I would ever encounter, the lid to your coffin, I had to do it, it had to be me, I had to be the last one that would ever see you. The lid closed and I stepped back and I just stood and looked, I wept with every fiber of my being, knowing you were in there but I couldn’t see you, I would never see you again, I slowly stepped backwards out of the room, my eyes not leaving you, my hand found the light switch and with one movement the light was extinguished. I opened the door, still not taking my eyes away from you. I circled out of the door and stood for what felt like a lifetime, and slowly I closed the door, the door to my life. My family didn’t say anything to me, I didn’t say anything to them, I walked out. At that point I knew what giving up felt like, at that point I gave up. There would be no miracle, God would not be undoing this, you would not be waking up. Life had gone to far this time. I got in the back of the car, and I was driven away from you. Never to see you, touch you, feel you, smell you or kiss you ever again.
I sat in your bedroom when I could see the hearse creeping up the road, I could see your name in the most beautiful white flowers, I ran down the stairs and stood at the front door as I saw you being driven past, the hearse dwarfed your tiny little bed. I made my way down to the road and waited for the car to turn around and come back. Mummy had requested a car that mummy and daddy could sit in with you and take your last journey together. I climbed into the hearse and I pressed my hand on your bed, like somehow the harder I pressed I would somehow feel your baby-soft skin again. I did not take my hand off your bed the entire way. It was a slow journey, not too far, but far enough. After we arrived I could see people’s faces, your tiny coffin clearly making a devastating impact on everyone. Your flowers were removed, WILLIAM and GRUMPUS taken into the crematorium, followed by a pillow and a little reindeer, your favourite and two red roses from mummy and daddy. It was time. For the last time. I carried the heaviest thing a mother can ever carry down the longest aisle I have ever had to walk. It was time to say goodbye, but it wasn’t goodbye, not for me, for me it was “Goodnight sweetheart, I love you, see you soon.”
A Mother Without a Child 