Just imagine…

Why do some days hurt more than others, well after all, today is no different from yesterday, I woke up and William’s big smile still didn’t greet me. Mother’s Day hurt more than the day before it or the day after, because that day is a day that bereaved mother’s like me are full of imaginations not busy making memories. Paul gave me a mother’s day card, a beautiful photo of William and me on the front, lot’s of love from Pickle it reads. But William didn’t give it to me. William didn’t scribble inside. William didn’t make it. As I ate my breakfast in bed, William wasn’t there to help me eat it. William was simply not here, and he never will be.

After having a coffee in town we went into a shop to look at mother’s day charms for my bracelet, all of them lovely, but you know I felt odd, stood there choosing a charm ‘beloved mother’, ‘special mum’, when it should be William choosing it for me, but he’s not. The charms on my bracelet, all memories, a little pram, bought by William’s grandparents when he was born. A heart that breaks in two, to reveal ‘mother’ written on one half and ‘son’ on the other, bought for me by William and his daddy on our first joint birthday. Only 17 days later, William was gone. Shortly after, an angel wing, a little boy, and William’s foot and hand print charms adorned my bracelet. I didn’t buy a charm, I couldn’t. That should be William’s job.

As I sit here writing this, my chest hurts. It really hurts, when you think that you’ve cried all the tears you have, more continue to flow. I remember shortly after William died I was dehydrated, forgetting to drink, crying so much, despite this, the tears would still come. Stinging as they stream down my face, eventually they would dry hard to my cheeks. Too exhausted to cry anymore.

I’ve been quite quiet recently, many of you will have seen William and I on television, heard me on the radio and seen William’s little photo in the newspaper, but what you see is a face. Behind the camera, behind closed doors, I haven’t been well. I’m currently struggling to work, going out is a struggle, getting out of bed is a struggle. Living is a struggle. I feel totally empty. Motivation comes only in the form of continuing the battle to fight for William’s life not to have been in vain. Grief is real, trauma is real, this life sentence is real. You see as much as William lived, he died too, death is so real, and death is so very vivid, especially William’s.

It is not just something that happened, something which you can move on from, it is not something that you can accept and let go of. It is not a choice. My waking hours are spent tormented by William’s last hours, by William’s last moments in his home. No matter where I look, right there in the forefront of my mind is William’s broken little body, his little hand suspended in the air, despite the CPR, it didn’t move. William was truly being held tightly in death’s grip. I remember asking the paramedic why it wouldn’t move. He said very calmly, ‘shortly it will, rigor comes very quickly after a child’s dies, if at all, it will be gone soon’. He was right, by the time I had carried William downstairs I was able to hold his hand once more. You see I don’t get a choice, these ‘moments’ in time can take up days and months of my life, and they do. Paralysed in their grip, they are debilitating.

When you lose a grandparent or a parent, you are sad, people are sad for you, but you are able to talk about the happy life you shared together, the longevity of their life. The great world events they witnessed, like seeing man walk on the moon. Somehow it seems ‘ok’. They’ve had a life, they’ve had a chance, the natural order that we are used to is performing its duty. After all, we are all born to die. But we are not all born to die after 382 days. It is just so wrong, so very wrong, there is nothing that anyone can say, believe me they try, to bring you crumbs of comfort. God doesn’t pick the best. He’s not in a better place. The best place for William is with his mummy and his daddy. God didn’t take William, substandard care and science took William.

People are kind, compassionate and they mean well, and I never turn away from someone who so desperately wants to bring you comfort, but simply doesn’t know how and doesn’t have the words. Simply put, they just don’t know. And I’m glad they don’t know, I’m glad they don’t understand, sadly too many of us do. Sometimes people say, I know how you feel. No, you don’t. Unless you have lost a child, a child you knew, a child with whom you already had an unbreakable bond, a child who died because of others incompetence, no, you don’t know. It’s not comparable. It’s not comparable with the death of your grandparent, it’s not comparable with the death of your dog, or the dissolution of your marriage or a breakup. No, unless you have lost a child, you will never know.

You completely lose sight of the person you once were, the person you had become, the person your much-loved child allowed you to be. That person is not just gone from sight, that person is gone forever. As much as William’s birth defined me as a person, William’s death re-defined me once more. To be forced to live on despite no longer knowing who you are. I just don’t know who I am anymore, I don’t recognise myself. I loved the person that I became when William was born, but she died with William. What’s left is a shell, a shell that is forced to live in the shadow of the person I used to be.

What is every parents greatest fear, is my reality. People cannot imagine what it is like to lose a child, because there is nothing to compare it to. I know what it is like to realise your darkest fears. I know what it is like to go and wake my child in the morning, and for him to have fallen asleep forever. I know what it is like to give my child CPR, already knowing it won’t make any difference. I know what it is like to lay next to the body of my child, cheek to cheek, and beg for him to wake up, knowing he never will. I know what it is like to pick the last outfit my child will ever wear. I know what it is like to cuddle my child knowing that I will NEVER touch him again. I know what it is like to watch the curtains close around his tiny white coffin. I know what it is like to be told, that my child should have survived, had others done their jobs properly. I know what it is like to fold his little clothes away, never to be worn again. I know what it is like to miss my child so desperately, the closest I can get to him, is to smell his little teddy, and be lucky, LUCKY, if it still carries his little strawberry scent. I know what it’s like to want to go home, but knowing that place is with William. I know what it’s like to not belong. I know what the cutting pain feels like, knowing that despite everything I did, I couldn’t protect my child. I know what it’s like to sit and look into the eyes of the doctor that could have saved my child, but didn’t. I know what it’s like to hear his apology, knowing that he would be going home to his children, and I wouldn’t be. I know that HE will never understand the depth of destruction that he had a hand in. And I hope he never has too.

But I know. I really know.


www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead

 

 

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We’re running a 5KM military obstacle course… 

This Saturday 12th March Paul, Williams daddy is running in The Major Series military obstacle course. With friends and family #teamwilliam is raising much needed funds for The UK Sepsis Trust. 

https://www.britmilfit.com/major-series/

Sepsis account for 44,000 deaths in the UK every year. That’s more than bowel cancer, breast cancer and prostate cancer put together. This means that a 1 person dies from sepsis every 14 minutes. 

I hope by fundraising we can raise awareness of Sepsis, through innovation, research and the sharing of good practice. Sepsis needs to be recognised as a medical emergency and as a clinical priority for the NHS. We need to ensure that members of the public, patients and their relatives, and health professionals work together to think Sepsis. 

£85 to save a life from sepsis.

£5 provides an information booklet to relatives of ten patients admitted to ITU.

£10 will allow the Sepsis Trust to distribute 200 leaflets to a GP surgery.

£50 a month will train one team of doctors and nurse on a hospital ward.
£999 will provide one hospital with a ‘sepsis pack’ to aid implementation.
So if you’d like to sponsor Paul you can do so via Williams Just Giving page below. If everyone that reads my blog donates just £1 we could raise thousands, so please dig deep xxx

.Www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead

Dearest William…

I hope you are ok? Mummy is missing you so much. Mummy is finding it so hard at the moment, it’s so hard to live without you. It has been 15 short months since you went to live in your new home. 15 months is longer than you lived for. 15 months isn’t very long in the context of a lifetime, well not mine at least. 15 months is long enough, what is 15 years going to feel like, or 50. I hope by then I’m with you. I hate this sweetheart I really do. I can’t remember the last time I was happy. The last time I really laughed so hard. I can’t remember the last time that I didn’t have a care in the world.

Losing you is the hardest fight that I will ever have to face, and it is a fight. The constant urge of wanting and needing to give in is prevalent. I am but one breath from being with you, but that feels like a lifetime away, well it is a lifetime. It is probably a good job that we don’t have on/off switches. I would have flicked that switch a long time ago, to end this part of my life in purgatory, and to spend the rest of my time, with you. Only with you. Well not just with you, but the two other little children, who sadly, mummy didn’t get to give birth to. See, you were so special, the little one that made it. I was honoured to share my birthday with you. You couldn’t get a more perfect gift than you.

You changed my life, you changed me as a person, you see I don’t think people realise quite how much. Before you arrived I had resigned myself to a life with no children. Growing up I was fiercely independent, I knew my mind and where I wanted to be. I grew up very quickly and left my childhood behind. Nanny and grandad worked so much, every day in fact, so I spent a lot of time with your great nanny, and auntie Joyce. But I learnt how to look after myself, I worked hard as soon as I was old enough, I did well at school, but I always did my own thing. I was the only one who really exerted control over me. When I was told at 11 years old that it was unlikely I would have my own children, I planned around it, I never grew up playing with dolls or talking about children. Even nanny and grandad didn’t think I was maternal at all, throughout my pregnancy I worried I wouldn’t be good enough, I worried that I wouldn’t know what to do, and I worried that I wouldn’t be a good mum. I remember being in labour and I said to daddy “what happens if I don’t love him, what happens if he doesn’t love me?” Daddy assured me that would never happen. Daddy was right (don’t tell him I said that), for once I have no problem standing on the tallest building and shouting, your daddy was right. My goodness I have never loved anyone or anything as much as I love you, and you loved me.

I knew how special you were, I knew then. I know now. I will always know. You were the one that allowed me to lessen the grip I held on myself, you allowed me to live with more freedom, allowing myself breathing space. You taught me there was more to life than working 24/7, you taught me that it didn’t matter if filing wasn’t done the moment the bills came through the door, you taught me that it didn’t matter if the washing didn’t get done, if the dinner wasn’t on the table at 6. I had spent the day encapsulated in our bubble of love. That is the power of love. A total force of nature. You taught me to be selfless, to be patient, to be compassionate, to love with no expectations. You taught me how to live. I owe my life to you. I owe everything to you. I gave you everything I have.

Being separated from you has ignited sheer desperation, a yearning and need that I cannot fulfill, manifesting itself as pain. The price I will pay for the rest of my life for loving you so much. That pain will only increase as the love intensifies and the ache in my arms becomes heavier. At the moment I’m not living peacefully, you probably know. You can probably see my struggle. The tears, the sleepless nights, the nightmares, flashbacks and hallucinations. You probably know that I’m not working. The visions of your broken little body now not just thoughts but tricks of my mind. I don’t like it. I can’t help it, your broken little body can appear on the windowsill as I’m sat in the office working, reflections in the mirror as I look at myself, or like the other night, I woke screaming, sweating, having had your little hand drop on mine, but not your plump, dimpled little hand that I used to hold but your stiff, cold hand, the entirely different hand that I saw after you had died. Why do I experience this, I don’t know. As much as I have experienced your waking moments, I also experienced your dying ones too. I experienced your death, and as much as your little life made the biggest impact on my life, your death did to. Your life happened, but so did your death.

What am I supposed to do without you? How am I supposed to live without you? All I want to do is come home, but I am ‘home’ but I’m not, my home is with you. We should have been making memories today, you would have been making me a card at nursery, you should have been here to see me open it, and help me eat my breakfast in bed that you and daddy made. We should have gone out and filled our day with more of those infectious smiles and laughed until our cheeks hurt, making memories. I should have heard you say ‘mummy I love you’ I should have been able to say, thank you sweetheart, I love you too. But I can’t, instead I’m sat in bed looking out of the window. I can see white smoke from the chimney across the road, make its way into the dark dusky sky, wishing I was a free spirit like the smoke, making its way into the atmosphere. I just want to be free again, but until we are together again, I know I never will be. I live everyday with the guilt, guilt that I couldn’t protect you, that somehow I didn’t do enough to save you. I hope you don’t blame mummy as much as she blames herself. The thought of letting you down, leaves me barely able to live with myself, but Daddy is doing his best to look after mummy’s broken soul.

William you allowed me to see life through different eyes, you allowed me to open my eyes and experience LIFE. William, you gave me love, a love that I didn’t know existed, you gave me love that was beyond my imagination. William, you made me a mummy, you made me your mummy, thank you. Thank you for picking me. It will always be you.

As another day draws to a close without you, another mother’s day without you, one more day closer to you. I look up to the night sky and like every other evening I say to you, goodnight sweetheart, I love you. Your mummy xxx


www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead