Monthly Archives: November 2016

Your 3rd birthday

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William on his first birthday xx

William on his first birthday xx

When we found out that you were due on the 21st November we thought you might arrive on daddy’s birthday on the 24th, but you didn’t. You wanted to hang around and arrive on mummy’s birthday instead. You made your grand appearance on the 27th November at the same time your daddy was born at 12:21. I didn’t mind, I loved that we would share such a special day. Mummy has never been a person who really celebrates her birthday and when you came along I was more than happy for your to steal all the spotlight. Apart from the day you were born we only ever got to spend one birthday together, your first.

We celebrated your special day with our friends and family, you had a lovely farm animals birthday cake which you spat out, not having eaten any sweet foods before, but we enjoyed it anyway! You didn’t really understand what birthdays were all about yet. You were more interested in playing with the wrapping paper than you were the contents. Pretty standard stuff I think. On this special day daddy captured my favourite video of us together. As you sat with your presents you pushed them away, climbed into mummy’s lap and gave me a big birthday cuddle. I will never forget. I can close my eyes now and feel your little arms around mummy’s neck, the most precious jewels that will ever be around my neck. I can smell your sweet strawberry smell as you nuzzled in, getting as close as you could. Your touch is what mummy misses the most.

I can remember one very specific moment, when you were born I was overcome with a wave of emotion, no other feeling comes even close to how I felt when you were placed on my chest. But you know, when daddy drove us home for the first time, I looked at you and I could barely believe you were mine. As I carried you up the steps to your new home I couldn’t open the door, my mum, your nanny, opened the door and I was stood there in tears, sobbing as I was holding you. Nanny’s face etched with worry, ‘what’s wrong, is everything ok?’. My response, ‘I’m just so happy.’ I cannot even put in to words just how happy I was. I knew at that moment that my life was complete.

So what would you be doing today? You would understand what birthdays meant by now, I expect that you would open your presents in a hurry, the anticipation taking over. Mummy and daddy would obviously be taking lots of photos and videos, just as excited as you. I sit often and wonder when mummy comes up to heaven, will you still be one, or will you be 27 or 43 or however many years have passed before that moment. I hope that you’ll still be one, I hope that I will get to be 28 again, I hope that we can reset the clock so that I don’t miss any of your birthdays, that I can get to watch you grow up, watch you turn from a baby to a toddler and into a little boy and never miss a single moment.

Do you know that after you died mummy took such a long time to change her glasses, I was scared that when I got up to heaven with different glasses that you wouldn’t recognise me. I think the same thing now, I don’t want to cut my hair short, or change the way I look incase you don’t know who I am. After ruminating about it, I think to myself well what happens if many years have passed and you’re no longer one, will I recognise you? I could imagine what a two or a three-year old William might look like, but you were too young to imagine what a teenage William would look like. I am left with only imaginations, not memories. I like to think that whatever age you are when I arrive in heaven that I will recognise you straight away, I’ll know who my little William is, the little boy mummy desperately yearns for every single day. Of course most of these thoughts are completely irrational to a normal person but to me truth lies in there somewhere. These are not things that parents should worry about. I should be worrying about you falling over or making sure you learn how to cross the road properly, not how old you will be when I get to heaven.

How did the most special day of the year become such a sad day. Maybe in time we will ‘celebrate’ your birthday with Arthur, I should imagine as he gets older and understands a little better that he will want to celebrate your birthday and mummy’s birthday, but it’s so hard to be happy on a day that is fraught with so much sadness. I miss you every day, all the time. Somehow Arthur being here makes your missing presence even more profound. You should be here, you should be excited about your birthday, you should be helping mummy and daddy with Arthur, you should be three, you should be ALIVE.

Life sucks here without you, but I know that I have a reason to live. The little 7lb 11oz gift that you sent us gave us a purpose once again. We know that it is you saying ‘it’s ok’. But it doesn’t make missing you any easier. I’m really hoping that heaven gives you the very best party. That you will be happy. That you will be loved and that you will stop, pause, and blow a kiss to mummy here on earth. What I do know for certain though, is that heaven is a very lucky place to have you there. My darling little boy I wish you every happiness in the world on your birthday.

From your ever-loving mummy xxxxxx

www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead

Hope

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Time is too slow for those who wait,
too swift for those who fear,
too long for those who grieve,
too short for those who rejoice
but for those who love, time is eternity.

When I gave birth to Arthur, I looked in his eyes and knew something very special had happened. For months I had been fearing how I could possibly love another child as much as I love William, but those fears were completely unfounded. During my pregnancy with Arthur it took me such a long time to realise that it was okay to love another baby, that it wasn’t betraying William some how. That is was okay to smile again, to laugh again, and to hope again. I know that despite how much I love Arthur, it doesn’t mean that I stop loving William. It’s very strange to feel as though you have a basket of love and to have another child was somehow detracting some of that love from William to give to Arthur, but that is simply not the case. I very quickly realised that I was adding to the basket of love. Nothing, NOTHING will ever stop me loving William, nothing will ever make me not miss him or yearn for him every minute of every day. I know that however much I smile on the outside, there is always a part of me missing.

Very early on I felt that Arthur was a gift, sent from his big brother in Heaven, a message. A message to me from William to say ‘mummy it’s okay, it’s okay to live again.’  There was a time that I wouldn’t have been able to say that. A time where my life wasn’t worth living, a time when my darkest hours were spent in a psychiatric unit for my own safety. I have sunk to the deepest depths of despair, I know what it feels like to not want to live, I know what it feels like to make that decision to end my life. In some kind of strange unparalleled universe, William was the reason I didn’t want my life to continue, to take the same journey that William took, from this earth to Heaven, to be with my baby once again. But it was William that kept me going, it is William’s life that ensured that I kept on with mine, that day by day no matter how slow time passed, I put one very heavy foot in front of the other.

I had to fight for William. Fight for the answers to the reasons about why he died. I had to fight to make sure those reasons were heard, and it still is the reason I fight today to make sure that by sharing William with the world that it doesn’t happen again. It has been an incredibly hard journey thus far. To talk so much and so publicly about William’s death and not just about what happened, but to describe what happened to us, how finding him shattered our lives, to explain to people what it feels like to give your child CPR knowing full well that he had already gone. To share our deepest most traumatic moments with people. But I know that by talking about our darkest moments, sharing William and the little boy who lived, others won’t have to experience what we do. I just cannot believe how much impact William’s short life has had, and I am incredibly proud to call him my son.

Silently and behind closed doors, Paul and I suffer. When the cameras are turned off, the microphones put down, we slowly retreat back to ‘life’. We have become expert at putting a mask on, not necessarily hiding our grief, but not always showing it. This journey has played out so objectively, always seeking to achieve something constructive, there are no ‘buts’ or ‘at least’s’ when your child dies. I know that because William died, many other lives will be saved. I am thankful for every person who sees me on television and doesn’t turn over, I am thankful that every person listens and shares my message. But most of all I am thankful that millions of people have seen my beautiful little boy, I am thankful that my child is a hero, because he is my hero.

After having to live a paralleled life, one that is objective and constructive to achieve change in William’s name we are now able to be subjective again, to love, physically. I have always explained grief to be love with no place to go. When Arthur came along he gave us an outlet for our love, but not only did he do that, he has given us a future again. It has only been recently that I have been able to say and believe when I say it that it is okay to live again. It was very difficult when we found out we were pregnant to believe that we would be able to be happy again.

This is a journey, one that isn’t planned out, we don’t know the next steps. We don’t know how we will feel from one day to the next. It is a path we haven’t chosen. It is path we tread very carefully with a fear of the unknown. But what we do have again is hope. I can honestly say that it is truly isolating to live without hope. It completely robs you of energy, of motivation and depletes any reason you have to live. Hope keeps us going. William kept me going until I found hope again. William gave us hope again and for that I will be forever grateful.

www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead