I wasn’t there and now you’re not here

I’ve sat here and just stared at the screen not being able to find the right words to write. The screen saver comes on, your face, I lose myself in those deep and loving brown eyes and I realise there are no right words. There are simply no words.

I’m struggling so much right now, as the sun sets on another day without you I wonder how many more sun sets I will witness before I get to hold you again. If only I knew, if only I was able to mark the days off on the calendar with a big Red Cross. Maybe God knows, Sometimes life feels like a punishment. I feel so cruel and guilty saying that, in part due to your little brother, after all, how ungrateful is it to not want to be here when your little brother is here? But it doesn’t work like that. I’m torn, irreparably torn. Forever divided between two places. Here and there.

The happier my day becomes the more sad I feel. How is it possible for these two parallel worlds to exist concurrently; how is it possible to feel happy but so sad all in one. It’s terribly confusing. As we prepare for your little brothers baptism next Sunday I just can’t help but feel laden down with your missing presence. It’s not something I want to put to one side, it’s not an emotion I wish I wasn’t feeling. In a way I want to feel it, I want to suffer, I want to hurt, I hurt for you, I hurt for all that you are missing, I hurt that you don’t get to grow, that you no longer get to witness the sun rise and set.

You would be four years old now, approaching your first year of school. I talk often about the boy that I think you would have become. Quiet, intelligent, calm and loving. A little boy with so much depth, you already had that. I would lose myself in those big brown eyes, your way of loving, when I looked in to your eyes I felt an overwhelming sense of home. I could feel the love, it was tangible. Your curious and quiet nature meant that we were able to spend many tender moments together, I will forever be grateful for these. My body aches for these moments again. I am full of questions and wonder about the little boy you would have become.

When I first found out that I was pregnant I was scared. I was scared that I wouldn’t be a good enough mummy for you, that I wouldn’t know what to do, that I wouldn’t know what your needs were. I had no need to be scared or nervous, you made being a mummy easy. After you died I spent many hours with psychiatrists, trying to fix me, trying to convince me that life was worth living. It was during these sessions that one particular psychiatrist tried to understand just why I couldn’t bear to live without you, as opposed to trying to convince me that it was possible. He understood that all of my life, like most people as we grow up we learn from those around us, society, family and friends lay expectations in your lap, as we grow into adults we feel as though we are finally getting our freedom, but we’re not. The moment that we witnessed the world around us and all the harm that it could do is when we lost our freedom, our innocence.

Growing up I was fiercely independent. I have always felt that I am my own responsibility. I have always felt that I have only ever needed to rely on myself because at least that way the only person who could let you down was you. I have always kept something back, been wary, never giving my entire being to someone, that was until you came along. When I could feel you growing inside me, when I could hear your heart beating I just knew, I knew that this is what I was waiting for. I was waiting for you. I invested physically and emotionally in you. I knew that you would be all that I ever needed, I knew that you would never let me down, I knew that you would always be with me.

Call me a cynic but I have always lived with the thought that I was only round the corner from something going wrong. Inevitably, in my life, it has. But when I had you I knew that despite all that I have been, all that I have done, I got you right. I could be everything you would ever need. Only two weeks before you died I put you in your car seat and cried, why? Nothing in particular, nothing set me off, I just couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have you, I knew that despite everything, no matter what happened, that I would always have you. It would always be me and you. Then you were gone.

I can’t help but feel, despite the failings in your care, the many apologies, that I failed you. I had one job. People joke about managing to keep their kids alive today, I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t protect you, I couldn’t save you. You closed your eyes, you slipped out of consciousness and you took your last breath, your beautiful heart stopped beating and I wasn’t there.

I wasn’t there and now you’re not here.

Today I have travelled nearly 400 miles to deliver a talk about your life, and also your death.        People often ask me how I manage to retell the moment that I found your lifeless body, how I tried in vain to pump life back in to you, how I laid, cheek to cheek and begged you to wake up, knowing full well that you never would. It is painful, it is hard, with every word that I speak I know that I am doing the right thing. The gaping hole that your life left cannot be filled, but somehow I have had no choice but to continue, and I suppose this is my way of being your mummy still, until we meet again my baby boy.


www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead

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Life after loss

I’ve not written for a very long time. I write often, in my mind, but sometimes I just can’t muster the strength to purge the words from my soul. This child loss game, I say game, it feels like one, constantly rolling the dice never knowing the outcome, day after day, roll after roll, it’s like one long game, not an enjoyable one and there are no winners. Waking each day and wondering whether today your piece will move forwards or backwards is a complete loss of control. That’s what happens when your child dies. You no longer have control.

I think after three and a half years life has a sense of ‘normality’ and we do, we do have some sense of normality. We had no choice. It was either sink or swim. At times I’ve wanted to sink and I’ve come very close. But Arthur forced me to swim, he is very much a protective factor in my life, a reason to live, hope, a future. For all the light that he brings to my life he cannot take away the turmoil that I feel inside. After this much time it is a deep inner longing, it weighs heavy and no matter what you do you cannot shake it off.

There is a common belief that anniversaries, birthdays, mothers days are the hardest; and they are hard, but they’re not the worst. It’s all the small things that grate the most. We took Arthur to the park recently, he absolutely loves the park, especially the slide. No sooner has he got all the way to the bottom he’s climbing up for another go, on repeat. The absolute joy on his face is irreplaceable, a complete freedom, innocence, joy, his laugh, infectious. It is wonderful. But with every heart stopping moment of euphoria there is a parallel deep sadness that shaves slices off my heart. William should be there helping his little brother to the top of the slide, they should be going down the slide together holding hands, squealing in delight. He should be here.

All I am left with are imaginations. When Arthur is playing in the garden what would William be doing? When Arthur goes to bed would William help me read him a bedtime story? What would they be like in the bath together? I imagine that William would have a calming effect on Arthur. I equally think that Arthur would drive William bonkers. William so calm, thoughtful, his every move a considered one. Arthur is the opposite, his zest for life oozes from everything he does, he barrels in to everything head first, head strong and determined. The two boys couldn’t be any more different, but the bond is there, the mannerisms are obvious, their likes and dislikes, and this is what hurts the most, I’ve lost my son, Paul has lost his son, but Arthur has lost his brother. He will never meet him, play with him, cuddle him, play fight with him, he will never know him. I feel desperately sad knowing this, and it will never change.

Child loss is colossal. It didn’t just happen on the 14th December 2014, it recurs every single day, it recurs every time I load only one toddler in to the car, it recurs every time I only kiss one baby goodnight. It recurs every single moment of every single day and it will last a lifetime. William will never start school, he will never graduate and fulfil his dream job, he’ll never fall in love, he’ll never get married or have children; but he’ll also never play on the slide with his brother, he’ll never read his first book, he’ll never confide in his brother, he’ll never be best man at his wedding. I won’t see him grow in to a man and I will never hear him say ‘mummy, I love you.’

Ultimately I am blessed, I am blessed with life, I am privileged to wake up every single morning, the one thing that William wants more than anything is his life, the one thing he cannot have, the one thing we gave him that was then so cruelly taken away. I cannot and will not waste mine. So can you see, every day is a tug of war. Constantly too-ing and fro-ing between here and ‘there’ wherever ‘there’ is.

These days my outlet is weekly therapy, but the sacrifice I pay for not wasting my life and living everyday as if it’s my last is that I internalise everything. The pain manifests itself wearing many different masks. Somedays I find myself very reflective, somedays I am plagued with PTSD, somedays I am frustrated, but everyday I am consumed by guilt. Every. Single. Day. I feel guilty that I couldn’t save him, I feel like I failed him because I should have done things differently, I feel stupid because I listened to people and followed advice. I feel sad for Paul, I feel sad for Arthur, I feel sad that he has no idea about all that has happened before him, I feel sad that one day he will know. I feel sad that one day he will share in our grief, that he will learn about death when he doesn’t need to. I feel sad that I will never be completely here, a part of his mummy that is always missing.

For every happy day there is a sad one, for every smile there is a tear, for every glorious memory there will always be moments that are incomplete. For every moment that I am ok, there will be moments that I am not ok.

So for all of you out there who struggle with your own demons, the only pressure you have is the pressure you put on yourself. Be gentle, go easy on yourself. Slow down, take a breath, step back and remember that tomorrow hasn’t happened yet; so don’t worry about it. And for those of you who see me smile, share in my laughter or create happy memories with me just remember that underneath I am fragile, I am still reeling, I am still trying to understand.

I am still missing him, and I always will.


www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead