The true reality of sepsis

Your last journey xx

Your last journey xx

Dear William,

844 days. Today is 844 days since you were taken and 824 since your last journey. A journey mummy and daddy took with you. Mummy wouldn’t let you go on your own so she asked for a hearse that we could travel with you. I remember sitting in your room, looking at the very spot you were last alive, and out the window I could see you coming. I shouted “William’s here”, the last time I would ever shout that, I ran down the stairs, opened the front door and watched as you were driven past. The hearse dwarfed your little coffin. Coffin’s should never be made that small. You shouldn’t be in one. Life is so unfair.

Your coffin surrounded by beautiful flowers spelling out your name, and your nickname ‘Grumpus’. There was a little pillow too, and sat proudly with you on your coffin was a little reindeer made out of flowers to match your favourite teddy and two red roses from mummy and daddy. To see your name in flowers took the breath right out of me. Your name should be in lights, not flowers. It didn’t look right, how could it ever look right? You were so small. As I stood there trying to take it all in, I couldn’t, that was you in there. My baby, My beautiful little William, gone, never to walk up the steps to the front door, never to learn how to ride a bike on this very road where I was stood. At this moment I had no recollection of anything else around me, only total awareness of you. Knowing I couldn’t touch you ever again, knowing you were in that little coffin and I couldn’t see you.

Grumpus xx

Grumpus xx

Mummy rested her hand on your coffin for the longest journey of our lives. The hand that fed you, played with your hair and soothed you when you were upset. Now all I could do was place my hand on your coffin. People were looking as we drove past. I could see the injustice written all over their faces. Their mouths forming an ‘O’ as their jaws dropped, shocked, no coffin should ever be that small, 30 inches to be exact. As we pulled up mummy climbed out and stood there, preparing to carry you for the last time. We carried you in to your own funeral to the words of Gordon Garner’s, Heaven Got Another Angel the words resonating through my body.

Mummy had asked for two seats to be placed right next to you, so that you knew we were right there, right there with you for as long as we possibly could be. Mummy placed your little photo by your coffin so I could see you, but I knew, I knew that I was inches away from you. Some of the thousands of photo’s we have of you played on a big screen. Everyone knew what a happy, gorgeous little boy you were. It was heartbreaking sitting there knowing that there would be no more moments in time making memories like in those photos. Mummy would never get to see you running, mummy would never get to take your hand and help you cross the road, mummy would never hear you speak, she would never hear the 4 words she had yearned to hear from the moment she knew you were coming, “Mummy, I love you”.

Mummy stood and read for you. As I stood there the only presence I could feel was you, only you were in that room. I have no idea how I managed to do that, but I had to, I had to do it for you. Mummy would do anything for you, it was the very least I could do, to be able to stand there and make sure you knew how much we love you. Did you hear mummy reading, I hope so.

And then it was time for the curtains to close. This was it. Mummy would never see you again. You were gone. Mummy was gone. In that moment I knew, I knew that the life had been completely sucked out of me. My heart and soul is with you Grumpus, I know it is in safe hands xxxx

I wanted to write this post because it is impossible for you unless you have had to say goodbye to your child to understand the depth of pain I am experiencing. Time doesn’t heal you know. I will never suddenly wake up one day and think ‘oh, I feel better today’. It doesn’t happen. I miss William today, I’ll miss William tomorrow and I’ll miss William until the day that I no longer wake up. Will the pain of being so far away from him lessen? no, it won’t. If I asked you which one of your children you could give up? Would you feel any better after 1 week, 1 month, 1 year, 10 years.

Society does tend to put you into a category, for the first year people look at you with sympathy. But as you advance into the second people have a certain expectation that you are ‘ok’. By and large I am ‘ok’. But what is my ‘ok’ is, and what is your ‘ok’ is, are very different. I’m aware, tolerant even, of the fact that people don’t understand, and I’m thankful that they don’t, that as days drift into weeks, months and years, we bury William every day. We are expert at wearing the mask. We can hold conversation, we can smile and laugh, and sometimes, especially with Arthur we are genuinely happy. But, William is still missing, William will always be missing. Although time gives us the ability to practice, practice being ‘normal’. Be under no illusion that there is not one single day that we don’t cry, that we don’t wake up longing for him. Simply, I miss him with every breath I take. My arms yearn to hold him, to feel the weight of his beautiful little being, to hold him close to me. To watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest as I watch him sleep. To be able to reach out and physically touch him, for real, and not just in my dreams.

Sepsis did this.

Sepsis, the ‘silent killer’. Sepsis sapped the energy from my life and plunged me into a place of silence. Sepsis may be silent when it creeps in to your life, unsuspecting, indiscriminate, and all-consuming but the silence to follow is deafening. William’s life was silenced, silenced forever. There will be no babbling, no first words, no ‘mummy, I love you’s’, no more crying or laughter. The silence that sepsis forces into your life is the most powerful scream. A guttural, earth shattering, animalistic cry that no one can hear, just you, in your head.

You see I didn’t know what sepsis was, it seems hard to look back now and believe, truly be able to tell myself that I didn’t know what sepsis was, now I seem to be equipped, chapter and verse on one of the UK’s biggest killers. How did I let my little boy down? Why didn’t I know? I should have known. But I didn’t. You can’t sugarcoat the truth that there are millions of you out there who don’t know about sepsis. You can’t sugarcoat the truth that without the knowledge you’ll be able to do anything about it. Simply put, today, there will be other families torn apart by something they didn’t know about. Families who will question their thoughts and actions for a lifetime, not being able to do anything about it, not being able to control it and forever wondering why they didn’t know. And forever feeling, despite people’s protestations, that somehow it’s their fault.

When William died, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t have a little human to pick up, to play with or cuddle. Every day I would thank God for William’s life. Every day I would hold William close and thank him for picking me to be his mummy. Thank him for giving me perspective, thank him for giving me love and thank him for giving me life. A life lived with no boundaries, that is limitless and endless. William taught me to be free. William gave me this without ever speaking a word. Sometimes there are no words for depth of feeling, emotion or reason. Sometimes life can only be conveyed with actions. When William died, I lost my window to freedom, I lost my boy, I lost a part of my life. How was I supposed to love, what was I supposed to do with this fire in my chest? Today I have the answer for that. The answer to that question is ‘this’. This is what I’m doing with that fire in my chest, the love with no place to go. I’m giving it to you.

I don’t know why or what I expected by sharing William with you. What I expected from talking so publicly about his life but also his death. It is painful, why did I do it and why do I still do it. I didn’t set out purposely to help anyone, I shared William because I needed to rescue myself, rescue myself from this silence. I needed to shout, I needed to share, and I still needed to love my little boy. I still need to be his mummy. So, very selfishly I started talking and a world opened up. A world in which I was still able to be William’s mum. I do wonder every day how many parents there are out there whose children have been silenced by sepsis, and how many children, children who’ve lost their precious mummy or daddy. How has sepsis changed their voice? Irreparably I imagine.

Did you know that this week alone a whole classroom of children will be silenced. The largest passenger plane, carrying 840 adults, will be wiped out, just this week. Knowing this really hurts, knowing that some of these people are in the position I was in on the 13th December 2014, a position of ignorance. Not knowing what nightmare is entering their lives. The UK Sepsis Trust desperately want to launch a national public awareness campaign for sepsis, and I desperately want them to as well. Did you know that with this campaign, with better knowledge 14,000 people could be saved? William could have been saved.

I have pondered over whether to show you this photo, this was taken a couple of hours after William had passed away, but he is still my little boy and this is part of our lives. This is what grief really looks like. This is what sepsis does.

The true face of grief xx

The true face of grief xx


www.justgiving.com/sepsisunited

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Christmas will never be the same…

Today is a sad day, every day is a sad day, but this time two years ago we announced when William’s funeral would be. Instead of uploading hundreds of photos that all seemed to look identical, William covered in paper and sellotape, playing with the boxes that the toys came in, instead we were inviting people to his funeral.

Christmas, a time of year that over the centuries has evolved from its very religious beginnings, now a commercialised time of year, that we all use as an excuse to down tools and spend time with our loved ones. Who can blame you? No-one needs an excuse to see that joy on their little ones faces, that excitement of knowing Father Christmas is coming, writing a letter to Santa, leaving a mince-pie, carrot and a tipple for Santa on Christmas Eve, visiting any number of events laid on by local attractions for our children to sit on Santa’s knee, and finally that sound of tiny stomping feet and squeals of glee, when they discover Santa has been, a stocking brimming full of toys that will be played with once, a tree that is barely recognisable under the weight of all the gifts.

We have none of that for William. We will never have any of that, not with William. William didn’t get to learn about Father Christmas, William didn’t get to star in his first nativity, William didn’t get to write a letter to Santa, he did sit on Santa’s knee, his bear containing William’s ashes gripped tightly by Santa, but that isn’t what we imagined would be the first time William would sit on Santa’s knee. We didn’t get to track Santa’s sleigh as he visited those in the Far East before he made it to the UK, we didn’t get to buy him a personalised book from Santa. On Christmas morning we awoke to silence, no little feet stomping down the corridor, no squealing, no excited little face, no ‘mummy, daddy, he’s been’. No William.

Our floor was clear of wrapping paper, we didn’t have an obstacle course of toys littered around the house. We didn’t have a little boy to give his first brussel sprout too. We didn’t get to show him a cracker, he didn’t get to wear a party hat or a cute little outfit. We didn’t have the struggle to put him to bed, too high on the simplicity of playing with his toys. We didn’t get to pack him and 500 toys into the car to visit family and friends, where his beautiful smile would make anyone’s Christmas. No, we had nothing.

Last year we went away, we went to stay somewhere completely unfamiliar, needing to get away from the suffocation of William’s absence in our home. But, regardless of where we were, the crushing pain packed itself in our suitcase and followed us. My heart hurts, it physically hurts in my chest, it doesn’t go away when I breathe in or out, whether I lie down or stand up, whether I have a glass of wine or not. My chest is crushed, my heart aching, aching to hold my little boy on Christmas. Two years ago at Christmas William’s fragile and broken body was still with us. I held him for several hours twice on Christmas day. I cried over his beautiful presence, I held him so close, I feared I might squash him. This year, we didn’t even have that. We will never have that again.There are very few that will understand this pain.

Paul and I stayed in a beautiful hideaway in Dartmoor National Park, there were families with children there, but we spoke to lots of couples who like us were ‘hiding’. Christmas not a happy time for them either. Some vastly wealthy couples, but grief does not discriminate, a loss of both parents recently meant one couple needed to be somewhere unfamiliar. At Christmas dinner, we had William’s teddy in a high chair, the chap on the next table ordered his parents favourite wine. Simple things, that somehow bring us closer to those loved ones we so desperately pine for. We met a U.S district judge, a man with a very powerful and influential position in society, reduced to tears by William’s story. For some Christmas isn’t a time of joy or craziness, it has become a time of painful reflection. A time that you look at your watch and hope that another hour has passed.

Every painful aspect a reminder of what should be, William would have loved the Christmas tress in every room, William would have loved splashing in the muddy puddles in his wellies, William would have loved the array of treats littered around the castle to keep the kids entertained, William would have loved afternoon tea, bitesize little sandwiches, perfect for his dinky little fingers, William would have loved to have found the stocking hanging on our door on Christmas morning, William would have loved to decorate the Christmas tree in our room, William would have loved the table magician, William would have loved the owl that sat on the reception desk, William would have loved watching the hunt as the horses and hounds made their way off the estate, William would have loved to sit in front of the grand fire by the most extravagant Christmas tree waiting for Father Christmas to call his name out to go and collect his present, William would have loved to watch the ferret racing, William would have loved the playbarn, William would have loved everything, but William was robbed of all of those things and we were robbed of William. All I want for Christmas is my son. Just one second, just one cuddle, just one stroke of those chubby little cheeks, just one look at that infectious smile, just one smell, just one touch. Just William. This is a wish that will never be answered.

I have felt nothing but guilt, my whole body consumed by Williams last few hours, what must my boy have been feeling, what did he want to say but couldn’t, what sort of mother am I to listen to what I was told to do, what sort of mother am I to listen to people who had no idea what they were doing, not just one person but multiple people, not just once but multiple times. The one thing I wanted to do and prided myself on was protecting my little boy, knowing that no-one could ever protect him and love him like I do. But sepsis does not discriminate, William was not unlucky, William was let down in the most unimaginable way possible. They have taken away our Christmas, our birthdays, every day, our life, our William. No manner of apology or putting right what went wrong will change anything, nothing will bring William back. Nothing can make Christmas bearable. Nothing can take away the fear, the anxiety and the guilt that any mother would feel for not somehow saving her child.

During midnight mass in the local church, William’s teddy was wrapped in my embrace, I struggled to make it through the service, the tears came rolling down my cheeks, choking on the tears, the words the heart cannot speak. As I stood, I went to the vicar and I asked him to please pray with me. He held me and William, and he prayed that his little soul would be in peace and to bless his beautiful soul. He also prayed for me, William’s mummy, to find comfort. I am yet to find any. I know that day will come, I know that day will be when I get to join my son again. In a place where there are no hours, days or years, where it is eternity. Where there is peace from this suffering, where I know that I will never be separated from my darling little boy again. A place where the first thing I will do is find my son, and the second will be to never let him go again. On that day, and that day only I will find peace.

This year, this Christmas we are blessed with William’s brother, Arthur. Something I could never have imagined two years ago, or last year. Something, sometimes I still struggle to comprehend. How can I be so lucky, lucky to have two beautiful children, but for this to be entwined with such pain and loss. As I drink in every movement Arthur makes I am crippled by the movements that William will never make. It is like living in a parallel universe, for every simply euphoric moment with Arthur I am reminded and crushed by the moments that I will never have with William. I feel as though every moment I live I am lost and once again found.

Life doesn’t get easier. Christmas doesn’t get better, torn between love and loss. But what these last two years have taught me is that life is so unbelievably fragile. Life is not promised. We are but one breath, one heart beat from it being over. Savour every moment, every breath, be thankful when you open your eyes in the morning and hug your children close. Make your memories today. Love today. Live today. I will never take one single second with Arthur for granted.

William, wherever you are my darling little boy. For every step I take on Earth, it is one step closer to you. One day we will be forever. Until then, all of my love is being sent to you this Christmas. It is one less that we have to spend without each other.

You would be incredibly proud of your amazing little brother. And for every waking moment, everyday is Christmas day, every day brings with it your greatest gift to daddy and I, Arthur. There is no greater gift, than life itself, and mummy cannot articulate how proud she is of you for giving your life to save others. And mummy wants to say thank you. Thank you for giving me Arthur, thank you for saving my life, and thank you for making me the person that I am today. Without you, I would be a shadow. You have bought me into the light and through Arthur you have once again given me light.

I love you, x


www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead

Two years, life after loss

I can remember so clearly when and where we were when we found out we were expecting you. Earlier in the day I had been writhing around on my bed in agony. My first and genuine thought was that I had another tumour. Having had three ovarian tumours the pain was extremely similar. I didn’t want to believe it was another tumour, as I knew that meant I would have to go to hospital. Normally this isn’t  problem but this particular day Cornwall and most of the UK had severe weather warnings. Many places were under water from burst rivers and torrential rain. Our main road to the hospital had trees down and I knew we would have to go the long way round to even get to A&E. But alas I knew we had to go. Having lost my right ovary from tumour strangulation, and part of my left ovary for the same reason. I knew that if I didn’t catch it in time I would lose the only remaining slither of my left ovary. So your daddy packed me an over night bag and I text my boss to say I was poorly. We bundled into the car, I was in a serious amount of pain, feeling every bump in the road. What normally takes 20 minutes took over an hour but we made it.

Once inside I remember going through all the normal questions and answers. I was being investigated at the time due to an undiagnosed heart condition, so was used to being poked and prodded. After a little while the general consensus was that they would send me for a scan…but…the doctor came back to say…I don’t have a diagnosis for your pain, but you are pregnant. I was curled up in the foetal position on the bed and your daddy’s jaw dropped to the floor. After 8 years and no success we had given up believing that we could have a family and there we were, in the middle of the worst storm Cornwall has seen for years, we were being told that you existed. Wow. Just wow. From that moment it was all about you. You were the one who mattered.

As my stomach burgeoned and I traced my fingers over my belly I could feel your touch from the inside. I have never felt as good about myself than when I was pregnant with you. My body was your home. Everything I did would affect you. I had the most important job in the world. To be the best incubator for you. I was on the top of the world as I watched my body change to make room for you. Whilst I was pregnant with you I had 61 hospital appointments but you were worth every single one. You were worth all the fear and anxiety. You were loved so very dearly from the moment we knew you were there. I don’t think I really believed you were really real until you were placed in my arms.

It really upsets me to know that you will never get to meet your little brother Arthur. You will never get to hold hands, play together, squabble and grow into fine young men together. What I do know is that you share something so special. I know that both of you grew in my body, you have both heard my heart beating from the inside. I missed being pregnant when you were born, I missed having you all to myself, but I loved having you in my arms even more. From the moment I touched you, it was you who mattered. Always you.

I can remember when I woke up in the mornings and I could hear your little voice babbling away. Talking to your little reindeer. I miss that. I really miss that. I miss knowing that you are in the next room. I miss not being able to sneak in and just watch you sleep. I miss waiting until you were in a deep sleep and stroking your silky soft hair. I miss waiting in bed until you woke up, keeping our bed warm, so I could come and collect you. You would come into our bed every morning to start our day with cuddles. I miss talking to you and watching your face light up to the sound of my voice. I miss squidging your little cheeks and your bum. I miss not being able to soothe you and make things right. I just miss you.

But, I also miss what could have been, all the things we had planned but were never able to. As I’ve always said, what are milestones for other families are losses for us. I miss not being able to read you a bedtime story, and I miss your little face, excited for one more book. I miss not being able to teach you the alphabet and to count to ten. I miss not building sand castles with you and playing games. I miss not being able to take the first picture of you in your school uniform. I miss not being able to stick a plaster on your knee when you fell over for the first time. I miss hearing you say ‘mummy, I love you’. I miss you so much. I miss your life.

Today it has been two years since you have been gone. Two whole years, almost double the amount of time you spent here with us. You would be three now, you would be excited about Christmas, you would be such a wonderful little boy. People think that it gets easier to live with losing you over time, this isn’t the case, you know that as I’m sure wherever you may be you see the pain that we endure. It has been two years since I last held you, since I last cuddled you when you were poorly. It has been two years since I lost myself in your beautiful big brown eyes, and it’s been two years since I was blessed with your captivating smile.

This time two years ago I found your lifeless body. This time two years ago I tried in vain so desperately to pump air back into your body, I tried so damn hard. I heard the most devastating and world shattering words anyone can hear, “I’m sorry my love, but he’s gone”. From the moment I called the ambulance to the moment you were pronounced dead it was 7 minutes. 7 short minutes but 7 of the longest minutes one can bear. When we eventually saw the ambulance sheet, it said “life extinct”, EXTINCT. Somehow there is more finality to that word than ‘dead’. Extinct – no longer in existence. You were gone. Forever.

In one single moment, my whole world changed. The earth shattering guttural sound that came out of my body is one that I don’t think I could replicate. I felt as though my chest was being crushed by a train, the heaviest and most suffocating weight. Death is tangible. Your death is tangible. It overshadowed any other emotion I have ever felt. It reached deep into my soul and gripped it so tightly. When I lost you, I lost myself. Ever since that moment, I have had to re-build my life, not by choice, but against my will. We did not choose this. We chose you. We gave you life. We gave you everything. And you were taken away. I had to re-learn how to be myself. I had to re-discover who I was. Your daddy and I had to embark on this indescribable journey of survival as two, not three.

What is life after loss? Life after loss is the existence that is left behind when the most significant part of your soul and your self is irreparably changed in one single second. The shell of your former self, that has been forced upon you, not chosen. Until you have children you journey through life quite happily, making choices that will best suit your desires, objectives and needs, but when two become three that changes. Your needs suddenly become the lesser of the two as your life is enveloped by this little person. Overnight you assume responsibility for a person, a little person that is wholly dependent on you; and there is no better feeling.

Simply put, I write this now because of you, the little boy who died. But I am the person I am today because of you, the little boy who lived. Your life eclipses your death, and it does so, because I will always be the person I am today because I was blessed with your life and I will share your life forevermore. You will ALWAYS matter.


www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead

Hope

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

What do I think about the NHS?

In the immediate aftermath of losing William before we really understood the true consequences of how and why he died, I searched everywhere for the answers. When I received William’s post-mortem report a paediatrician came to visit me to explain the content. At best this was a summary – it didn’t really tell me what I wanted to know. I wanted to know how the pneumonia had taken hold, I wanted to know how long the abscess had been in William’s lung and which lobe it was in and how this might have affected his airway. I wanted to know the thickness of the fluid that had engulfed his tiny little chest. I wanted to know the strain of bacteria found in his lungs, ears, chest and blood. I wanted to know how that strain of bacteria affected his organs. I wanted to understand. I didn’t want to be placated with answers that were formed in such a way that they caused less hurt. Tasked with a job that no one would envy, what those who were in direct contact with me didn’t realise is that there is nothing you, or any report could ever say that could ever lessen the hurt. Carefully constructed sentences, they don’t work. Summarised reports, also don’t work. They do nothing to satisfy my desire to truly understand. It is not as though I have just taken my pet to the vets and a simple explanation regarding their illness will suffice. My child died; but one thing that must be understood is that bereaved parents do not need to be spoken to in a way that you might explain something to a child. Subsequently I called and spoke to the pathologist; it was my only choice. Did I want to speak to the man who had handled my child’s body in such a cold and brutal task; no. But regardless, he had seen William, he had understood, he was the man who was able to extract all the answers I needed.

When William died at home, we were taken to hospital by ambulance. An ambulance that had blocked our one car road. Traffic was queueing, but the paramedics didn’t move their ambulance. They did not rush us. They went at our pace. They allowed me to carry my baby in my arms out of his home for what would be the last time. As we reached the road, faces of the waiting motorists said it all. A subtle head shake as they bowed their heads in respect. The paramedic sat in the ambulance and cried with me. A man, a father, a real person, how did he feel? The worst, most tragic part of his job. When we arrived at hospital they waited until I was ready to carry my baby into resus. They stayed with us until we were ready for them to go. We weren’t a ‘job’ to them. William was carefully cradled by them, and treated with the dignity he deserved. Their demeanour our only solace of feeling secure in a situation that had completely shattered our world. They allowed me the space to lay next to William on his nursery floor and scream, beg and plead with him to wake up, knowing full well that he never would. They were human. They cared and their compassion will never be forgotten.

The process, which is the only word that can be used to describe what happens after a child dies is distant, impersonal and one that does not fill you with reassurance.

Once the initial ‘buzz’ has faded and you are left with nothing but a post-mortem report that explains how your child’s world ended is the time when the most support is needed. Simply put, you don’t get it, not unless you come to the attention of the mental health team – which I did. It shouldn’t take an attempt on a life to get the help you need. Losing William isn’t a one time event that slowly gets better over time. Every day deals another blow. Another day when the sun rises but no hope comes with it. It doesn’t get better with time, in time I suppose you just somehow live with ‘it’. You don’t learn how to live with it. You just ‘do’. What other choice do I have? For me, I wasn’t satisfied. I knew that William shouldn’t have died – his post-mortem confirmed that. But I would now have to wait another 5 months before the inquest would take place. 5 months. 5 months is a long time in an average life but not in the life of someone who counts every day, hour, minute and second, each of which plays out like an eternity. I couldn’t wait, and I wouldn’t wait. So my journey of investigation started.

I started by familiarising myself with NICE guidelines, which further progressed onto the British Medical Journals – which I had to pay for. I researched studies that took me around the globe and spoke to specialists from all walks of life. But I begun by weeding out the direct contact details of the leading paediatric respiratory specialist in the UK. Everything had to be dealt with objectively; this was the hardest part – I mean how do you stop writing, talking and generally acting in a way where you’re not falling apart. I still don’t have the answer to that. Everything had to be neutral, unbiased, constructive and without blame. I wanted the truth not a played down version to somehow make me feel ‘better’, I knew I would never feel better. When the responses from the specialists started arriving in my inbox or answer phone the story became alarmingly obvious, startlingly clear and horrifyingly obvious – William should never have died. Most importantly I spoke to paediatric respiratory, microbiology and sepsis specialists. Consultants that have spent years working in one specific area. Not a generalised approach. As the inquest approached I had the facts I had sought. In the meantime the doctor’s surgery who had ‘treated’ William had opened and closed a Serious Event Audit. Which we hadn’t been informed of until we were sat in the inquest. How can the general practitioners have a meeting and close an audit when they have not even discussed William’s care and concerns with us, his parents? I would find it very interesting to see the results of their initial SEA, which was closed after no failings were found, to compare that to the NHS England report that later detailed failing after failing. When I first heard news that a SEA had taken place but I’d heard nothing about it, I really sat down to think how I would approach this. Because clearly if I rolled over and took everything at face value I would get the duty of candour but I wouldn’t have answers.

Who, what, when and where is the easiest way to explain an inquest. Who died? What did they die of? When and where did they die. To assist with answering these questions they bring in a paediatrician. Not a specialised one, a general one. So, immediately I was concerned. How can a general paediatrician who has no experience of empyema and pleural effusions confidently ascertain and answer questions in relation to William’s death. Simply put – he couldn’t. An expert in his field, but an expert in the areas that contributed to William’s death he was not. He was able to conclude that had William had different treatment to what he received it was highly likely that William would have survived. That was all we needed for an NHS England investigation to be opened. Unless you bring your own specialists at your own cost, you get what you’re given. The paediatrician that we had come to Cornwall 3/4 times a year for a day. That’s how many days they allow for inquests into baby’s deaths in Cornwall. We were allotted 2 hours for William’s inquest – it lasted 8. How the family’s waiting behind us felt I will never know.

With my knowledge about how investigations are handled I suspected it wouldn’t be an easy ride – it wasn’t. However, throughout the investigation I was involved in every step. Perhaps because I was a constructive nuisance, I was persistent, and I wouldn’t accept answers that I felt were flawed or were not relied upon with justifiable evidence. Eventually after several hundred emails, multiple drafts of the report, and numerous meetings, the report was finalised in January – a report that I was satisfied with and reflected the truth accurately. A report that highlighted multiple failings in William’s care, from each GP we spoke to, the 111 help line and out of hours doctors. Ultimately if William’s chest infection had been diagnosed appropriately and not as a viral infection – he would have received much-needed antibiotics. If that chest infection had been treated the progression of pneumonia would not have happened, leading to a pleural effusion, lung abscess and the sepsis that would take his life.

I have lost count of the number of times I have been asked to point the finger, or blame, or speak in a manner that puts the spotlight on certain people involved. I have no desire to do that. Those involved have apologised, face to face and they have been held accountable for their mistakes – after all – unless they were living in a cave during the first part of this year, it was a bit hard to miss the media. I have met face to face with the GP that last saw William for what would be the last time, the doctor that should have sent William to hospital. I have looked in his eyes and told him how Paul and I feel. I have been asked if I will take our complaint to the GMC, phrases such as “shouldn’t he be struck off?” For me, to take such action, would be to prevent him from potentially saving another life. Those that went into work each time they saw William didn’t act in a malicious way, they didn’t allow William to die on purpose. They are aware of their mistakes and the systems that allowed for those mistakes to take place are being changed. I hope that those involved in William’s care will not make those same mistakes again. Their index of suspicion has changed, their threshold for prescribing antibiotics has lowered especially when it is clinically evident they are required. Their awareness of sepsis has been refreshed in the most devastating circumstances. I do not want my life to be consumed by hate, anger, and regret. To seek revenge on those involved would not honour William’s memory in the way that he deserves; and it would not bring William back – and that is all I want.

There are faults that lie within the NHS – some of which I have encountered. Those of which I have I’m sure, I could think of a better way they could operate. I’m sure many of them could be rectified with an endless pit of money – which the NHS simply does not have. But the NHS is built on foundations of compassion by those who go to work to do good, to do their best to help a patient to feel better, make their lives easier and with dignity. There are some of course who do not, there are always bad pennies, but thankfully they are far and few between. I have had my own negative experiences with my own treatment and miss-diagnosis in the past. But if it wasn’t for the NHS I wouldn’t be here – twice my life has been saved. If it wasn’t for the NHS, William wouldn’t have been born. The NHS did not cause my son to die – decisions of specific people did.


 An eBook of 50 illustrations donated by 50 world class illustrators has been created in William’s memory. The book includes a foreword by me and Ron Daniels CEO of the UK Sepsis Trust. There is also a little game that you have to find William painting within the book. The book costs no more than £1.49 with all proceeds being donated to the UK Sepsis Trust in William’s memory. Please support us and buy your copy here.

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Williams Just Giving Page