Grateful beyond words…

I miss you so much right now. I have found myself more teary recently. The smallest little things just set me off. I suppose there has been so much drama over the last couple of weeks but drama is an understatement. On that Monday afternoon when your little brother suddenly became quite poorly. We had been managing his temperature at home over the weekend, but on the Monday he seemed ‘different’ when he woke up from his nap. I sat your little brother, who was 10 days away from the age that you were when you died, on the sofa. I looked at him, and he looked through me, vacant, haunting eyes. I recognised those eyes. They were your eyes.

I called for help. An ambulance was here before I’d even finished explaining the situation. Your little brother was grey, he looked, well, lifeless. His little chubby legs were becoming mottled and they were cold despite his high temperature. He was shaking, not shivering, but more like strange little twitching. The paramedics assessed him, and found he was hypoxic, his oxygen saturation levels were low and his breathing was irregular. They took your little brother off me to carry him to the ambulance. As I sat there cradling my tiny, but alive little boy in the ambulance, all I could see was you. Me cradling you in the back of ‘that’ ambulance. There was no rush, no sense of urgency, no life to save. This time was different, the lights were flashing, if for one second my mind drifted away from the present and into the morning of the 14th December 2014, it was quickly jolted back to the very vivid present. As we raced through the traffic, your little brother was not very respondent. As I held onto him tight, whilst trying to keep his oxygen mask in place, I prayed, not to God, but to you. I begged you, begged you to look after him. I could feel my breathing accelerating, my chest tight and my muscles tensing as we were rushed through to resus.

The walk from the ambulance to the resus bay was a blur but as I rounded the very straight, dark blue curtain I was there. There, right where they examined you. The very same bed that I watched you, my lifeless little boy being handled in a way that you shouldn’t ever have been. I just wanted to scoop you up and run away with you, I imagined it, I could feel the wind in my hair, I could feel the cold air making my tears feel like ice on my cheek, I looked down to you, in my arms, mine. Stood there in that resus bay with so many people around you, I felt so separated from you. So very, very helpless. There was simply nothing that I could to make it better. Now I was stood at the end of the very same bed watching history unfold right in front of my eyes. But this time was different, there was a sense of urgency, there were people reading out observations to the team, there were nurses trying to take your brothers blood, there were people comforting him, there was quite simply, life. This time there was life. As I stood there, I backed away, I felt like I was stood behind a screen, in some kind of viewing parlour, looking in, watching, observing, but removed. It was a looking-glass, I was so helpless. I could sense myself crying, I could sense myself making noise, but I couldn’t hear it, “no, no, no, no…” was coming out of my mouth on repeat, but I couldn’t hear it. It was all slow motion, desensitised to my surroundings and the situation. I couldn’t lose both of you. Then I heard it, the word I knew was coming, the word I dread to ever be used in any context other than a speech I give about you. Sepsis. We are treating Arthur for sepsis.

That awful, crippling word brought me to my knees. As someone bought me a chair, I started speaking, I could hear myself, focused solely on Arthur, my eyes fixated on his tiny fragile little being, “this is Arthur, it is not William, they are different, Arthur is not William, they are different…” over and over. Somehow, from somewhere I removed myself from the engulfing PTSD, I removed myself from the most traumatic day of my life and forced myself into the present. Arthur was placed in my arms. They carried on working around us, poking Arthur doing different tests, but all I could feel was warmth. Something that was missing from Sunday 14th December. Arthur was alive. He was going to be okay, he was going to be okay, I kept telling myself. You, William, answered my prayers. After four days in hospital, Arthur was allowed to come home. He was okay.

Today on the 14th October 2017 Arthur woke up.

An insignificant and non-important statement to most, but today Arthur is 383 days old, one day older than you ever were. A day that instead of waking up, you took residence in Heaven. Last night I constantly lay listening to Arthur breathe, the sweet sound of his snoring, for once grateful that he is slightly bunged up so I can hear him more clearly. As the minutes and hours ticked by. The light crept in to the morning, day 383 begun. Arthur was still breathing, stirring, waking. I did not have to force myself out of bed, I was not disappointed that I didn’t get a lie in. Arthur was alive. He is now older than you ever were. How can that be? You will always be older, but now in some strange parallel universe, Arthur is older than you. Today the emotional hangover kicked in. A day full of what if’s, a day full of why’s, why you? why not me? why did this happen? and a day of eternal thanks. When I plucked Arthur out of his cot this morning he placed his forehead on mine, his hands on my cheeks and cuddled my face. Somehow, in his own little way, he knew, “mummy, I’m here, I’m here, it’s okay”.

Today like most parents with small children I spent the day tidying up after Arthur, cutting food into impossibly small pieces, wiping snotty noses and little bums. And with every movement I was thankful. Thankful that I have a little boy to cut up food for, a little bum to clean, a little snotty nose to wipe, a chubby little face to kiss and an impossibly wriggly little body to cuddle. These are the things I miss about you William. What would you be doing now, would you be making a mess for me to clean, would you have a snotty nose, some things are left to the imagination. For what are milestones for Arthur are now imaginations for William.

So today as Arthur reaches a milestone that William didn’t reach and will never reach, day 383. Be grateful for the small things. When your children want that extra cuddle, give it to them. When they make a mess, remember it’s their mess. When they test your patience, remember they won’t forever. When they cry in the night, remember it’s better to be awake to a crying child than crying for a child that can no longer cry. Remember that life is for living, that tomorrow is not promised.

Today I am grateful simply for the fact that Arthur woke up.


www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead

I just want to highlight that there is no link between William and Arthur having sepsis. It is sadly an horiffic coincidence, any can have sepsis.

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Dear Arthur,

Today you turn one. A day that when you were first placed in my arms I never thought we would make. With every day passing filled with so much anxiety that you are on loan, that after day 382 we will have to hand you back, like we did with your big brother William, it felt like we would never reach this milestone. I have learned from losing William that I must manage my days and hours in bitesize pieces. Never looking too far ahead. A whole year seemed impossible back then. But here we are, we did it. You did it.

You my darling boy were born out of hope in the midst of grief. An innocent little boy with absolutely no knowledge of all that has happened before you. I have tried so hard to make sure that you have never witnessed mummy crumble, I don’t want you to be scared or worried about why mummy is upset. The time will come when we tell you that you have the most beautiful big brother, a brother who lived before you, a big brother that you will never meet but a big brother who is with you with every breath that you take. You see William’s photos all around you, you’ve watched mummy on the television talking about him, the time will come, but slowly you will get to know him.

But, you are you. You are your own little person. The most independent, determined and head strong little baby I know. Some say they wonder where you get that from…I don’t want you to grow up in your brothers shadow. Despite the attention your brother receives, it is YOU who bought us light out of suffocating darkness. You have been the reason that I have put one foot in front of the other. You are the reason I get out of bed on the days when life seems impossible; because do you know my little man, YOU saved my life. Some say that your big brother has saved hundreds, if not thousands of lives because he has given me the passion to campaign, but it was YOU that gave me the life to continue. You are part of this incredible journey. You are responsible for mummy taking a completely different path.

There was a time when mummy couldn’t bear to think about the next ten minutes of being alive. There was a time when mummy tried to take her own life; at the time believing that I could never exist without William. Had it not been for your daddy, mummy wouldn’t be here. There was a time when I couldn’t move, dress, speak coherently, or even think. I remember this time so vividly. A time I don’t wish to forget about, a time that is part of this indescribable journey of survival. It is a painful reminder of how many steps I have taken since then. They say there are five stages in grief, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I would say I have experienced some of these things. Not necessarily in that order. But the one thing I haven’t done is accept it. I don’t think I can accept the unacceptable. But during the most insufferable days when life has felt too much of a challenge I started to realise that the one thing your brother wants is his life. Who am I to waste the one, most precious gift that was robbed of him? I never realised this before you came along, you gave me the ability to see that as much as it’s okay to not be okay, it’s also okay to be okay. As they say the past is in our heads but the future is in our hands.

You have taught me that it’s okay to miss William whilst being able to love you too. You have taught me that it is okay to pine for William whilst being happy that you are in my arms. You have taught me that it is okay to be sad that William won’t reach the milestones that you will reach. As much as your brother floored me with the most overwhelming love, you have taught me that it can continue, for him AND for you. You have taught me that it is okay to live. You my darling boy, have lived on this Earth for 365 days and you will soon be older than William was but your innocence, your total, unrivaled, uninhibited love is something that I feed off daily, something that keeps me going and something that allows me to realise that you and William share a bond that is entirely unbreakable.

You are his and he is yours. You are both mine, and I am both yours, always.

Happy birthday sweetheart xxxxx


www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead

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

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