Tag Archives: blame

Why I’m not angry and why I will always be positive

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Is seems so cruel that this week you would have started prep school. I have found it particularly difficult to see all the happy, smiling children starting their big adventure. Without thinking last Wednesday, I returned home from dropping your little brother at nursery and I drove through the town, past the infant’s school. A herd of small children and their parents. You can tell the youngest ones, all neat, pristine and excited. That heady mix of excitement and fear of the unknown changes to normality as you advance through the years in school.

It really is that first step of freedom, independence if you like. Somewhere where you will be able to forge your own life, make friends, carve your future in to the universe. Where, I, as your mum desperately wanted to wave you off. I wanted to experience that mixture of pride and nerves, not because I don’t think you would cope, but nerves about letting you go just that little bit more.

Me and you dad had it all planned out. We had reserved your place at prep school and paid the fee when you were just a few months old. We’d poured over the prospectus, pointed at the amazing activities on offer and imagined how cute and grown up you would look in the blazer. It will always remain an imagination for us. We won’t ever get to dress you in your uniform and adorn a blazer on your shoulders, no doubt, swamping your tiny almost 5-year-old body, with an equally over-sized rucksack on your back. But it would have been perfect. I cannot imagine anything more perfect.

This past week got even harder. I had to complete a form which required me to input the number of dependants I have. Staring at the tiny white box, I could barely force myself to scrawl 1 in to the box. It just felt like those 4 solid black lines were stopping you from also being in that box, because of course I have 2 children, but I no longer have 2 children that are dependent on me. I only have 1 child that I need to buy nappies for, I only have 1 little mouth to feed, I only have 1 child to tuck in to bed each evening. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ungrateful. I am desperately grateful, I consider myself lucky, lucky that I have a happy, healthy toddler. I consider myself lucky that you are my son, that you picked me, I consider myself blessed that I was able to carry you inside my body for 9 months, that I got to give birth to you and feel every second of it and that I got to hold you in my arms for 382 days. I would rather have had 382 days than none at all.

I quite often get asked how I cope, how I manage to be so resolute in my mission to raise awareness of sepsis. Sometimes I ask myself how I remain so positive. I have the answer to that question. It’s really very simple. The one thing more than anything in the world that you want is your life. I have mine. I will not waste it; to do so would be like undermining the fact you lost yours so needlessly. Sometimes, like this past month, it has been a struggle. But I know that by being miserable, the only person it is affecting is myself, and those around me. What sense is there in that? I could be sad and angry that you died, or I can be happy and entirely grateful that you lived. You gave me the ability to be able to view life in its entirety, simply because your entire life was limited to only 382 days. None of us know how long we get to wake up every morning. So, I am going to use my life to be just like you were, selfless, loving, and living my life with a glass half full, not empty.

In your short life you didn’t know anger, sadness, regret, or desperation. I was your mummy then, and I still am now. So, I am going to share your positivity and love with the world.

I won’t ever get to see you in your school uniform, I won’t get to collect you and listen to your ramblings about your first day, or any day, I won’t get to help you with your homework, or console you if you weren’t picked to be in the team, I won’t get to watch you grow, I won’t get to hear you say I love you. But I know you loved me, and you know how much I love you. They were the last words you ever heard me whisper. So, I may be without a lot but one thing I am is your mummy.

We will never know what you would have grown up and become but one thing you will always be is my son, my baby, my forever William.

www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead

Life after loss

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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

I’m so so sorry mummy couldn’t save you

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I don’t ever know where to start sweetheart. It’s been three years. Three whole years that we’ve had to live without each other. Three whole years since I last held your warm, squishy, strawberry scented little self in my arms. Three whole years since I got to whisper ‘I love you’ in your ear. Three whole years. How is that even possible, how have I managed? Simply, I don’t know.

The first year without you was complete and utter turmoil, total and complete devastation. My mind was like living inside a tornado, I was picked up and thrown around at the mercy of my thoughts. It was relentless. Last year I begun to find my feet. Sometimes I was able to put my feet on the ground and feel stable, sometimes I was able to communicate, willingly. I was learning. Learning how to live with your daddy, as two. Not three anymore. We didn’t choose that, we didn’t want that. A complete and total loss of control. I don’t like having no control. Last year I learned to go with the flow. Knowing that I was not able to swim against the riptide of grief, I had to close my eyes, turn on my back and wait for it to set me down again. This year has been strange; ‘living’ has been slightly easier, perhaps because your little brother has given us an injection of life again. He has given us hope, a future, he was one of the greatest gifts you ever gave us. But missing you has got so much harder. I find myself crying more often, I am often sad, not just for myself but for you. I often think about giving up and retreating, I think more often about the injustice of your death, your treatment and how cruelly your life was taken away. I’m struggling quite a bit at the minute, but I know that for every step I take, it is one step closer to you. I think that because the better days have become easier to bear, it makes the bad days even worse. It is like being on an awful roller-coaster that sometimes gets stuck, I have no choice but to ride it out.

I can’t remember what life was like before you were born. It seems like it was a different life. It was a life that I thought I was happy in, content with my lot. I couldn’t have imagined how wrong I was. When you were born you showed me what really mattered. I can remember watching you sleep, feeling utterly in love. A feeling that is difficult to articulate. You were part of me, I was you and you were me. You taught me a love that I didn’t know existed. You are woven into the fabric of my soul. When you died, I didn’t know what to do. How would I love again? How would I ever smile again, laugh, be happy? Life was constantly referred to as ‘before William was born’ and ‘after William died’ like our life had somehow been truncated and completely fractured.

 

Then you gave us Arthur. I was worried, more than worried. What would happen if I didn’t love him like I love you? What happened if I resented him, because he wasn’t you? But you knew. You knew I could be a mummy to two little people, you knew just what mummy needed, like your little brother, you heal my broken heart. I feel incredibly sad that I will never feel complete again, that wholesome feeling that cannot be bought.

You have taught me so much William. You have taught me complete kindness, you have taught me to be compassionate always, to be patient, to love fiercely, you have taught me that no matter where I go, you are with me always, I know that you are mine, and death cannot take that away from me. I cannot even begin to describe how proud I am of you. You graced this Earth for just 382 days, but you changed everything so profoundly. Your love feeds my determination, enables me to live, helps me to put one foot in front of the other,  gives me the strength to somehow fight to try to stop others from meeting your fate. Your love has changed so much, changed so many people, saved so many lives. I know you live on in the hearts of the many thousands of lives you have saved.

But you are not here and I just want you. I want nothing more than to hold you one last time. Forever is a long time. I know that you are just one breath away, one heartbeat, but I don’t know when I will take that breath and wake up with you. I wish I did. I wish I could put a big cross through every day, knowing that I was counting down. What I would give to make eye contact with you once more, to rub my cheek on yours, to feel you in my arms once more. My arms ache for you. They are heavy, my heart is heavy, my head is heavy. The living might get easier but the longing gets so much harder.

I remember the last time I ever held you, before I placed you in your forever bed and closed the lid, I kissed your forehead, I ran my fingers through your hair, I kissed your lips and I rubbed my cheek on yours, and I said “I’m so so sorry mummy couldn’t save you.” This hurts me, physically hurts me. I would do anything for you, and Arthur, give you both all you need, physically, emotionally and mentally, but the one thing I couldn’t do was make you better. I tried so hard to get you the help you needed, despite the apologies for your care, you’re still my responsibility and your life is in my hands. I failed you in the worst way possible. I let you down when you so desperately needed me the most. I tried so so hard.

I love you darling boy. You know. I told you always, I showed you always, they were the last words you ever heard me whisper, “Goodnight sweetheart, I love you.” You knew only love but three years on, the words that still sting me every single day “I’m so so sorry mummy couldn’t save you.”

www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead

What do I think about the NHS?

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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

PTSD and me

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Today as I stepped out of bed on day 550 without you I looked out of the window for some inspiration. I didn’t find any.

There is no one day easier than another, I am yet to wake up any morning and think, well I don’t miss you as much today. My thoughts are always with you. My tears are all for you. I suspect you can see mummy from the little white fluffy cloud on which you now reside; but I know if you can see your mummy you’ll also know that she can’t help it. I have long since given up thinking that time heals, that one day I’ll come to terms with losing you. Simply, I won’t, how can I?

More than ever I can’t cope with knowing that I couldn’t save you. You didn’t deserve this. You deserved the world. You deserved to be happy. You deserved the chance to live your life how you chose. Your life so cruelly taken away from you by others. Maybe that day they went into work with something on their mind, perhaps they were tired. But you gave your life for their mistakes, there is no bigger sacrifice, and if mummy could she would give everything for you to have breath back in your broken little body.

Sweetheart, I think that some people think that after 550 days I should be functioning better, that I should be capable of getting through a day without breaking down. Or that perhaps I shouldn’t be as vulnerable and fragile as I am. I don’t think anyone will ever understand the path that I tread. It is not a path that anyone else can say they have been on, after all, only I know my pain of losing you. Daddy treads his own path, others tread different paths. But no one treads mummy’s path.

The moment that mummy heard those words ‘I’m sorry my love, but he’s gone’ my life changed irrevocably. There was no going back, no going back to the normal life we had created together. No more cosy morning snuggles, no watching you point your toes and jiggle your little feet when you are excited, no sneaking into your room in the night to stroke your silky soft hair. Mummy used to do that, you probably knew that, but you let me, because you know mummy needed to. What I would do to just hold you one more time.

Some people don’t understand that by the time I have managed to dress myself in the morning, I have already been awake crying for several hours, if I’ve been to sleep at all. Some people don’t understand that some days fast movement, lots of noise or colour gives me a sensory overload. Trying to explain to someone why I’m so hypersensitive is virtually impossible, let alone trying to explain how the flashbacks cripple me. You see people don’t understand PTSD, people think I should stop thinking about it. How can I? Could they? I don’t think so, not if they had witnessed losing you. I can’t stop thinking about it, I don’t have a choice. PTSD isn’t simply a memory recollection, something you can summon and then change to think about something completely different. When my brain decides, I will re-live the moment that I found you again. Frozen in bed, not being able to move, paralysed by fear, in my mind, you are next door, in your cot, passed away. Somehow the light, the sounds, the smells are the same. It is that morning again. I can’t remember how many hours I sat cross-legged on your floor, hands tightly gripping the bars of your cot, head pressed against the bars so hard there were two lines on my forehead, staring, my eyes pleading with the spot where you took your last breath, pleading for you to not be there, not like that, not again. I think it took 6 hours for my brain to realise that you weren’t there. For those 6 hours in my mind I had been staring at your broken little body. But of course you weren’t there. Try telling my mind that. It is like being trapped in a nightmare, not able to wake up because of course you are already awake. Being suffocated by the nightmare as you have no idea that it isn’t real or that it isn’t really happening again.

PTSD is so debilitating. I don’t get a choice, I can’t just not think about ‘it’. The trauma of losing you so vivid, mummy is forced to re-live losing you all over again, I can’t help it. It’s not just a memory, it’s not something that I can distract myself from. It is not something that I can explain to people unless of course they have experienced it. They do not understand that one minute you are seemingly ok and confident to the next minute being scared to exist in what is a co-dependent bubble. And when it strikes it is like having a wound re-opened, and left constantly open. Social situations are a no go area, draining, emotionally exhausting, overwhelming, frozen and incapable of functioning. In a nutshell PTSD is not being able to differentiate in your mind the past, the present and the future.

I wish people would be patient, I wish people would not judge. I wish I didn’t have to keep justifying how and why I feel like I’m in a sinking abyss. No one will ever understand the pain of losing you, a life sentence, one that will not be over until I take my last breath and we are together again.

You will never know sweetheart how much mummy needs you. You changed my life, mummy is so blessed that you picked me. I sit here looking at your photo’s, your captivating smile, your sparkling eyes coming alive from every photo. You probably see mummy touch your photos, hoping that she can feel you chubby soft skin once more; but I never will. I remember the last time I ever held you. I traced every inch of your little body with my finger, my eyes closed, assigning every little fold and crease to memory. Even then, twenty days after you had passed away you were still perfect. God, mummy misses you so much. People just don’t get it. It just does not get easier.

So, my message to the lovely people who I encounter every day in my life, please don’t judge, don’t criticise, be patient, be calm, be respectful and most of all, give me time. I estimate it will take a lifetime.

www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead