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

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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

I am always the mum whose baby died

One Step Closer...

One Step Closer…

Life is very busy at the moment, but not busy how I ever imagined it would be. I never imagined that I would be sat here preparing press statements, comments, being interviewed and scrutinising every document I receive in relation to the death of my little William.

I remember so well receiving William’s death certificate and putting it in the folder with his birth certificate. You don’t get a folder with the death certificate, it’s not free either, we had to pay for the privilege. When I opened the folder I thought, do I put it in front of his birth certificate, the OCD inside me needing it to be in date order, but the mother inside of me knew that it always had to be William’s birth certificate that had to be right at the front. William’s birth such a defining moment in my life. A moment that re-defined me as a person. No longer Melissa Mead, personal assistant, friend, sister, girlfriend, but mummy, a title that supersedes any of the former. A title I never thought I would have, a title I took seriously, a title that I did not treat lightly. A title that some are not blessed with, others blessed with children, but perhaps not deserving. Not me, I have the best title. I am William Mead’s mummy. I was born to be William’s mummy, I will always be William’s mummy, but I can no longer look after him like most mothers are able to. As I sat there for half an hour, reading William’s death certificate, I knew what the answer was, that it would be placed at the back, at the bottom, behind everything else that mattered. The world was a richer place when William was born and so much poorer when he died. Simple tasks insignificant to others, but tasks that consume me. Sad isn’t it, that I have to worry about such silly things, I should be worrying that William isn’t putting his fingers in plugs or staying up to late not how to file his death certificate.

The worry never stops. I worry about him now, is he ok? What is he doing? Is he sleeping ok? Is he lonely? Does he have little friends? I hope they’re not feeding him broccoli, he really doesn’t like it. William went to Heaven with no instructions. He wasn’t prepared, I wasn’t prepared, William was never supposed to go. It is not something any parent should ever have to knowingly prepare for, or have to endure. We are all used to death, and what it means. As we grow older, we begin to lose grandparents, eventually parents. It is not something that we invite, or wish to even happen, we hope that it doesn’t happen when we are young. We do hope that our parents, and older generations live a rich life, live their dreams and see younger generations being born. The natural order. The order we don’t like but expect and have come to accept. We have wonderful memories of our grandparents, tales of times gone by, always being able to get that extra packet of sweets because ‘we’re cute’. When we begin to lose loved ones as we age, what we are left with is memories. Memories of them, memories of their life, their achievements, memories we have created together, that we can look back on with happy tears. What I’m left with is imagination. For those who have lost a child in pregnancy, a baby born sleeping, or a child lost like William, we have some memories, but mostly what we are left with are imaginations. Would William enjoy school, what would be his favourite subject, would he prefer to read a book or play sports. Would he want to become a lawyer, a train driver or a professional footballer. I will never know. I will never know whether he would marry, whether he would marry a man or a woman, I will never know what his children would look like, what my grandchildren would be called. I will never get to experience that love, that pride of watching my little boy grow into a perfect young man, watch him create his own life, and have his own family.

Like you, when you share on social media precious moments you have with your children, when they master how to walk, when they swim 25 metres, when they are in their first nativity, when they ask silly little questions that only little children can ask, I need to share William too, but how can I share William? I cannot post that William started school today, I cannot share that William won his first spelling competition. I cannot share William like you are able to share your children. Regardless, I have to share William with the world, to teach you all about the little boy who lived. William did live, he lived for 382 days, and William’s 382 days have made more of an impact on this world than my 29 years ever will. The world needs William, just like I do. When I share William, I share with you little stories, but mostly I share with you William’s legacy. Sharing William’s story enables me to raise awareness of what happened to him, make sure the mistakes in his care do not happen again, and to make sure that anyone I come into contact with, whether that be physically, or online, knows what Sepsis is. That is William’s legacy, to save the lives of other children, and in doing so, for every person I engage with, I get to show them William’s little face. And that is how, a mother who has lost her child is able to feel pride.


 

www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead

 

My inspiration for 2016 – William

My boy and I

My boy and I

As the evening draws in and darkness approaches, I say goodbye to 2015, but I do not welcome 2016. For I would not have cuddled my baby in 2016. This year I didn’t hold my baby alive, and next year I would not have held him at all. Although William lived for 382 days, he did not live one full calendar year.

Not only does today represent the end of a very hard and very painful year, today marks 382 days without my baby. William has been gone the same number of days today as we were blessed with him. How does that seem possible? The most exhilarating and amazing 382 days, compared to the most harrowing 382 days. I simply cannot make sense of it, I still cannot understand, accept or seemingly learn to live with it. I’m happy with that, right now, I don’t want to. Why should I? Losing William has enriched my life with the ability to see past what most people understand as a ‘good life’. To really understand the depth of love is to lose it, not until after you lose it do you realise how much you relied upon that love. How much you needed that love. How much you needed that person.

Earlier, I sat and thought to myself, ‘you’re not even 30 and you’ve outlived your child’. I sat in William’s room and looked at his tiny little clothes, thinking how small they would look next to him now had he been here. His room should not be tidy, it should be cluttered with his toys. His cot should be a bed. His changing mat replaced with a potty. Our home is stuck in a particular time. A time that stood still the moment William took his last breath. Will that change? I don’t know, not yet, I don’t want it to. William’s high chair is still in the kitchen, his cups and beakers are still in the cupboard, his cereals still stand on his shelf along with his other food bits. Well past their sell by date, but somehow to get rid of these would be like somehow getting rid of a piece of William. I am not ready for that separation yet. William’s pram is by the front door, the stones in the wheels from the last time it was used. His little coat still hangs on its peg and his toys still have pride of place in the front room. His car seat still adorns the back seat; every time I look in the rear view mirror I see it and it makes me smile. Imagining catching his eye as I drove along, his little face would burst into the biggest smile, babbling away, deep in conversation with himself after nursery. The replacement beaker still stands on my bedside table from the night he died, in case he needed another. The beaker that he last drank from in his cot is where he left it, the last thing he ever touched. I sometimes pick it up and place my fingers round the handles, knowing his chubby little fingers gripped this very handle. Knowing that his touch was once here. I still haven’t washed his handprints from the inside of my bedroom window. An ever lasting reminder that ‘William was here’. His toys are still in the bath and his toothbrush and toothpaste still in their little pot. For us, nothing has changed, our life hasn’t moved on, our life at a standstill, forever waiting, but I know we’ll be waiting a lifetime, William’s sweet giggle won’t ever resonate through our house again, his cheeky grin won’t fill my rear view mirror and his little fingers won’t ever hold that beaker again.

Some might say that we struggle to move on because we keep those things in their places, but that is not true, William was and still is a part of this household and this family. I need William’s things around me, to look at, to touch and hold, sometimes I remember a different memory and it makes me smile. Time does not heal, whoever said that was so very wrong, time may give you the ability to live a different life but it does not heal the gaping chasm that William has left. The scar tissue has not begun to form. I have no protection from falling in that pit. As time passes my flashbacks and PTSD seem to be increasingly more and more crippling. I don’t need triggers, those thoughts, visions and memories are right there, right in the forefront of my mind. This is what grief really does to you. There is no let up. It does not discriminate. It holds you firmly in its grip. Am I depressed? Yes, clinically so. Do I take medication to help me sleep, to stave away the crippling symptoms of anxiety, to help lift my mood, to help discourage suicidal ideation? Yes. Do I have a drink? Yes, just like you I have shit days, sometimes things go wrong, normal things, like the washing machine that William decided he needed in heaven on Christmas Eve. Do I struggle to get out of bed? Yes. Do I struggle to concentrate? Yes. Do I struggle to remember things? Yes. Do I struggle to go out, to be motivated? Yes. Do I care? No. I am simply a machine. I plug myself in at the end of the day, I recharge and get up and do my jobs the next day. Do I do them with conviction? No. Do I do them with care? No. Do I do them because I want to? No. Do I do them with hope? No. Am I worried? No. This is life. This is the card that I have been dealt, but goodness me, I’m in better shape than William is. His little life snuffed out because people did not do what they were supposed to do.

This year I have been well and truly submerged against my will into everyone’s worst nightmare. The terror that runs through my veins, the fear that makes my heart beat, very few people have experienced and I’m thankful for that. My eyes have been opened to a world of mental health that I only knew existed in the media. Don’t walk around with your eyes closed, make eye contact with people on the bus, the tube or walking down the street. If someone drops something, help them to pick it up. If someone elderly say hi, say hello back. Take the time to love, because you don’t know however small these little gestures are to you, to someone else they will be the highlight of their day or week. For someone else you can bring joy and comfort. Not just family and friends but strangers. Life is too short, I know this, you know this, please don’t walk around with your head down, rushing everywhere. Don’t sit on the bus on your phone, say hi. Give that homeless person a sandwich and a hot drink. Pick up the phone to your elderly relatives whom you rarely speak to, they won’t be there forever, they helped create the world that you live in today. You are their inspiration, be someone else’s. Most importantly. Look at your child and know, really know that you are their world. So make sure they know that they are yours.

My life is run on passion and love and drive and determination, my life is run simply on my resounding, unwavering love for William. He is my guiding light. He is my hope. He is what drives me, knowing I must get the answers, knowing I must fight for him, knowing that I will never settle for anything less than the truth. My life is not run on hope for the future, nor happiness but a bittersweet necessity to share my son with the world.

To be blessed with William, was to be blessed with love. My life furnished with everything it could ever possibly need and more. I cannot even begin to put in to words the sheer desperation I have to be with my son. The only hope I have is that is not too far away, hard I know, but the truth. But for now, my only wish for 2016 is that everyone will learn what really happened to William and what should have happened and in doing so educate themselves about sepsis and hope that those that made mistakes never make them again.

For now, I say goodbye to the last year that I ever held my child. Something I don’t want to do, but of course, no one can stop time. If they could I would have stopped it a long time ago. My wish for all of you in 2016 is that it brings you as much comfort as you have all brought me in 2015. That it brings you time with your loved ones that cannot be replaced. Love, learn and be inspired. William is my inspiration. My life and my love.


www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead

 

What is mental health?

Before William died I had no experience of the mental health care in the UK. I’d had no reason to need it personally, nor had I known anyone personally suffering with their mental health. It wasn’t even taboo, because I didn’t even afford it much thought. I would often catch the news, mental health being known as the cinderella service of the NHS. Hard to access, not enough facilities or not the right facilities. This may be true in some areas or for others experiences. But, I can say that had it not been for the care and guidance of the mental health team in Cornwall, I would not be here. They have been the scaffolding that has been wrapped around me for the last 11 months, and continue to be. When I fall I know they are there. When I’m falling and I don’t know it, they catch me.

Anyone in my position will know that time is like a punishment. Nothing you can do to stop it, always ticking by, excruciatingly slow. Initially, days passed in shock, weeks passed in disbelief and months have passed without me even knowing, carried along on the tidal wave of grief, churning me round and round in the eye of the storm, discarding me just where it wants too. In the initial few months, everyone has time, everyone touched by William, and they now have a life tinged with sadness, but albeit a life that they return too, maybe after the funeral, maybe after the inquest, maybe when I returned to work. Slowly people drift away back to their own lives, no time to sit with me anymore to go over and over things like I did back then. I still need to do that, so who do I lean on, who do I turn to when people are living their lives and I am on my merry-go-round of despair and can’t get off? I turn to those who I know will always be there, with a bucket load of time. Whether it be when I have a complete meltdown in the dairy aisle of the supermarket and the crisis team need to come and rescue me or whether it be the day before my scheduled one to one appointment and I need them now. I know I can rely on them to change my appointment.

I have full capacity. I am not mentally ill. I have a problem that they cannot fix. They cannot bring William back. I could be hospitalised because of my suicidal ideation, but knowing they could not fix me, and they would only be removing me from everything that is William would increase the intensity of those feelings. So, what do they do? One thing they haven’t done is give up. But, one thing they have done is respect me and respect my decision. I am a vulnerable, high risk adult. What does that mean?

Vulnerable Adult – A vulnerable adult is described as a person aged 18 years or over, who is in receipt of or may be in need of community care services by reason of mental or other disability, age or illness and who is or may be unable to take care of him or herself, or unable to protect him or herself against significant harm or exploitation.

High Risk Adult – Current or recent moderate / high risk of intentional self harm

So that is what I am. Am I embarrassed or ashamed to be in this category of society? No. You see just like any other debilitating illness, mental health problems are real. They don’t go away when you take medication. You can’t ‘just get over it’. You can’t make yourself want to live. You can’t make yourself eat or sleep if your body is telling you not to. You can’t stop tortuous memories of finding your son passed away in his cot. You can’t stop hearing the call handler’s voice as she talked you through CPR. You can’t ever stop the image of your child in his coffin just pop into your head. You can’t stop that fear of knowing that tomorrow will be just as bad, after all William won’t be here then either. With these flashbacks and thoughts come physical side effects. Chronic insomnia, days with no sleep, after two, three or four days you start zoning out. In a complete daze, losing hours at a time. Sometimes you imagine things to move, sometimes you think you hear something, but you are alone. It is terrifying. Sometimes the anxiety is so bad, regardless of how much medication or exercise you do, you cannot write, because the tremors control you. Sometimes I cannot stand colour, movement, noise. Why? Because I simply cannot process it. The scores of pock marks on my skin, when in an effort to control my anxiety I pick my skin. Or bite my nails. Or pull a few hairs out. Sometimes I don’t want to talk, or involve myself in the conversation. Why? Because sometimes it is such a huge struggle to even be in another person’s company, when all you want to do is be swallowed up by the gaping pit of grief.

Mental health is not a choice. It does not discriminate. No matter your colour, your religion, or where you were born. If it wants you, it will take you.

Everyone in their life at some point will have suffered a bout of depression, most people have seen or gone through trauma like a car crash, a marriage breakdown, or the loss of a parent. But life after losing a child, is an indescribable journey of survival. A life sentence.

People move on. But I am stuck, sometimes the quicksand is deeper and the struggle to fight to get out is just that, a fight. On these days, I know that if I call the mental health team, they will come with their scaffolding, they will build it up around me as high as I need it to go. They don’t just build it and leave. They wait. They listen with compassion. They cry when I cry. They don’t try to fix me, knowing that I can’t be fixed, they guide, advise, and aid. And most importantly they do not judge, they understand. They understand that mental health is not a taboo. It is very real.

I saw one particular psychiatrist for months. We had intensive EMDR sessions, followed by psychotherapy. As a doctor he wanted to fix me, make me better, but he knew, he understood, all he could do was help to make the path I am on a little easier, so maybe when I get to the end, it wouldn’t be the end.

Not many of you know but at the end of January I spent time in a secure psychiatric unit, why? Because I had tried to take my life earlier that week, I was found in time. Had I not been found, I would not be here. Several days later I knew what that feeling felt like. The desperation to be with William, it is not a means of escape, it is not me trying to escape the pain. It is about wanting to be with my son. To sit there and actively know that what you are about to do is end your life is an extremely courageous and brave step to take. Knowing there is no returning. No going back. To be at a point, where for whatever conflict is taking place in your head, people need to exit their life, is not a cowardly way out. For some it is the only way out of a lifetime of enduring pain. For some it is a means of escape, who are we to judge, that whatever is happening in their head is tolerable or not? Because I for one moment ask you to put yourself in my shoes. If you lost one of your children, what would be your oblivion?

When I was in that psychiatric unit it was very apparent that I am not mentally ill. I have heard of schizophrenia, and psychotic disorders, split personality disorders, bipolar as I am sure most of you have, you might know someone with one of these mental health conditions. But wow, those people do not need shunning, do not need bullying, those who are very poorly require the most intensive round the clock care that can only be given in a secure unit. I sat with one man. I won’t tell you his real name, but I’ll call him John. John was 35, that is what he said anyway. He shook my hand and said hi, my name is John. I politely replied, that my name was Melissa. Within 15 minutes we had repeated that very small conversation over 30 times. Did I mind? No. John told me about his job in a shop. Told me about what clothes he sold, he told me about the people he worked with, he told me where the shop was. John had been in that unit for 5 months. John didn’t have a job. John didn’t work with anyone. I don’t even know if he was 35 and his name was John. But it didn’t matter, because for those 15 minutes he was happy. Is it his fault that he has been afflicted with a terrible mental health illness? Does he deserve it? Did he ask for it? The answer to all those questions is no. But John didn’t get a choice. Schizophrenia and psychosis picked him. I was there purely for my own safety. John was there because that is where he was living.

So I ask you, when you see me walking down the middle of the high street, my eyes bloodshot from the lack of sleep, my hair not brushed because when I left the house I was too busy kissing my son’s casket goodbye to remember to brush my hair, that I am on my way to have more scaffolding put up to help me continue the fight. Without that scaffolding I wouldn’t be here. Without the mental health team I would not be here. I can’t help the way that I feel. I can’t just change the way I feel, it’s very real and all-consuming. Knowing I can make that choice tomorrow prevents me from doing it today. It has worked so far. I have a safety net. Suicide is my safety net. I don’t need judging, I don’t need fixing, I need scaffolding. If you want to judge or fix then please don’t. If you want to scaffold, build away. I do not see it as ending my life, I see it as going to continue it somewhere else with my son, for eternity.

Www.justgiving.com/Williamoscarmead