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

Your hand prints on my heart

Painting pickle xx

Painting pickle xx

After checking the paint was non-toxic, covering the floor in a plastic mat, and covering the table in brown paper, we undressed you to your nappy and put you in a t-shirt bib. We were all set. Ready to make a mess, ready to make more memories, ready to make prints of your ever-growing hands, they were slowly losing their chubbiness, and mummy wanted to capture every change as you grew from a baby to a toddler. After 30 minutes of painting and 29 minutes of wrestling with you to stop eating the sponge dabber, we finally got a lovely clear hand print. It was time to pop you in the shower, after covering yourself in little hand prints, you had done an excellent job of turning yourself into a smurf. Mummy still has this little hand print on the fridge, a constant reminder of the fun we had in the short time we were blessed with you. Little did mummy know, your next hand print would be taken after you had died.

Your hand I remember placing on mummy’s face as I held you at the hospital, to feel your touch, and to feel your skin on mine. I can still feel your little hand on my face now, and your not so chubby fingers entwined with mine. I held your hand for so long that by the time I couldn’t hold you any more, your hands were warm. I wanted so much to make you warm, to pull you so close to me that somehow my breath would warm you up, but it wouldn’t. Instead I cuddled you tight, your head resting in my neck. Mummy’s tears making their way down her face landing on yours, some would land on your eyes and it would look like you were crying. Mummy had enough tears for the both of us.

When I was pregnant I would often think how amazing mother nature was. I would marvel at your perfect toes, perfect ears, perfect everything. I tried for so long to understand how all of your little features had grown and formed exactly as they should be, how, by eating food full of nutrients and sleeping well it would in turn look after you, keeping you healthy, my body nurturing you and keeping you alive. How it could even be possible that there were two hearts beating in mummy’s body. Now your little heart wasn’t beating any more, and as I laid there, with your hand on my face and my tears falling down your cheeks, it felt like mine had stopped too.

As I lay there with you wrapped around me, I could not have felt more at peace with you in my arms. That’s where you belong, in my arms, I knew these moments were sacred. I knew these moments were limited and I knew my time holding you was running out. Nothing could prepare me for the moment that I had to place you in your coffin for the last time. It felt like I was closing the lid on my life, and the truth is, I was, you were my life and you still are now. That’s when the fear set in, knowing that I would never see you again, never kiss you again, never hear you again and never be able to hold you again. I had been the first person to hold you when you were born, I was the last person to hold you before you died, and I was the last person to hold you before the little lid was shut for the last time, the light being diminished from my life forever.

My special daddy…

Today is a day that is a day dedicated to Father’s, but daddy every day is a special day that should be dedicated to you.

I know that if I was there, I would have made you a special card, with sticky fingers and lots of mess. I would have made you ginger bread men at nursery, but the little men would have come home with no arms, because I might have eaten them on the way home. Mummy would have told me not too, but I would have done it anyway, you would have loved them without arms anyway, I just know it.

With mummy’s help I would have made you breakfast in bed, but not before having snuggles, and then I would have done some really good jumping up and down on your bed. And because you’re super lucky I would have helped you eat your toast, because that’s my favourite.

But the thing is, I’m not there. But today doesn’t feel any worse than yesterday or tomorrow, maybe slightly more poignant, because we don’t get to wake up together any day and this makes me really sad. But I don’t want you to be sad, because you’re being the best daddy that I could ever wish for. And for every day that we spend apart is one day closer to the day that we’ll be together again. But daddy, you have a really important job to do, you and mummy. I gave you a really special gift, I gave you a little baby, a little brother or sister from me, because you deserve it, you deserve to be happy, you deserve to be able to hold a little baby again and you deserve to love and be loved. Just like we did.

Daddy I really miss you, and I see how upset you are, I see mummy cry and hurt and I see how you look after her. I know how much you worry about her. I know that despite all of your own pain you make sure that she is ok and the little peanut growing inside her belly. I know there will always be something missing from our little family of four, but just know daddy that I follow you around all the time. I never leave your side. I know that your strength comes from me and as you gently put one foot in front of the other, I will hold you. I will quietly slip my little hand into yours and slowly help you forwards.

From my little white fluffy cloud I’m sending you the biggest, squeeziest of all the hugs.

I love you daddy, your little William xxxxx


www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead

Team William’s new addition 

  

    
 So, if you missed me on Good Morning Britain today you’ll have missed our special news….

William is being promoted to Big Brother.

We are so happy, overwhelmed, and also very nervous. The news is of course tinged with sadness that our little William is not here to share these special moments. BUT our little peanut will have the most amazing Big Brother and Guardian Angel. We cannot wait to tell Williams little brother or sister about their most inspirational sibling. 

Please keep us in your prayers for a healthy arrival. 

Love to you all from a family a four xxxx

Just imagine…

Why do some days hurt more than others, well after all, today is no different from yesterday, I woke up and William’s big smile still didn’t greet me. Mother’s Day hurt more than the day before it or the day after, because that day is a day that bereaved mother’s like me are full of imaginations not busy making memories. Paul gave me a mother’s day card, a beautiful photo of William and me on the front, lot’s of love from Pickle it reads. But William didn’t give it to me. William didn’t scribble inside. William didn’t make it. As I ate my breakfast in bed, William wasn’t there to help me eat it. William was simply not here, and he never will be.

After having a coffee in town we went into a shop to look at mother’s day charms for my bracelet, all of them lovely, but you know I felt odd, stood there choosing a charm ‘beloved mother’, ‘special mum’, when it should be William choosing it for me, but he’s not. The charms on my bracelet, all memories, a little pram, bought by William’s grandparents when he was born. A heart that breaks in two, to reveal ‘mother’ written on one half and ‘son’ on the other, bought for me by William and his daddy on our first joint birthday. Only 17 days later, William was gone. Shortly after, an angel wing, a little boy, and William’s foot and hand print charms adorned my bracelet. I didn’t buy a charm, I couldn’t. That should be William’s job.

As I sit here writing this, my chest hurts. It really hurts, when you think that you’ve cried all the tears you have, more continue to flow. I remember shortly after William died I was dehydrated, forgetting to drink, crying so much, despite this, the tears would still come. Stinging as they stream down my face, eventually they would dry hard to my cheeks. Too exhausted to cry anymore.

I’ve been quite quiet recently, many of you will have seen William and I on television, heard me on the radio and seen William’s little photo in the newspaper, but what you see is a face. Behind the camera, behind closed doors, I haven’t been well. I’m currently struggling to work, going out is a struggle, getting out of bed is a struggle. Living is a struggle. I feel totally empty. Motivation comes only in the form of continuing the battle to fight for William’s life not to have been in vain. Grief is real, trauma is real, this life sentence is real. You see as much as William lived, he died too, death is so real, and death is so very vivid, especially William’s.

It is not just something that happened, something which you can move on from, it is not something that you can accept and let go of. It is not a choice. My waking hours are spent tormented by William’s last hours, by William’s last moments in his home. No matter where I look, right there in the forefront of my mind is William’s broken little body, his little hand suspended in the air, despite the CPR, it didn’t move. William was truly being held tightly in death’s grip. I remember asking the paramedic why it wouldn’t move. He said very calmly, ‘shortly it will, rigor comes very quickly after a child’s dies, if at all, it will be gone soon’. He was right, by the time I had carried William downstairs I was able to hold his hand once more. You see I don’t get a choice, these ‘moments’ in time can take up days and months of my life, and they do. Paralysed in their grip, they are debilitating.

When you lose a grandparent or a parent, you are sad, people are sad for you, but you are able to talk about the happy life you shared together, the longevity of their life. The great world events they witnessed, like seeing man walk on the moon. Somehow it seems ‘ok’. They’ve had a life, they’ve had a chance, the natural order that we are used to is performing its duty. After all, we are all born to die. But we are not all born to die after 382 days. It is just so wrong, so very wrong, there is nothing that anyone can say, believe me they try, to bring you crumbs of comfort. God doesn’t pick the best. He’s not in a better place. The best place for William is with his mummy and his daddy. God didn’t take William, substandard care and science took William.

People are kind, compassionate and they mean well, and I never turn away from someone who so desperately wants to bring you comfort, but simply doesn’t know how and doesn’t have the words. Simply put, they just don’t know. And I’m glad they don’t know, I’m glad they don’t understand, sadly too many of us do. Sometimes people say, I know how you feel. No, you don’t. Unless you have lost a child, a child you knew, a child with whom you already had an unbreakable bond, a child who died because of others incompetence, no, you don’t know. It’s not comparable. It’s not comparable with the death of your grandparent, it’s not comparable with the death of your dog, or the dissolution of your marriage or a breakup. No, unless you have lost a child, you will never know.

You completely lose sight of the person you once were, the person you had become, the person your much-loved child allowed you to be. That person is not just gone from sight, that person is gone forever. As much as William’s birth defined me as a person, William’s death re-defined me once more. To be forced to live on despite no longer knowing who you are. I just don’t know who I am anymore, I don’t recognise myself. I loved the person that I became when William was born, but she died with William. What’s left is a shell, a shell that is forced to live in the shadow of the person I used to be.

What is every parents greatest fear, is my reality. People cannot imagine what it is like to lose a child, because there is nothing to compare it to. I know what it is like to realise your darkest fears. I know what it is like to go and wake my child in the morning, and for him to have fallen asleep forever. I know what it is like to give my child CPR, already knowing it won’t make any difference. I know what it is like to lay next to the body of my child, cheek to cheek, and beg for him to wake up, knowing he never will. I know what it is like to pick the last outfit my child will ever wear. I know what it is like to cuddle my child knowing that I will NEVER touch him again. I know what it is like to watch the curtains close around his tiny white coffin. I know what it is like to be told, that my child should have survived, had others done their jobs properly. I know what it is like to fold his little clothes away, never to be worn again. I know what it is like to miss my child so desperately, the closest I can get to him, is to smell his little teddy, and be lucky, LUCKY, if it still carries his little strawberry scent. I know what it’s like to want to go home, but knowing that place is with William. I know what it’s like to not belong. I know what the cutting pain feels like, knowing that despite everything I did, I couldn’t protect my child. I know what it’s like to sit and look into the eyes of the doctor that could have saved my child, but didn’t. I know what it’s like to hear his apology, knowing that he would be going home to his children, and I wouldn’t be. I know that HE will never understand the depth of destruction that he had a hand in. And I hope he never has too.

But I know. I really know.


www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead