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

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

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Life after loss

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

Christmas will never be the same…

Today is a sad day, every day is a sad day, but this time three 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 William’s wrapping paper, we didn’t have an obstacle course of his 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 of William.

Two years ago 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. Three 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 trees 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 three years ago. 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 three 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

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

My worst enemy is my memory…

William would be four this year. We would be planning his transition to pre-school. Buying him his first little uniform. We would be watching him play and encourage his little brother, perhaps having a calming effect, perhaps feeding his boisterous side; we will never know. We would have to keep reminding him to be quiet, be careful not to wake your little brother. So many things that we should be doing, but we’re not.

Everyday is full of moments, where we are stuck in a time, a time where life stood still. The only way I can explain what it is like to live with losing a child is like being on a train. You can see life, almost reach out and touch it but you have to mind the step. There is something permanent between you and it. Sometimes you sit, motionless from behind a pane of glass, taking in all that is going on around you, sensitive to your surroundings, hyper-sensitive, noises, colours, movements, proving all too much. Other times you sit back and watch it whizzing by, knowing that you can’t get off, you are in transit, your world is moving, but you are stationary, perfectly stationary. I feel as though I am a ghost. I can see in, but people can’t see me.

Sometimes I’m strong enough to stand and get off at the stations. Step over the gap. Feel the rush of air in my hair. Be a part of life. I think taking part gets easier with time, I suppose more experienced with the grief. Perhaps recognising your personal cues, noticing subtle changes in your mood, your  motivation, knowing when rough times are coming, eventually you learn that your train is waiting, all you have to do is get back on it when your knees buckle. And they do buckle. Sometimes I have a bad week, and I put one in front of the other just for one solitary ‘good’ day.

Every time I sit in front of a camera and talk about William, about his death, about how much it hurts to miss him, it takes days, sometimes weeks of sitting in my carriage on that train to prepare. My eyes shut, feet firmly rooted to the floor, preparing. Preparing to relive, preparing to reignite that fear, those emotions, and go ‘there’. But it doesn’t quite compare, it doesn’t even come close to what I had to endure today.

You know when you have children and all of a sudden a switch is flicked over, it is no longer about you, but this tiny, fragile, human being you have created, and the FEAR. People try to explain the fear to you, an emotion like no other, a feeling of complete helplessness, like you are living in constant dread that something bad is going to happen to your little bundle of joy, every time the phone rings and it flashes up ‘nursery’, you fear the worst. Every time they step outside, within 3 seconds you have visualised every possible option of what could go wrong. The cars, falling debris, is there anything they could potentially trip on, eat? anything? maybe a piano might fall out of the sky and land on them? irrational, I know, but we have all been there. That feeling of not having total control over our little ones, even worse knowing they have no fear, leaping around the front room like they’re in mortal combat, but what we see is mortal danger. Now imagine all those fears being realised. That moment, when completely out of your control, their life is taken, snuffed out in one single heartbeat, not because you put them in harm’s way but because those that were supposed to relinquish the danger, increased it. Because their incompetence led to your child taking their last breath at the tender age of one. That fear is no longer a fear, but reality.

Now I know, I know what it is like to live the unimaginable, the pain that just cannot be expelled. I know what it is like to live without my child, I know what it is like to have stretch marks, but no baby to cradle in my arms. I know what it is like to go in to hospital with my baby and to walk away broken, leaving my baby behind. I know what it is like to wake every morning, knowing I will never see, hold, touch, smell, kiss or soothe my baby to sleep ever again. Ever.

Now imagine living like that and then adding another baby into the mix. All the fear that I experienced first time round with William is now tangible, it is no longer fear to me but a plausible, possible outcome. It is almost an expectation. In 52 days Arthur will be 382 days old, the age William was when he lost his life. I feel completely and fully committed to the belief that Arthur is on loan, that in 52 days he will be taken away, and it is soul-destroying. No one can convince me otherwise, no one can assure me that Arthur won’t die, no one has that power. No amount of counselling, EMDR, mindfulness, yoga, meditation, writing, talking or other form of therapy will make me feel any differently; and if Arthur reaches 383 days old I am of the belief that it is borrowed time.

Arthur is now the same size that William was, he sleeps in the same positions and like most infants is living with an insufferable cold. Par for the course when they start nursery, multiple children together is like a germ fest, but you can’t stop them living, socialising and growing up. Arthur has been suffering with a cold for nearly four weeks now. It has been worse at times and I have taken him to the doctors on several occasions. I knew that it was viral and not bacterial but I feel reassured knowing that his throat, ears and chest were clear. Towards the end of last week his little cough had become worse but during the night he became a little wheezy, and the next morning it seemed worse so we called 111. We saw a doctor and he was prescribed antibiotics. Arthur napped at lunch time but when he woke he just didn’t seem himself and he had a temperature. We called 111 and they sent a paramedic. This paramedic determined based on Arthur’s observations that an ambulance should come to take Arthur to hospital. Arthur’s temperature was 39.1c, he started to vomit and his respiratory rate was double what it should be. He was just not himself at all.

I was already panicking and experiencing flashbacks from the paramedics being in our front room. The big, bright yellow wagon parked outside, just like when William died, blocking the road; a paramedic car too. It just haunted me. The equipment, the vocabulary, the dark green uniform. I knew Arthur was not seriously unwell, I knew he was ‘safe’ to some extent, but what I wanted was for them to go and revive my other baby, who I imagined to be lying on his nursery floor, dead. it took all my might to convince myself he was not there. The mind is a dangerous and powerful entity. You may not see it on the outside but if you could just see inside you would see torment.

Every single second of being conveyed to hospital in an ambulance was agonising. Cradling my little baby, one who looks so similar to William, sat on the same trolley’s, in an ambulance that looked identical, on the same route, the same visuals, the same sounds. As I sat there cradling Arthur I closed my eyes, and I smelled his hair, the same, sweet strawberry smell as William. Knowing that Arthur was safe, I wished and prayed so hard that the tiny little poorly baby I was cradling was William, that he was alive, that what happened on the 14th December 2014 was a nightmare and I was now waking up. But it wasn’t.

I will never wake up from that nightmare, but what is certain is that everyday there are triggers; reminders that force me back there, and I don’t want to go back there, but I have no choice. You see, living the way I live isn’t a choice, it is something that I must bear, I’m fed the tools with which I must rebuild my life. It is not how I want it, nor how I planned it. It is something that changes daily and no matter how much I fight grief I cannot change it. I must embrace all the changes that each day brings. I feel safe in the knowledge that with every step I take it is one step closer to my little William.

One Step Closer…


www.justgiving.com/williamoscarmead