There's something wrong in the state of Denmark… and I think I may be it.

Month: March, 2014

One day, baby, we’ll be old…

Oh baby, we’ll be old and think about the stories that we could’ve told.

I have the words of this song stuck in my head. Was hoping to hear it via our iPod playlist during a get together we had yesterday but it didn’t play.

The song, along with a disgusting concoction of other things, reminds me of the unfairness of life really. Everybody should be given the opportunity to be old. Some of us cock it up. We smoke too much or drink until our livers fail and that’s our own fault. But to be fair, we should all live long enough to become burdens on our kids and, to be really fair, all children should be given the opportunity to cock it up for themselves and they shouldn’t be denied this basic right.

People die. And the older you are when you do, the fairer life has been to you.

One of the conversations that happen around the grieving on a regular basis is the “At least he…” conversation. Oh, you at least had four months – my friend’s baby was born sleeping. Or, at least you got to know your child. It’s all bullshit and people from who these thoughtless words drip like honey should count their lucky stars they aren’t smacked more.

You fall in love with someone, it doesn’t matter how long they were here, when they die, you hurt.

However, (and here’s where I risk getting smacked myself) when it’s a baby, it is different. I’ve decided. When it’s a baby, it hurts, but it’s also not right and you can never find the “rightness” in it. It’s just not right, in any way. There’s no reasoning the death of a child. There’s no “he had a good innings”. There’s no “he lived a good life”. There’s no “he died doing what he loved”.

A baby dies and with it dies potential and anticipation and expectation and dreams. With it, dies a life story – a story that could’ve been anything and everything. You only have your imagination. There wasn’t enough time for anything real to happen.

If I died today, people might be pissed or upset but they’ll acknowledge that I lived, that I laughed, that I did stuff and made something happen once, that I had opinions and fights and moments of insanity and that some might think to themselves that going at thirty odd years was better than going at twenty like that girl they knew from school who drove into a wall on her 21st birthday – or whatever.

But babies shouldn’t die. Babies shouldn’t be born with broken hearts and they shouldn’t get cancer or be born with AIDS.

Babies shouldn’t die.


Forgiveness… meh

During therapy this morning I had a light-bulb moment.

I’ve been carrying a lot of guilt for a long time. Guilt around the fact that I didn’t live a great life when he was already starting to grow inside me. Guilt that he was born with a broken heart and I was responsible for building him. Guilt that he wasn’t well in his last week and I didn’t force myself to take him to the hospital. Guilt that he died on my watch, in my room, and nothing I did changed that. Then there’s the guilt that I didn’t cry for the first several hours after he died. Guilt that I haven’t done right by his memory. Guilt that he’s dead and I’m not. Guilt that I’m even thinking of having his brother or sister at some point in the future. Guilt that I’m not in a puddle on the floor. Guilt that I’m not floating around the bottom of a bottle. Guilt that I get up every day, look at his cot and his dummy and his hat, and I don’t fall to pieces like I used to. Ah… guilt. My new best friend.

I just typed in a mail to my meis that this thing is like a tumour that’s growing bigger and bigger on the side of my body and I can’t cut it out cos if I do I’ll die.

I’ve addressed some of this guilt. I’ve spoken to medical professionals and geneticists and other moms, etc. The “on paper” is my lifestyle did not cause this thing. And the building of the body is generally up to the baby so I really did all I could during pregnancy. After that, I’m on my own. As another therapist we saw soon after Hudson died said: You didn’t wake up one morning and decide today was the day you were going to kill your son, right? And, of course, she was right. But I didn’t do everything in my power to keep him alive either. There was always, no matter who I speak to, something more I could have and should have done. Too late now.

There are a lot of too late nows…

People say you should learn to forgive yourself. And we were talking about this this morning and I eventually talked myself around to “why?”. Why should I forgive myself? Surely, this isn’t something I should be able to say “Right, self, your son is dead. You could have done something to stop it and didn’t. You’re forgiven, self. Now back on the horse and let’s go” about. Surely, this is something I should remember and remember and remember so it never, EVER happens again? Surely?

There are some parts of grief you learn to live around. But the biggies should stay. They should be that invisible third nostril or that lump on the back of your neck that keeps you forever awake and alert so you don’t do that again.

I think the people who say you should forgive yourself are arseclowns who don’t understand what they’re talking about. I also think people forgive too easily. It’s too easy. Someone says “learn to forgive yourself” and they do and it’s all that simple. Nee jong…

In almost two months time, it’ll be the anniversary of my son’s death. What… the fuck… am I supposed to do with all of this.