Were you ever even here?

People who follow this blog will know I have a quiet room that I created out of your nursery where I was supposed to go to be quiet with you or think about you or just be quiet, depending on where I’ve been in this journey. In it are various items that help trigger memories – good and bad – from the clothing you were wearing when you died, to you hairbrush and the last of your bum cream. I’d forgotten how powerful this room is… again.

I walked into the room for the first time in a while yesterday. I was grumpy with your dad and I wanted to read and maybe nap before everyone arrived for lunch.

But I felt such a shock of sadness run through me as I realised I’d pushed you so far into the back of my mind that it was almost as though you’d never existed at all.

Reading this, you’ll either understand this kind of mind fuck or you won’t.

It’s the same mind fuck you fall into when you become convinced that you killed your baby. That something you did made him decide to go away. That regardless as to how little you think of The Secret, perhaps it is a real thing and you worrying that your baby was going to die made it happen. That you really, when it comes down to it, didn’t do everything you could to keep him alive. Maybe we fought too much and he just didn’t want to grow up in this family. Maybe we introduced him to people too soon. Maybe I didn’t take the fact that he was really, REALLY fucking sick seriously enough. Maybe I should have asked more questions about his heart instead of just believing the doctors when they said everything was going to be okay. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Nothing for it now… these mind fuck moments are going to come – as much as I accept this, I must accept that shock will come with it. I’m going to forget and remember my son frequently. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism…

But we have some light today, in that more often now, when we do talk about Hudson, we can actually remember bits that make us laugh. We were talking the other day… I had a chest thing and was coughing weirdly. Out of nowhere – a cough. And Nick was kidding that I was putting it on. I reminded him that the master of the put on was our son and we laughed as we remembered his favourite nurse…

This nurse at Sandton (this was during the bacterial pneumonia stay, not the heart op) used to poke fun at him when he did his “I’m not happy about this, I should be crying but I’m not unhappy enough to make the tears” cry; it was like a loud “Ach!” noise – he always did this cry with her because he knew who she was and she wasn’t one for cooing. Looking back, I think she was trying to cheer us up. He may have been unimpressed but she wasn’t going to let that bring us down after days filled with vomit, fevers and heart monitor beeps – he was up, he was chatty, he was not puking or feverish. He was on the mend and she needed to remind us of this instead of let us get carried away with every squeak.

Every time I go to Sandton, which is quite often as most of our doctors are there, I want to stop by the paed ward and tell her he’s gone… but I can never build up the courage – I’m not sure I would survive seeing her face fall.

I may never go downstairs and talk to her but I will keep blogging because it’ll make sure that if I ever totally forget there is something here to remind me.