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

Tag: anger

Of platitudes and other people’s babies…

I realised something this weekend. I don’t have a problem with kids in general. Nick has issues. Seeing other people’s kids hurts him. Me? Not so much. Much as before Hudson, most kids are nameless, faceless little rugrats. Glazed donuts who rarely consult me and who are rarely consulted in return.

That is, until said babies belong to the ladies I was pregnant with.

It’s happened a few times. We’ve been invited to birthday parties or get togethers and haven’t even thought to ask who’d be there. I’ll be put slap bang in front of one or all of the moms I was pregnant with, or rather their babies, and I’ll be reminded, quite starkly, as to where Hudson would have been had he not died. Then, for two days after, I just cannot hold it together. The next day, history has proven, I will crash and the day that follows will be touch and go.

At first, I did not put two and two together – grief doesn’t make for smart – but I realised it this weekend. And while I hold no grudges towards these moms or their adorable kids, I will no longer be attending these get togethers – especially on days where I’m just not strong enough to handle it. I’m going to become one of those rude people who ask “Who’s going to be there?” when they’re invited and declines if something that results in sore is going to happen.

How sucky is that?

How little do I care?

And now… on to the platitudes section of today’s blog.

I should warn everyone that I’m pretty angry. I’m going through a pissed off phase. I’m pissed off with people who talk without thinking. I’m pissed off with people who use their trauma to get out of doing stuff and living life. I’m pissed off with people who have no individual thought and suddenly remember to send messages of their own when I send message to Hudson. I’m pissed off with two of what used to be my best friends who fucking disappeared almost six months ago (and no, a Facebook mail that says nothing and acknowledges no-one sent months later is not enough – believe me, the only reason you haven’t been defriended is because I lack the courage to click the button on a friendship I used to hold very dear – I’ll get over this soon enough, fear not).

I’m pissed off with non-family from far away judging me and the way I raised and lived with my son who are now trying to be a part of my grief process even after I’ve defriended and ended all communications with all of them. Oh, and stop using my son’s Facebook page to try and talk to me. It’s not cool and it’s not going to happen.

I’m pissed off that I’m pissed off. I’m sick of biting my mother’s head off when she’s just being a human being. I’m sick of pasting a smile on my face with everyone else to negate the possibility of making them uncomfortable. I’m pissed that I’m here – that it’s been the best and worst year of my life and I can neither celebrate nor commiserate without being disloyal to my son. I’m pissed off that I know nothing about anything anymore.

But most of all I’m pissed off with the platitudes.

I’m not sure I heard them in the beginning. I now realise the words have been said to me so often that I’ve almost lost the opportunity to react. But here, my solace, my private thoughts, my therapy, those that I share with the world, here I can say what I should’ve said back then.

Everything happens for a reason – the next person to say this to me is going to get asked what the reason was that Hudson came into my life and was taken away. It’s going to be uncomfortable and I don’t care because I want to know what reason resides in your brain for this having happened. Just one. I’m going to ask for just one. So prepare yourself.

God wanted his angel back – fuck god. I want my child back. He was my god. He was my king. He was my universe. I wanted him here more than any god could ever want him wherever he is now and fuck whoever it was that decided he had to leave.

God only gives to those what they can handle – ditto and bullshit. This is the most unbearable thing I can ever imagine happening to anyone. I’m getting through it because I have no other choice and that is the only reason. I have no other choice. Yes, it’s happening to me but I’m not alone. Daily, I learn about people who are losing their kids or whose babies are being born sick or with broken little hearts. There is no god that would want any human to want to be able to “handle” this.

Anything to do with karma – I will do my nut. I was a good person. I sought homes for homeless animals, I donated to charities, I was kind to strangers, I gave money to the homeless and I did my very best to love people in a very unloveable country. And my child still died. Karma can fuck right off.

Note: Whenever I write a blog like this I spend hours or days agonising over who I may have offended, over who may take my writing personally so…

To the people who’ve acknowledge that this blows to unbelievable proportions, who acknowledge that my son was awesome, that my son existed and died and acknowledge that the pain I feel is real and will be prolonged and that to them I’m okay no matter what I’m feeling. To the people who don’t give me shit when I don’t want to do stuff or when I’m feeling like crap; and to the friends and family who have not left my side through this whole ordeal – I cannot put into words how important you are to me.

I cannot verbalise how different things could have been had you not been there; your shoulders, the ones I may not physically lean on but I lean on nonetheless, the meaningful words that you actually thought about before putting down, the mere fact that you’re okay to sit in silence when I can’t talk or need to be quiet for a while.

And to my mom, who calls when I need her most and offers platitudes of her own only because she knows her versions make sense to me, who shares her dreams and messages she says are from my boy.

All of this means the world. And I thank you.

PS: I’m less pissed off now. In case you were ever wondering why I write this blog.


The seven stages of go fuck yourself…

I’ve been wondering about the stages of grief everyone always talks about. Typically, there are seven and this is where I’m at with all of them:

Shock or Disbelief

I remember the shock. When the doctor on duty came out, a la every episode of ER ever made, to tell us they weren’t going to continue resuscitation efforts on my son, I watched as his father screamed and cried whilst alternately cradling my son in his arms and beating the walls. I sat down on the gurney next to them and watched as though this were a scene in a really sad movie. I got up and kissed my son, stroked his head and stared at his feet, noticing the blue line on his nappy, which indicated the presence of pee. Then sat down again. I signed documents and watched as they took my son’s fingerprints. Got up, kissed him again, told my mother he was cold. And sat down again. This happened a lot. Then they came in and re-positioned his body and I noticed that the bottom half of his body was a dark red colour as the blood was pooling – still no tears. I heard his father wailing, watched my mother and his sister cry uncontrollably, and asked the nurse what was wrong with me that I wasn’t crying. He looked like he was sleeping, that was the thing, I think. But I don’t know.

Shock is a bastard. Disbelief is its unkind brother.

The tears came as the undertaker finally arrived an hour or so later, put my son into a Moses basket, wrapped him in his least favourite blanket and took him away. I only cried when they tried to take him away. But I believe the shock stayed. I believe the shock stays for a long time.


I don’t know about denial. I said to a friend yesterday that, although I’ve been telling people my son has died for going into four weeks now, I still haven’t quite accepted that he’s not going to be at home when I get back from work. So I guess that might be it but I certainly can’t deny that he’s gone. I can’t hold him anymore. I have nobody to look after. These facts I can’t deny. Maybe denial doesn’t really apply to those grieving death.

Maybe it’s just something stupid women go through during break ups.


Now this, I understand. Anger flashes through me hotly and frequently, in response to the most innocuous people doing equally innocuous things (well… mostly innocuous). Someone dares stop dead in a shopping aisle to stare gormlessly at a packet of macaroni while her trolley blocks up the entire pathway… they’re faced with me yelling loudly that “yes, it’s true, I’m actually here. I actually exist. I’m not a gigantic, lifeless packet of Fatti’s and Moni’s spaghetti and I’d actually like to get past you.”

Fortunately, I tend to yell these things as I squeeze past their trolleys and continue walking on as opposed to stopping, getting my face really close to their faces and risking a “pasta fight in aisle 7” announcement.

Unfortunately, I can’t stop myself. I’m angry. I’m angry that these people are obviously not sad, have obviously not lost their babies, are so ignorantly happy in life that they truly believe they deserve to own all the space in all the world.

This seems to happen most frequently when I feel as though my presence is being ignored. When it seems people just don’t see me. Be it in traffic, in malls, wherever. This anger also flares up when people express concern about things I think are too small to worry about. I want to hit them with a sign that says exactly what’s big enough to be down about in this life.

I do wonder what that is all about and I do hope I don’t hate people for very much longer.


Who do you bargain with about something like this? It’s true; I’ve said many times that if I could go instead of him, I would. But that’s not technically bargaining is it? If I could somehow be transported to wherever Hudson is now and be invited to speak to whoever’s in charge of how things panned out, gravy, I’d go. No question. But who do grieving people bargain with? And what outcome are they hoping for? Perhaps this is a phase that is still coming. I’ll let you all know if it does.


Non-stop. All day. Every day. Every minute. Every second. Every nano second. Since the day he was born and more heavily since the day he died. This phase is never going to end. I am certain of it. It can’t with our story. I will always have had to have done more. I will always have let Hudson die. I will always have not done enough. It’s vicious. It’s unmerciful and unforgiving. It’s unbearable. Apparently, it’s something I’ll have to learn to live with.


I’m here. If I haven’t taken an Urbanol, I cry.

Acceptance and Hope

Um… I don’t know how people find acceptance but I’ve been questioning myself on hope. I cannot abide cut flowers. To me, they represent death and dying, always have. So I requested that people not send flowers or bring flowers to my son’s funeral, asking them instead to make donations in his name to a fund that we’d be using to raise awareness around CHDs.

This has now turned into a full blown thing. We have a Facebook page, called The Hudson Initiative, we’re working on a web site, we’re trying to learn how to ask people who don’t care about CHDs cos they haven’t been affected by them (yet) for money.

This could represent my version of hope, I think. I’m not sure if I got into this too soon. It’s certainly provided me with some level of distraction but, as part of the networking needed to make something like this work, I’ve had to join various groups full of parents rejoicing as their kids make it through surgery or celebrate important birthdays following surgery early on in their baby’s lives.

I’m a human being and a mother to what people in these circles call a CHD angel – how is it possible that these stories make me sad? That said, I can’t stop pushing this program, no matter how much I’d like to. Hudson’s going to make a difference, in spite of me.


To conclude, look, I don’t know why they call it stages. It all seems to happen at once and it certainly doesn’t happen in the order stipulated above but I’ve always wondered what they were and now we know. At least from my perspective.