whatiwastryingtosaywas

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

Tag: memorial

So… tomorrow it’s been a year

What does that even mean?

It’s been 365 days since I was able to hold my baby? What the fuck do I do with that? It’s a mind fuck, no two ways about it. This week has been hard. This month has been impossible. Having to sit at my table, looking with bewilderment at people who have no frikken concept about what’s important in life, or what’s hard about it either. My baby is dead and sadly it’s easy to get martyrish about it. It’s hateful of me but I judge people heavily right now. Really? Your dog died and you’ve equated this with the end of the world? Judgement. Oh, what’s that? He’s teething and you didn’t sleep well? Poor dear. Then again, that also means he’s alive! Fucksakes…

What would they do with this? Would life change? Would they gain perspective? Would they become better people or worse? I’m not sure if this is a phase that will pass but it’s where I’m at.

I also don’t know what the answers are for them. I only know for me. And this is where it is…

Everything changes and then nothing changes at all. I haven’t come to terms with any of this yet. I know on an intelligent level that my son is gone. Those moments where I get a fright on my way to work thinking I’ve left him alone at home barely happen anymore. He’s gone, yes. But it’s not like an ex or a lost friend, where you forget them or stop thinking about them. He’s always there, in my brain, floating around, distracting me at times from the goings on of life. There but not there ever again at the same time.

The world moves on quickly. Too quickly for any parent who’s lost a child. Never slowly enough. But I’ve realised I can’t expect everyone to have the same priorities as I’ve got. We’re memorialising Hudson tomorrow at his tree – the people I most wanted to be there; the people who had the honour of meeting him, who have actual memories to share, some of them aren’t going to be there. It hurts, of course it hurts – you take the lessons you want to take from the choices people make. But I’ve made peace with the fact that facing this day without them is life.

People don’t get it. It’s martyrdom again but they don’t. Only other grieving parents understand. A friend of mine at work lost her dad a few years back – they were close beyond understanding – and even she admits that she could not fathom the loss involved with the death of a child and would never compare the two. Parents. Cats. Dogs. Grandparents. Your grief is your grief – and you’re entitled to it – but until you’ve lost a child you won’t get my grief and no two griefs should ever be compared. Because this is complete and total loss. Loss of your flesh and blood. Something you created from the most minute cell. Someone that grew inside of you, was part of you, owns a piece of your soul for all eternity is no longer breathing, is no longer even a cold, lifeless body, is just gone. That’s loss that I still cannot understand truly myself and I’m living deep inside of it.

I still cannot bring myself to watch his videos. I don’t know why. Grief is not supposed to make sense I suppose.

I’m harder and softer than I was before. I’m harder on people; less forgiving, less caring, less empathetic. And I’m softer on things. We have bees in our offices. They’re dying all over the place and people are killing them too. Every time I see one dying slowly, I take it outside, lay it on some greenery and, yes, say a prayer that it goes safely wherever it’s going from here. Today, someone slammed a book down on one and there was little time for prayer and therein lies the hardness on people.

Not as much is important anymore. Before, work was important, my career was important. I was ambitious. Now… I’m just lonely. I want a family and my family has been ripped to pieces with the loss of our baba. I can tell who has children (most of the time) cos it’s the people who have perspective in all things. They know what important is. They know home time is home time and I won’t be asked to join conference calls at six pm by these people. I love these people. I want to be these people. That is what is important to me now. And I have none of it.

My arms are empty. My heart is beaten. My life is without a real purpose. And yet, I get up. Everyday I get up. I don’t know why.

The one thing I would ask everyone in my life today – friends, not so friends, others, family – don’t ask me to be over this. Don’t expect it. Don’t ever say the words “well, we all have to move on sometime”. You’re somewhere different to me. You’ve said goodbye or made peace or found your way out. I may be getting up every day but don’t ask me to ever do that. I will never forget my son. He will always be more important than everything and everyone – even in death. I will always remember him – silently and aloud and you can be a part of the new who-I-am or you can not.

Believe me, I know loss and you choosing to leave me because I’m boring right now won’t count as it.

Most important lesson this year… don’t take your children for granted. Make them important. Make them the only thing. Because you can lose everything else and stay the same with strength of character or fortitude – but you are never the same after losing your child.

I can see the thestrals…

I dreamt about you again last night. It was only the second dream I’ve had about you since you died – a fact that I find both unfair and a relief at the same time. In this dream, I was performing CPR again. I could feel your heart in your chest cavity as I pressed down on your chest plate the way I was taught. It was hard. Siezed up. A hard little ball of an organ and I felt like it was impossible to make it beat. I could see your chest lift, the way it did when I was trying to save you last year. I could hear the gurgle of the milk as it made its way from your stomach up your throat from all the compressing. I could see your eyes roll back, the way they did back then when we lifted your arms above your head to try and get you to take a breath.

Only in this dream. It worked. You choked a bit and then started breathing again. You looked at me, like into me, and breathed for a while and that was all. I woke up. You were still gone.

I don’t know what this means. What your message was. I just know you were still gone when I woke up.

This grief thing is a nightmare. I hate it. I hate crying all the time. I hate putting all of this onto your father because I am not built to share with all and sundry. I can’t even put this onto your gran anymore.

Mother’s Day is looming. I’m not doing anything. I don’t care about anyone else. I’m sick of the adverts. I’m not doing anything except probably feeling sorry for myself and bitter about all the people who are moms on the day.

And then soon thereafter will be the 17th. I don’t know what I’m going to do on this day. I know a few of the people who met you and some who didn’t are going to be there for us and we’re going to do something special for you but it’s not something I’m looking forward to at all. In fact, since last week or the week before, I’ve started reverting to who I was almost a year ago. A teary mess who feels teary and depressed every other minute.

But the dream made me do some reading this morning and I found this article, which tells how loved ones visit the people they left behind. If this story is true, you are visiting me more than I know. The dreams might be harder for you to break into. I sleep so heavily. But you’ve left feathers for your grandmother, I’ve had visits from our next door neighbour’s cat at very opportune times, butterflies always stop by me when we visit your tree, even birds have taken time to stop and fly in front of me when I think of you on our porch and this story explains the ringing in my ears that has become a frequent visitor of late.

You’re also there in songs. Music was always our thing. And we used to dance to 80s tracks and listen to music most of the days you were home and healthy and your dad and I always cooked with you in your bouncer on the counter playing music and dancing silly to keep you amused.

But the song that played most in my mind for you has been since your death and was “Pompeii” by Bastille. I always felt like the words explained you and my life after you died. The walls tumbling down in the city that we loved being your heart giving up and the grey cloud rolling over the hills bringing darkness from above representing the dark, grey world I live in now. It played on Saturday as I left your plot at the memorial site where we have buried your ashes under a lemon tree. I knew it was you because the next song was “Glory of Love” which I related to our fight against CHD in your name and then “Never Ending Story” which is the song I will always relate to your Uncle Kyle.

I knew it was you. And you were trying to bring me peace. To let me know you were there.

I want you to know I’m so grateful for these visits. You must know how urgently I need to feel you or know that you’re okay. You must know it.

And I’m grateful for the dream. I didn’t want to leave it. If I could choose to be comatose, living in a dream with you forever, I’d take it.

I miss you so much. There aren’t enough words to express this authentically. I have never missed anything this much. It’s desperate. And trying. And volatile. And it’s killing my soul.

New year… same old tears

It’s our birthdays next week.

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While mine represents the passing of another year and a brand new number that represents my age and yours represents the what-should-have-been that I once looked so forward to celebrating, and, while you are forever stuck at between zero and four months and four days in our photos and memories, it is nonetheless our birthday week and it will always be that to me – for as long as I live.

I decided in December that my present to both of us would be turning the storage area your nursery has turned into into a quiet room. The room that we had no time to design with the insanity that was your life span had become a place to keep everything and it was not and still is not honouring you. But I want a safe place where I, and anyone who wants to can go to be quiet with you – to feel your spirit, to speak to you, to cry for you, to miss you – in peace.

But if I thought living through Christmas was impossible, I was wrong. This is impossible.

Much like living without you is impossible and yet we do.

Much like coming to terms with the fact that you’re gone is impossible and yet we try.

Much like giving up on our future with you is impossible and yet we have no choice.

The problem is the tomorrows that are living in that room – the clothes that would be fitting you now, the toys that would by today be age appropriate, the play pen we’d be sticking you into when we just couldn’t run after you anymore. It’s all there.

Along with the yesterdays – the heart monitor that woke us when your heart stopped beating, the packets and packets of nappies and wet wipes we bought just days before you died, the clothes you were in when you left us and the clothes that no longer fit you and were waiting to be passed down to littler babies who needed them more than you. It’s all there too.

It’s going to take me longer than I thought – I stop because I can’t see through the tears or I have to look at something for a long time as I try to remember the last time you sat in it or wore it. I’m nowhere near ready to move your clothing or your blankets or even your nappie box and bumcream but what I will have ready by the time our birthdays arrive is a seat for me and a seat for you in a room that is uncluttered by prams and camper cots.

You should know, although I think you already do, that we are planting a yearling Lemon Tree in your plot at the memorial gardens on your birthday next Tuesday. We will be planting it with your ashes – which will allow us, in a way, to watch you grow. I hope you see how we came to this decision and I hope it pleases you. I would only ever have wanted to make you happy in life and still want only that in death.

I don’t think I will be able to write next week so happy birthday, my Hudson. It is already a tough week and it won’t be different then. It is still the only thing I want in life to be able to have spent it with you. I also don’t want to celebrate my own day but I will be celebrating the memory of you, the dent your presence left in my life and my heart, and you, just you. I will remember how deeply my life has been changed by both your presence and your absence and we will raise a glass and a hope for you wherever you are… and we will never, ever forget you.