Simon just went to work. I hadn't really thought of this moment too deeply, as I felt resigned to normality returning. This isn't normal anymore though is it? There is no ' day off' as I lie here alone with no work to get up for myself. There is no restful silence. He is not here. Wherever we go, whatever we do, he is not here. That is our new normal. I continue to stare into the corner of the room where his stuff was laid ready, I'm waiting to get used to its new state but I'm not sure I will because I fell so deeply in love with everything to do with him. I fell in love with putting his crib together and I fell in love with his cosy sleeping bag. I fell in love with the changing mat placed on the area Simon had so beautifully glossed. It was all for him because I love him. I love him so deeply at times I can't breathe.
In my head I place his image into the memory of his crib. I wrap him in his sleeping bag and kiss his nose. When he wakes up, angry and purple, I lift him on to his changing mat singing him a song. I'm careful to not get his poor little bum on the cold plastic and make him more cross and then when we're done and he smells of heavenly baby powder I sneak him into bed with me for a feed. I lie down and curl him into me, letting him graze as I close my eyes. I did this with his brother and sister, and now him - an age old tradition - I'm in love with it all.
In reality I'm in bed alone with his blanket that I never got to wrap around him. Tilda has briefly jumped into bed with me to brush my hair in terrifyingly brutal fashion. Hairdressing should never be a career choice for her! But she has disappeared again, she is independent, spirited and happy. I couldn't wait to be needed again, really physically needed. I am so grateful for Sam and Tilda. There is a real dichotomy here, when people say ' at least you have them '. I thank my lucky stars for them, but we have all lost something beyond precious. I am lucky for some of my children, Fred is one of them and he died. He doesn't cease to be my child, my loss is acute and endless. I do not feel it any less than the childless mother though the wave is eventually buffered at the edge of the sea by my other children. The wave hits them hard though. I grieve not just for Fred but on behalf of Sam and Tilda. I feel their pain. Tilda is trying to grasp her place now, she can't figure out if she is the youngest or not, she tries to understand why he died often, asking bright questions such as "why did he get poorly in your tummy - did he die in there?". I struggle with this one too, because he was dying in there, but did he actually die? He was resuscitated for a long time so had he died? What can you tell a four year old? And poor Sam, he just wants things to be normal and is beginning to realise they can't be. He is grappling with the idea of having a broken mummy, one which is slightly darker than before. I think he's angry. So I'm not sure that I can completely rejoice for them when they are suffering like no child ever should.
I've got my period today too. Nothing could be more symbolic of my loss. Not pregnant, not breast feeding. Fred should be here, either still in utero (I feel sad thinking about my alternate universe where I'm frustrated at that), or feeding at my breast but instead I'm menstruating. Life is a fucker.
So I'm trying to gather motivation to get up. Not having Simon here is a little like my spiritual leader falling down a manhole. I had strength and meaning around me and it's suddenly disappeared. I need to wrap my Dad's birthday present, I need to eat. Tilda needs to eat. Bloody hell my priorities need reordering there don't they?!
Give me strength.
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