Life without Freds

These last few days have absolutely underlined that life without Freds is bullshit.  I feel as though a day defined as "good" is one which involves getting through the day without thinking.  So one which involves a myriad of tasks which don't allow any thought on Freddie not being here, finances, which friends still haven't called/text/messaged to see if I'm still breathing/what I might do about work/how I'm feeling etc etc.  My mind tricks me frequently.  I feel paranoid, anxious, overwhelmed with sadness, angry, and just occasionally like I can't imagine breathing for another second -  I want life to end like a reverse big bang - an immediate vacuum where everything immediately stops and is hoovered up by a higher being.   This latest downward spiral was precipitated by a random act of kindness from some people that my parents know giving us a free car.  Simon and I have car shared for years and recently had realised the arrangement no longer worked and we needed to find another car but currently lack the funds to facilitate it.   Cue the free automobile aka Reginald Trashcan.  Rather than feeling grateful for such an act of kindness (though I'm viewing this with more cynical spectacles now and I'm more inclined to see it as an act of laziness to avoid the hassle of scrappage), rather than being good humoured about it; Reginald Trashcan seems to represent everything that is awful in my life.   He magnifies my lack of money, he magnifies my loss - afterall I doubt if Freddie was here people would be so concerned about me getting out of the house.   Most of all he magnifies my uselessness.   He magnifies how much I'm pitied.   He puts the spotlight over a festering wound and seems to sprinkle a bit of salt on it.

The act of grieving for a little baby I imagine is very different from grieving someone (a child even) who has lived for a time.  I have such small memories of being with Freddie but eight months of promise and excitement.   The thought of the pregnancy turns my stomach because it reminds me of a multifaceted journey which finished with a traumatic goodbye rather than a besotted hello.  I know his face so well in my head,  but those rushes of love that one gets for ones baby have nowhere to go but into the depths of grief once more - it is a constant uphill cycle but never nearing the summit.  My little prize, my little reward is no more.   When I think of my Grandad, when I miss him - I remember his quirks, I remember the way he talked, I remember stories.  With Freddie we have to disseminate information out of a small box - there is very little for our tired brains to latch on to and feel comfort.  Even the sight of a beautiful photo can start off a week of suffering.   Walking past a perfect little baby in a pram is an excruciating exercise in composure, patience, tolerance and will.  Why did my baby not live like all babies should.

I always come back to the thought that the only hope of dulling the pain is in giving Freddie a little brother or sister.  Perhaps then my daughter won't talk about death nearly every minute of the day.  Perhaps then I can walk past a pram and smile.   Perhaps then Freddie's death will have facilitated the birth of more love.