Tag Archives: heart

return

I have taken a bit of a break from writing over the past few weeks. It was needed. I found myself in a negative spiral of self-pity and I didn’t want to use this platform to put those feelings in print. I needed some time to grieve privately whilst still relying on the support of close friends and family.

That’s not to say everything is ok now. This journey of grief is long, unpredictable, and quite frankly, exhausting. We have some testing months ahead of us with Christmas, Eddie’s birthday and his anniversary all fast approaching. We are terrified of facing these firsts without him.

Tragically, we have no choice.

Despite this, there is no doubt we are learning more coping mechanisms, to make our lives more manageable. We can wear our masks of normalcy with much more ease these days. Only those closest to us know that on the inside, we are desperately sad and our hearts are still broken.

The coping mechanisms we have learnt are like shields for our armoury. They protect us. But sometimes grief is powerful and knocks us down most unexpectedly. And when we fall down, our hope comes tumbling down with us. So we pick ourselves up. Because if we don’t have hope, what do we have?

In stark contrast to our grief, last week was quite a big achievement for our charity, Teddy’s Wish. We launched the website with the help and support of some truly amazing people. We also announced 3 fundraising projects we have been able to fund, which would not have been possible if it weren’t for the incredible generosity of others.

We hope these funds will go some way to help try and answer those recurring questions of how and why tragedies like ours can occur. We have to find answers so in time, there will be no more grieving parents.The charity has been set up because of Eddie but it is also for Eddie. We want to keep his memory alive. And more than that, we hope we will always make him proud of his mummy and daddy.

(our website can be seen here: http://www.teddyswish.org)


The mask

There is an expectation by others that grief has some form of an expiry date. We should be moving on, getting on and embracing life. But how do you learn to enjoy life again without the most important person in it?

I have 2 masks. My mask of normalcy and the mask beneath the mask. My mask of normalcy can get up in the morning and function. We moved house 6 weeks after Eddie was born and there are rooms that are still unfinished, that were meant to stay unfinished as we were too busy juggling life with a new baby. Since we now have so much time on our hands, we have embarked on a new house project. Our weekends which were meant to be reserved for family outings have now been replaced with outings to furniture and kitchen stores.

My mask of normalcy allows me to speak to builders, research paints and colours and such. I can now hold normal conversations with people I know, and strangers, without immediately bursting into floods of tears. There are times that I can smile and even laugh. And in those moments, I catch glimpses of my old self.

But even though I have the ability to function, it does not lessen my grief and my sadness. It does not mean that I am enjoying life. It means I am functioning, coping and existing. There is a mask beneath the mask that is the new me. The person who questions whether they will ever experience happiness again and who desperately wants her old life back. A life which was full of hope and optimism. A life where I held my baby boy in my arms and not just in my heart.


In memory

It’s 10 weeks today since we lost Eddie. We’re soon going to be grieving longer than when Eddie was alive and that’s a scary thought. I hate the fact that time moves forward even though it has stood still for us. And I hate the fact that every day and week that goes past, takes me further away from my baby boy. I have said this before, I still want to do things for Eddie, to feel like I can still be a mummy to him.

So I finally got round to writing to Glenda Jackson, MP for Camden today to complain about the way Eddie’s case was handled by the coroners office. Through Eddie’s loss, I hope we can help to make some positive change so other parents won’t have to go through the same ordeal that we have.

In better news, we have planted a tree for Eddie. It’s a Royal Star Magnolia kindly bought for us from my wonderful mother-in-law and it’s perfect. It will bloom around late March- April with showy, star shaped, fragrant white flowers symbolising Eddie’s purity.  It will flourish and grow stronger each year and whilst Eddie is physically no longer with us, the life of the tree will keep his memory alive…

It will be his everlasting legacy.


My new normal

My new normal is sleeping through the night uninterrupted by feeds and cries

My new normal is not bothering to wear mascara anymore so my tears don’t smudge my eyes

My new normal is not filling up the diary with social arrangements months in advance

My new normal has no control over luck, fate and chance

My new normal is filled with uncertainty and dread

My new normal is the time of day I most look forward to is going back to bed

My new normal is not feeling connected with friends, however hard they try

My new normal is connecting with other bereaved parents as they understand why

My new normal is being out but feeling like I have left something behind

My new normal is without Eddie, but he will always be in my heart and my mind


Letters

I have always thought there is something quite special about receiving hand written letters. Along with Eddie’s memories, we will always be grateful for the words of support given to us from family and friends. In a digital world of emails and texts, letters have permanence. And we will always cherish them.

A friend of ours wrote a letter which I have re-read time and time again. So I wanted to share a quote which has provided a source of comfort in our darkest hour.

“I’ve always thought of grief as love not knowing where to put itself, and that the process of it is locating their memories, those connections, those depths of your soul in which that love can sit most comfortably. As you must be feeling, Edward’s light has not been turned out, nor will it ever be. It glows within you and all those who loved him. Of course it now glows with some pain but in time, and with your will, it will be a glow of strength, of unity, of courage, even of joy”

 

 

 


Plans

Life wasn’t meant to be like this. We had everything perfectly planned from the moment we found out I was pregnant. We planned the house move, the family car, the car seat, the buggy, the nursery, the family holiday, and so on and so on. In fact, even before I was pregnant I was constantly making plans.

But life hasn’t worked out as we had planned. Life is terribly unfair.

We are now embarking on a new life, a new life without our darling baby boy. I’m not sure what this new life looks like but I’m certainly not making any grand plans. One thing’s for sure, I’m not the same person anymore. I’m sceptical of life, untrusting of what it may bring.  I’m utterly heart broken. And I want my baby back.

But Eddie isn’t coming back. However hard I cry, however hard I pray, I have to accept that Eddie isn’t coming back in this life time. I have to accept that I will never know why his life was cut so short even if we are given a medical answer.

From the bottom of my heart, I want to believe that Eddie’s still with me; his soul is with me even if I can’t see him in the physical sense. I want to believe that he’s in heaven, that someone is looking after him, maybe he’s looking after me. And more importantly, I want to believe that one day, we’ll be together again.


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