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.
Leaving Portugal yesterday was difficult. Not that it was an easy time away but we were in a bubble, it was just the four of us, and we didn’t have to speak to or see anyone else. It was a form of escapism even though we were still trapped in grief.
The plane journey on the way home was particularly difficult. Hearing a baby crying incessantly only served to remind us of our desperate longing for Eddie. I think the air hostess genuinely thought we were just upset to be coming home after our holiday when she asked us if there was anything she could do to help! Little did she know.
It’s good to be home as we have work to do. This morning I met with a friend who has kindly offered to help us with Teddys Wish. The charity is still in its early stages but has given me something positive to focus on. Those moments help me feel like I am doing something for Eddie; I can still be his mummy even though he’s not here.
This afternoon I met a friend who has gone through the same tragic loss as we have but under different circumstances. I don’t know if it’s fate, luck or coincidence that she lives only a few doors down from us but I’m grateful to have her in my life. Not only has she gone on to have 2 more children but she understands exactly what I’m going through. It shows me that she has survived, and with that survival, has found happiness again. I always leave feeling inspired. And even though it may not last long, it’s a moment of light.
I said to Chris today “I feel like we are existing but not living” Everything I lived for seems so insignificant now.
Life is just about getting through the minutes, the hours and getting through the days. Mornings are the worst. I wake up and for a split millisecond I feel ok before that sinking feeling returns with an almighty thump. You know that feeling when you wake up from a terrible nightmare? That feeling of relief that it was just a dream? Well, my nightmare is real. I am living my nightmare every. single. day.
Chris and I are in the process of setting up a charity called ‘Teddy’s Wish’. We are going to raise funds to help support other grieving families and further research into SIDS, neonatal death and stillbirth. Teddy’s Wish is giving me a reason to get through the day when I question how I’m going to get through it. It’s giving me something to do for Eddie. It’s keeping his memory alive.
My dad said I need to try and hold on to moments of light. Each time I experience even a flicker of light, I should write these down and hopefully, in time, those moments of light will get brighter. Teddy’s Wish and writing this blog are moments of light.
I’ve decided to play tennis again – another moment of light. I think it will be good for me. I used to play every weekend before I fell pregnant and it was part of my identity. Tennis is the only thing I can do at the moment that doesn’t have any association with me being a mum. Except of course when I try and squeeze in to my old tennis gear. But, I still think it will be good for me.
Chris and I went to buy a new tennis racquet this morning. He told me how excited he used to get when he was a young boy buying a new sports kit. He then broke down saying he would never be able to buy Eddie his first cricket bat. That’s not the only thing we’ll never get a chance to do. We’ll never buy his first rugby ball nor his first tennis racquet. We’ll never hear him say his first words and never see him take his first step. I’ll never hear him call me mummy…
But he will always be my son.
A friend of mine sent these words to me today that aptly describes the pain I am feeling.
“This on the other hand is like a hand reaching into your chest and ignominiously ripping out your heart…and anything else that gets in the way. The wound is violent, and open and ragged. How can it ever heal? How can we even try to explain it?”
Walking in Queens Park with the sun shining reminds me how much I was looking forward to Spring time with Eddie. How lonely it feels to be walking without him.
Every time I walk past a mum with a buggy I think do you know that I’m a mum too even though you can’t see my baby? Do you know how lucky you are? Do you know that I have the same buggy as you but I can’t use it anymore? Do you know I know every buggy I see? I’ve researched them all. As I sat on a bench and mums passed me by with their babies I felt like I was playing some sort of guess the buggy game: i candy, bugaboo, maclaren, mamas and papas, etc…etc…
Chris went to Hampshire to visit his mum in hospital and I had far too many hours to myself on my own. It’s hard to get the balance right between doing things, to somehow distract myself away from the pain, and grieving. I can’t believe it’s a month today that we lost Eddie. Time has stood still yet kept moving and Chris says we are living in some sort of parallel world to everyone else at the moment.
Today was a particularly bad day.