My life has been divided into 3 parts. Life before Eddie, life with Eddie and life after Eddie.
Life before Eddie was filled with hopes, aspirations and dreams. Life with Eddie was when those hopes and dreams became a reality. Life after Eddie is a path into the dark unknown.
It’s amazing how my perspective on life and luck has altered. Life before Eddie, being unlucky meant Chris was made redundant just a few months before our wedding. Back then, we said life was not always an upward curve and it strengthened us a couple. Being unlucky was having torrential rain on our wedding day (unlucky, not ironic, Alanis Morissette). Being unlucky was having morning sickness in pregnancy, the occasional bleed and a long, induced labour. And when we were unlucky back then, boy did we moan and complain. I look at that person now and think how ungrateful I was because really, I had nothing to complain about at all. The Jen before Eddie was innocent to the darker side of life; tragedy would only ever happen to someone else. Not me, not us.
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”
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.
It’s been 5 weeks since Eddie was stolen from me. 5 weeks since he was taken and not returned. I use the word stolen as he was taken without permission. Nobody checked with me first. A baby needs his mummy. Eddie needed me and actually, I needed Eddie.
If time is meant to be a healer, then why do I feel worse today? Every day that goes by I feel further away from Eddie and all I am longing for is to be with him. To hold him in my arms. To smell him, to kiss him, to tell him how much I love him.
Grief is not a linear process. Every small step you take forward, an unexpected force pushes you back. You feel as if you are tentatively walking towards the sea, you see the waves ahead of you but for a moment you feel the calm. You are close enough to the shoreline, in the water, but still standing. Then a huge wave crashes over you, immersing you in the cold salty water, its force pushing you back to shore. Back to where you started. You clamber up through the sand. Breathless, exhausted, drenched with tears.
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?”