Two months on from the shocking death of my boy, I find myself reflecting on the events over December and January with a mixture of abject horror and a good dose of pride that we managed to do some of the most unthinkable tasks and still stand at the end of the day.
As a mother I would often proclaim that I couldn’t cope if “anything” happened to my children. By “anything” of course I meant “anything bad” but I really would’ve wrapped them both up in cotton wool and walked them to school until 5th year so that I could stop “anything” from happening.
Both my children were breastfed for a year, wore real nappies (no chemicals) and ate only home-made, organic food. When they reached one year old I breathed a sigh of relief and really thought, okay we’ve made it. Of course I knew that children died. We all know.
But we don’t really, not until it’s our child lying in the hospital bed being given the last rites. Until we are hanging up one stocking instead of two the day after he dies. Until we are sitting in small office with a box of hankies picking out a handwoven casket that looks like a Moses Basket. Until we have to face the pain of waking up every morning to the heart wrenching pain of not having him here.
Though I did all of these things and more and yet I’m still here.
This blog should help me to remember this journey and hopefully honour the wonderful wee boy who lived every day as though it was a gift.