Have you ever had one of those moments when you stand still and think, “This is not how I hoped life would turn out”? If the answer is yes then you might be interested to hear that I have always considered myself to be like the ‘wobbly man’ from the children’s classic Noddy books, forever being knocked down but just springing back up again, because that is what we do.
Today, I made chocolate nests with my son Jesse. We had carefully bought the ingredients, gone to three shops to get mini eggs (who doesn’t stock enough mini eggs at Easter?) and found a beautiful picture of what our nests were going to look like on Pinterest. Well, I don’t know if you have ever attempted to make the easiest recipe in the world, but our finished article was a gloopy bowl of overcooked chocolate, separated butter and what looked liked an oil slick of syrup floating unappetisingly on the top.
This would have bothered me in the past but now; having experienced true tragedy in life, I can at least shrug this miniscule mishap off as inconsequential, right? WRONG! Trying to deal with the smallest of chores or set backs when you are grieving the loss of your child takes immense effort.
It was a year ago today that Skye and I were leaving our two month stint from the isolation ward in hospital, with a potentially cancer free scan! It was the first time in months I felt I could breath again and my beautiful boy was back home for Easter. This Easter, he is dead and he will be for all the following Easters, forever. I honestly don’t know what matters and what doesn’t any more. Some days I take on the top medics and politicians just seeking the truth and to fight for a better future for children diagnosed with the no.1 cancer killer in children – brain tumours. Other days I just stare into space wondering what on earth we are here for. Most of the time however, I simply feel guilt, for somehow not protecting my first born child from the horrors of cancer, for not being as attentive as I should be to Jesse while focusing on the Charity, not being able to engage with my lovely friends and family but above all, guilt for still being here while Skye is not. I want to swap places with him every day; he should be here, not me.
I am trying, I am, but every day holds emptiness. Jesse and I had fun together making our nests, but in his words “Skye would have liked to do this with us mummy but he can’t now.”
This wobbly man is down for good but will try hard to conceal it better in the future for the sake of those she loves.
p.s. Please don’t wish anyone grieving a “Happy Easter”, a simple “Thinking of you” will do just fine. X