Some days it is okay. Other days it is mostly okay, with a few added tears and wobbly moments. And some days it is just not okay at all.
Yesterday we received a letter from the Child Death Overview Panel, letting us know that our son’s death (condolences by the way) would be anonymously discussed and any files from Police, Education and Safeguarding Agencies would be pulled together and reviewed to see if any lessons could be learned to safe guard “children at risk”.
It was a generic letter, not a personal one. They didn’t think that far ahead, or consider our feelings. Freddie never had any of those people involved in his life. he wasn’t “at risk” not even, so far as we knew, in the moments before he was born. But it summed up, in one fell swoop, everything that is horribly true.
Freddie is a death. A statistic. A tick box. Something that happened that might mean a target was missed. My child, wrapped up in one fell swoop into the realms of accidents, neglect, cruelty and murder.
And I have no control. He was never properly mine, never properly ours. Everyone else had control of him and not us. I can’t even stop him being discussed and dismissed in a panel I’m not part of. I’ve lost control of even that, the tiny, weeny bit of privacy that might be his: how he died. I can’t be sure that his death hasn’t wiped away any privacy the rest of us might choose to have.
Some days I can think of him and be sad but go on. But other days I miss him so badly that it is like my heart has been ripped out of my chest while it’s still beating. My arms ache to hold him. They just ache.