Wednesday was a really tough day. Every so often, a grief day emerges, out of nowhere except a combination of events and hormones and co-incidences and moments of unexpected thoughtlessness. And Wednesday started, as it so often does, with a dream.
I never dream about Freddie; I have barely dreamed of him at all; I can remember a leaving behind dream within days of him dying and almost nothing since. I don’t know whether my subconscious holds back, or if he is simply not there. I have no idea if he never made it deeply enough into my soul to be recorded, or if he is locked away. I wait for him, I wait for him to come and say goodbye in a dream, as my friend N did once, but he never does. Either he’s not coming, or he isn’t ready to leave, or I can’t see him.
But occasionally – and often when something unbloggable is going on in the background, a dream appears and I know it is connected but it doesn’t give me any clues, or any comfort. Wednesday morning started angry. A dream on the very edge of rising time where I was smashing everything in my house; I hurled precious things, I flung plates, I battered breakables with chairs and tore curtains down and ripped up sofas. It was a dream where all those things happened and yet I could not do enough damage; nothing registered, nothing was permanent, I couldn’t make enough noise or do enough damage. And worst of all, none of the breaking gave any comfort. I wasn’t less angry, I wasn’t sated, I wasn’t eased.
I was Still. Just. Angry. And I woke up angry. I woke up headlong into sick kids and school runs and babies who needed feeding and a husband who didn’t see the pain in my head or realise how fogged and bruised I was and thought a perfunctory squeeze would do. And instead of knowing that he couldn’t know, I was just more angry, with all of them, for being there and for not knowing that here I was- again – back on the doorstep of grief, feeling as I did in those first days. All over again.
It was a day full of hormones and people thinking we could connect over SCBU experiences (but their baby came home… how can that be something to connect with me over?) and people telling me about newborns and feeling more and more and more inadequate. When these days happen I feel such a failure of a mother to Freddie – there is no foundation in his name, no lasting tribute. Hell, there isn’t even a grave. I feel as if I shy away from his memory, have done nothing amazing to ensure he stays remembered, I worry if I mention him that people roll their eyes in their head. “It’s nearly 4 years. Move on woman, move on.”
I wonder if we all feel like that eventually?
The inadequacy of my rage in the dream spilled through the day. I’m not making a difference. I’m not out there shouting about changing things for the people who follow me, stopping this happening again; there is no memorial. I’m a coward when it comes to facing the fact that he is dead. It’s my way to be small about it, live with his loss alongside me, not rolling it before me.There was too much to do in the wreckage of his loss, too many little girls to hold together. I put all my energy into that – successfully I think – and it left nothing spare for mothering him after his death. And little spare for grieving him. I feel as if I run along, frantically, hoping I can just get as far as dying without ever really looking full in the face of the empty space which is my son.
But I wish I was different. I used to be different. I used to make noises. And I know that the nearly £5000 that has gone to his SCBU unit in his name DOES make a difference. And I know this blog makes a difference to the people who find it. I just wish it was more. I wish I had the reserves for more. Even now, I have an idea, a small, personal charity idea, kicking around in my head – but I’m afraid of doing the work and finding it makes no difference and just suffering the loss all over again. Of his death being a pointless waste of life all over again.
And then the day ended with me crumpled in a sobbing heap on the floor behind my bed; the only place where worried girl eyes might not follow me, where my grief doesn’t open up old wounds for them and leave them wondering if everything is about to fall apart again. Max put on the DIYSOS programme that was being done for Children in Need. It was a local rebuild for a woman who mothers a disabled son, home educates, makes a difference. Max was interested because the girls’ rugby club sponsors her charity. But all I saw, ALL I saw, was a superwoman who can manage what I knew I would never manage, who lives the kind of make a difference life I thought I might live – warrior woman, super mother – and all I saw was people making life bearable for their damaged and different children and a place, an amazing place, local to us, where maybe we would have found enough solace and help to get through.
And I felt like I failed him all over again. I let him go. I didn’t try. I was a coward. Not brave. Not amazing. Not someone to admire or emulate or be glad is there to change things. Just someone who gave up on her son and hid it behind it being best for him. Not brave at all.
I wish, I really wish, for peace.
I’m worried I’ll say the wrong thing, so I nearly left without saying anything. And then I thought that would be wrong too. So here I am writing nothing that would comfort or change how you feel about what happened but to just say, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you hurt. I’m sorry that you lost Feddie. I think you’re incredibly brave.
I think you’re amazing. Look at the share Niger you have organised. It sounds trite, or that I’m trying to jolly you along (and I hate that, myself) but it is true. Also, I am reminded of a Pin I saw, along the lines of “When I am having a terrible day, i remember I have 100% record of getting through terrible days, and that is a good rate”. Keep on keeping on, try not to be so hard on yourself x
There is no way I could even come close to understanding how you feel. All I do know is that we all take our own routes when dealing with loss…some take the quick motorway to get it over and done with; some take the back roads to savour the journey and many do a combination of both. There is no wrong or right way; there is only ‘your’ way. You are obviously going ‘a’ right way because, whilst there are days when you stop and live your grief, there are other days when you shine, when your living children bless the day that you are strong and help them in making their ways through life. You don’t need to change or feel you are nothing but a mess of shortcomings; you only have to look at Fran, Maddy, Amelie, Josie and Bene to know that you have already made a huge difference to the world, and they are going to continue in your footsteps.
You make a difference. Your posts have made me brave enough to speak to people, to not hide from their grief, You and Freddy have taught me to say *something* even when I think I have nothing to say, or I feel that my words are inadequate. They are always inadequate, of course, because I have no idea. I am not rolling my eyes though xx
You have made a difference. People have been connected because of you, have found they can talk about their grief, talk of their lost sons and daughters, have been comforted by your blog, have realised that they are not alone and actually, most of all, I think many people now know that it’s ok to talk about babies dying, that there is no shame. You have raised £5000 for SCBU and arranged the sponsorship of all those children for Share Niger.
Your journey is your journey Merry, your narrative is your narrative. If there is more that you want to do, then you will do it when you are good and ready. xxx
Oh, Merry, yes. For me, the rage is always lurking in the background and sometimes it just bubbles up and spills over. Even though life is mostly back to good, and we have our precious rainbow girl, two+ years later I still find myself seething with rage and grief that Charlotte isn’t here… that I didn’t know something was wrong… that I didn’t do enough, or do something… that our lives will never, ever be the same. xoxo
I can’t imagine what you’re feeling or how you keep going but I just wanted to say that I think you are an incredible woman and from reading your blog, a wonderful mother, to all your children. I’m not being very eloquent but felt moved to say something. I agree with Liz, because of your posts, I feel brave enough to talk to people grieving, not to avoid the subject or stay mute.
It’s been 6 1/2 years since Pai died and the rage still lurks. I’m not eloquent but I 100% understand. You are an amazing lady
I know you so well. And if I remember one thing after Freddie died, it was how cross you were with people who were too scared to talk to you and made you feel outcast. Reading people’s comments here makes me so proud of you and I can tell you that I am another person who has been given the courage to talk to others in their grief because of you. I now know it’s better to say something and be able to look someone in the eye, than stay quiet and walk past with my head down. Think of all those people who are getting vital connections with others because of you. And that’s only one thing. There are countless others. I constantly think, he’s never out of her mind so I can mention his name without worrying about reminding you. I’ve learned and that will affect so many more people in just my own circle. I’m so proud of you x
My heart breaks for you. I wish I could find the right words to make it all ok.
For what it’s worth, I truly think that mothering your girls IS a tribute and a memorial to Freddie. I think this blog, and your fearless and beautiful and terrifying exposition of grief is a testament to him and how much you love him. I do think of him often, and I am sure other readers do too.
And at the risk of sounding a bit ‘woo’, I think the reason he hasn’t said goodbye to you in a dream is because he’s still with you. Remember that Instagram picture of your gorgeous children? (Sitting on a fence maybe?) I loved it, and my first thought was I could see the space where Freddie was. Think of those rainbows on your holiday. I think he still needs to be with you.
Look after yourself.
Merry, from here I see a brave, strong and amazing woman. I see a mother who fights like a lion for every single one of her children, even when fighting means letting go and breaking her own heart. I see a woman who has reached out and touched so many hearts and really made a real difference to all these people. You have made a difference to me. And here in the heart and mind of a woman you have never met, all the way across the country, Freddie is remembered every single day. Much love xx
you are brave, you are amazing and you have made a difference. You write about grief, how it really is and that in itself is brave, anyone who reads your posts about Freddie will stop and think – you do make a difference.
I’m only now finding time to catch up here, and I’m sat in a puddle, because again and again you say things that resonate with me so much. I understand the angry smashing dream, the not feeling you’ve done enough, the crying alone where no one can find you (but never too much!), and yes DIY SOS, I watched and I sobbed because I can’t look at those families, for me it’s a reminder of what might have been, and a reminder of how little I know, and how the little girl I miss might not have been the little girl I imagine. Oh Merry. Huge huge love as ever. x