The Long Road

Grieving for a child is an awful road to be on. It's long and perilous and filled with unexpected twists and horrifying bends.  Sometimes I wish a semi-trailer would just veer onto the wrong side of the road and take me out.  But that's a thought I can't entertain. I have to keep driving, eyes on the road, hands on the wheel.

My stunningly beautiful boy.

It's been 20 days since I lost my beautiful Hamish. He never leaves my mind. Not for a single second. I go over every contour of his face, I remember how his skin felt and imagine running my fingers through his gorgeous mop of hair. I imagine him beside me, running down the hall, yelling "Mum-may!" I used to kiss his sweet face at least 20 times a day. I miss it so much, my heart aches. Sometimes the pain is so bad, I'm not sure I can bear it a second longer.  But I'm still here, clinging onto a life raft as the waves of grief crash over me.

At night, the anguish continues. I go over every detail of 'that' afternoon and think of everything I could have done to save my son's life. I blame myself for everything that went wrong.  The "if onlys" are torturous.  Unfortunately, my 9-year-old daughter is doing the same thing, just before bedtime which has forced us to seek the services of a child psychologist.  The trauma replays in her head, just as it replays in mine, like a terrible horror movie you can't forget.

My children are all grieving in different ways.  My 3-year-old son will approach me when I'm upset and say, "Mummy, you miss Hamish." Sometimes he'll add, "Don't worry mummy, he's with the doctors at the hospital and they'll make him better."  Sometimes he'll say, "Hami has shut his eyes and they won't open again."   Mostly he is lost. He is missing his best friend and isn't quite sure why people keep turning up on our doorstep with food.  He asked me to put  Dora the Explorer on the TV the other day. I asked him if he'd like me to sit with him but he motioned to the kitchen and replied, "No Mummy. You go and talk to all the people."

My two cheeky monkeys

My seven-year-old is expressing her grief through tears, but mostly through art. She is a talented little artist and is creating pieces that break my heart. Her teacher tentatively showed me through her already substantial portfolio and I immediately broke down. They are sad, tragic and very beautiful. When she's at home she wants to comfort me and gets distraught when she can't. "There's just nothing I can do to make you better mummy," she said yesterday.

My big 9-year-old girl is stoic, brave and probably very much trying to block it out. She was a little mummy to Hamish and played with him constantly. I relied on her to help me when I things got hairy at home. When dinner was cooking and I had Hamish hanging onto one leg and Master F on the other leg, she would switch on the music and encourage them to dance, or take them into the living room for a play and a cuddle. Although she isn't showing a great deal of emotion on the outside, I am certain she is nursing a badly broken heart.

My husband and I feel changed and broken and we have wafts of people who want to help us.  I don't know how anyone can help. We have a freezer full of food. People are dropping off gifts, flowers and fresh fruit (sometimes anonymously) and all of it is given with so much love and kindness. I've received beautiful messages filled with poignant song lyrics, poems, prayers and proverbs, most of which soothe my soul. We are a very lucky family to be surrounded by so many thoughtful people.

But the fact remains - my beautiful boy is gone. And there is nothing anyone can do except be there when I return to the surface to gulp for air.