Waves of Grief

I'm feeling so very frightened right now. I'm frightened not only by the depths of the despair and loss I feel, but also the length of time I am likely to feel that. I'm frightened by the life I will have to lead for the rest of my life and the strength of the yearning I have my son Hamish.

I miss him. This morning I craved his morning cuddle so much, I sat in front of my computer looking at photos, stroking the screen and begging for him.  I saw a photo of him in his stroller and he looked as though he wanted to get out. "I'll get you out Hami!" I wanted to scream. It's frustrating and hopeless and desperate.  One of the problems I am noticing is that it gets worse every day.

I'm hoping there is sand in heaven.

I spoke to a man who lost his son during the week. He used the analogy of school camp. On the first day they are gone you may miss them, by the end of the first week, you really miss them, after 3 weeks, you can't stop thinking about them and it gets worse every day.  I guess in the first few days, I could've almost forced myself to imagine Hami went to Grandma's house but as the days crawl by, the permanency of the situation slaps you in the face. Right now, I miss him with every breath. I'm so desperate for a touch, a smell, a kiss, a cuddle. How do you get on with your day when you feel that hopeless?

I'm finding the grief comes in waves. Sometimes I'll be wading in the shallows and other times  I'll be left broken on the shore, gasping for air after being hit by a crushing wave.  You can't predict it. The smallest things can reduce you to your knees. The sight of my nephew in his football uniform broke my heart the other day. I will never see Hamish in a football uniform. I wanted so many things for him, and none of them will happen.

I met with my beautiful friend Katie yesterday. She was Hami's Day Care mum 2 days a week. She spoke of his intelligence, focus, and his beautiful cheeky smile and I sat and sobbed with her in a cafe and tears full of hopes and dreams for my darling boy disappeared into my coffee. Such a waste of a precious, beautiful boy.

As I mentioned, I spoke to another parent during the week who lost a child and the bitter grief he is still experiencing four years after his son passed frightened me. He spoke of friends leaving, of marriages dissipating, of intense sadness and loneliness, of a life utterly broken. "Eighty per cent of the people who are around you now, won't be in two months," he said.  I left scared.

I was reminded later that every person, every family has to walk their own treacherous path of grief. And what is one family's journey will not be another's.  I don't know what our path will be like, I'm only living one day at a time, but I have no doubt it will be filled with pot-holes and perils.

Fortunately, we are experiencing love and support on unprecedented level and although sometimes I feel like I don't deserve it, that I can't give anything back in return, it will help me to crawl, to stumble and to eventually walk again.

Thank you for the love, the thoughts, the prayers.