Seasons

The rain is relentless. It's sorrowful intensity soaking into my skin despite being cosy and dry inside. The weather isn't a trigger but it certainly doesn't help grief. Although the beaming sunshine feels wrong, it does do good. It's warmth and dazzling bright keeping my eyes wide and my skin off-white.  I don't appreciate the sunshine enough. I should be lapping up it's feel-good properties before the shorter days take hold and we bury ourselves in layers. Ahem, yes I live in Queensland, Australia where 'winter' isn't really winter. but I'm a lightweight in the cold weather.

I can see why seasons are so often used as an analogy for grief.  I guess if I follow this analogy I'm currently in the depths of winter, shivering with the pain of loss and hibernating from the harsh realities of life without my baby boy. The problem for me is I can't see Spring. It's almost been five months since I lost my Hami and there isn't a single day where grief's hold isn't suffocatingly tight.  Some days I can breathe, some days I struggle to inhale, every day is inescapable.

I told my Psychiatrist the other day that I feel like I've been given a life sentence, resigned to a lifetime of heartbreak. Of course, each and every day won't be Hell on Earth, but the pain and sorrow will always be there, forever and ever. Hamish was part of me and I am permanently emotionally disabled.  He instantly replied with, "Do you think you deserve to be punished?"  I wanted to say "no" but that wouldn't be truthful. My reply was this:  "Yes, in a way. Hamish was a gift and it was my job as his mum to protect him and I failed to do that, so perhaps a lifetime of agony is what I deserve." It was an accident, I know that. My psychiatrist tells me that it doesn't matter which way I look at it, I didn't cause this. It was an accident. It was an accident. It doesn't matter how many times I repeat it, I still flinch with the senselessness of it.

I just hate that day so much, with uncontainable anger. I hate all the stupid things that went wrong. There were about 7 or 8 things that should not have happened all at the same time and now we are living without our light, our sweetness, our joy. Oh God, how do I do it?

Someone asked me the other day if I'm writing myself deeper into grief. As I dissect and examine its depths, do I find myself unable to climb out?  I didn't need to ever contemplate the question. Absolutely not. The writing orders the mess, contains the crazy and expresses the pain. I completely understand if it drags others under but it keeps me afloat, as much as it can.

A few readers have written to me to say that they their spouses have asked them not to read my blog. Some have stipulated they read it when they aren't at home, others have told them to cease completely for fear of making them too downcast. Can I just say that is not my intention. I do not want to depress anyone else or upset them in anyway.

I know the grief is deep and painful but I also hope this blog reflects the true miraculous joy I experienced with my son. How Hamish has taught me to love in ways I didn't know how. That if I'd never had him, that the loss would have been deeper and broader, even without being aware. I'm so thrilled I had the privilege of being his mummy, and in that respect I'm so incredibly lucky.  He has taught me that love knows no bounds, lasts for eternity and extends beyond this realm.

Hamish taught me life's greatest lesson. Perhaps one day, that one simple fact will overtake the sorrow. Perhaps.

Thanks for listening.