Gone Boy

It’s like a metallic tang of blood in my mouth, and yet none is there.

It’s as if someone has dug a hole in my sternum, and I clutch at my chest trying to stuff my tshirt in there.

It’s as though my eyes could burn through a wall, the sky, the window as I realise they haven’t blinked, just streamed.

It’s sometimes like it hasn’t happened, and I feel I have to force myself to remember seeing you still and colourless, in the most peaceful of dreams.

Sometimes I just don’t feel anything, and I wonder if that’s normal. Or when the pain will come again. Or a fear that it will knock me down and I might not get up again.

I feel like I could vomit up my heart, but don’t want to, as yours is now in there too.

I think of all my babies. You, my first. Your sister, who I want to hold close but struggle with the energy to parent. The ones that we never knew outside of hospital.

I wait for you to come back from school, from respite, wherever you are that isn’t here. Even though I know.

I’m trying not to question, not to let the guilt in. To know that you loved life right until the last few days, and that this summer has been the most glorious gift but I keep feeling this resolve falter. Because I’d do anything to have you back.

I soak in the love for you, for us, from others. But I also wish for the peace of just you and I again. Pulling my hair, grabbing fistfuls so I would kiss you again. Pulling my hand to your head to rub your moleskin hair.

It’s so, so quiet now we’re back home. No noisy toys buzzing and singing, no chuft chuft of the wheels of your scoot. No flicking of the drawer handles or banging of doors with your feet.

Your room feels still, stagnant. Your bed still smells a little of wee, and yet I lie in it and breathe it in. 

I lie there and remember the last time you were in this house, screaming. And I’d had to give your more and more midazolam until I carefully carried your floppy body onto the ambulance gurney. Still hopeful that we’d sort this, right it. Whispering for you to stop crying as my tears wouldn’t stop.

The day starts and I feel like I can’t. The nightmares that are too real roll into the day.

But you know me RD. You know there’s still lipstick and laughter that punctuate the day. The memories hurt because I just want more. 

And even though I will want to jump in and swap places on the day we have to celebrate your life, I know that it will be right and fitting for you. When you’re settled on that place on the hill, with the breeze in your hair that you loved so much.

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9 thoughts on “Gone Boy

  1. ignore the god reference at the end…….

    The Cord
    We are connected,
    My child and I, by
    An invisible cord
    Not seen by the eye.

    It’s not like the cord
    That connects us ’til birth
    This cord can’t been seen
    By any on Earth.

    This cord does it’s work
    Right from the start.
    It binds us together
    Attached to my heart.

    I know that it’s there
    Though no one can see
    The invisible cord
    From my child to me.

    The strength of this cord
    Is hard to describe.
    It can’t be destroyed
    It can’t be denied.

    It’s stronger than any cord
    Man could create
    It withstands the test
    Can hold any weight.

    And though you are gone,
    Though you’re not here with me,
    The cord is still there
    But no one can see.

    It pulls at my heart
    I am bruised…I am sore,
    But this cord is my lifeline
    As never before.

    I am thankful that God
    Connects us this way
    A mother and child
    Death can’t take it away!

    ( Author Unknown )

    xxx

  2. I don’t know you, Liz, but I know Richard and Sheonaidh and I wanted you to know how often we’ve thought of you and your beautiful RD in the past months. You write so beautifully, I feel as though I know him. He was so very loved; I am terribly, terribly sorry for your huge loss. Sending my family’s love to yours. Katherine xx

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