The Pot of Gold

BD. I realise I’ve been remiss. There’s always so much chatter around your big brother, and from your big sister, that I realise I haven’t truly marked in the sand what utter, unbridled joy you are bringing into our lives. So here it is, my first piece of writing about you that doesn’t involve a story about how I pushed you out and turned the air blue.

It’s fair to say during my pregnancy with you, so soon after losing RD, I was wound so tight with anxiety it felt like I breathed constantly in short, shallow breaths. You did also squash my rib cage quite a lot. Looking back, you could have scraped me off the ceiling with a spatula.

As soon as you were here, in our arms, I could feel the gentle uncoiling of all of this. It’s been emotional, baby, but for all the right reasons.

You are a good baby. I find myself fighting with saying that, but since having you, I understand what people are getting at. You quietly thrive, whilst being as portable as a handbag. You peek over the edge of slings or from under the hood of your pushchair wide eyed and angelic. Your demands seem gloriously simple, and you have such a gentle, curious nature.

We call you the potato. Not just because you are bald and massive. Okay, okay, quite a lot because of that. But also because you always cheer us up, a big carb loaded cuddle.

For the first time I’ve really let my mothering anxieties go. I’m not a perfect Mum, but I’m perfectly happy with the Mum I am. I’ve learned that you can only do so much, the rest of it is just riding the highs and lows of every stage. You know when people say “it’s okay, nobody died/I kept everyone alive”? I feel like understanding that sentiment a little deeper gives me a renewed confidence.

(Although I still check on you ALL THE TIME. Watch you gently blow out through pursed rosebud lips almost silently)

I take in every detail of you, astounded that we made the wrinkles on the back of your knuckles. Your bright, dazzling irises. Your perfect little wotsit toes. A true appreciation of the miracle of reproduction.

You start conversation. You’ve brought family together after a time where it felt like getting back up after so much loss was futile. You give us all fresh hope and consolation, just as your name means. Child of consolation. 

You have eyes just like your brother. You have a mouth and smile so full of joy like your sister. You are also completely yourself and I marvel that we have had anything to do with your creation. Also, because we really can’t remember that…

Thankyou for making DD a sister again. She may not thank us right now, and struggle with feelings of jealousy but the way your eyes dance when she walks in the room, when you search her out to give her your best, gummiest smile, is priceless. She doesn’t need to try and understand the way you love her, it beams from you.

BD, you came to being at a time when I didn’t know if anything could be truly good again. Angry at life, and my body having failed us before. Now it feels like you were always going to be here, but this sense that you will decide every single move defines your life already.

Happy Birthday?

Today is RD’s 7th birthday.

I wonder what he would be like as he should be moving from an infant to a junior. Of course, neither his size nor his cognition would be moving up in a stereotypical way. No doubt, if he were still here, I would be feeling the weight of that. I would be learning yet again to live with the rising fear in my throat: long term care needs, further adaptations. Eyes fully open to the fact that in that instance, life gets harder to navigate. Inclusivity gets harder to wedge in.

It’s difficult for me to write that, to admit to that, for fear that it is interpreted that I am relieved that he is forever five. That somehow I ever thought of him as a burden. Honesty comes with that price though, an interpretation that doesn’t cover the complexity of human emotion. The ying and yang of true love, and of being a parent, of being a parent carer. There’s a whole lot of greyscale. A lot of overlaps in Venn diagrams. It’s the playdoh after too many squashings.

It’s his birthday, and already I’ve had to shift about some vague plans. DD was up in the night with worms. Yes, frigging worms. Of all the filthy-starting-at-school-bugs to pick up, this was what she had the night before his birthday. I had to examine her bum by torchlight. There has been copious washing of clothes, towels and bedding. I’ve doused the house liberally with Zoflora. The day has started crankily.

On the walk from the pharmacy to school drop off, after she chewed her ‘gross’ tablet, conversations seemed to fall from nowhere.

“Mummy, did RD have to take tablets?”

“Yes, every day. Mummy and Daddy would crush them and mix them with water to go down the tube into his tummy”

“Could he not chew them?”

“Not really. Do you remember what he did like to drink? Do you remember his cup?”

“Was it purple and sparkly?” “Yes!” “Did he like strawberry juice?” “No, just water” “Did he not like anything else?”

Spirals and spirals of conversation: did he chew toys? Did he suck his fingers? Did he get worms?

They’re reading Aliens Love Underpants at school. We have a copy somewhere, bought for RD, with noisy buttons down the side. I’m fairly sure he used his minimal muscle mass to rip book from buttons though, so I mentioned this to DD, but that I would try and find it.

“Sellotape should fix it Mummy. Have we got sellotape? We have the book at school but it’s not ripped because there are no babies in the class to rip it!”

“Wait, DD, RD wasn’t a baby.”

“Oh, I mean big babies. Ones that can’t walk or talk and like buttons and rip things”


“No, darling, RD was 5 when he died. You’ll be 5 in a few weeks. He was your age. He wasn’t a baby, he was disabled. Sometimes people are different. RD’s brain and body were different to yours so he couldn’t do things the same way.”

“Will I die when I’m 5?”


“NO! No, your kidneys are fine. Remember we talked about that the other day?”

The other day was Sunday, the day when she suddenly asked why he died. When I gave a potted anatomy lesson, and she giggled about wee.

It’s RD’s seventh birthday and it’s raining. BD is having an enormous nap in their shared room. It’s so everyday and yet it’s not. Plans are shifting and changing with the only real goal a party tea after school. I wish I could preserve it and keep it aside just for RD, but life is butting in and making itself so very pronounced.

I don’t know if I’m sad, or happy. I have moments of complete joy- the peels of laughter from BD as DD showcases her moves on the ‘stage’ (our kitchen floor). Dancing to the tunes coming from the new bright orange radio bought in RD’s honour for his birthday. I think back on birthdays past and they weren’t all rosy- I didn’t get to hold my baby until a week after he was born, wherein I cradled a tiny fragile bird connected by seemingly a million gossamer wires to an incubator. His first birthday where I cried copiously in the garage at his party as I knew he wasn’t doing anything anywhere near what would be considered a milestone. Where I realised his sensory needs were too much for a busy party.

His third, fourth and fifth birthdays were good, but lowkey. There was always just the slivers of sadness there as he aged chronologically but not developmentally. A mass of contradictory emotions.

I talked to Wolf about it the other night. If RD were still alive, I would want the 5 year old version of RD. I would want him to be forever five, where he was bursting with joy and interest and health. Where he’d just about grasped opening presents and surprises. Where I could still carry him, not necessarily easily, but he fit into the crook of my arm and the nook of my neck. I would want him forever five but not in the way we have it.

The Rise In The Fall

“Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the Fall”

(F. Scott Fitzgerald)

There was something poetic about RD dying at the start of Autumn. After the long lazy days of Summer where he sparkled and forged through a failing body, he slowly curled up and entered the Earth when it is so rich and abundant with colour.

He wasn’t supposed to arrive in Autumn, he was due to be a Winter baby. Of course, had he arrived on time we most likely would have not had any time with him at all, so poor was his condition at birth. I remember the week, and weeks after his shock birth, the sun shone long and low through the days. 

I would lie on the post labour ward, struggling to navigate all we were dealing with- a premature birth, the physical aftermath of an emergency caesarean, worsening news about our tiny, fragile first child. Yet the sun continued to crack through the slivers of high up windows, warming the cold lilac of the walls.

He was born on the Monday, I was discharged the following Sunday. After what I came to discover was a standard delay in being discharged from hospital, I stumbled into the 4pm October low light. The trees had seemingly become golden during my incubation in the sterility of the hospital. All around, the damp ground smelt heady with decay and promise all at the same time.

The oranges, russets, reds and browns intermingled amongst the still brilliantly verdant greens marked his arrival. They remain his colours. This time of year, every essence of nature feels like him. The juxtaposition of promise as the fruits are ready for final harvest, with the slowing down and cosying up. 

October has become this for us- the month full of life and loss. RD’s birthday. Tiny’s birthday, even though she never took a breath. Our wedding anniversary. DD’s birthday. A month that crashes and ricochets between highs and lows. 

My natural initial reaction is fear of the month ahead. That dipping my toe ahead and wondering how we will mark all those events. How we will embrace the good and difficult and be spat out into November.

We have planned DD’s first ‘big’ birthday party. She is beyond herself with excitement knowing that October is coming. The ‘how many sleeps?’ countdown has been reaching fever pitch. 

The other day at tea, we were having the thousandth conversation about her birthday.

“Mummy, at my disco, can I have balloons?”

“Yes love. Do you remember whose birthday it is first though?”


“We’re going to have a little party tea for him on his birthday next week”

“Can we have cake?”


“And blow out his candles?” 


“Yay!” (Suddenly looks troubled) “But he won’t be able to eat it”

– Wolf pipes up- “He didn’t like cake anyway, he won’t mind”

And that, there is life. Like Autumn, the sun can shine on death.

10 Things I Hate About Grief

*otherwise known as what I have learned so far in the last year*

1) Did you notice the ‘so far’ above? That’s because I have learned that grief is not what I expected it to be. I’m not even sure what those expectations were to be honest. It’s just this thing that invades you, sometimes without notice, and you can just be going about your business and thinking things aren’t too bad and actually, you might be enjoying something again and then. Bam. The next day, your jaw aches. Your teeth itch. You feel like you’re catching the flu. You cannot be bothered to be a grown up but you have to.

So I have learned to try and accept that I have no idea what to expect and ride each thing out as it comes. The tiredness, the exhaustion though. That can do one.

2) That I love my children but I don’t always treasure every moment. I want to clonk their heads together and eat them for my tea because the very core of me wants to explode with love. You feel like that about your own too right? I do not need to tell you to hug them a little tighter and count your blessings.

The truth is, a lot of the time I also want to run a mile away from them and relish in solitude. I lose my sh*t with them and then sneak in an apology hug later. This is life. I don’t regret losing my temper with RD, or feeling the same things about my time when he was alive. He was delicious but he required very deep reserves of patience at times. Very, very deep… ones that I didn’t always have. 

3) That my mind constantly wants to justify the pain it feels. This means that sometimes I think some very odd things. Uncomfortable and unspeakable things. All I can do is acknowledge them as just that: a grapple to salve my soul and leave it there.

4) That I am changed. That in spite of best appearance I feel the old me caught in my throat when I talk. My spark is dulled, my anxiety about what people may judge of me is heightened. I question myself when I don’t talk about RD: am I being true to the fact that he fills my thoughts? I question myself when I do: does this seem like attention seeking?

I also worry about my Resting Grief Face. That I might seem rude, or disinterested. Or walk right past you and not see you. I’m only aware of it when I feel the wind change and I’m scared it might be stuck in that wrangled furrow.

5) That I am not changed but you may assume I have. I still love to hear, see and laugh about good things in your life. I want to be able to help if things are not so good. I still have a dark sense of humour, if anything, it’s even more warped now. I still love meaningless pretty things like tiles, wallpaper, good jumpers, crap telly and lipstick.

I am not saintly because my son died. I’m just like you but a bit more grief-y.

6) That sometimes it doesn’t feel right when you are described as strong. Really what it feels like is you’re just about keeping a cap on the crazy. I often think the worse I look, the more comfortable I’m feeling in my grief coat. I’m still not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. However, I do always appreciate a compliment.

7) That just because I’ve experienced grief, I’m not that much better in the face of other people’s grief than I was before. I still stumble for words, worry about saying the wrong thing. 

So don’t worry about saying the wrong thing. Or not finding a way of sliding it into conversation.

8) That it makes people do odd things. In the face of this awful, awful thing it might seem like the only thing to talk about is that your newly oiled worktops are still a bit tacky.

One thing I’ve learned is that often the current action is just a reaction to point seven.

9) That there are just never enough photos. Never enough videos. Record the mundane and the extraordinary. Share them or don’t, whatever you prefer.

I didn’t ever take a photo on RD’s first day of school. I have photos of him waiting for his bus or taxi. Photos of him wearing a bit of token uniform. But I am still sad that I didn’t stop to do that. So now, with DD and BD I do, I will.

10) That now life goes on. It has a rhythm and cadence from young children that is familiar. Some days are just that, familiar and the loss feels background. Some days I feel like I can’t get around the house as it fills every room to the corners.

Sometimes I try to live in the moment and be grateful for all I have, fearful that still, something else might take someone I love away from me. However, I still need time to breathe and reflect on my own, as that’s the time I’m actually never alone, I’m back with RD.

So I’m trying to learn to be kind to myself. Kind to my husband, and his sock fluff on the bedroom carpet. Kind to my children and their demands, bum wipes and tantrums. And remember I’m not a saint.

Everything and Nothing

A year ago today, I felt the world shift imperceptibly to the left.

I went into RD’s room in the morning, but he wasn’t awake. He’d been a little unsettled during the night, but had fallen asleep on his bedroom floor mid play in the wee hours. I went to lift him up into his bed, where he stirred slightly. I saw then that the side of his face was swollen, in particular, one of his eyes was partially shut from the fluid around it. He was floppy and cranky, and I felt that burn of knowing. Knowing something looked like it had changed slightly and yet underneath all had changed fully.

Eyes didn’t sparkle as much. A smile was difficult to form. He was agitated but too tired to cope with it. He didn’t want to play with anything.

By the afternoon, I’d had to administer midazolam: a very potent sedative. It was in our emergency pack of medicines. I’d spent years tinkering with pain relief when RD was unwell, but this was a big change. Nothing else would touch the sides of his discomfort. It worked, but only temporarily. By nightfall, he’d had his second dose. By 10pm, the hospice had called an ambulance to come and get him as I’d rubbed his fourth dose into his gums. Because that’s how you give midazolam. And yes, it is as horrific as it sounds.

He lay in my arms twitching, and resting fitfully as Wolf ran around trying to pack their stuff together. DD was asleep in bed, so we agreed that he would travel in the ambulance to the hospice with RD and in the morning I would drop DD at my parents and join them. I was torn in half. I lay him carefully on the stretcher, answering questions, a quiet panic brewing. Knowing that he wasn’t going to come home, grasping at vestiges of hope that he might. And yes, that was as horrific as it sounds.

All of this still feels like yesterday in a different lifetime. In less than a week, it will be the anniversary of his death. 

How a year has passed, I don’t know. Falling pregnant with BD, and wishing away the time until he was safely born eradicated a large part of the year. Looking back, a lot has happened, a lot has changed and yet, RD still feels part of it all. I am petrified of reaching the anniversary, because then what? I’ve relived so much in this year, he’s stayed so present.

In my mind it’s like when you go to the opticians. When they slide lenses into the test glasses, and you have to say whether it’s better or worse. After a year, I feel like the lense is going to make things a little more blurry. The year after, a little more blurry still. The clarity of memory forever altered.

I went out this morning and tried to run away from the funk of these memories. To seek solace in fresh air and breathlessness. I thought about the association we attach to things: dates sit as having importance. Good China for special meals. Clothes for best. But these individual associations will mean nothing to the person next to you.

So next week, on the fifth, I will want to feel like the world has to stop. Just for a while. It won’t though. DD will be doing her second afternoon at school. I’ve planned a little way to mark the anniversary but no doubt nothing will go to plan- we still have a dog, a four year old and a four month old. What’s that adage: never work with children or animals?

I’m going to wear some of my clothes kept for best. We can eat off the fancy plates. I’ll take DD to school, we’ll get the dog wormed. All on this day that will feel like it means everything and nothing all at the same time. And hope it won’t be as horrific as I imagine.

Nobody Puts DD in the Middle

I am a middle child. I can boast many of its finer characteristics, such as attention seeking, strong will and a low level resentment towards my siblings and their superiority in birth chronology.

I am different to my siblings. They are different to each other and yet possess similar abilities to do well at school and never get in too much trouble. These are things I didn’t do so well at. But it’s okay, I’m creative (not always meant in a complimentary way).

DD is my second born, but as soon as she came into our lives I knew she’d be a middle child someday. I knew she had the feist and pizzazz to own it. She is a thousand kinds of fabulous and a massive pain in the arse. My Dad has described her as “A mini you. Actually, no, you on steroids.”

She came second in line, but achieved so many firsts for us. She quickly overtook RD, and made my mind boggle at how quickly she grew and changed. Each time this came with a little bittersweet taste but we revelled in the normality.

For DD, her understanding of her big brother went against her understanding of size and time. By 18 months she was bigger than him, and began to help us teach him. Although the time she tried to get him to sit up by pulling on his gastrostomy tube was definitely an unorthodox method.

She was too young to remember that she was due to be a middle sister before. I still often wonder what my other little girl, Tiny, would have been. What whispered secrets and games they would have invented, just three years between them. Whether she would have been such a force of nature, or allowed her big sister to lead the way.

The bookends to DD’s middleness don’t match. We lost and gained in one fell swoop. More than that, its difficult to explain, and for DD to grasp where she sits between her brothers. It’s something that she’ll no doubt find difficult to articulate as she grows up too.

In less than a month she starts school. Like her mother, she’s not backwards in coming forwards. She will answer questions or talk about RD with a fierce honesty. She is proud as punch about BD whilst stealthily trying to break his arm.

I suppose, just like a classic middle child.

But you DD, whilst classic, are extraordinary to your Dad and I. Our constant. Our apex.


I started to complain to my husband about it the other day.

He told me to go on the internet and complain as that’s what people do now.

So here it is. I’m tired. Exhausted. Knackered. Shattered.

And it’s doing my head in.

I want to feel some get up and go. Some wind in my sails. I’ve got this itch to be the active person I am in my head. To do a juice cleanse or some shit, but I’ve still not popped to the Co-Op for my milk yet.

I’m trying hard to give myself a break though. When I’m scooping baby sick out of the turn up of my jeans or using fairy liquid to try and remove the baby poo stains out of vests, baby grows and playmats. (Second fact is a top tip by the way. It really works)

It’s when I realise I’ve been a mother for seven years. Seven. And yet my oldest living child is four. Even if RD were still alive, his development hadn’t really progressed beyond a year anyway. So any chance of the mantra “it gets easier” hadn’t really happened yet. I have been a mother to very young children for seven years.

Thankfully RD had developed enough that he could entertain himself. In fact, if it weren’t for the nappy changes and vomit catches, he was such an easy going soul. Most of the time. But it had taken him about two and a half years to get to that stage.

In the relentlessness of it all, there’s a bigger beast to bear. Sometimes, it’s boring. Actually, a lot of the time it’s boring. My brain is filled with calculating getting us all up and dressed. Fed. Getting the washing on. When the next nap will be. What I’ll do in that nap. The frustration of that nap happening on me mid feed whilst DD has a meltdown from lack of attention. So actually I did sweet FA.

Four O’clock. When bedtime seems so close and so achingly far away and I’ve no idea how we’re going to get to it. I still need to go to the Co Op for milk. The dog needs walking. All the day I’ve fantasised about painting my skirting boards, alone, untouched. I stuck a bit of masking tape down when I probably should have gone to the Co Op.

What’s really exhausting though, is grief. It churns away, burning at your energy reserves. Even when I feel like I’m not actively engaging with it, it’s ticking, aching, invading each thought process. Every activity I do, it says “remember when…” It alerts me to his absence.

The clicking on of the kettle: Do you remember when you had to sterilise all RD’s feeding tubes and syringes at least three times a day? Opening the cupboard for a teabag: Do you remember when that cupboard over there was filled completely with medicines, and now it just has calpol? Going to get the milk out the fridge: Do you remember, oh shit, you forgot to go to the Co Op didn’t you?

Here I am complaining about the boredom. Grief says “remember when you had to raise a newborn by a hospital bedside? Remember all that you lost, how can you complain about being a Mum?” Grief, is a dick.

There was a period of time when I had the energy I want back. I mean, yes, it was fuelled by a desire for peace and to indulge my inner introvert, but I ran two marathons. I worked nearly full time. I was kinder to my husband. His breathing in the car didn’t make me want to punch him. Somehow, I will hopefully wend my way back there.

The grief will just have to come with us. But like my young children, I hope it quietens down a bit and behaves itself.


My Two Boys

This month last year, both of you existed simultaneously. For those couple of weeks we never knew this. Cells were multiplying inside me, imbued by the stardust of last cuddles with your brother.

I keep holding onto this thought. As your sister tells me “we have to use our imagination of our memories” when bringing RD still with us. Keeping him still alive somehow. That you’ll only have our memories of him as yours.

I know that to everyone you look like your sister. You both resemble podgy potato like Mitchell brothers as newborns. Pink and fluffy, with lego hands and pork loin thighs. And whilst you are very much you, I see all of your siblings in you.

Your eyes are the same colour as his, wide and knowing. Your energy is calm, and yet you love moving, being busy, investigating. Just like your brother.

You sit at the top of the centile chart, your brother barely grazed the bottom yet there is a glorious harmony in this juxtaposition.

You’re my first child that I’ve had so much time to gaze at and see, despite the constant demands from your sister for attention. We are free from hospital wards and worry, and for the duration of an episode of My Little Pony I soak you in. Watch the firings of understanding cross your face.

There was so much in a look, a smile, a laugh from your brother. His development stalled, I had nearly six years of trying to understand your brother through this. Now, with you, it feels so precious and familiar.

Wolf said it the other day. After a day on holiday which had been back to back niggly to dos at each other about nothing. That the source of this irritable, want to kick a bloody hay bale pissedoffedness, was feeling your brother so present in you at this stage in your development, in your body, that it made his absence feel so much bigger.

We Could Be Heroes?

This is something I’ve wanted to write about, but will admit to being scared. I’m not scared about expressing my opinions or my words, but because of the exposure to the hungry beast that is social and traditional media. Sitting, ready to pounce with vitriol. Opinions begets opinions. I have watched from the sidelines as more people have said “I can’t imagine what the parents are going through” or starting comment with “if it were me.”

Well, I can imagine. And I know what we decided in our unique case. That’s the crux here: conjecture is based on evidence presented and comparisons to other unique cases. Yet no two incidents are the same: there may be similarities in conditions or questions over treatment, but ultimately we humans are individuals and this is so prurient in the case of rare disease.

So why write this? This post is in solidarity. In having experience, so I write this to post into the ether with the hope it may bring some comfort.

When RD was tiny, when he just wouldn’t grow, wouldn’t tolerate feeds, and every step forward was met with one back, I fought to find hope. Strength. Optimism. It was clear that he was in pain: for all sub 3 pounds of him he could silence beeping machines and alarms with scream after scream. He would vomit across the room. 

I was petrified. My first born son was alien to any other baby I’d met. But every fibre of my being, every synapse of my body tingled with love for him. I willed him to improve, in spite of mounting evidence of poor prognosis. Yet, I was also scared for him to live if the pain would continue. 

The evening of Boxing Day 2010, we arrived on the neonatal unit. I scooped RD up from his incubator, he let out an ear piercing scream and covered me in vomit. The sobs heaved from within me. We were living a life I could have never imagined, I didn’t want it anymore. I couldn’t grip onto the traces of hope and optimism. So I asked RD to show me. Show me he could do this. I whispered into his tiny neck, show me.

For reasons beyond my understanding, he did show me. It wasn’t down to different medical intervention. In a month he’d tolerated feeds and put on weight. The treatment for his kidneys seemed to have worked unlike any other case they’d seen and therefore one prognosis- that he would need albumin infusions multiple times a week- proved incorrect. The doctors were wrong.

RD left the neonatal unit for home after four months. Again, we had been told that this was unlikely. In that time, in the endless stretches of minutes sat at his incubator and then cot side, I had run every emotion. I had crested peaks of elation at improvement, battled despair when it felt like things were unable to get worse, felt gratitude beyond compare and the last one, anger. Such anger, at how unfair this all was for RD. For us. And every time someone got it wrong, I channelled that latent, useless anger at them. Doctors, nurses, professionals. 

I couldn’t always see that they were just other humans, trying to put together their best evidence and experience and forge a way forward. Hospitals are fraught, noisy and busy. You feel as though you are the only case that should matter, blocking out the hundreds of insular crises happening around you. That’s the only way to get through. To survive as the bystanders to the one battling for their life.

In his five, nearly six years, we had with RD he fought against medical prognosis but our fears about lifelong disabilities became actualised. I had many conversations where I had to reel off all the list of things RD he could do, that he loved, so evident was it all the things he couldn’t. In that time we truly came to understand what quality of life looked like. RD’s label of life limited never left him though. In spite of appearances, his condition was deteriorating.

When we tried renal replacement therapy, and it consistently failed, it took me right back to the start of his life. Constant hospitalisations, where he was utterly miserable. At first I fought off any suggestions that the kindest thing may not be to continue. Anything else felt too awful to contemplate. 

When we really looked at the picture in front of us though, I tried to think how RD was understanding this, being that his understanding was different to ours. We had come to learn that whilst RD could clearly react to discomfort and pain, or complete happiness, he couldn’t anticipate either. He reacted to what he was presented with at that very moment in time.

After another fraught night in a side room with RD, where he couldn’t be calmed from the pain he didn’t understand, I asked him again. But this time I realised he’d already shown me. The one thing I know though is it wasn’t giving up on him, it wasn’t letting go.

For us, RD’s lifetime was too short. I would still give everything to have him back, but only if I knew he would be happy. Truly happy, as he was when we stopped invasive treatment. I will live everyday missing him.

But for RD his lifetime was just as long as it lasted, and he left us with the balance of happiness versus discomfort swinging heavily towards happiness. He knew he was loved unconditionally. His short years were full for him.

I don’t know what I’d do in any other instance. I do know how it feels to fight, and I also know how it feels to gracefully step down. Both feel just as heroic.

The Unscratchable Itch.

“Mummy, what are you doing?”

(I am helping colour in her picture. I always figure that even though DD won’t understand what I’m saying yet, I go with the full explanation)

“I’m shading in this bit with a darker colour, to make it look 3 dimensional”

“Oh okay. Mine looks like three dalmations too”

“Mummy, can we go and sleep at the hospice again soon?”

“No sweetheart. We can go and visit, but there’s no need to sleep there any more, we had sleepovers when RD was poorly and when he died, but now it’s for other families to have sleepovers there”

“But what about when BD is more growned up? When he is poorly”


Life currently sits somewhere between endless monotony: feed, wind, comfort, change nappy, repeat and mania: crying (both children), undone shoelaces, elbows dug in, me saying NO. Swearing internally, or in hushed tones behind kitchen cupboards. A smell of baby sick barely discernible but constant. Waiting out jealousy tantrums.

My mind is seeking out to busy itself, in this half bored, half crazed and sleep deprived state. And I am the very person that knows that these days are long but the years are short. I have that as a low level soundtrack playing, waiting to kick up the guilt that sometimes I AM NOT LOVING EVERY MOMENT.

There is so much to love, and I inhale it deeply. My daughter’s sense of humour, twiddling her hair and singing the songs from Trolls on its billionth and one airing in our house. Pudgy fists grabbing at me, smiles and gurgles from my glorious lump of a newborn son.

There is a void though. It feels a little like my insatiable breastfeeding thirst and hunger. Permanent and sometimes cloying, spilling over into rage about unopened bathroom windows, and decorative trays being used as dumping grounds for the excessive amount of stuff emptied from my husband’s pockets.

I can’t fix it with a new kitchen floor, but it might help. Painting RD’s room, so that it can blend into a slightly altered space for BD feels important, and yet impossibly hard. Not just because BD is clingy and needing fed on a regular cycle. Busy busy, trying to scratch the itch. Scraping at some control. Running away from myself and yet into myself and the memories of last year. Of the last five years.

Pushing myself to get out and walk and walk. Where I am free from being touched and demanded upon. Where RD lives in the breeze clearing my mind, so I can be with just him.

I’m not daft though, the end of the route needs to involve cake. That helps.