I’ve been writing over the last three weeks but not publishing. I’m not sure why really. I feel in a strange limbo at the moment. My heart still aches, my mind is still full of Aneurin and grief but the rawness of the trauma is easing ever so slightly. I feel horrible for saying that; I don’t want it to ease because I don’t want people to mistake that for me moving on or getting over what’s happened because I can’t and I never will. I suppose this is just what it feels like as time moves on. There are still moments of pure terror though and feeling like I can’t breathe. Yesterday was one of those days. All I could do was cry my way through it and drink up as much Aneurin as I could through his memory box and photo album.
Someone described the urge to speak about a lost child as a ‘white hot burning in the lungs’ and it really resonated with me. It’s not just that urge to shout and scream and tell everyone that I have a son and although he may not be here he still matters and is so incredibly important, it’s also the pain. The raw, searing pain of loss that at times feels like it’s capable of creating earthquakes, causing landslides and tidal waves. There’s only one thing that can create power like that and grief is propelled by one thing; love. Something we all take for granted and a word we throw around so easily. I know love. I’m lucky enough to have been loved my whole life in many different ways and I love back but I wasn’t prepared at all for the love I felt for my son. It’s unlike anything else. I want to point out here that I am 100% pro-choice and I fully support a woman’s right to choose. For me though, the second I saw the word ‘pregnant’ on that plastic stick I was overwhelmed with love. In that second a group of cells I didn’t know existed minutes earlier became a person. Actually, maybe a person isn’t the right word, future is probably more accurate. My future. A future of unconditional, unwavering, incredible love. Not only would I forever be tied to this little Pea growing inside me but I was forever tied to my husband. A whole different sort of love but equally as important. All I saw in that moment was love and it grew, a lot.
I’m angry that my life will never be the same again. Everything is different. Everything I do for the rest of my life will be different and it’s unfair. Time might soften the pain and it might mean my grief finds a different place in my head but it will always be there because my love for my son will always be there. My life has changed and there is nothing I can do about it. If we are lucky enough to get pregnant again it will be terrifying. It won’t be 9 months of excitement and joy, it will be 9 months of fear and worry. It’s so easy to say ‘well, don’t let it then’ but that’s not how this works. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there will be moments of joy but that pure, innocent joy I felt with Aneurin is impossible now. I’ve learnt the hard way that being pregnant and getting past a certain point does not mean you get a baby at the end of it. I feel like I’ve been cheated out of something and I’m angry at that.
Mr D and I have both had our assessments for grief counselling with Cruse Bereavement Care but there’s a two month waiting list. Hopefully though it will tie in with Mr D’s return to work so will help him through that. I feel like him going back to work will be the final door that closes and signifies our complete committal to our new normal. Neither of us are quite ready for that yet though so for now we just plod through every day as best we can.