The more time that passes, the further away I feel from Aneurin. The longer the gaps are between tears and overwhelming bouts of grief, the further away he feels. The desire to wish time away and tick the weeks off gets muddled up in the fear of feeling so far away from him. I want to relive my three days of labour, his wonderful birth and the hours we spent with him over and over again for the rest of my life. Those are my most treasured memories. I’m in the process of writing his birth story but I want to access my labour notes because a lot of it is still a bit jumbled up in my head (thanks morphine). I’m so scared of forgetting. I’m scared of forgetting how he felt in my arms and how warm his little bum was. He was exactly the same temperature as me for such a long time, it was lovely. I never want to forget any of it and the more time that passes the more scared I am it’ll happen.
Mr D and I are at such different stages in our grief which can be difficult sometimes but I continue to be so impressed and overwhelmed by our closeness and our love for eachother. He says he feels like this will never feel easier and he can’t cope with it. He has always been very insular with his emotions and by nature he isn’t optimistic. I’m the opposite, even now. Hope is the only thing I have and the only thing I have ever had. I don’t know whether years of mental illness has made me that way or whether I’ve always been like it but my life hasn’t been easy and if it weren’t for my hope I would have given up a long time ago. Mr D finds no comfort in knowing other people have been where we are and survived whereas again, I am the opposite. I’m surviving on other people at the moment, whether it’s him or my mum, our families, friends or strangers on baby loss forums. My strength is coming from having other people to lean on. Mr D will only talk about Aneurin and his short but wonderful life to me. I want to tell everyone and will talk to anyone who gives me the opportunity. It’s so strange how two people can be so different but work so well.
The waves of grief are exhausting. There are parts of the day when I almost feel normal (albeit a new normal) and I laugh and make jokes and genuinely feel like me again but all the while with him just lurking in my mind. I can think about him and bask in the sunshine of our memories and it doesn’t hurt, but then my emotions turn on eachother and it’s overwhelming. Instead of remembering how his fingers felt wrapped around mine I remember I’ll never feel it again. The realisation that we will never see him again bores into my brain, that we’ll never kiss his scraped knees, never be woken up by his chattering in the next room, never know what his giggles sound like. It’s difficult to explain but those feelings feel so deep and so painful that it gets difficult to breathe. We will never see our child grow up and it physically hurts. And then without realising, that pain eases just slightly and his beautiful little face will drift into the background, not completely out of sight because I’m not sure there will ever be a time when I’m not thinking about him somehow but just out of reach enough that I can go back to whatever I was doing without gasping for breath.