6 months on

It has now been half a year since my firstborn joyful boy died. Life for myself, his dad and identical twin brother has since then been the strangest mix of beautiful and broken.

I remember during our week with MJB in intensive care, in which we found ourselves frantically struggling to process the totally unexpected and horrific reality of what was happening, thinking, ‘If only I could just glimpse into the future and know whether it’ll be possible to survive this.’ At the time, there seemed no way to carry on living in such a cruel and hostile world: A world where it was possible for a totally loved and cared for baby to go from seemingly healthy and happy, to not breathing and brain damaged in a matter of moments. The circumstances of that moment - the what-ifs and guilt and confusion - continue to haunt me. As common-place as the daily instinct to eat something, comes the untenable longing to start over from that previously oblivious and happy morning to somehow divert the course of fate.

Each and every time I take a hit from these merciless waves of emotion, I have no choice but to hold my breath, search for the direction of the surface, and attempt to swim back to a place it’s safe to breath again. That safe place predominantly being anywhere I am with my husband and surviving son, away from the rest of the world. Generally speaking, the waves are more predictable now and I’m getting better at navigating myself away from areas of the roughest tides. But even then, I still find myself in the middle of an ocean of grief, with only the faintest outline of dry land in sight somewhere along the horizon. At no point has it felt safe to stop treading water. Not for a single moment have I felt free to totally switch off and really rest. How much of this state was brought on by my grief, or just new parenthood generally, I can’t really be sure.

In many ways though, I feel like my body and mind have adapted unpredictably well to the task of living life so far out of my comfort zone. I feel more focused and have become much more organised in an attempt to control whatever variables are within my ability to do so. I’ve learnt coping mechanisms and gained valuable perspective. My faith in there being a hopeful redemption for this sorry, messed up world has never been more confident. I recently rewatched the film ‘Life of Pi’ and felt a whole new appreciation for Pi’s resourcefulness, fearlessness and the power of self-narrative. It’s a beautiful film, with a poignant, confusing depiction of grief that I can really relate to. I aspire to Pi’s resolve to throw everything at life - but then again, he didn’t have anyone left to feel responsible to/for. My motherhood and marriage continue to paradoxically be my biggest sources of both comfort and anxiety. I miss feeling confident and reckless. I miss being fun.

6 months of living in this state of hypersensitivity to risks and threats, it’s starting to feel almost normal now, but never really ‘right’. Some days I barely notice the awkward, intrusive mass of grief I now share my life with. Occasionally I’ll snag myself on one of its jagged angry edges or trip over part of its messy, sprawling jealousy - but more often than not we move in a sort of reluctant harmony. Dwelling too long on the thought of negotiating the rest of my life accommodating this heartbreaking burden is sometimes far more scary than the thought of dying. My faith allows me not to fear death - or the subsequent consciousness in whatever mysterious form it’ll take. But I’m less convinced of it’s flaky reassurances about the broken beauty of living.

Not to worry though - I know I still have plenty to live for and intend to take a leaf from Pi’s page and throw everything I have at the task. I battle daily with questions of self care vs self-imposed duty, but I’m working on it: Joining my slimming group, taking up yoga one evening a week and investing more time in art - portraiture especially, have all been helpful steps towards finding peace with this. I’m also now looking forward to opportunities of potential future jobs. Life, as promised, just carries on. Denying the progress I’ve made in this reluctant journey of grief serves no-one - least of all MJB. I will choose my life narrative, where I can, to help direct the course of my life story around whatever obstacles fate has yet to dish out to me. I cling to hope of redemption, I yearn for my family to be reunited in pure and total joy someday and I’ll do my best, in the meantime, to do MJB and his little life’s big legacy proud.

This is where I’ve come to 6 months on, after 6 relentless months of not once being able to just switch off.