I know of jobs that are available and their deadlines but have done nothing about them. It’s as if I’m paralysed by it all.
And on top of that, I’ve slowly realised – well I knew this but I hadn’t articulated it quite so clearly to myself - that my anger is not because my son is dead. My anger exists because I feel my grief is ignored.I know he is gone. I hurt beyond belief because he is gone. But I am consumed with a fury at the indifference displayed by those who should care.
My anger is not a direct result of his death. It’s a direct result of others lack of concern, lack of compassion, lack of basic humanity.I miss him more this week. I don’t know why that is. You’d think I’d have enough on my mind worrying about whether the house will be repossessed by Christmas and we’ll have nowhere to live. But instead thoughts of Al permeate through everything this week
He was the perfect baby. He slept well, breastfed well, ate anything and everything I gave him – except baked beans – if they were dished up, his bottom lip would tremble and huge tears would well up and spill down his cheeks as if I’d given him a large bottle marked POISON and told him to drink.This week I find myself remembering his physical form. It’s as if my body can feel him in my arms – how he lay in my arms sleeping, how soft his skin was, how long his lashes were when he blinked and tickled my cheek with them. And again years later - when I bought him his first electric razor and he rubbed his chin against my cheek to demonstrate how smooth his skin was.
My arms ache for him.
The irony is that if he were still here, I’d tell him of my awful news and he’d gaze into the air, sniff, and then ask, “What’s for tea?” It isn’t as if he was ever a shoulder to cry on. I just miss the normality of him being around. I want to tell him I’ve lost my job and then feel annoyed at him for his lack of empathy. I want my normality back. I want my son back. I miss my boy.