First of all, let me start by saying my baby has been gone for five weeks yesterday. 35 days!!
How cruelly fast the time passes, stealing with it the sweetest features, the small details, the tactile.
I have started to forget how my baby’s tiny hands looked. I need pictures to remind me now. My body has stopped aching for his physical presence in a painful way. The time has dulled the sharpness of the physical pain.
But he is still in my thoughts. Of course he is. He is there when I accidentally end up on the Mothercare website and spot the “small brother” baby grow. And my heart stops for a few painful seconds.
He is there when I go for a walk in Perea, where our holiday apartment used to be and I see a baby boy pushed in a pram. And my mind says “this should have been us” before I can stop the thought from coming.
He is there in Emma’s features when she is deeply asleep.
He is there, present and remembered and adored, in every single conversation I have with my mum.
He is there in our plans for the future. For a forever house named after my special little boy.
And he is there when I am angry.
For four weeks I have felt entitled to be angry. To be angry with people and their stupid comments. Comments that catch you by surprise and in doing so hurt you in your deepest of deepests.
For four weeks I have cursed under my breath. And sometimes out loud.
I have cursed in four weeks more than I have cursed in my entire life.
Because there was nothing else my mind could come up with as a reaction.
What do you say when your husband keeps waking up day after day after day saying “I hate my life.”
How do you respond when your girl keeps asking with every news of a newborn: “Will he die too, mummy?”
When my heart kept being ripped out of my chest with the sight of every baby soundly asleep in his pram and superposing images flashed through my head of my baby suffering and dying such a cruel death?
But recently I realised I have a choice.
Oh, yeah, I am justified in being angry, of course I am.
Oh, yeah, I am justified to use bad language, could anyone blame me?
Oh, yes, I am justified to hold it against people for saying stupid things to us. For preaching at us. For blaming us for our baby nor being healed. For people not mentioning our baby’s name, not once, as if he had not existed.
Of course I am.
But will I keep doing it?
Because I want to honour my baby with my reactions and my life.
Because I can’t behave as a spoilt brat towards God just because I didn’t get my way.
Because at the end of the day, my Georgie is safe. Forever safe. In arms of love. The greatest arms of Love. He just took an early bus home, that is all.
And in the greatest scheme of things, him being forever safe is more important than my temporary pain.
Baba boo, baby blue, mummy hasn’t forgotten you. You are loved and cherished. Until the end of times. And beyond. Into eternity.
When we will cuddle up and hold hands and laugh until our bellies hurt.
And I know that God will not mind that upon arrival into heaven I will ask for a cuddle with you first.