Mar12

One year

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Saturday 12th March

You’ve been gone from our lives
Exactly a year.
And we miss you so much
My darling, my dear.

On this day last March
You fell asleep
And joined the angels
Leaving us to weep.

As I gently held
Your still-warm body,
You passed from this world
To the next, so softly

Tomorrow never came,
For my precious one.
Tears have fallen
For my beloved son.

Twelve long months,
And the plans we made,
Have now been shelved,
But memories don’t fade.

One year in heaven,
We love you still.
We speak of you often,
And always will.

And every day of that first year has been a first…….

This is the post I made for 12th March 2015 . . . . . . .

I leave for school early, and my husband follows soon after with my son, to drive to Bristol to pick up our younger son, returning home from Spain.

They text me throughout the day to update their progress.

I end the school day with a Year 10 parents evening, so do not arrive home until 5:30pm.

They boys get back home soon after seven. It’s been a good day out, but everyone is a bit tired.

Younger son goes back to his flat, and elder son decides to take himself to our bed for a little sleep, until we are ready to go to bed. He likes his cuddles.

He says he is tired, and doesn’t really want to eat.

I watch a bit of television, then round about ten o’clock I get his night time medication ready.

Going into the bedroom, I see him lying on his tummy, as usual. Snuggled under the duvet.

I call to him.

No response.

I pull the covers back a bit, and he feels warm, but he is face down.

I pull his shoulder around and notice one side of his face looks a bit bluey purple.

He is not breathing.

His eyes look strange.

I shout to my husband.

I pull my son right over on his back.

I start mouth to mouth.

I shout to my husband to call 999.

I begin chest compressions.

Back to mouth to mouth.

The operator on the end of the phone tells me to put my son of the floor.

Keep going with the chest compressions.

He counts with me.

The ambulances are on the way.

I keep counting with the chest compressions.

The first paramedic arrives, and tells me to keep going with the chest compressions.

He sets up the defibrillator.

Nothing.

A tube is put down my son’s throat, and fluid is sucked out.

His lungs are filling up, because he is not breathing.

Two more paramedics arrive, and take over from me and my husband.

They keep on with the chest compressions.

Three shots of adrenaline are pumped to his heart via the chest line.

It’s not working.

Nothing is working.

My son is slipping away.

There is nothing more they can do.

He is gone.

No life left.

Our younger son arrived back at our house at this point.

He is utterly heartbroken.

A policeman comes into the house soon after.

Because it is an unexplained death, there are procedures to follow, and questions to answer.

My son is soon carefully lifted off the floor, and gently placed in his own bed.

I cover him with his duvet to keep him warm.

I hold his little hand tightly in mine.

I try to keep him warm, but his face is now really cold.

I stroke his cheeks and kiss him.

The colour has drained away.

Almost a waxy, creamy, white.

I go and get his hat.

He always slept wearing one on his head.

The back of his neck is still warm, as I pull the hat over his hairless head.

I cannot comprehend what has happened.

I talk to him.

Telling him to wake up.

Willing him to return.

Wanting him to hold me.

Pleading for him to open his eyes.

I’m still holding his hand, trying to keep him warm.

I cry silent tears.

His small little body could take no more, and his tiny heart stopped beating.

I know there are two men waiting outside to take him away.

They suggest I leave the room.

But I can’t.

I want to see that he his looked after.

And they do treat him with the utmost dignity and respect.

Making sure he is still wearing his hat.

They open a white body bag on the floor and carefully place my son inside.

I hold his hand for as long as I can.

Slowly the zip is closed over him, and then he is gently lifted onto a stretcher and strapped in place.

Another cover is pulled over, and then he is taken downstairs.

We all walk outside as he is put in the coroner’s van.

I touch his body again and say goodbye, goodnight.

He is driven away just after half past one in the morning.

I cry and cry and cry.

I cannot sleep.

I can feel him in the house with us.

When we do eventually go to bed, we put his dressing gown between us.

We try to hold onto him.

To keep him close.

Sleep peacefully my darling.

I miss you so very, very much.

We love you with all our hearts.

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A breezy, bright day at Gwithian

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Looking towards Godrevy lighthouse

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Frankie Angel Bear came with us

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My darling son

78 responses »

  2. I am so very sorry for your loss. Your writing conveys your grief and so much more, so much love and devotion. I lost a companion in 1980 and can relate to this. It’s been 36 years and it feels like yesterday at times. I hope that you can continue to find joy in life.

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  5. I have “liked” your post…but liked is not the feelings I have churning around thinking about you. That said, there isn’t a word. The anniversaries must be especially painful although I am sure never far from your mind, hope you can share..

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  6. I don’t think it is right for a parent to loose a child. It challenges all my beliefs. Your last minutes with him reminds me of my father passing away last year. For me when the last breath was taken there was immense peace in the room. Feel yourself hugged.

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  14. This is so so sad and I feel your sorrow. Even after a year this is obviously very raw. You will always love and remember your son but I hope the open wound heals soon and gives you some peace.
    xxx Huge Hugs xxx

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  18. Words can never express the pain & fear I experience while reading your words here. It’s hard to imagine how you survived that night. My head feels like it’s spinning after reading of your immense heartbreak and I feel a kind of numbness.
    It must have taken so much courage and strength for you to write & share this.
    I’m so so sorry to read of your pain and how you had to find your son that way.
    It’s so devastating to lose someone any way but to lose someone so suddenly and especially having to find the person like that is so traumatic, it’s hard to comprehend.
    Your son is probably the last person on Earth you would expect to lose.
    My heart goes out to all of you. ❤ ❤
    I'm sending you all so much love. Your son was a beautiful person (as you already know) and still is as he lives on in your heart forever and the hearts of all who knew and love him.
    Thank you for sharing his beautiful life & smile with us all. ❤
    Hugs & much love to you, today & always.

    Liked by 1 person

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    • It was a horrible night.
      And I re-live it over and over again.
      Just so unexpected and so devastatingly wrong.
      Numb is the correct word: your body just switches to automatic and you function in a kind of surreal manner.

      xx

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  26. As a mother, my heart is breaking for you! This account of what happened is so brave of you to write and share! I am so very sorry. There are no words for me to describe how I feel and my hugs and love are with you! you are a remarkable person who has love enough to keep your son’s lovely memory still going with you! I hope you find healing or some type of normalcy.I remember you said the “new normal” I cannot imagine how that could or would feel. Much love and a huge hug and admiration sent your way! Love, Lynn xxxx

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  28. There is simply no way to being able to imagine what you go through. A parent should never have to see their child pass away. And yet it happens. I’m so sorry for your loss. I believe that whoever leaves us will always be with us. We can let them go. Kind of like an eagle you let fly and then watch as it soars and masters the sky. They will be with us. In our heart and soul and in our memories. They are the wind caressing our face, playing with our hair. They are the sun, kissing our skin, hugging us with warmth.

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  31. I stopped by your blog to thank you for visiting mine. I am so very sorry for the loss of your beloved son, Frank. My heart ached as I read your account of the evening he went home to heaven. I am no stranger to grief myself. I’m not sure how you found my blog, maybe via the While We’re Waiting Facebook page? If not, it’s a closed Facebook group of bereaved parents. You can check them out on the web via Google and request membership if you are so inclined. May God bless you and bind up your wounds. You are not alone in loss! May Easter fill you with hope for unlimited days, unlimited time, reunited with Frank.

    Janet

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    • Thank you for stopping by, and for your lovely message.
      And yes, I’ve been a member of While We’re Waiting for quite some time, as an inactive spectator, at the moment. So much grief, and yet so much support, positivity, and understanding.
      Thank you again for your kindness.
      Melanie x

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