2 months, almost 9 weeks, 61 days, since I held my little soldier tight, whispered I love you and said Goodbye.
The longest Lennon and I had ever been apart was 5 days last summer.
8 weeks seems like a lifetime, although when I think, I potentially another 40 years plus without him, then 8 weeks feels like no time at all.
I am getting up, dressed and out everyday. But the pain is still there, and as deep as it was on that day. It still hits me like a boxing glove to the chest every day when I wake up.
The sympathy cards with all their stories of Lennon and messages of love and sorrow, are still spread around our home. I can’t bring myself to take them down.
Lennon’s bedroom remains more or less untouched. His fishbowl bed still has pride of place in the middle of the room. The medical trolley is still brimming with dressings and medical equipment. His freshly washed clothes on the dresser waiting to be put away in the drawers. All his medical emergency plans and equipment lists still fixed to the backs of doors.
I know I need to sort through all of Lennon’s belongings and clothes.
But not yet, not just yet.
Keech Hospice have been amazing. Faye has been a godsend, my fairy godmother. I went to visit the hospice to collect all of Lennon’s belongings and the memory items that the nurses had made.
It felt ‘odd’ not going down to the Meadow Suite to sit with him. I had gotten used to sitting in that room with him. The feeling of coldness, and the sight of the sun’s reflection over the silver plaque on Lennon’s coffin had become so familiar to me in the days before the funeral. Faye made me tea, we shared memories and cried tears over the perfect hand and foot moulds made in the days after Lennon had died.
She took me to the Job Centre for some advice on money. She felt my pain when we left. Not only are the 10 and half years I spent caring for Lennon and working tirelessly as an unqualified HDU nurse to keep my child alive, was not recognised in the eyes of the Department of Work and Pensions, but that there is nothing anyone can do to help us financially until I feel able to return to work after my 11 year hiatus.
We also established between us, that there is no word for a bereaved parent – you lose your partner, your a widow. You lose your parents, your an orphan.
Faye also went the Children’s ward and collected Lennon’s wheelchair for us. It had been abandoned on the ward the day we left for Addenbrookes. Once the DVLA had taken the tax off our motability car we had no way of getting Lennon’s wheelchair back ourselves. Ian was planning on walking it back all the way from Lister. I had told him I thought he would find it too emotional.
Ian and Lennon spent hours aimlessly walking around at the weekends. Lennon loved to be out and about with his Daddy. Walking was their ‘Father Son’ time. Ian missed that fact that he wasn’t a football or rugby dad – I always felt their long walks together was Ian’s way of getting around that.
As well as Lennon’s wheelchair being home, his Ppod chair has taken up residence in our living room – on the insistence of the girls. They both enjoy sitting in it, watching television, and feeling close to their much loved brother. I love that they get comfort from this, but at the same time envious that my bum is not small enough for me to also curl up in the same spot and feel close to Lennon.
And that’s what I find myself doing most days – thinking of ways in which I can feel closer to him.
I bath instead of shower. Lennon loved a bath. I sit outside, close my eyes and embrace the wind on my face. I watch episodes of Yo Gabba Gabba. I spend hours looking through photos and videos of Lennon. I have even contemplated jumping on a train and visiting Great Ormond St.
Memories are lovely, but sometimes they are not enough. Sometimes I find myself wanting more than just memories.
Previous Blog Post – I would give anything