On the 3rd February 2018 it was 6 months since our darling boy departed life.
6 months without hearing his loud clicking noises or his cheeky belly laugh.
6 months without seeing his big glassy blue eyes or his arms flapping wildly.
6 months of not climbing into my little soldiers bed every night to squeeze him tightly and kiss him goodnight.
The pain of living my life without Lennon increases everyday. I miss him. I miss my old life. I miss being Lennon’s Mummy. It hurts. It is still a deep, heavy pain that I cannot describe.
I’m beginning to realise that grief doesn’t leave you – It becomes a permanent fixture in your life. You have to learn to co-exist with grief.
A few nights ago I had a vivid dream about Lennon. So intense and lifelike that for the first few seconds upon waking, I thought it was true.
I dreamt that Lennon had returned to life. I didn’t know how, but he was back with us, where he belongs.
I thought how lucky it was that we had kept his wheelchair – we could take him outside.
Lennon loved to be outside.
I was pushing Lennon in his chair up a steep hill, but he was too heavy and we couldn’t reach the peak.
Then he was back in his bedroom, lying in his beloved fishbowl bed. I had forgotten to administer his medications. I was angry and disappointed with myself that I had forgotten my strict, daily routine and worried that he would become poorly because of a stupid mistake I had made.
I subsequently moved Lennon’s large medication unit into his bedroom to help me remember.
It was all a dream. When the cold, unwanted truth hit me, I sobbed.
I was crest fallen that he wasn’t back, he is gone. Gone forever.
I was also saddened by the thought that I have lost my skills. Skills that I had proudly built up over 10 years. Procedures that I will never carry out again. Replacing a surgical jejunostomy tube, passing a nasal gastric tube, deep throat suctioning, replacing a gastrostomy button, putting on an ileostomy bag, accessing a port-a-Cath and taking blood.
All that expertise built up over so many years. I was proud of the responsibility I had bestowed upon me – yes, the pressure of it was immense and overwhelming, but being competent in all the procedures Lennon needed to enable him to stay at home with his family and away from hospitals was incredibly gratifying.
Keeping Lennon at home was very important to me.
Life has changed so much.
It is becoming more and more apparent to me that I am no longer a part of the ‘Special kids mums’ club. I am no longer living an extraordinary life.
I am a bereaved mother.
I can’t go back – no matter how much I wish that I could.