Monday, June 4, 2012

the colour of sad

DAY FOUR -- CLOSE-UP. Surely this counts?

Surprisingly, I am doing OK today. I wrote this truthfully and have been working on it all week, but this is not how I feel now. I decided to publish it anyway, but just know, I am OK.

All week, I have felt weighed down, heavy, sad and unable to float.

Because today is my sons' 16 th birthday.

In a normal family, there would be cake, and presents lovingly chosen and wrapped. There would be birthday wishes, and cuddles, and jokes and laughter, and candles and singing and a houseful of friends. There would be photos, at least one of the birthday boy looking both embarrassed and pleased by the fuss, and a whole album full of other photos, of birthdays-gone-by, with gap-toothed grins being slowly replaced by an Adams' apple and gangly limbs.

Not so here.

My son never had a single birthday. Not one. No presents, no cake, no wishes. Oh, well, that's not true, is it? No wishes? I have a whole galaxy of wishes made on stars. But he's still dead.

If you have never lost a child, you cannot know.

You can. Not. Know.

There is an emptiness, like the wind whistling round the corner in the dark, always. And at times like this, it's overwhelming.

People don't understand, that I don't miss HIM much. He was 48 days old. He had barely begun to develop, and I have next to no memories of life with him. What hurts the most, what I miss the most, is all that I missed out on.
I have no idea what his laugh would have sounded like. Whether he would have liked riding his bike or reading a book. What his favourite treat would have been. If he'd have liked frozen peas for dessert or refused to wear pink or hated my music.

Do you know the meaning of the word 'overwhelmed'? It means water rising up and up, over your face, over your head, completely engulfing you. Totally submerged. This is how I feel. Swallowed in the sea.

I'm shrouded in sad. It clouds my vision. It muffles voices. I can hear that people are talking to me, but I can't make sense of what they're saying.
It keeps me isolated, all alone in a crowd. I cannot connect with anyone. I cannot make myself care about the tiny meaningless details of everyday life. Not today.


  1. *hugs* The loss of the potential. Tears running down my face with you and so glad you are feeling better now.
    The Easter after I lost a pregnancy, my lovely BIL came over to hide eggs and a giant toy bunny for our daughter. She had a great time finding them and loved the bunny. I had to stay inside, hiding my tears, because I couldn't cope with the thought that there should have been another little girl there, basking in her Uncle's adoration. And there wasn't.

  2. I think my Mum has every idea how you would be feeling. Her first born, my brother, was stillborn. bAck then, they were just taken away, no chance to see them or say goodbye. He has no gravestone, and all of this still haunts her, but some years ago a memorial was set up at one of the cemetaries in town, for all the babies who have not been able to stay with us - I think this has helped, now she has somewhere to go to help her through her sorrow.
    I on the other hand cannot know how sad you must feel, but Im telepathetically sending you awesome kiwi hugs! Mwah!!

  3. My thoughts are with you Toni, heavy heart. xo

  4. You're so right. I can never know.

    I'm so sorry that you do xx

  5. I'm sorry I haven't stopped by before now, and have just seen this.

    While we can't know what you're feeling, we can feel the emotion in your words. I can feel the sadness and pain of your words. I am sad for you, that you missed out on all those things, missed out on knowing your son. And I'm sad that your son missed out on getting to know you.

    Toni, I'm glad you were okay on your son's birthday, but my thoughts are still with you. Sending you lots of love.


  6. I know and it engulfs me at times. {{Big hugs}}


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