Acceptance?

Once again, it's been a few days since my last post. This is a good sign. I have been deliberately keeping very busy. Not only have my days been filled up with activities with Izzy, appointments and house jobs, but something else has changed too. I have, at least for now in this new life that I live in a permanent state of flux, decided upon a direction, a plan of action, a path forward.

I say 'at least for now' because who knows what is around the corner. But a big change has happened. The Kübler Ross model of the five stages of grief dictates that a grieving person would normally experience the following emotions: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Tick, tick, tick, tick.... tick?

It might only be temporary; I might slip back into any of the previous four, but I do feel I'm nearer to acceptance now. I am calmer and more rational, but conversely I am slightly bitter because I feel I have been forced into acceptance because Izzy hates to see me cry and Olivier just leaves the room if I do, so there's really no point in crying any more - it's just self-serving - no-one comforts me. But I feel guilty because it feels too soon.

My pragmatic side is telling me, 'William really has gone. You can't bring him back.' But my mummy side is asking how in two months I can accept that he's gone after knowing my little guy (including growing time inside me) for over three years? And of course, all those future years that I had mapped out with him that are now gone?

It's almost like I am building a wall in my head that thoughts of William, and therefore the associated emotions, cannot penetrate. I used this method to stop smoking. I just didn't let the tiniest thought of smoking enter my consciousness - once you allow this to happen, you end up in the cycle of craving, fulfilling etc.

So the wall is going up. I am emotionless. I am on autopilot. I feel nothing inside. And I have decided to concentrate all my energies on pulling my family back together. Quaint as it may sound, I will 'keep house'; concentrate on Izzy and the house and making family life an attractive proposition, or ideal, for Olivier, while leaving him to follow his own route forwards with the secret hope that one day before my eggs have gone off, he'll want to have another child. No pressure.

With my new found strength, I have been food shopping. I have been out in public. In fact, now I prefer to be out than in. This week, both my psychologist and psychiatrist appointments have passed much more smoothly, with less anguish and tears than previously. In fact, the psychologist has suggested a longer break between appointments - this can only be a good thing - right?

This week I filled up like this:

Tuesday - psychologist followed by taking Izzy to her little 'boyfriend's' house across the road for a playdate while I attacked the housework. Izzy and Olivier therefore came home to a clean house and a proper dinner. Izzy was in bed at a reasonable hour and had loads of reading and time dedicated to her. Olivier and I watched our series together in front of the tv. Good mummy, good wifey. If our communication is down right now, at least let's be in the same room, on the same sofa, together.

Wednesday - Psychiatrist followed by quick lunch with Izzy then to Cap d'Agde to meet an English/Belgian mummy friend of mine,(another Isabelle!) for a chat while Izzy played mini-golf with her two boys (12 and 14). Izzy loves big boys! I think she has fallen in love with Benny, the 14-year old - he was so patient with her, bless him! We spent all afternoon chatting, then I followed her to the supermarket and we shopped. We didn't get home till 7.45 - a long and busy day! Got another good dinner on the table and bedtime routine went fine.

Thursday - Izzy and I plus Isabelle from the day before and my Scottish friend Jane had all planned to take our kids zip-lining, followed by a picnic, but the thunderstorms put paid to that idea. We all ended up at the cinema, watching Ice Age 4 in 3D, Izzy reaching out and trying to grab things from the screen and having giggling hysterics next to me, so excited she couldn't even stay sitting down! Our gastronomic lunch for all nine of us afterwards was at Quick (France's version of Burger King), where Izzy ran some energy out in the climbing thing.  We were home mid-afternoon and I was forced to sit through Cats & Dogs on dvd with Izzy on the sofa (absolute nonsensical drivel!). Then I cooked dinner, bedtime, tv etc etc.

Don't worry, I'm not going to document each day in such boring detail as above, but everything I have done this week is progress and I have cried less and felt much less despair.

By no means have I forgotten William - I have dedicated certain times to going into his room and thinking about him. And do you know what? I don't cry every time! I still miss him and I still wish he could come back, but I accept now that he can't. I think, what would HE want? He wouldn't want to see us stay sad for ever and ever. For William, we have to make sure that our family stays together, that Izzy is not scarred by this, maybe even see to it that she gets another brother or sister one day...

Sharing a Strawberry Lace!

Paddling at Marseillan Port

Paddling at Marseillan Port

Words I now understand

It's very hard to find the time around Izzy to write my blog. She's keeping me busy (which is, of course, a good thing) and hates it when I'm on my computer. By the time I've spent a good hour on her night-time routine (teeth, bed, she reads a bit to me, I read a bit to her, cuddles and a good chat), I am too pooped to even think about writing. 

Izzy also hates to see me crying. I'm actually crying less now as I'm so occupied with Izzy and feeling more able to get on with the mundane everyday time-filling tasks of life such as turning the laundry, cleaning and even cooking. But I do still burst into spontaneous tears several times a day and today as I started weeping in the car (the thinking place), Izzy started tutting and sighing which infuriated me. Oh God, how I hate all these intense, conflicting emotions that have the power to take control of me and turn me into someone I don't even recognise.

In fact, now that I have written that, it's truer to say that I have turned into someone different forever. I wear a constant sad face, I walk sadly, I find joy in nothing. But I have to try for Izzy's sake. That's what will keep me going, walking this journey of time as each day takes me further away from 'then'. The waves still come and go and have their peaks and troughs, but there seems to be more space between them and they are certainly less violent. (And will hopefully become less so now that my psychiatrist has prescribed me anti-depressants as a short-term crutch.)

We've all read the words in romantic novels; words such as 'yearning' and 'longing' and 'heartache' or 'heartbreak'. Well now I understand them all. My heart literally does feel 'heavy' and the force of the feeling of longing to hold my son again is so strong it sometimes feels like my heart will push itself out of my chest. I don't know why it feels like my heart is being pushed or pulled from my body, but that's exactly what I feel pretty much all the time. It's like an ache that is always there, it may ebb and flow according to current external influences and distractions, but it's always there in the background.

Missing. That's another word. I am missing William enormously. He is missing from our lives. He who was the constant, the glue that stuck us all together, the fourth corner in our square. Izzy is at school all day and one day a week at her dad's, as well as for half the school holidays, so although we miss her when she's not here, we're used to it, but William was always here. I share Izzy, but William was mine - we did everything together. It sounds selfish to say 'mine' and not 'ours' but he was still at the stage where he was an extension of me. He was only just becoming a little boy with a sense of self, of ego. He was just on the point of separation from me in both the psychological and physical sense, with his place booked to do mornings at nursery school.

I'm not saying Olivier didn't have a role - he did and he is a great father (note 'is' - you don't stop) - he did bath-times and often fed William and we shared bedtimes, sometimes me, sometimes Olivier, so William got books in both languages. And the couple of times I came to the UK with Izzy, Olivier looked after William around work (when in the daytimes William had the love of his grandparents (English and French) as well as a childminder) for a week at a time. He loved it!!

William was so loved by everyone around him. We must be careful not to forget the feelings of Isabelle, of William's grandparents, great-grandparents, uncles, aunts and extended family, of my and Olivier's long-time friends, who all adored him and whose depth of loss is also immensely profound. Our little guy never knew the meaning of words such as 'bad', 'mean' or even 'punishment' (although he did have a touch of the mischievous in him!). He was taken at the age where he had done no harm, and no-one had done him any harm. His life was short, but it was perfect.

Black hole

My first post since my return to my adopted homeland. Why? Because, for once, I actually have no idea what to write. My life has been turned upside down. My nine days of being nurtured and cared for to strengthen me for the immediate times ahead have been rendered worthless in one fell swoop.

I was hoping that some time away, and apart from Olivier who is grieving so very differently to me, would do us some good. Would he miss me and be overjoyed to have me back? Hmmm. No. How wrong could I have been. I came back giving hugs, taking his hand in mine, sitting on the sofa wanting to talk. As I have said before, I am a planner and I need some concrete concept of a potential future, ANY potential future, to hold onto and to work towards. For me, I feel we had made our gorgeous William and we will NEVER forget him, but I have an intense and innate need within me to have another baby. Another baby with Olivier, my husband.

From what I read there is not a 'good' or 'bad' time to start having these thoughts. For me, my age is of course a huge factor and I need to know if there will ever be a chance of this. As I mentioned before, if Olivier denies me this chance, will I end up resenting him? Could our marriage survive this? I felt I'd advanced enough and gathered enough strength over the recent days to broach this subject again - back to France, new beginnings etc.

But Olivier will not countenance the idea. His response, for a man not usually known for his locquaciousness, was to launch into a diatribe about how he can't stand 'family life' any more, the routines of things like eating together round the table, eating at a certain time (very important in France), morning routines, other peoples' children, and, worst of all, being part of a family in general. (He, who has just spent the whole week I was away at his friends' houses, eating round the table with them and their little children... whereas I am going out of my way to avoid these situations). He wants to be alone.

Well hey - welcome to my world!! I can't stand any of that either!  But I AM HIS family - he IS MY family. So what is he saying? And I have the responsibility of Izzy so I have to keep my part of the family operating as normally as possible. Is he relinquishing all responsibility?

In our household it has always been very much the fact that Izzy is my child and I do everything (90%) for and with her, but William was OUR child so we shared the responsibility equally. It was often hard for me to see him lavishing such love and attention on William while giving Isabelle a perfunctory kiss on the top of her head in the morning. We'd spoken about it, but Olivier is not naturally a 'kid person' and found it hard to bond with Izzy. Step-families are hard work, as I am sure many of you know.

Now, Izzy is making such an effort to give Olivier hugs and kisses - I think she understands that she is all he has left. She'll jump into his lap for a cuddle and he'll stay stiff as a board, ams by his side and give her a couple of little pats on the back. So sad to see.

But I do need to say here that I think I have been pushing Olivier too early to move on. Whatever the concept of 'moving on' is, as my friend Kate remarked insightfully this morning, at the same time noting that our concept of this is a very Anglo-Saxon one, whereas the Mediterranean way of grieving may be very different. It brings to mind all those summers I spent in Malta, an extremely Catholic nation, where, once a widow, you wore black for the rest of your life. That's it, you're grieving. I almost wish we still wore black armbands to signify our state of grieving, as we did in the past. Then I wouldn't feel the need to spurt it out, to explain my sorry state, every time I break down out there in the real world.

Olivier's mum sent me a really good link (in French) to an article about how men grieve - http://www.traverserledeuil.com/comprendre-le-processus-de-deuil/dossiers/dossier-du-mois - this went into much more depth than anything else I have read. Most of it says to leave them alone, no pressure etc. Modern society's expectations of 'man' are to BE strong, STAY strong, look after those around them, not to crumble, not to ask for help etc. So that's what they do. In our case, add in the whole Mediterranean twist and a pinch of typical French arrogance and inherent mysoginy and you have one helluva situation for isolation.

So I KNOW I need to step back. But by doing that we are growing further apart. So we are going round in circles.  Will we find each other again in time (there's that word again)? Or will this be the end of us? I feel we need to be working at least a little bit in tandem to get through this horrendous nightmare together. And I want to talk! But he doesn't and now I'm getting advice from all directions about it being important for us to talk and then this new information that says step back and leave men alone!

Well, even though the link above spoke mostly about leaving men to get on with their grieving and throw themselves into work and other projects, it did also say towards the end that talking CAN help. So now I finally have some good news. Olivier has agreed to go to see a professional and has an appointment next week. To protect his privacy, I won't say any more than that. But let's just hope that this is a tiny step forwards for us as a couple and as a family.

Because right now, all I can see is a big black hole where my future should be.

Journey home

I'm sitting on the plane writing this blog, whispy clouds and France beneath me, holding a laminated photo of William in my hands, as well as his second favourite doudou (he was buried with his favourite).

As much as I try to think of other things or read, my thoughts turn to him. Fortunately there are far fewer children on this flight and none that I have been 'confronted' by - suddenly found myself right next to.

In the departure lounge, however, I could hear a small child running around and giggling manically - something was obviously giving him or her such pleasure! My heart lurched at the memory of Izzy and William running around giggling hysterically together. Then the tears fell.

I remember the many times that Izzy and William, a dolly's pushchair each, would chase each other round and round the house in absolute fits of giggles - a joy to behold and now a treasured memory. They would appear speeding through the kitchen to the dining room and out to the hall, Izzy chasing William, and then re-appear in the kitchen, William chasing Izzy. The next tour would somehow find Izzy pushing William in the dolly pram! Needless to say, the pushchairs ended up wrecked, especially after a few times of William heaving Izzy round squeezed into the tiny frame of her baby's 3-wheeler!

I can remember being a bit cross when her expensive pushchair finally snapped under the pressure - it seems so irrelevant now. I'd give anything to have those times again - who cares about a broken toy?

The journey home has been much better than the journey away. I am crying only sporadically, whereas en route I was a sobbing wreck. I got my screaming and shouting out in the car yesterday between Angèle's house and Vanessa's (having restrained myself for five days), so I am calmer today.

I am also slightly calmer thanks to these nine days away and the love and caring I have received from my wonderful friends. At this point I need to add in a final thank you - to Vanessa and John for having me last night and to their beautiful daughters, Emily (3.5) and Annie (2.5) for all their little kid cuddles that I thought I'd never be able to handle again just a few short days ago. Those cuddles were actually fantastic.

Two weeks today I'll be back doing this route the other way around for the bereavement weekend. I have absolutely no idea how I'll be for that journey. It's enormously difficult leaving Olivier and Izzy behind. But, from what I've read, the next trip should prove to be a turning point, or at least provide some sort of emotional step forward.

For now, I am so excited to be seeing Olivier and Isabelle very very soon! We've just landed! Huge hugs coming up!

Edging towards home time thoughts

I am lying in bed at Angèle's house, my last night here, feeling suddenly very scared. Tomorrow afternoon I head to my friend Vanessa's house in St Albans, before flying home on Thursday lunchtime.

Back to the great emptiness. Back to two-thirds of the rest of my family. As much as I have deeply missed Olivier and Izzy, I just know I'm going to crack.

But today was a much better day than yesterday. Those waves you see. Charlotte arrived this afternoon and we three girls went out for tea - sitting at a café's pavement table; to the outside world, three normal middle class mummies. We chatted and I even caught myself laughing! Like I had stepped outside my sad shell for just a short while into the normal world.

But looking in on this scene, I see me with visible lines of grief etched on my face - that's what I see when I look in the mirror. The ends of my mouth turned permanently down and jowls appearing. Grief is aging.

Something that is by turns unnerving and then comforting is that I also see William every time I look in a mirror. Where Isabelle has my blonde hair, she has her father's eyes and generous mouth, as well as his teeth. She has 'a look' of me about her, but William funnily enough, looked just like both me and Olivier.

I remember earlier this school year, outside the classroom waiting for Izzy one afternoon, with William in my arms, a mummy said to me, 'Mais c'est dingue comment il te resemble!' Which means, 'it's amazing how much he looks like you!' I was SO proud!

We don't do peas in a pod in our family. Everyone looks completely different. But William looked like me. I loved it! Those who know Olivier said he looked like Olivier, those who know me said he looked like me, but my theory is that both Olivier and I have straight, aquiline noses and long cupid's bows and William had the TINIEST little nose and long cupid's bow (whenever we saw newer babies than him - sorry other mummies - we'd remark to each other what enormous noses they had as we were used to our William's tiny little conk!). I only wish we'd been able to see him grow up, see him as the boy and then the man he should have become. I know he would have made us proud, as I know Izzy will one day (and in fact, does already).

Charlotte stayed all afternoon and then for dinner. How lovely it was to be distracted by two of my favourite gals together at the same time!

I must admit to spending some time today replying to emails (thanks guys) and starting to arrange some things to do for when I get back. I am going back slightly regenerated, hopefully a smidgeon stronger... and nine days further on.

I am determined to find the strength to do the weekly shop, to take control of that at least. Nothing new for now, but trying to get back in the saddle and grab back the reins of those everyday tasks and take control of the home-making horse.

Support

Thanks to my old school PE teacher, Tessa Brown, for pointing me in the direction of the Child Bereavement Charity website.

I have found some excellent information sheets there, such as this one called Helping Yourself Through Grief:

http://www.childbereavement.org.uk/Portals/0/Support%20and%20Information/Helping%20yourself%20through%20grief%20%20JA%20format.pdf

I recognise my own grieving process there - I am definitely someone who isolates and shouts and screams to let it out. For me it's a release and does not beget more anger.

Here's another excellent one about what friends and family can do to help: http://www.childbereavement.org.uk/Portals/0/Support%20and%20Information/What%20friends%20and%20family%20can%20do%20%20JA%20format.pdf

This information sheet gives some concise advice about how you can help a bereaved person. For me lots of our friends in France have asked if we need anything and I've responded with an automatic 'No, we're fine' - typically British I suppose as we're not fine at all. I think if I was giving advice to someone about how to help a bereaved person, I would say to insist - sometimes a second ask denotes an honest desire to help, rather than sounding like a cliché or platitude.

I remember reading in my grieving book from Wendy that the bereaved parents said that if someone asked how they were, they replied with a simple 'fine' or 'ok' (I tend to say, 'you know' and tail off), but then if that person insisted and said, ' No, but REALLY, how are you?' then that was a green light to open up. Something to remember.

I guess what I was looking for in the really early days (and even now) was someone close enough and confident enough to step up, take control and food shop for us, bring ready-made food to us or organise others to share this task, to pop in and sweep the floors (I left our tiled floors looking like we'd had carpet installed, there was so much Pepsi hair on them!), wipe the kitchen down, give the bathrooms a once-over... (We have recently found a cleaner who comes for two hours every two weeks, but interim the house is a state.)

I don't even remember the first four weeks before I started this blog. All I remember is that I managed to get Izzy to tennis lessons. How the hell did I do that?!

If only I had someone close enough to me in France who could have recognised all this and just moved in for a little bit, to help us through the initial helpless phase, instead of me having to make the horrific journey by plane on my own to the UK for comfort from my long-time friends.

But, oh how this time has done me good; being completely looked after. I honestly can't thank my friends enough. I was worried about staying with Angèle for so long, taking up precious summer holiday time with her kids, but Wendy said to me 'Ham, she gets it, she totally gets it. Don't worry.' And she does. And I love her all the more for it.

I hope and pray that, when I get back home on Thursday evening, I don't drop back into the pit of despair that I was in when I left. It's being on my own that is hard. Just too much dwelling time. And I have not yet had the confidence or desire to start projects - jeez - I can't even plan a family meal. Izzy has been pretty much feeding herself while she's with us. Thank God she actually likes to eat well! Even if her choice of biscotti toppings has become increasingly creative, at least she's eating and she's become an expert at spreading them without breaking them!

I keep reading that in fact, when the time is right, going back to work is a turning point. Bloody hard, but it puts structure back into grieving peoples' lives. Unfortunately I don't go out to work. I have my own tiny cottage industry business. So ok, it's high season and I'm busy which should be a good thing, but my business is renting out baby and toddler equipment to ex-pat grandparents and holidaymakers.

I cannot begin to explain how heartbreaking it is to be collating toy packs for little boys to play with - all the types of things William played with. Cars, dinosaurs, fire engines, things that beeped, buzzed, rang, sang and rolled.

But, paradoxically, I like the sense of purpose my business gives me - it's an obligation and a small time-consuming distraction.

Oh how I wish I could fast-forward to something like two years in the future. Will I have a baby? Where will we be living? Where will Izzy be going to school? How will Olivier's new business be doing?

Olivier's last day at his old, salaried job was due to be the day after the accident. Of course he didn't go. He left to start his own business - this has proved to be a life-saving distraction for him. He has thrown himself into the new business with energy and determination. I understand also that he feels he needs to make a success of this as he couldn't bear for this to go wrong on top of losing William.

We are grieving differently but we are also trying to communicate and be there for each other. In fact, it was Olivier who ran the house in that black week that I spent crying on the sofa when we returned from our aborted holiday.

Anyway, I get home Thursday and I will try to step up myself, to face the supermarket, to meal plan, to prepare and cook food that doesn't interest me... It will at least fill some time.

My own Olympic challenge

I missed writing yesterday as it was a busy and exhausting day. So here's a rundown if what happened.

After lunch we decided to take all four of Angèle's children plus me (I count as another responsibility right now as I'm pretty useless at helping with anything more brain-challenging than laying the table) on public transport to Stratford to see what we could see of the Olympic Village.

I don't think even I can find the words to describe the journey there. I was on the brink of a complete meltdown almost the whole way and trying to hold it together. All the triggers were there - why did I not think about this?? Public space with crowds of the general public in them, an overground train, a station change, escalators, a hot, packed, smelly tube train that we had to stay on for about 7 stops. Tears pricking at my eyes constantly, bottom lip wobbling, fear of this whole escapade. My confidence is rock bottom.

I have had a couple of spells living in London over the years and my parents have always been based here, so I am completely London Transport savvy - I know London and I LOVE London! But not right now. All these people around me, going about their normal lives when mine has changed forever. I wanted to be back in their world and out of my parallel, tortured universe.

Parents pushing prams and pushchairs, holding tightly to trusting little hands, Build a Bear shops, toy shops, kids' clothes shops. And each time, intuitively, I would be drawn to things with stars or pirates on them before a millisecond later realising that I no longer had my boy to buy these things for. Three years of habit now has to be suddenly erased. Each moment of realisation kicking me mentally till the cumulative effect resulted in me quite simply spending my afternoon in a tortuous cycle of crying, trying to pull myself together and stop, then crying again. Angèle's kids were amazing and as soon as they spotted me crumbling, would come and give me a big hug around the waist! Beautiful.

But around all this we managed to get to Jon Lewis's Viewing Gallery in the Westfield Centre and take photos of the Olympic Stadium. We had a good walk round and absorbed all the Olympic paraphernalia; both in the form of thousands of different types of souvenir tat in the shops as well as the street decorations, the Coca Cola bridge, and huge works of specially-commissioned art. And everything so lovely and clean (all rubbish bins were in groups of three for different recycling requirements). Pix below.

In summary of our outing I would say I am glad we did it, even though it was the hardest outing I have done 'since' (even harder than the flight over) but it is one more new memory, one more tiny step forward, and also we are now another day away from then.

Yesterday Angèle and I joked that we needed one of those multiple dog leads to make sure we kept all the children together. It made me think of the reins (that Genevieve had given me for Izzy in fact) that I used to put on William (he was not a 'stay by your side' kinda kid). He loved them! He would simply lie down on his tummy and wait for me to pick him up by the reins horizontally, Mission Impossible style! One other trick I used to keep him in one place was when we got to the car and I needed my hands to get the keys out to unlock the car, I'd say 'Hands on car!' and William would love this game and put both hands flat on the side of the car while I opened it. He understood so much even if he didn't yet say much. He loved putting things in the bin for us and knew the difference between the normal bin and the recycling bin. He loved helping.

Today, Tuesday, Charlotte is visiting for afternoon tea, bless her. She and Angèle have became friends through all this, and, however hard it is to do, I do try and appreciate what I see as these little gifts that William is leaving behind.

I have had friends write and tell me of their own experiences of grief and how my blog is helping them in some small way. I've been trying to put people who can offer advice and support to others in touch with each other. One friend is now seeking counselling for her grief that she sadly and unknowingly felt obliged to suppress at the time.

William's legacy has been to help others and you've got to love him all the more for that.

The Shard

Lego Olympic Stadium

The Olympic Stadium

 

Stratford Transport Terminal

The Coco Cola Bridge

Stratford Transport Terminal again

Angèle and her children

Culture Fix

This morning the boys went out to play cricket and us girls (Angèle, myself and Maia - one of the boy-girl twins who will be 11 on Friday) stayed at home and took it easy. I love the fact that the children have all these activities on their doorstep. Angèle and her family live in a leafy suburb of London called Beckenham. And it really is very green; houses almost without exception having both front and back gardens, off-road parking AND garages adjoined to their houses.

So different to where we live where gardens, at least in terms of the older, interesting character properties, are almost non-existent. The village centres comprise houses built so tightly together (and with zero outside space), that you sometimes have to park streets away from your own house as it's only accessible by foot! And in the villages municipal parks or even any green spaces are rare as they take so much watering to keep them green and healthy.

I miss the greenery of home. I don't miss the weather. I do miss the culture, the style, the art, the theatre, British comedy, the diversity of street fashion... I could go on.

I am beginning to question whether the extra sunshine where I live in France can ever compensate for the dearth of all things cultural. And now that I have no William to love and cherish, I foresee days, weeks and months of endless boredom.

Today Angèle and I nipped out to the wonderfully colourful, cosmopolitan 'village' of Greenwich, by the Thames. How fabulous to be able to do that!

We saw the (outside of) the newly rebuilt Cutty Sark - amazing! We had a wander around the market, where each stall seemed to propose something unique and well-crafted; from jewellery to bags, from clothes to pottery - everything of such a superior quality.

I am afraid to say all I ever get to see are the local village Christmas fairs to which my friend John and I have attributed a special saying: 'Just because you CAN paint on glass, doesn't mean to say you should'.

I bought a coaster in the style of a stone tile for William's memory box and Angèle bought me a 'positive thought reinforcement' tile. Pix below.

But we only stayed at Greenwich for an hour - I kept breaking down. God - will I ever be able to look at a 2 year old boy again? Every time I see one I think, 'Why aren't I holding William's hand?' or 'Why aren't I pushing William in his pushchair?' He should still be HERE!

Blogging off now...

From freezing to frazzling - and that's just my brain

A bedtime post like yesterday. If you don't hear from me, it's because I am being kept busy, which is a good thing.

Charlotte took me into Guildford yesterday morning and I somehow bought clothes. This is astonishing as I currently have no interest in anything of the sartorial nature. As well as the aforementioned LBD (Little Black Dress for the uninitiated) (when am I ever going to dress up again?), I bought a bright pink t-shirt 'for next year', hoping I'll feel like wearing colours again before the style goes out of fashion.

We had lunch with my aunt, Charlotte's mum, Caroline, who had come to drop Charlotte's boys off after a visit and stayed for the afternoon. It was lovely chatting with her and she gave out some greatly-needed support and hugs.

Charlotte's house was my sanctuary. Intuitive and sensitive, as well as completely selfless and giving, she put all her plans on hold and completely looked after me, keeping me occupied, fed, left alone when I needed to be and allowing her phone to be used for other friends to check in on me. A lot. (Thanks, you guys!) I hadn't even planned on seeing her as she'd only left my house in France the week before! What a gal! And her husband, Duncan, is a special man too - thank you for your kind and sensitive note, Dunc. It was perfect. x

So this morning I set off for Angèle's house - only an hour and a quarter away. I unfortunately have had to leave out visiting my friend Helen in the Cotswolds as the return trip would have meant too much travel/thinking/crying time. But we had an intense hour long phone call on Friday evening and I promised to see her next trip.

I arrived at Angèle's (cried almost all the way again) to big hugs from all four of her gorgeous children, as well as herself and her husband, Jon. We passed an easy day, once Jon had taken the kids out on a bike ride and we could actually hear ourselves talk! When they got back, Angèle whipped me out for a coffee (choc milkshake actually - comfort drink) and some top-up food shopping. Good mundane time-filling activities.

It's been very hot today - when I arrived in the UK I regretted not bringing any socks with me. I am now sitting on my bed with a fan directed at me! Boiling!

To summarise the last few days in terms of emotions, I would say that I had a very low day on Thursday, but better yesterday and today.

I am someone that, when I hit a problem, I analyse, rationalise, produce a range of solutions, pick the best one and consequently act upon it. That is my standard modus operandi.

But here I am lost. There IS no solution. I cannot find a way out of this one. All I can do is try my hardest to cope, to go with the flow of mourning and to HOPE that it will get easier.

One coping mechanism I have decided upon is to concentrate on Izzy's education. She starts proper primary school in September (a year later than in the UK). She is staying, for now, at the same school in our tiny village (pop. 800 or so), but there are other options.

Olivier and I are both of the same mind when it comes to the house. Finish the bits that are left, re-assess whether we want to or are able to stay living in it, and probably put it on the market as soon as the lawns are green again. Bye bye dream house we bought to raise our family in.

Personally, I think if we move, it's not worth moving, for instance, just to the next village. Let's shake things up a bit.

This afternoon I researched the following:

1. Website for the private bi-lingual school in Baillargues, the other side of Montpellier, an hour to an hour and a half away depending on traffic. The website is appalling, with only one photo - of a couple of tables in the dining hall. (Was their website designed by a French real estate agent?) Littered with typos and difficult to navigate, it's not the best example of self-promotion I've ever seen! Unimpressed.

2. Potential satellite villages to Montpellier to maybe rent a house to try out a new area. I sat on Angèle's laptop, on Googlemaps, trying to see if I could find a well-located village that would allow easy access to a) (giving it the benefit of the doubt for now) the bi-lingual school, b) our friends and Olivier's family back where we currently live and c) excitement! Culture, amenities, shops, theatre etc etc in Montpellier.

Alas everything necessitated using the blasted A9 which is notorious for the regularity of its 'bouchons' (slow-moving traffic or traffic jams).

3. Time to explore other options. I opened the website of the Pic - a Catholic private school with a good reputation in Béziers (much better website in my opinion). It's not bi-lingual, but the kids do learn English in the primary section. I have more research to do here, but we had already considered sending the kids there later anyway. Maybe we could whack the house on the market, see if it's actually possible to find a decent area in Béziers in which to live and rent there to try it out and send Izzy to the Pic?

I'm just throwing ideas around here to try and change our lives just enough to be able to move forward. I'm trying to be realistic with timescales and viable locations regarding access to Olivier's office, schooling for Izzy and potential work for me - maybe one day I can pick up my currently shelved plans to teach English as a foreign language. I'd be better placed in town.

So maybe in a year's time we'll be living in a different house, Izzy will be going to a different school and we'll have new routines in our lives. Or not. Who knows? Keeps my brain busy though.

One more day away from then

Today I:
Cried a lot
Talked a lot, both in person and on the phone, to all the most important and supportive people in my life (you know who you are and thank you)
Took my trousers off without undoing them
Began to ask myself a helluva lot of questions about how my future is going to pan out (where, with whom etc etc)
Bought an LBD (yes, I know, why? How? Charlotte is the Queen of Diversion Tactics!)
Tried and failed to organise an early flight home
Had a curry
Cried and chatted some more

To paraphrase Forrest Gump 'And that's all I have to say about today'.

A bit about William

It's true - wherever you go, you cannot escape from your grief. And it is worse when I am alone, so that's when I seek solace in my blog. Genevieve is working mornings so I am in her house with my own profoundly sad morning thoughts of William. Blogging to stop the crying.

My cousin Charlotte called last night and said she'd spent the day with a friend who is a counsellor and who had some ideas about how to move forward with Izzy. She said it's important to document the relationship she had with William so she can read that later - I suppose to reaffirm what will only be very vague memories to her when she is older.

Lots of you have sent me your memories and stories of William, which I have printed out and am keeping safe with the intention of somehow having them bound at a later date. If you knew William and haven't yet written a few words to me about your memories of him, please please do - before it's too late and the memories have faded.

I thought today I would try and be strong enough to write a couple of little anecdotes myself about William and what he was like. One of my last memories of him was of Isabelle and him running together as fast as they could backwards and forwards from one side of the kitchen to the other and out to the hall to touch the staircase and then back again. Giggling manically, racing back and forth, over and over again. Such a simple game, but evidently immense fun!

Izzy and William loved each other so much. There were exactly four years (bar a week) between them. I suppose Izzy had got used to being the only child after four years, but amazingly, she took to being a big sister like a duck to water. She revelled in her role. There was only the occasional, and reasonable for a little one, complaint of 'you do more for William than me'. So then, as a parent, you try to explain that he still needed our help more, whereas Izzy by the age of 5 could shower and wash her own hair herself, get food and drinks herself etc.

But then the next step occurred; Izzy started wanting to help with William. In the mornings she had changed his nappy a couple of times, occasionally dressed him and regularly led him carefully by the hand downstairs, lifted and strapped him into his booster seat and given him breakfast. What a sweetheart!

It's breaking my heart to write this. Such clear, solid, recent memories. I mean, that was only 7 weeks ago for God's sake!

Recently she had given one of her regular tea parties outside in the garden. William and her sitting on an old sheet, surrounded by plastic crockery and plastic food, pretending to eat it. They were both so happy. William understood that you weren't supposed to really eat it and would happily play along with his big sister.

William loved sleeping and beds in general. You could put him down at any time of the day and he would pull his little duvet up to his chin, grab a 'doudou' (comfort toy) and then, after a big kiss goodnight, would wave goodbye to you. I can still see his little hand flapping away now. I would do our special 'Eye Heart You' sign to him at the door and imagine he was asleep before I'd even got back downstairs.

One thing I am so so glad I had made part of my nightly routine was that every night before going to bed myself, I would go into each child's room and caress their hair, give them a kiss, tell them I love them and, as they stirred slightly or did that funny tongue-clacking sound that kids do when they are asleep, silently creep out again. I still do this to Izzy every night. And I still go into William's room too - but he is no longer there and I have to make do with breathing in deeply the smell of his room and sometimes lying myself down on his little bed, reaching for a doudou, before having our nightly (one-sided) chat.

Before, in the mornings, if William was up before Isabelle, he'd dash into her room and give her a kiss and try and get into bed with her. Sometimes he'd meet with a grumpy 'go aWAY' but often he'd be permitted to climb in beside his big sis, grab the duvet and pull it up to his chin, with a big grin on his face. How special to see the two of them cuddling up like that.

It wouldn't last long though, as before you knew it, they'd both be up and playing, delaying teeth-brushing and dressing for as long as they possibly could, partners in crime!

Going back further now, to William's first few weeks in this world, a couple of weeks after he was born, a tooth appeared in his mouth. Bottom right. Obviously we were all astonished! A couple of weeks later, another appeared - the other bottom tooth! He was 7 weeks early so, should he have arrived at term, he would have arrived with two little teeth already in his mouth!

I researched this phenomenon and discovered that Julius Caesar, Napoleon and Hannibal were all born with teeth. Big men in history. How excited we were! What amazing things lay in store for our William?! Unfortunately, now we will never know.

What we do know is that although William knew pain, illness and injury, he never knew evil. And he himself, although impervious to the concept of danger (like so many kids his age) was quintessentially a good child with a giving heart. He was always sharing his things and trying to give people things - from crisps and biscuits to toy cars!

Recently, we had started to potty-train William - a proviso of his place at nursery school. Izzy very kindly stepped in to show him how it's done! He looked so cute in his big boy pants! We were so excited about this new phase in his life - soon to be out of nappies (we hoped anyway) and with his vocabulary finally starting to increase so he could communicate! The book I'd read to him before his nap on the day of the accident was a picture book and I'd been getting him to repeat the words with me. He'd said car and ball! These were to be his last ever words. God - he had so much to live for, he was on the brink of so much. It's just so unfair.

I will end with one more happy story I think. Whenever I picked Izzy up from school, as soon as they opened the classroom door, William would dash in and find Izzy and then, like a kid in a sweetshop, start picking up things to play with and trying out all the chairs. Everyone would laugh at him; mums and children alike. All the little girls wanted to hold his hand, but Izzy would come over all territorial and go to fetch him and bring him back to the door.

The new school term is going to be so, so hard. I am dreading seeing the mummies and the teachers for the first time. Being there with just Izzy and no William. At least this year Izzy is old enough to be dropped off and make her own way into the classroom. But I should be dropping William off into his classroom and I won't be.

First day in the UK

Everything about yesterday was totally exhausting. I've made the same trip countless times with Izzy in tow, from baby with pushchair and suitcases, to the last time we came in April with Izzy as a 6 year old, as well as the odd solo trip.

This time each tiny step was difficult; leaving Olivier at the airport I felt so suddenly alone and lost without him. Happy families all around, small boys plaintively crying "Mama" - such a small word, but so powerful, and one I may never hear for me again.

I cried from the departure lounge and through most of the flight. To try to pull myself together as we queued for passport control I whipped out my phone for contact with familiarity, to stabilise myself.

I started yesterday's blog on the airport bus to pick up my car. All easy things but so tiring for me now.

I 'moved in' to my hire car - setting up my Satnav, multi-plug, hands free speaker kit and mobile phone charger and set off for Genevieve's house.

Genevieve is a friend of mine from school and she still lives in the same town we both went to school in, Saffron Walden - a beautiful Tudor style market town. Lots of pargetting (decorated plasterwork on the facades of the buildings), pastel-coloured houses, little window panes, exterior beams etc. It used to be the biggest national producer of saffron, hence its name.

Vieve looked after me all afternoon and evening, chatting non-stop as we always do and cooking me a delicious dinner. And then, I was so tired by the time the evening came, that I was slurring my words with fatigue and eventually bedded myself down with Millennium 2 (my brain-emptier) till I dropped off. I slept somewhat fitfully, waking many times, but the sleeping pills induce enough of a state of relaxation to help to get me back off again.

This morning Vieve has gone off to work, dropping her 8-yr old daughter at a friend's on the way and so, as I had started to think about my William again (as soon as I am alone, thoughts of him are all-pervading and impossible to keep out but I don't want to force them away either - I LIKE thinking about him even though it makes me sad - that's grieving), here I am blogging to keep the tears at bay.

Vanessa, a friend of mine who I knew in Cambridge, but who now lives in St Albans, is going to come over shortly to keep me company, as Vieve will not finish work till 2pm. I think it's a good drive to get here and she has to organise childcare for her two little girls, so it's very thoughtful of her.

All I can think about as I sit here in Vieve's house is how far away I am from Olivier, Izzy and, of course, William. Izzy said to me when I told her how much I'd miss her, and William (I mean of course his things, his bedroom, even, perhaps gruesomely, his body in the cemetery), that William is up in the sky now so he will be flying along next to me in the aeroplane. So sweet and innocent. But I did have a little chat to him out of the plane's window just in case...

Journey and Arrival

Public spaces with lots of people in them will always include lots of little boys. But today all the little ones were boys. Toddlers. Horrible reminders of what I've lost. Thank goodness I managed to get a seat on the plane away from the sound of them. Which is a dreadful thing to say in normal circumstances, but these are not normal circumstances.

I cried pretty much all the way here. In the departure lounge the lady who had the bad luck of sitting next to me asked if I was ok. "My son died. He was only two and a half. He drowned in our pool." Sharp intake of pity breath, hand to throat. Me again, "Take care of your children." "Yes", she replied, not knowing what else to say.

Funnily enough I've just read a chapter in the book Wendy sent me, written by grieving parents, about how you react when people ask how you are. Some just said ok, some felt the need to tell everyone about their loss. I just blurted.

Here at Luton Airport - in the M&S to grab a sandwich, I automatically picked up two packs of their brilliant wet wipes - always good for sticky little fingers. It was only after I'd paid that I realised I don't have those sticky little fingers around any more.

Projects

I'm time-filling to stop myself breaking down. Mornings - horrible. So quiet. Nothing to do; Izzy has got her own breakfast. I didn't blog yesterday as I spent all afternoon at my friend Bassie's house. She's being so wonderfully supportive - she understands that I hate being in my house right now, because I just cry incessantly. Out of my house, sitting next to her pool, Izzy being good and amusing herself with her toys in the pool and us chatting about other things as well as William. Finding out more about each other and becoming firm friends. I think we're quite alike. It's almost normal. But one foot back in the house and I'm in the pits again. Thank goodness tomorrow I leave for the UK on my nine day tour of best friends. I have to pack today. I have no idea what to pack regarding weather and quite simply the fact that I've been putting on the same clothes day after day here and only changing when they are dirty. I can't wear colours any more either - where I used to love corals and pinks, now my palette is neutral; black, greys, beiges... Should I try to pack a bit of colour? Just in case I feel up to wearing it on my trip far away from all my memories?

When I return here, there are little chunks of time between events, that I can try and manage to get through, coupled with the cooling of the weather as summer fades and a list of projects to try and keep me occupied. So I return on August 23rd. That night is Girls' Night and it's at Bassie's. I will try and go. The next day I have a psychiatrist's appointment, I'll have Izzy back with us (God, I'll miss her while I'm away), and I'm going to try and fill the week with things to do with Izzy. She goes back to school on Tuesday 4th September - same classroom, same teacher but no longer nursery school - actual proper school! With homework and everything! The reason it's the same room and teacher is because it's such a tiny village school, the classes are shared over two years. So the third year of nursery shares with half the entry class (what's it called in English?).

It will be a very sad and difficult time for me. Firstly, I will see all the school mummies for the first time since William died (apart from a couple who have been in touch and supportive) and also because William had just been accepted to do a pre-nursery year - mornings only and as long as he was potty-trained. In fact, two days before his accident Olivier and I had proudly taken him along to his future classroom to meet his new schoolteacher and the other children and parents and chat about what lay in store for him in the year ahead. Shattered dreams.

A couple of days after Izzy goes back to school, I head off to the UK again from 6-10 September for the Bereaved Parents weekend hosted by The Compassionate Friends (yes all this is costing me money but I really don't care and the Girls Night money left over from the bench - which has still not arrived - has gone towards the weekend).

So then I don't have any more little targets so I need to dive into projects. I've decided to have a huge clear out. How I have managed to fill a 5-bedroom house with so many things, I just don't know. So I will start with the cellar. I know I have three good quality storage trunks down there with 'just in case' things in, including one I thought would be good for camping with all my kitchen seconds in it, including loads of crockery. All that I am going to take to the Maison des Parents in Montpellier (the place for the parents of children in hospital to stay). I am going to dump loads of stuff. And then I will have empty trunks which will become William's for storing his Memory Boxes. I am sure there won't just be one.

The clearing out will continue after the cellar; I hope to work my way through the entire house, sheds, everywhere. Time-consuming, therapeutic and not terribly mind-challenging. And then if, in six months' or a year's time, we decide we need to move, we're ready. So there's also a reason in all of that too.

Another project is to create one of those online photo albums of photos of William. It'll be a big one. I did one for my dad's 70th recently - baby to present - and the whole family loved it! The quality is fantastic, and you can add captions, different fonts, colours, backgrounds etc. This will be a big job - I seem to have photos stored in so many different files (hopefully all backed up on a hard disk drive too, which I did recently). I lost my last ever video of William, ironically swimming his first length of the pool and receiving a rousing round of applause from Izzy and her twin friends, Ella and Erwan. I think I must have unplugged my iPhone too early. Devastated.

I have one more thing to say today. I have been totally astonished at the support I've received and not received. I have had huge continuous support from my best long-time friends and some of my newer friends here, who have either visited to stay a few days since the time of the funeral etc (Vanessa and Charlotte - Wendy and Angel and Charlotte were here for the hospital days and funeral), been calling or texting either every day or regularly (Angel, Wendy, Ali, Kristen, Bassie, Jane, Soumaya) asking how I am, did I fancy doing something, could they help me with anything? I can't thank them enough. But oddly the people you would naturally expect to be supportive have been conspicuous by the sparcity of contact by telephone or email.

Talking of the funeral, the church was packed to the rafters and there were people spilling outside. ALL of Olivier's family were there, close members of my tiny family were there. My dad was hugely supportive and I'll never forget him coming down to the front of the church and putting his arm around both my and Olivier's shoulders as we stared at the tiny white coffin with tears streaming down our faces. My brother very bravely read the Death is Nothing At All poem.
Oh, one more thing; I received a letter on Saturday from our top-up health insurance company, starting "We have pleasure in enclosing your revised policy"...unsaid "following the death of your son and his removal from your policy".  I fell to the floor and bawled.  Surely they could have a different proforma in these cases? Jeez.

Now, time to face another day...

Hopes crushed and limits pushed

So this is a hard one. I have prevaricated about whether to broach this topic or not, but the force within me is so strong, and such an integral part of my emotions right now, that I can't not document it.

I desperately want another baby. Not a replacement baby, no-one could ever replace our wonderful, funny, unique, darling William. But I need to hold a baby in my arms again, MY baby, OUR baby. To be a mummy again. My mummying was prematurely and abruptly stripped away from me. I have more to give, I need to finish the job. And Izzy keeps asking me for another brother or sister. I can't bear the thought of not raising another child, loving, caring for, teaching a new little life.

I also feel the need for another reason. Some of you may feel this is selfish, but I feel another baby would be destiny's way of forgiving me for losing William. And the guilt weighs so heavy on me. Why didn't I check all over the place before I left William to run around after I brought him down from his nap? If I'd checked outside I would have seen that the security gate had not closed properly. But it was always closed so why would I? Why weren't my mothers' instincts strong enough to tell me something was amiss earlier? When I did suddenly think, I haven't heard or seen William in a few minutes, it was too late. Those instincts kicked in too late - I actually got up and ran from my desk, ran outside, saw the terrace where we eat empty, looked left, saw the gate open, looked in the pool....

And so this is the scene of just a few seconds that replays in my mind. The scene I wake up to every morning.  I spend hours rewinding time in my head and torture myself with so many different versions of 'If only...'. I have to try and tell myself it wasn't my fault, it was a tragic accident. Otherwise I might really end up mad, as much as that's where I want to be sometimes when it all gets too much.

We used to call William our little 'cascadeur' - the French word for stuntman.  Even before he could walk, we'd find him lying precariously across the top of the sofa. Just recently, Isabelle had taught him how to climb up the OUTSIDE of the stair banisters so we used to find him half way up the outside of the stairs all the time; one time we were at my friend John's house and he'd built a crow's nest up from his roof terrace to the roof to benefit from the views. In no time at all, William was half way up the ladder! He was so accident-prone, so immune to the concept of danger, we used to joke that he had a season ticket to casualty (apparently Olivier was the same when he was young). Another sick joke now.

The photo left shows William around his first birthday, having tumbled over the front of his tractor ride-on in the garden and consequently requiring stitches inside his nose, as well as the grazing you can see. Still smiling away. He never grumbled.

But back to my original topic. Olivier has delivered me an emphatic NO to having another baby. I am 44 years old. For now, everything is working ok (I've been checked out). But for how long? What if he changes his mind in a year or two years and it's too late for me? Will I resent him for denying me the chance of another baby? Will he resent me if he changes his mind, and it's too late for me to give him another baby? He's only 32 - he has what, 30 years left?

I realise I need to give him time, but unfortunately it's not a commodity that we are in abundance of. So I feel now that I am doubly-grieving; for the loss of William and for the loss of the chance to give life to another baby, to love another baby. And for the chance of redemption.

Visiting William

I've come to the cemetery this afternoon, despite the boiling heat, because Izzy has gone off on a play date and she's not ready to come here yet, so I am free to come and have a chat with my boy.

I passed Thursday evening, running up from the car park calling out that I was coming and that I was nearly there, only to find the gates locked. I just burst into tears. Then I tried to climb them, but couldn't. I guess that's what the gates are there for.

So I am here now. Telling William how much I miss him and love him. It's such a beautiful, serene place. His views left, right and in front are wonderful. Rolling hills to the left, trees and vineyards for miles to the right; and directly in front, a row of trees (some type of fir? Not an expert on trees after oaks and pines) with two rows of gravestones and then another row of trees, followed by the same again. The trees give ample shade and an air of serenity and peacefulness, broken only by the burr of the cigales (crickets/cicada things).

I think I've attached a couple of photos - I'm blogging on the mobile for the first time.

Back to my book. There's a nice cool breeze, I have a step to sit on and I'm in the shade so thought I'd stay a while. And why not?

William's Bedroom

My friend Anya (from Cambridge and who now lives in Sweden) is a potter/designer and has proposed to make me a little box for William's hair. How thoughtful - this will be perfect to keep his little lock safe.  I've asked her for it to be pale blue with a red star on the lid. William's bedroom has lots of stars in it, lots in red - the colour theme (naturally for a little boy) is pale blue with red and taupe accents.  Here's a photo of his room now, with his pirate ship tent taken down and some of his toys put away (slowly does it):



He has red and blue stars and circles on his curtains (added by me) and red stars for his cupboard door handles. Even his duvet cover has little red stars on it. Poignantly, it says (in French) on his duvet 'When the cat miaows outside, my little angel sleeps'.

I thought it would be nice to add a photo of his lovely, light and fun bedroom on here as a reminder for when the time finally feels right to pack his little things up and move on another sad step.

Article about the emotions associated with grieving

Bassie sent me this link and I read the information saying in my head, yep, yep, yep... Er anger towards family members - yep, people behaving like nothing's happened - oh, reason for previous yep.

Everything this article talks about is valid for our situation. This is us and is for the very few who might still not get it.

http://www.healingheart.net/articles/grief_experiences.html

Meltdown

I am physically and emotionally shattered. I couldn't get to sleep last night due to the flashbacks - a repeating reel of just a few seconds horrifyingly replaying over and over again in my mind every time I closed my eyes. I eventually took myself off to Izzy's empty bed and read a bit before finally dozing off.

So this morning I was exhausted. As we all know by now, that is not a good thing. For some reason this morning I ended up watching a video on my computer of Olivier feeding William. It was amazing to see him alive! And being so funny and pulling all his little faces. I remember I was trying to catch Olivier opening his mouth as he fed a spoonful of food into William's little mouth - I used to think it was hysterical. After I'd watched the video I felt such an enormous sense of loss - it was definitely not a good thing to do at that particular moment.

I had my second EMDR appointment at the psychologist at 10am and arrived in absolute heaving floods. Today she spent two hours with me. As well as helping me deal with William's death, we are working through a lot of personal things; I just hope now is the right time to be doing this.

After my session I picked Izzy up from her dad's and she was obstreporous from the start. I tried to be patient with her and, although it took gargantuan effort, especially in my feeble condition, I was firm and didn't shout and felt proud of myself. 

At 2pm I took her across the road to a neighbour's house (her 'in-love boy' - 'boyfriend' - Nathan who is a year older - both of them sporting a double toothless gap across the top of their mouths!). We'd dropped a post card off from Izzy to Nathan in their letterbox after our very short holiday and that precipitated a rather brave call from Nathan's mum to us, inviting Izzy over. And it IS brave because a significant amount of people locally do not know what to say to us, so they have stayed away. I thanked her profusely for her courage and kindness. 

Nathan's house being full of visiting family, Izzy had an attack of shyness (paradoxical child that she is) and would not get off my leg for half an hour. My mum had been waiting at our house for this half an hour, my telephone's microphone is broken so when I tried calling all I got was 'hello, hello' so by the time I'd shaken Izzy off, left her to play and got home I was like a pressure cooker waiting to go off.

And I can't even remember what triggered it, but I had a row with my mum, and off I did go. Complete and utter meltdown, outside on the floor screaming over and over again 'My son is DEAD!!! My son is DEAD!!!', pulling my hair out and hitting myself.  Please don't be shocked at this. Apparently it's quite normal. But it freaked my mum out enough for her to leave. I would be surprised if we ever spoke again. But that's a whole story of its own.

I am only documenting this because I want this to be a true journey and I want you to understand that even though I managed to do 'normal' things this week, life is, and never will be, 'normal' again. So as I write this I am feeling really drained and fuzzy (had to take a WHOLE hayfever tablet to calm down, but at least I'm not on tranqs) and like life really isn't worth living. But again, don't worry, I'm not the doing something stupid type.

The grieving book I am reading is proving enlightening and helping to validate my grieving process, with so many parallels, that I am reading it with a highlighter pen, a bit like I'm doing A level Grieving. The parents quoted in the book met through the group The Compassionate Friends, who are hosting the bereavement weekend I am booked on in September in the UK.  They are an international group and I tried looking for them in France. Are you kidding me? France is in the Dark Ages on two fronts here - the internet and self-help/support groups (sorry my French friends). I'd love to go to something with Olivier, but there's no hope. There is something in or near Paris - but we're not driving 16 hours return for a monthly evening meeting...If anyone can prove me wrong and find a support group for bereaved parents near to us, then I'd be happy to eat my words.

And I know I, for one, have a deep need to meet other bereaved parents. It's a bit like when you become a mum and you're suddenly in the 'Mum Club' and only other mums understand what being a mum is all about, but a sicker version. You can't possibly know what it's like to lose a child unless you've lost a child. I want to meet others like us and talk to them, hear their stories at whatever stage they are in the grieving process.

I've just got to this bit in the book (meeting people through the TCF groups) and the parents are saying it helped because in those meetings, you felt 'normal' because everyone had this dreadful cross to bear in common. Out in the 'civilian' world people that knew them were capable of either ignoring them completely, or saying inappropriate things or in the case of meeting new people at social gatherings, asking innocent but chill-you-to-the-bone questions such as 'and do you have children?'.

I now have to get used to saying 'Izzy' again instead of 'the kids'. And I freaking hate it.

Getting back in the water, family and friends old and new

Today my 'there aren't enough superlatives to describe her' cousin Charlotte left to go back to the UK. It has been absolutely fantastic to have her here; she has seen the lot - gentle dripping tears, huge wracking sobs, anger - and she has gone along with everything calmly and kindly. She always manages to find the right words to say. I am so lucky to have her in my life.

I didn't write yesterday as we had Izzy with us and I need quiet time to sit and write. So I need to catch you, my faithful followers, up with things achieved etc in this, my journal/blog/grief downloader. After my pyschiatrist's appointment on Tuesday evening, we DID manage to go and eat - a really nice restaurant I know was open (the Maria Thérèsa in Béziers) and empty (there's no-one in Béziers at the start of this week as they have either left town or are saving themselves for the Féria this weekend when a million or so partygoers will descend on the city) - perfect. We had a lovely meal, chatting and the terrace slowly filled up as evening descended. We had a nice evening. And I realised afterwards that I did not cry once. It feels good to write that. But guilty.

I have been told that this would happen. That as time passes, I might pass a short while here and there without William at the forefront of my thoughts, and that I risked feeling guilty afterwards.  I was advised to allocate some time every day to thinking about him in order to account for this. Well, that's fine because every night before I go to bed, I go into his bedroom, sit on his little bed and talk to him. I tell him about my day, but most of all I tell him I love him and I miss him. I don't always cry. But when I do, it's not the angry gut-wrenching despair of the morning (the worst time of the day), it's a tear of simple sadness.

Wednesday morning saw Charlotte and I up and in gym kit once again, but for every high there's the opposing low; my heart really wasn't in keep fit mode. We attempted a few moves, then gave up and showered when my mum arrived.

Izzy was due back and we had plans to go to a beautiful local man-made lake (Les Barrages des Olivettes at Vailhan) after her morning psychologist appointment. Now, you may ask, what is the difference between a psychiatrist and a psychologist? Well for a start we get the money back from the state when we see the psychiatrist! I don't know why, but we don't for the psychologist. I guess the psychiatrist can prescribe drugs but the psychologist can't; maybe because the psychiatrist studies medicine then specialises in psychiatry it is considered to be a more valid 'treatment'... who knows.

What I do know is that the psychologist took one look at me and said, "Can your cousin look after Izzy - I need to see YOU today". So we did our first EMDR session and talked a lot. I can't say too much but I will say this - this lady is an incredibly insightful person. She asked just the right questions and suddenly so many questions I didn't even know I had about my life were being answered. Liberating.  I'll keep you posted on the EMDR - it'll take a few sessions.

So then Charlotte (who had taken the car and miraculously found her way back to me!  Love it!) picked me up and off we went to the lake. We met my super-supportive English girlfriends there with their plethora of (older) children and I was quite happy to sit back on my lake-side towel and let life swirl around me, like Baudelaire in his flâneurism mode. I only nearly cracked once, when a toddler started crying in the family sitting near us. But she stopped and I pulled myself together.

So. Water. I've dipped in our very shallow make-do blow-up pool in the garden that we got for Izzy now that we have emptied and covered our real one (she is a fish), but I'm now trepidatious, quite naturally, about actual swimming (I am usually rather gilled and finned too). But I swam. The water was cool and refreshing and I felt no fear, so that was another step forward.

This is turning into a long post, so I'll keep today short.  As I've already told you, mornings are the worst time of day. It's the time I miss William the most. This morning I also knew Charlotte was off, Izzy was going back to her dad's and after I had done the airport trip to Montpellier (motorway holiday traffic??), I would have a long afternoon on my own. In fact, Charlotte empathically recognised my reticence to make the journey and suggested using a friend we know who does airport runs instead. Great solution, even if it meant losing an hour or so of time with her, as there was a risk I'd be on the road for a few hours instead of the normal 1.5 hour return route. God I was sad to see her leave. Thank you so much for coming out to see us and help us, Charlotte. Love you loads.

Then, after I dropped Izzy off at her dad's, the deep sense of loneliness and emptiness returned.

Time to get proactive. Any time I spend on my own, my thoughts turn to William and I crumble.  I know I need to fill, fill, fill my days. And now I've made the first step off the sofa, that's what I need to try and do. I'm not saying I'll never have another sofa day, but I've got to try and get out there, forge new memories and in my own time meander towards my 'new normal'.

I went to see my friend Bassie, who had offered me an afternoon swimming lengths in her pool - ostensibly to help me rehabitualise myself to pools. It actually turned into four hours of chatting and, for me at least, only about four lengths (but comfortably swum)!  Bassie was someone I knew only in passing 'before', but has stayed staunchly in contact 'since' and imparted wisdom and advice from her own life experiences that has created a firm friendship very quickly between us. So I owe new friend Bassie a thank you too.

One last thing. I received books today from Wendy - my longest known best friend from school. She flew from her home in New York to be at my side in the hospital. Now THAT'S a friend. The books she sent were the second Milleniumm book (escapism - yes) and also two books I wasn't expecting, Living With Bereavement by Sue Mayfield and Beyond Tears - Living after Losing a Child - edited by Ellen Mitchell. This last one I started to read today and the parallels to my own grieving process were remarkable - screaming in the car, not being able to listen to music, thinking that you're about to wake up and find it's all a dream, re-living the moment over and over again in your head so you can't sleep even though that's the escape you seek so desperately. I hadn't had the courage to broach the grief self-help books yet but I sense this will be therapeutic, so maybe I'm ready now. So my third and final thank you today goes to my wonderful, faithful friend Wendy - thank you.