Losing a Child: The Early Days

The world has began to isolate, and the four walls you usually call home are starting to appear as only reminders of the child you've just lost. Their toys, their clothes – the breadcrumbs still scattered across the coffee table. Yeah, they're still around the house – and you just can't build up the courage to so much as exhale in the same space anymore. This place you used to call home is no longer a sanctuary, but a prison where only your thoughts are lingering above you. I know, truly I do – because I'm right there with you. Our children are gone, and the world feels even lonelier than usual.

I never thought I'd have the confidence to put pen to paper again after losing my son. I guess, to be honest, I'd just like to reach out and level with other parents who're going through the same thing too. For me, I am barely eight weeks into the long road ahead, and no doubt my ambition has flatlined without my boy being there to act as the inspiration. The words hardly flow, and in writers terms, it's as if the writers block has taken residence deep within my brain. Perhaps you feel the same too. Perhaps you struggle to cope each day the same as I do. I guess we wouldn't be human if we didn't feel an overwhelming sense of grievance every waking moment, right?

I lost my boy Jasper eight weeks ago, and those little shoes of his are looking even more isolated than the world we currently live in. His clothes are still packed away in drawers, and his food is still boxed up in cupboards. His toys are very much still present, and the fourth coaster is still missing from where he last hid it. The house feels empty, and all I can really see are the things that should make me smile. And yet, they only break my heart.

No parent should outlive a child. It defies the rules of humanity. There is nothing more unfair than that, and every parent that has felt this pain will understand the sickness that no other person should have to feel. It's excruciating, and it is tiring. It's the sort of pain I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy. It's something that, in my grieving mind, I honestly believe I don't deserve. But, then again – nobody does. Nobody should have to wake up with a bleeding heart and an empty hole stretching within your chest.

The early days of losing our child taught me the most important lesson: to never take anything for granted. And that goes for the smallest things that I once considered to be irrelevant. Say, things like when my boy used to switch the Xbox off repeatedly and I'd get cross about it. Things like that, I'd die to see again, if only for a moment. That's the sort of stuff I'll never get back, and I only wish I laughed about it for every time he did it. Things like that will stick close to me, and I'll honestly learn to laugh more when silly things surround me in the future. I think that's the least I could do.

I know the feeling. I know what you might be thinking. I'm there with you, believe me. Some days might be a little lighter, but it's the nights that get to you. That's when you start overthinking every situation. Once the moon hangs high and the silence crawls on by – that's when you start asking yourself the questions that can't be answered. That's when the loneliness sinks in, and the long hours before dawn trickle on by even slower than usual. I know – really I do. I feel that the same as you do. I fear the night like nothing else I've encountered before.

People ask us how we're doing, and we tell them we're doing okay – but we're not. Nobody really knows what's going on inside our heads. We cope any way we have to and we search for a new reason to push forward each morning. I guess, that's all we really can do. We survive, and we fight on for something. We wake up each morning and we take the days as they come. We hope to feel a little less anxious each day and we urge for the light to return to our charcoal worlds.

When I lost my boy, I immediately looked to countless forums in search of stories similar to my own in the hope that they'd make me feel comforted. I guess they did in a way. They made me realise that I wasn't the only one going through this, and that millions of other people have since emerged victorious in the battle of doubt and grievance and developed into stronger willed individuals. That's something I want, and I hope you do too. I want to witness the light break free from the storm someday, and I want to locate the strength I'm not sure I possess.

The days pass, and all we do is clutch on to something for the present. We force yesterday out of our heads and we live for the future. That's all we can do. For the sake of our children – we fight. We search for new ways to progress and refuse to let ourselves descend further down the rabbit hole. Inside, we are breaking, but we are fighting. Just know, that you aren't fighting this alone. There's an entire army behind you who feel this pain.

Tomorrow is a new day, and we'll tackle it together. Like you, I will feel the pain, but there's a war in our chests that needs beating. We must win this war together, as parents. So stay strong, and stay safe. Power through the storm and wish for better days.

They'll come.