On Monday we learned some things. We learned that the death of our son will always remain a mystery, that he was a healthy baby boy and that there was nothing that we could have done to prevent this terrible, unfortunate accident. Sigh.
Our counsellor told us that at some point we will have to surrender to the mystery. That some things simply do not have answers. I get this. I do not want to, but I do. Accidents happen. Bad things can happen to good people. I know. However, I am not ready to give in. I do not think I will ever be ready to, as doing so is in some way accepting that Owen had to die. He was not supposed to die.
I am frustrated. The energy is becoming increasingly more difficult to find. I am sad. I feel defeated.
I need to direct my anger somewhere. Grief research tells me that it is healthy to let it out. I have a pretty good recipient. It will not be eloquent, but it needs an escape. I would apologize in advance, but I am not sorry.
To the person who broke into our car an hour before the meeting with Owen’s doctors,
I am not a person who normally swears. In fact, on the rare occasion that I feel the need to, I catch myself, knowing I need to set a good example for my son. Yeah, I have a son. He died. We are fucking gutted. So, fuck you. Fuck you for pouring salt on the wound.
Thank you for reaffirming our lack of faith in the universe. The moment you made the decision to smash the windows of our car, you shattered whatever remnants remained of our confidence that things could not possibly get worse, that this dark cloud lingering over our family would pass. You stole our ability to believe that some things just happen and that maybe the universe still deserves an ounce of faith. It was small, oh so very small, but it was still there, and sure as hell not yours to take.
To be honest, we were not surprised. We have realized that we are not invincible to these things. It is just a car. The contents, just stuff. We have learned that these things do not matter. Our little boy taught us this. Trivial. So, with our hands in the air, we surrendered and walked away, leaving fragments of our confidence and faith mixed in with the glass on the car park floor. We are not sure why you chose our car, but it is just a car. Enjoy your stuff. The jacket and GPS will serve you well as you navigate the streets of hell.
I do not question your intentions, I am sure you had your ‘reasons’. But, really, that stuff you stole is not yours. I do not care if you needed it. You certainly did not deserve our resignation, nor our tears. Yeah, you got those too.
Our son may have died, but we are still trying to parent him. We are still trying to teach him how to be a decent human being, how to somehow carry on in the face of adversity. You are not helping. We have told him that there are bad people in the world, a tough lesson for a 5.5 month old, but he is a pretty wise guy for his age. However, seeing his parents shrug, then collapse out of exhaustion, out of a complete lack of energy or momentary lack of desire to carry on is not fair. It is not fucking fair. He does not deserve to see this.
I know you also have your struggles, we all do, but I question your humanity. Whether you would have thought twice about choosing our car had you known how deflated we are. If you knew how anxious and scared we already were about the meeting with our son’s doctors. If you knew then what you know now, would you have hesitated? Would you have given our sadness, our pain, a fleeting thought? Please tell me yes. Please restore an ounce of faith in the universe for me. Please. Please. Please.
A mum who now has to explain to her son why sometimes swearing is necessary
That felt good.