an unappealing appeal

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.


6 thoughts on “an unappealing appeal

  1. Gretchen April 16, 2015 / 2:52 pm

    There is this belief out in our society that “everyone has their shit” to deal with. What people don’t realize is that this shit continues to happen, even when your child dies, or some other major catastrophic event happens. There are no exemptions…, the timing of shitty stuff isn’t planned around our tragedy. Sometimes it can be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, right?

    We went on a trip about 5 months after Zachary died. To get away and be invisible and to grieve. My husband had taken only a single week off, initially when Zachary died, to prepare for the funeral and then he was back at work. He needed this time. Well, we get to the Caribbean and our luggage was lost. I literally had no underwear, nothing to wear, no toiletries. We were on a french/dutch speaking island with no mega store at which to “replace” stuff. We spent probably 8-10 hours on the phone, over the course of the trip, with the airline. It was incredibly stressful at a time where stress wasn’t warranted or coped with very well. We didn’t get the bag until the day before we were to fly home. It felt like such a slap to be the ones with lost luggage when Zachary had just died.

    I am so sorry the break-in added that slap you didn’t need.

    And more than anything, I’m sorry you learned nothing of substance, about Owen’s fate, at the meeting. It’s so hard to accept that there was no identifiable reason. I wish I could offer some comfort…


    • robynedmondson April 23, 2015 / 1:54 pm

      I wish we the universe would give us a bit of a break. It would be nice to be able to sit with this sadness without interruption. If only.

      My husband and I realized that we must have stumbled upon your blog back in the early days of our grief. The story about your luggage sounds very familiar. I remember feeling frustrated for you! We also took off for a while to just ‘be’ with our grief. Definitely needed.

      I think I needed to know something so that I could alleviate some of the guilt that I could have changed the outcome. The doctors said there was nothing we could have done, but if they do not know what happened, how can they be so sure?



  2. djsieg April 17, 2015 / 4:13 am

    I totally agree that we don’t get a pass on other random crappy stuff happening after our children die. We should, but we don’t. I’ve found that I never even know what I should worry about next.

    Yesterday I was walking into town with my husband to grab dinner and we ran into our neighbors walking the same direction. The men started walking ahead and I was walking with his wife. We passed a bus stop and this man turned and looked at me and literally flicked his lit cigarette into my face. It my cheek, hard, and then bounced off my jacket. I wasn’t burned luckily. I was expecting him to swear at me angrily or something but instead he just gave me a monotone “sorry”…but clearly he didn’t care…it was sort of a reflex sorry. He must have been high, his eyes were totally red. My neighbor was like, “did that just happen?”

    Honestly, I wish I was surprised. I think the universe has flicked cigarettes in all the faces of babyloss families.

    But you’re right…it does feel better to rant about it.


    • robynedmondson April 23, 2015 / 1:58 pm

      “Did that just happen?”

      A question filled with sentiment that has been running through my mind a lot these days.

      I know all of this stuff is minor, trivial, compared to the loss of our children. However, it feels like shit and deserves all of the ranting and swearing that we can muster.


  3. Saranga (@SarangaComics) April 21, 2015 / 1:30 pm

    Getting no known cause is so hard. I’m trying to write more here, but I can’t. Owen is a beautiful baby. Babies shouldn’t just die.
    I’m not sure how you feel about swearing in comments, but I’ll let you know that in my head I’m cursing the thief something wicked.


    • robynedmondson April 23, 2015 / 1:46 pm

      Sometimes swearing IS necessary. It feels good, too.

      It is frustrating that we will never know. I have learned that we are not immune to tragedy, but it hurts. Our babies have our love, but they need our cuddles too.

      ❤ Perhaps try to limit the swearing yourself. Those little ears you are growing will hear you.


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