You are not alone

Hi to everybody...I wrote this last year in one of my blogs, but thought it was worth posting here...
Hi, Lovely peeps, Monday is my day normally for thinking of something to celebrate and writing a few thoughts down on the subject. As you can probably tell from my other blog, today hasn't been a good one and I'm trying to think of something I want to celebrate today.
I think it's going to be a very sensitive subject but one that is very relevant. On the 18th June, 1983, our son, Matthew, died at eleven twenty in the morning from a combination of asthma and a tummy bug, which caused his heart to go into arhythmia causing heart failure and he was dead in less than a minute.
I was in hospital at the time after having a hysterectomy on the Monday before and was due home on the following Monday. I happened to be in the local hospital after having been moved from the main hospital ten miles away after the op when a bed became free nearer my home. It meant my hubby and the children could come and see me far more easily and I did see them.
On the Thursday, I had a chat with Matthew on the phone when he asked me when I was coming home because he missed me making him breakfast, and I said I would be back on Monday, and he told me he loved me, and I said I loved him too, which I did with every inch of my being...I never saw him again, but was so glad the last thing we ever said to each other was that we loved each other.
My hubby came and told me the terrible news while our other son was being looked after by the nurses I think...I'm not sure where the poor little love was I was so horrified by the news, but I do remember the doctor coming in to see me the next day and telling me our other son had been taken into hospital as well suffering from the same stomach bug and he had asthma as well so that didn't help me feel any better, and heaven only knows what it did for him pyschologically either...we only learned later he thought it should have been him who died because he was the bad one and the good one had died...that broke my heart and we did our utmost to try to tell him that we loved him just as much as Matthew and that he wasn't bad...he was needy but not bad in any way.
The doctor wouldn't let me go home for a further week, because of the shock even though I wanted to be with our son and my hubby more than anything.
To cut a long story short, we survived the funeral, which was a very beautiful one with all of Matthew's class attending and they had made butterflies for him and there were painted butterflies all over his coffin and around the church amidst loads of flowers...then we had him cremated and laid underneath a huge Cedar tree in the Anglican church yard, which he loved sitting in with me whenever we went shopping together on the way home...there were loads of birds and squirrels in it and it was one of the loveliest places in the village, and it just seemed a perfect place to put him. We planted a white hebe on top of his spot and that was it...the tree, which he loved, he's now a part of and that feels right.
My celebration is his short but lovely life. He was very fragile when he came into the world and we didn't think he was going to make it, but he did. He took three years to stop shuffling at ninety miles an hour every where on his bum and to talk...he would point to something and his brother would get it so why bother to talk or walk for that matter. He was delicate but with a funny, really rascally sense of humour, and, at three, stood up, walked perfectly and talked in full sentences. He would also sit like a little buddha in the lotus position on our coffee table when he was tired, and, with his head bent right over and resting in front of his crossed leg on the table, would go to sleep...we called him our little buddha because of this amazing double jointed ability.
He gave us so much joy and love poured out of him every day of his life, his loss nearly killed us, but we had another son who needed us and who we loved just as much so survival was essential.
One incident I will always remember with the same vividness as when it occurred was the year before Matthew died, I was exhibiting a picture I'd painted in the local art exhibition and he came with me to see it and to look round at the other paintings. I met a friend there and we sat down to have a chat while Matthew went off to look at all the paintings. Suddenly, he came back and took both my hands in his and just looked me straight in my eyes without a word and I watched in amazement and awe as his skin took on a wonderful translucency and it was as if he was glowing with love and giving me something wordless and wonderful...all I could do was love him back with the same strenght and then he let go of my hands and walked away... I asked my friend whether she saw what happened and she had and was clearly shaken and said it was too much for her...I don't know what happened in that moment but it was something wonderful and which I will treasure till the day I die.
Today, I am celebrating his short but lovely existence. He was a precious and beautiful gift that came and spent some time with my hubby and me and his brother, and all of us have been profoundly affected by his presence in our lives and will continue to be because there was something special about him so here's to Matthew Roivas Hunter, our son who lived and died and now lives in our hearts....big hugs to one and all...

At 19 I gave birth to a beautiful little girl, she was nearly 11 weeks early and weighed only 3lbs 15oz. We named her Samantha Jayne and she was every bit as beautiful as her sister who was just one year and five days older than her.

I had gone in to labour with little warning, I had been having a brilliant pregnancy compared to my first, no morning sickness, no feeling queasy all the time, in fact I bloomed, I felt good I was eating properly and all was fine, I thought. I was rusehd in to hospital when my waters broke around half past three in the afternoon. It was far too early for the baby to be born and the doctors that came trooping in one after the other and then all together, decided to try to stop labour.

They began injecting me with lord knows what, this was to stop labour, then they had to give me something to stop me being sick from the injections they had first given me.

Every hour they came and every hour, they shook their heads and every two or three hours injected me with something else, but still labour advanced. At nine am the next morning they came and told me that as they could not stop labour and because it was advancing too slowly they were going to induce it instead. Then came much flurrying about with drips and monitors, all of which were attached to me, I was finding it very hard to concentrate on anything, all fuzzy from the drugs that they had been filling me with, in pain, and very very tired.

At some point in the next few hours I opened my eyes and thought I was in the operating theatre, there was a huge light above me, almost near enough to touch and I was surrounded by gowns and masks! They told me there was no heartbeat, they had tried a couple of monitors to make sure, but they could not pick up any sign that the baby was alive. You have to stop thinking of giving birth and just think that you are ill and that is why you are here, they said to me.

I could not quite grasp what they were saying at the time, only afterwards, I drifted in and out of consciousness, I dont remember actually doing anything to give birth, I remember them saying that the baby was nearly there, except they said 'IT' then there was a commotion as the baby arrived and cried!!! Running about and telephoning and the next thing a voice said to me would you like to see your daughter, and when I turned my head all I could see was the top of a glass box?

I remember little more until that evening at about half past seven when I was finally able to ask about her, and how much she had weighed, to be met with we dont know? I gave birth at one in the afternoon how can you not know what she weighs? I created a fuss until they took me to the special care baby unit where my baby was in an incubator, and oh so tiny. And where they told me that if she survived the next fortyeight hours she might stand a chance. She had suffered damage to the brain from the lack of oxygen when she apparently stopped breathing and then for some unknown reason started again.

It was two months before I was able to bring her home.

When I picked her up from the hospital I was concerned about her colourm she is fine they said, sje just needs fresh air to bring colour back. They had just finished feeding her and within minutes she had thrown it back, its ok they said, she just senses something going on.

During the next week I got two hours sleep, she was sick, everything she drank came back, and the smell, I will never forget. She cried constantly, I took her to the clinic on the following Tuesday, to have her weighed and I told the health visitor about her and my concerns, it is you, she told me, you are nervous with her because you haven't had her at home and you are so young? Apparently the fact that I already had a child didn't enter into it. The next day I could stand it no longer and at eight in the morning rang the doctor, it was lunchtime when he arrived, I could see my baby getting sicker and sicker as I walked the floor with her in my arms. He took one look and didnt even bother examining her, he sent for an ambulance.

The next few hours were spent watching the doctors and nurses placing tubes all over my baby, monitors everywhere, then the top man came to me and he said that she had chronic gastroentiritas, and as I had her home only a week she had to have been discharged with it, and heads were going to roll as she was supposed to have had a full medical before she was discharged where they should have picked it up.

What difference did it make now? I was advised to go speak to the Father in the chapel, go home and get my husband and have her christened,he gave my baby 24 hours.

I went home and told him, he went to the pub saying it could wait until tomorrow then!

I called the hospital, and normally I would have covered for him, but this time I told them what he had said and where he was, they told me to stay with my older little girl and if there was I was needed they would come for me.

The next day we both went on and the staff totally and completley ignored my husband, to the point that he was invisible. Including the Top paeditrician who spoke only to me.

Samantha survived, she fought hard and she came through, they told me that her menatl handicap was severe but they would not know how severe until she was a little older and they could run tests, but she had stopped breathing a couple of times during that twenty four hours.

I took her home the week before Christmas, I was so excited that I was going to have both my beautiful daughters with me for Christmas. On Christmas Eve I got my first ever smile out of her, she was exactly four months old, it was to be the last I would have as well as the first.

Smanatha died in the early hours of Christmas Morning, I cant go through that day, except to say that I was in shock, totally numb, and of course blaming myself, she had after all had an extra feed that night was it my fault?

Finally the lovely man that had looked after her during her second time in hospital told me what had happened, she had Broncho Pneumonia, classed as silent Pneumonia, it is undetectable, and she did not have the strength to fight anymore.

We buried her on the 4th January amongst other babies so she would not be alone.

I thought that I had been through the worst that a parent could ever go through, I found that this was not true ten years later tragedy would strike again, harder.

I suppose everyone's way of dealing with the pain is different. For me it was to immerse myself in the things that were most part of my son. It was his words - his poems, journals, letters; videos and photographs of him; his things; his friends; the places he'd been to. There was something of him in all of these - they had all been touched in some way by him and he was still a part of them. Also we planted trees in his memory, with his ashes at their roots - in the garden, in the park. We scattered his ashes in the places he'd loved. We had a bench erected where we could sit and look at the trees growing strong. On significant dates we usually take a picnic to his bench and sit there eating and talking of happy times. In fact we talk of him often. His ashes may be buried, but he is not.