Tobias
I’ve been wanting to write about my son for… a while. But it’s hard, and I avoid it because it makes it too real and I hate that this is my reality.
Tobias.
On 1st January this year I woke up, went to the bathroom and then went to check on my son. 5 years old, we had been unwell over Christmas and he had just been diagnosed with an ear infection. The day before he had been tired, sad, and just wanted to be next to me.
The sequence of events I don’t suppose is necessary. He was unresponsive. Not dead, though when I saw his face that’s what I thought. Eyes open, no response but he had a heart beat. Not dead.
Paramedics called, I did CPR because he wasn’t breathing. His body was so… wrong. Heavy. Limp.
I knew when I saw him he was dead. He looked wrong, his eyes stared. The hospital did everything they could, and I had to answer questions from the police who were there to find out if I had murdered my son. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Brain stem death. Meningoencephalitis. Invasive group A strep.
I have lamented over and over and over all the little things I missed, all the signs that he was sick. I live a life of torment wondering if the choices I made, or did not make, led to his death.
I despise this life I am living. It’s the same life as before, but infinitely worse.
I miss you baby boy. Kissy cuddles
I’ve been wanting to write about my son for… a while. But it’s hard, and I avoid it because it makes it too real and I hate that this is my reality.
Tobias.
On 1st January this year I woke up, went to the bathroom and then went to check on my son. 5 years old, we had been unwell over Christmas and he had just been diagnosed with an ear infection. The day before he had been tired, sad, and just wanted to be next to me.
The sequence of events I don’t suppose is necessary. He was unresponsive. Not dead, though when I saw his face that’s what I thought. Eyes open, no response but he had a heart beat. Not dead.
Paramedics called, I did CPR because he wasn’t breathing. His body was so… wrong. Heavy. Limp.
I knew when I saw him he was dead. He looked wrong, his eyes stared. The hospital did everything they could, and I had to answer questions from the police who were there to find out if I had murdered my son. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Brain stem death. Meningoencephalitis. Invasive group A strep.
I have lamented over and over and over all the little things I missed, all the signs that he was sick. I live a life of torment wondering if the choices I made, or did not make, led to his death.
I despise this life I am living. It’s the same life as before, but infinitely worse.
I miss you baby boy. Kissy cuddles