Time

55 hours. I wanted to stretch those moments out until they bent and snapped. Even in the finality of death, and all that came afterwards, I wanted to linger in every final stage. In those final moments of being with Oliver’s physical body, I bargained with time. 55 hours but I wanted longer.  5 months, 5 years, 55 years. It is easy to fall out of step with time when it forces you to leave the most precious part of yourself behind. And so began my reluctance to move forward.

Time stretched before me like an abyss and I resolutely refused to think about the future. By staying outside the normal frame of reference, I was able to feel closer to Oliver as if nothing existed beyond the length of his life. Time moving on seemed to signify another level of removal, another severing of connections to him and his memories, and so I became a stillpoint of a turning world. Despite having been a forward planner, I could no longer bear for people to mention future dates as part of normal conversation. Little things such as the first change of month felt like a huge obstacle. Oliver died on February 1st so by moving into March I felt like I would be leaving him behind in February. I couldn’t contemplate moving into another year. In this year, he had lived; in all the years to come, he wouldn’t. Once the calendar changed, shared years would be forever left behind.

It has often been said that grief can feel a little like fear. My uprooted expectations left me feeling uncertain of the future. There were potential paths in front of me now which extended into the unknown. Another unknown measure was the timescale of grief. Most things I read told me in no uncertain terms that it gets harder rather than easier. The thought of 60 years of pain was overwhelming. I found it terrifying to imagine that the excruciating obliterating grief that racked my body could get worse. Could there possibly be a “worse”?  All I wanted was for someone to tell me that I would be ok.

And yet in the deepest moments of grief, I felt Oliver’s presence and could not help but be grateful. It’s true that losing a child is the worst pain imaginable but loving them also brings the most joy; a duality that most people will not understand unless they have lived it. I can’t pinpoint how long it took for me to be able to make plans but there was subtle and gradual shift to thinking about the future with hope and excitement, knowing that we carried Oliver’s legacy forward with us.

Time now feels more acceptable to me. It reminds me of the transcience and flux of all things. It has also shown itself to be circular in the timing of the birth of our new baby whose due date is 1st February, the same date as Oliver’s first anniversary. As it transpired I found this New Year to be my most beautiful yet. My husband gave me a gold “O” engraved with Oliver’s name to symbolise the unending nature of a love that transcends time, our little piece of infinity.