Dear Alex, we head to France tomorrow...

30^th july 2012

Dear Alex,

This is big. It really is. I feel, at times, so very tiny and yet I have to be so grown up. At times I feel swamped with sadness, and it really is strange how it jumps up at you when you least expect it, and I just break, tears I am scared to cry as I don’t know where they are going, when, or if, I’ll be able to stop…

Guilt, yes, I feel that. At going away tomorrow. Guilt that I just might enjoy it. Guilt that maybe I do need a break. Fear of acknowledging this, is strong. Sometimes it’s better not to think, and to just do. But there’s too much involved in this. Every day now for 10 months I have seen you, made the journey wherever you are. Done the kids, the house, the rest. Although I wouldn’t say our days are ever the same, the routine of knowing where I am, our base, my comforts, my house the retreat. The computer and writing to you, exhaling my thoughts and feelings.

I am scared to do this. It feels so big. Doing a trip to France where we used to live, there will be many ghosts I think I will need to lay to rest. And maybe now is the time to do this. Face this. Maybe I am ready? We lived, we loved, we settled, we were staying, until, when on the 4^th October last year life was flipped on its head, and everything we had planned together, the life we were leading together, stopped.

Since then, I have become the person that has had to make all the decisions, run our life, the kids, be there to try and will you on. And everyday I have done this, and every day, I have no idea how I got through it, and every day I am surprised I have managed another night without you beside me.

Going to France is not because I feel ‘I need a break’ I actually don’t want one, not without you! It’s for the kids, and boy are they excited, and that makes me happy, that I really am doing something so exciting for them.

We left so suddenly, after such a trauma. We suddenly had to forge a new life in England, the kids didn’t know England, France was all they knew. And this last month in particular I have found us all asking questions, the kids ask when our time in England will be up, when we are going back to France. We felt life was on hold till you were back to normal, and we’d all go back and lift off from the part where you were OK. We are having to accept we are no more in limbo, this is it now, we are staying put. We know deep down, although I think it’s still too much to confront, that you are not going to spring back just as you were…We’re gradually letting that which we thought would be a realism become an unrealism.

I am scared. I know you will be OK, people will visit, the staff will explain why I ma not in everyday. I am not too worried about you, I think you will be OK. I am scared that in going back, on holiday, it’s another huge acceptance, we are visiting, we are no longer there. We lived there for 5-and-a-half years. No intention of going anywhere. I’m scared because I am facing it on my own, again, without you holding me, protecting me, telling me it’s alright, we’re on a new and very different path now.

And it draws me back to my first sentence, that I feel so very, very small. And yet I have to be so very grown up, do all these things without you.

What it all comes down to is how am I going to cope with not being able to see you? Getting my fix of you on a daily basis is one of the things that gets me through…

I am just so hopelessly, helplessly in love with my man, that I don’t know how I am possibly going to be strong enough to not have that part of routine, that part that gives me strength, to be without you, that’s my biggest fear.

Going back, saying ‘ok, we are no longer here as a family', and having to do it, confront it without you, driving by where we used to live, the life we used to live there together, the memories, that I have had to block out to continue-will I be strong enough to cope with all this, baby?

As I say goodbye today, realising it’s not going to be till next Friday that I will be able to see you again, the sobbing that chokes tears of already missing you, knowing that till next Friday I have to do a major thing without you, just is too much. But do you know what you do? You smile, you don’t cry at all, you smile, cuddle me, pushing your head into my hair and tear streaming face and you smile. I know you know I’ll be alright. I think you think it will do me, and the kids good. I know you think I am doing the right thing…

This in itself has given me the strength to catch that plane, and give the kids a holiday to remember-the first, and the last (I hope) without you my angel…

Have a peaceful, restful sleep, work hard in your therapies, look forward to me coming back. I’ll be racing through that Centre door the minute I am back…you know that!

I love you Alex Wood, what a journey this is, how emotions  can feel stronger than your physical being, but I will make it through, your smile told me that.

I will miss you more than you can ever imagine, will ever realise…that’s why I write to you, so one day, you can look back and see how all this was for me…

I love you for eternity…

Me xxxxxxxxxx

Dear Alex, my life becoming ours...

28^th July 2012

Dear Alex,

It’s like clock work, well it would be if I knew when it was going to hit. But randomly during the day I get the adrenalin, raging through my body, it sets in so suddenly, I don’t know where to put myself, what to do, nothing appeases it, I have to ride it out, sometimes for hours, sometimes just half an hour. I know now it won’t break me, the panic attacks that used to ensue were terrifying. I have that part under control. I’ll just be doing something, and a little reminder will reach up in me, sending the adrenalin spiralling in my body. The shakes, the dizziness, the intrusion of it all…

Despite this, today was a good visit. A friend and his wife came in. Nigel is a personal trainer, and does stretching and massaging exercises with you that are vital for regaining muscle and stimulating the muscles and firing the neurons in the right direction in your brain to find those new pathways. He’s genius in what he does, and you love his company, are so at ease and relaxed around him. His wife played some cricket with Monty and the girls, and the afternoon was spent plastic outdoor games, balls, bean bags, giant skittles flying. The kids came away happy today, saying they were happy with your progress. They weren’t sullen, or dispirited, rather full of chatter and enthusiasm for the new things they can do with you.

A success like this always makes me very emotional. I grieve for the times we took for granted like this before, and I am truly inspired and filled with pride at your interaction, their delight and the afternoon passed together playing.

But then we have to leave…this is the bit I always get stuck on…

You’ve had a very quiet week, you don’t seem low, just tired. Your head and posture slumps, and no amount of coercing gets you to be able to keep your head straight, not leaning heavily and drooping down to the right hand side.

But in the games played today, your left arm moves, at the shoulder and a bit at the elbow. This new thing makes me run over to you, embrace you and cry with pride.

I am overwhelmed by it at the moment, pride. For you, the kids, the people that come and help, want to be involved.

When, moving here, I knew I had to make friends, settle in for the kids sake, I wasn’t ready to make friends, to speak about me, open up. I was on full protective 'gather everyone in and close,' head down, and we’ll make it through. I didn’t want to forge a life separate from you, but life happens, you meet people, and you do make friends, and now, yes, I am very much OK with my situation, and open about it. Of the friends I have been making, several have come in to meet you, as I want you to be included, put a voice to the names you hear me talking about. It certainly seems to be encouraging you too, as you meet my friends, it gives you the confidence that I am OK, I haven’t become a total recluse, that we still move forward in our life…

Just three days left of seeing you, then away for nine whole days…the palpitations start at the acknowledgement of this…

But tonight I know I will still see you tomorrow, so I can cope with tonight…

Sleep peacefully my angel,

Me xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Alex, time apart approaches...

July 25^th 2012

Dear Alex,

Eight-year-old mud-stained capable boy hands delve deep into his Lego box. Creations made, an imagination I wish I could entrap and lose myself in too.

This evening I make another ‘getting back to normal’ step. I stagger kids’ bedtimes. This I have not often done since I have been without you. But tonight I have resolved something, thus tonight I shall achieve! Laying out her duvet on the floor, Esmie swims as I read to her, little legs, chubby bare arms diving into the unknown depths of swimming pool duvets. Mitzi chooses to read for her bedtime time with mummy. Spelling out sounds and learning, a new door opening, a universe of sounds becoming words, sentences, making sense. Hot and lounging all over me, I encourage the ‘ssss’ ‘th’ ‘at’ noises, and watch her little self, accomplishing new things. Lola throws herself into a French word search, we discover words hidden and what Madame rouge bought for her tea. Monty is lying, waiting playing on the sofa. Tummy squashed into the sofa, legs kicking in the air, his Lego creations have sound effects that only he can make! I try hard with my Lego creations, ‘Mum, that is good, but I think I’ll just use it in battle and well, it might be destroyed by a baddy ship, OK?’ He always looks at it encouraging me, but destroying it in battle, and creating something a trillion times better!

Bedtime passes, I strain to remember times with you, wanting to remember, to describe times with the kids, only I pause and swallow hard trying to get through the memories as I tell them…

Our holiday approaches. We are going to visit France, back to stay with friends where we used to live. Where we grew our own vegetables, where ducks quacked around the garden, floating in the pond or the paddling pool! Chickens, Blanchette, Brigite, Margot, Molly, Meg, and Marjorie attacked us at eating outdoor times. Where our garden was big, the rented House small, but snug and busy with life. The garage, bits of roof missing, bats flying wildly at dusk. Sundown and outside time, just you, just me, watching the sunset in each other’s arms. Enjoying the still, the life, how it seems like a life time ago…

As Wednesday draws near, it seems to be approaching fast, faster than I can say ‘hang on a minute, I need to prepare emotionally for this’. The thought of leaving here, going back, passing our old house where we, as a family, grew, prods at my shut out memories, taunts my ability to control the sadness. Absence from my routine and comforts, seeing you. How will I do it? How will I cope?

A friend said to me a while back now, as I debated going, that I was now responsible for building the kids’ memories. Not just around visiting you in the hospital, but of other, happy memories, of family fun, holidays. It destroys me daily that we can’t just go for a family dog walk, sit all together on the sofa watching a film…you’re here, still here, we still have the chance to make family memories, of a different kind one day. This day, in contrast, does not approach fast enough…

Thoughts of not seeing you thrust their sorrow to the surface of my ‘yes, it is lovely weather we are having, isn’t it?’ front…

At least I get this whole week to spend with you on my own, as the kids are at a play scheme all week, and various friends have stepped in to collect Esmie, who finishes at 1, to look after her till I collect the others later on in the afternoon.

Tonight, it’s still Wednesday, there’s still a week. May I give our kids a good holiday, one to remember, and may you be alright, as I am far away, missing you, craving you…

Me xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Alex, seeking advice...

24^th July 2012,

Dear Alex,

“When is daddy coming back, mummy?” Big clear blue eyes, tired from a day in the sun and another late night, look into mine, tired too, for different reasons. With this question, the veil that drapes precariously on my emotions surrounding doing our life without you, is tested for it’s sturdiness, and once again does not withstand the test, my eyes fill with tears and I have to answer that although you will very much be home one day, we do not know when it will be. The questions persist ‘well, maybe at Christmas? Or when I’m bigger?’ The thought and the reality of  it not being either of these as she’ll be a lot bigger if the plan goes as we think for your rehabilitation, tears at me and I have to swallow deeply and cuddle her, my little Mitzi Joy, and tell her it’ll definitely be one day, just not that soon…

Being brought up at the moment by just me, I am plagued with anxieties on a daily basis. I see you need me to be with you, more than I am. I feel, honestly, if I could be there more, you’d progress better. But I can’t be because we have four very dependent children. I also have their need of me, their right to me spending time with them as their mum, and the only one available to bring them up.

The pressure of this sometimes gets overwhelming. Frightening. All I know is that I have to dig in as deep as possible, even if I feel I am still being dragged…

I rang my sister-in-law Jo for some advice today (she works in an area which makes her a font of knowledge on difficulties with kids). With all the complexities of children’s behaviours for numerous reasons, I turned to her for some advice. I am anxious that through, in particular Monty’s behaviour, I do not end up over compensating and excusing everything he does and all his behaviours that honestly I would not accept if you were here Alex. It’s an easy trap to fall into. These past few weeks he has been testing, his attitude has made me pay him lots of attention for the negative ways he is behaving. And as the girls do not play up in the same way, they are essentially missing out on attention as I spend much time chastising and lecturing Monty! But I knew I needed some help. Yes, he’s going through a horrendously tough time, yes, he’ll be acting in certain ways more so because of this, BUT what I do not want is to excuse it all on his situation. There’s a point where, I feel, no matter how you feel or why, or how justified you may feel you are in being the way you are, that you have to turn it around, take that responsibility and be reasonable. It may sound like I am asking a lot of an 8-year-old, I’m not asking him to understand all this, just that he is alright, he’s ok, feeling what he is feeling, it’s normal, BUT he also needs to take charge of HIMSELF, that acting out on these feelings is not always alright. I think his age is also a factor, it’s a normal boy of this age thing to do, so where do I step in, at what point do I stop overcompensating and letting him be as he is being, which is not how I want to bring him up?!

Jo suggested that I wrote out some things I expected of him and his behaviour, give him very clear boundaries, and then the consequences when he doesn’t do these. I feel half of me which just wants to scoop him all up, rock him in my arms, tell him he can do whatever he wants, I am here for him to take it all out on, but there’s also a part that strongly wants him to grow up balanced, responsible and taking control of his own behaviours, owning the fact he has a choice.

As I explain to him tonight that despite the fact you are not here to tell him the things I do, that not for one second does it mean you and I are not at one in our beliefs and values in bringing the kids up, and what my values are, are yours too. He breaks down at this point, hearing the fact you aren’t here to do it, I think in a way he’s been testing everything partly out of feeling lost and angry. Which it’s ok to feel, but not to act on all the time, there's a point at which we have to take responsibility.

I am going to take him in with me one morning hopefully this week to be with you and me alone. I think this will have a real impact on how he feels around coming in to see you. Maybe some mummy and daddy time will do him some good. Our little man, growing up too fast…

Well, you were exhausted today, therapies were nigh on impossible as you could do hardly a thing. I babble on inanely at you about the nutrition side of things which is my next project for you, after a friend suggested power shakes may be a perfect idea for you…watch this space…

I just hope tomorrow will see you more animated…I feel I have missed out on you  time when all you do is sleep when I am there.

See you in the morning,

Me xxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Alex, home visit number ONE...!

July 20^th 2012

Dear Alex,

Words cannot begin to touch this morning. Thankfully I have the pictures and the memories and the feelings to carry with me for the rest of my life…

I see the car pull up, nervous, as I don’t know if I’ll keep it together, I walk down to you, your home coming! Well, a brief few hours. And I don’t, I don’t keep it together at all, I lost it when I walked out of the door to bring you in. Tears of pride, love, wishes, hopes, and joy.

The OT and the physio are there with you to push you in, up the ramp, and into the lounge, transferring you onto the sofa. Our sofa! Home. Shoes off, helmet off, the biggest grin I have ever seen anyone grin, which not for a second does it leave your or my face.

A presence so strong, pure love. Intense, healing, powerful. I ask the Most High that this may bless you in a new way, move you on the next step. That the power of this morning may engulf you and strengthen you. Focus you and aid you in your physical and mental journey. It’s like falling in love all over again, it’s like freedom or flying must feel like. It’s like surfing on clouds, like warmth and fresh coffee and an almighty achievement, well deserved! The mightiest achievement.

We are left alone for half an hour, and we cuddle, talk and bask in each other’s presence. That we are here, that you have made it this far, that I am so hopelessly in love with you that I don’t know what to do with myself when I am without you…and we are on the sofa in each other’s arms, just us, just together, just in love.

I didn’t want it to end. I stayed so strong as you pulled away. I had a long ‘moment’ when you’d gone. But not despair, not desperation, just longing and a renewed hope, that you can visit. That one day you won’t be just visiting, you’ll be here again.

How I long, I yearn for that day…

Oliver (the dog) is beside himself with excitement as you come in, he doesn’t know what to do with himself! You say very clearly, laughing ‘he stinks!’ and flap your right hand in front of your nose! Your humour is being revived. The pulse of your character strengthening, firing to the fore…it’s all coming. Time.

Wow, baby, what a morning. I truly was in heaven…I am so lucky, so blessed we still have a life together, even though it may not be the one we planned for or would have chosen…we are still together. Thank you God.

Me xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Alex, words cannot express-a photo tour instead...

July 20th 2012...Your first visit home for nearly 10 months...I cannot put it into words, so here's our pictures...

God I love you Alex...

me xxxxxxxx

Dear Alex, home again...

July 19^th 2012

Dear Alex,

Clouds enveloping, folding ever higher, reaching over the earth. Ever changing, adaptable, flowing. This morning has been unexpected. As usual, I am not able to digest the news or do anything with it, feel the emotions that are about to cascade…I have to box it up, cuddle Esmie and carry on.

My sister came over to see you and look after Esmie whilst I have our 6-weekly Goal planning Meeting. They are full of encouragement, and we discuss the way forward over the next 6 weeks, when we will all meet again, all your therapists and us, to discuss discharge and ‘where you will go’. Which doesn’t look as if you’ll be home in a year, 2 years, it’s more like a two year placement somewhere, after the (nearly) one you will have been away already. Three years, Alex. Three long, long years, and you will be in re-education, which is amazing-you will no doubt make huge progress, and be not needing of the 24/7 care side of things from me after this…But I find myself working out the age the kids will be when you will finally be able to move home and receive therapies as an outpatient. Monty will be 10, Lola 9, Mitzi 8 and Esmie 6…

It resounds like a drum beat in the pits of my aching soul…

I have a rare afternoon of quiet, cuddles, chasing, tickles, bike rides with Esmie. It’s our last afternoon to do this, she’s off to school next school year. I try hard not to feel overwhelmed at the idea of this, at the thought that I am not there as I should be either for the kids, or for you. Guilt scratches away internally, whispering coldly I am not doing enough, there’s more I should be doing, it tells me everyone is losing out in someway or another…

I now sit here, having downed left over pasta, braided hair all afternoon for roughly 8 girls I had round (a couple of mums for moral support too!) one who braided and learned on the spot, the other who did the tea runs!

I know the plan is for the best, the well fare of everyone, but I feel you’ve been away 10 months long enough. Now 2 and a half more long years to be single…bringing up the kids without you having your input. How will it affect them? How can I make it OK for them? How will they ever be OK with just me bringing them up, them knowing daddy’s still in hospital…

It takes time to adjust. But I don’t have time! Do I even have the strength?

I am told ‘this is not a sprint’ and I still am incapable of taking that on board. It has to be, can’t it be over yet? Please??!

I busy myself, organising fundraisers, planning your nutrition, helping achieve your goals (at least I like to think I help!)…adoring you, adoring the little precious four souls that keep my mind focused, keep me advancing…

Sadness just engulfs me tonight.

I have to, again, refocus, adapt, positive cap on and think of the ‘positives’ in this plan.

Tomorrow I know it’s another day, an amazing one at that, I am not coming in to see you in hospital, I am sitting here, waiting for you to come to me!! Yes, your first homevisit! I’ve pushed furniture out of the way so you can get in, it’s all set…the kids will be at school, so it’ll be you and me (and the OT and the physio). But your first trip home! I am overwhelmed with pride and excitement. My man, visiting me at home!

What an occasion, what a privilege…

So I will push thoughts towards the good and the immediate, and push aside thoughts that drag me back.

Tomorrow, it will be a good day…

I cannot wait my angel…

See you here, tomorrow morning, we have a date!

Me xxxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Alex, moving on...

July 17^th 2012

Dear Alex,

Seizing the rain ceasing long enough to mow the lawn, I snatch the opportunity today. I am not the strongest armed of people (!) and I think how proud of myself I am for becoming as DIYey and dude jobby as I have (no offence but there are certain jobs I classify as boy ones, like taking out the bins, unblocking the toilets, generally all the sh*tty ones, putting up prepacked furniture and all the  other ones I don’t want to do!)…

I have become scared of the dark. Well, I have always been to be honest, but not for over ten years have I felt the fear, you by my side took that away.

I became scared of the dark again when this happened.

In so many ways, your accident has had me re-evaluate, consciously, unconsciously. There’s SO many changes, so many intricate facets…

Trying to change an outlook on life. Challenging normal anticipations, expectations.

Is everything all relative? As I hear a great deal, or is, in fact that I just should damn well try as hard as possible to give thanks for all I have, continually and not excuse it on a ‘well, it’s all relative’ quip? Tough one. But sometimes I overhear a comment and I do feel I would love to have that to worry about instead!

I don’t know how I get to sleep at the moment, I drench the pillow heavily with lavender oil, I no longer need the TV on all night to help me sleep…but I think I finally drifted off, tears flooding, free falling, around 1 am last night. The nights are something I’ll never get used to, with no you in the bed it so starkly stares me in the face; emptiness, when I have to turn out the light- eyes burning with tiredness, I can read no more. I dread it, having to put out the light. Knowing what’s coming next. Darkness, real and blind, no protector by my side, just little me to look after, to watch, to protect four sleeping souls…

I think part of me has been facing the fact you will not be the same, that you are not the same, that you’re not going to just reappear…it’s been a struggle, tangled and heavy, I still feel I am dragging myself through it. In facing this, I am acknowledging something, something unthinkable, and for as long as it is blocked out, it means it’s not real, surely? But fight it as I might, nine and a half months into it, I cannot shake it, it’s there. It’s terrifying acknowledging it, it means accepting.

When I glance back at some of the photos of you and the kids before, I see how young the kids look, how much they’ve grown. I can’t ignore it.

I suppose I am moving towards accepting our new future, still together, still a family, just very different to before. No matter how much I want it, I, we, will never have our lives ‘magicked’ back to how it was…

Letting go of the past is painful, acceptance of the new and unknown, equally so.

That you are whole again, and home…that’s my dream now…

Me xxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Alex, Big fat 'Bring it on' to next week...

Baby Monty, Whitby beach...

15^th July 2012

Dear Alex,

Waking up this morning was pure delight, groggy eyed, Esmie pulls at my eye lids ‘mummy…mummy! It’s time to get up, do you want porridge, mummy? Are you getting up mummy?’

I draw her up the bed sheets, scrunch her little 3-year-old love into me. And I start the morning with a big cuddle from loving kids…Gift one of the day.

Monty had been on breakfast round this morning, it was 8.10 am when Esmie woke me…I had a lie in!! They had the breakfast things out, there was more milk in the bowls than on the table, good start! Gift two…

They had chosen their outfits for church, Monty a miss-matching tracksuit, muddy school shoes, Esmie pyjama bottoms, they were staying! And a stripy top, Mitzi a dress on top of another dress and 2 cardigans, she’d put her hair in 5 ponytails, hair everywhere, beautiful! And Lola wore Esmie’s cardigan (as a short sleeved too short fashion statement) and a polka dot dress…

I sip my tea and breathe in the peace, the new day, loving kids. Bliss. Happy family; just missing one.

When I reach a place as I did yesterday, I just have to give up, hand over the emotions, the ordeal to the Most High, and trust. Trust that I am doing my best, this is at times, so impossible, that I do have to forget me and put the iron lid on the emotions and trust they are safely put away, not festering and leading to somewhere I will have no control over if they all explode out…

But I really cannot ever let them explode. This is what it is. I can only accept, and learn, and move forward.

Yes, sometimes to pick yourself up again is nigh on impossible, but when you have no choice, you really do find the strength to do what you have to do.

Yesterday became so ridiculous, that I did have to laugh, because why, after a day like I had would all those other things too go wrong?! But that’s life, they do, I am not immune from life’s little catastrophes-burning plastic in the oven, dinner falling on the floor, cat puke on clean bed sheets, just because I have something bigger to deal with. I just have to realise that the bigger thing to deal with is you, Alex, and the smaller things, well, I have to pick my battles! And party poppers in the tumble drier should make you smile (if no one’s hurt, which no one was)! it was quite good fun actually, may use it as a cheer me up prop next time!

Picking your battles, having control, accepting when things are s***, they just are, and find ways of lifting myself out of it. Like fresh cups of tea, a night when 3 out of 4 kids slept through. A morning where I slept in, beautiful souls-FOUR of them, I am blessed to nurture and be there for in their time of need. They trust me, they need me, and as a mother, that responsibility is what I accept, and therefore have to get on with.

The afternoon was spent with family, kids amused, cups of tea, school reports read. A diligent Monty who had to do his homework, and did so, I had no idea, lucky he was motivated to do it! Lola practices her handwriting, Mitzi her reading, and Esmie just does Esmie things, which, praise the lord, did not include cutting her hair off…

I have spent an hour cleaning carpets, had a shower, pyjamad up, and settled in in the warmth, dog at my feet, cats finding safe places to sleep, and I listen to music and write…and today I feel lucky, privileged for all I have, the people who surround me, time to write…my biggest form of therapy!

‘To everything, turn, turn, turn, for everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven…’

The Byrds sing and I heed their lyrics…

It’s about accepting, trusting, refocusing, and carrying on.

Today, I have done this, driven by my kids…

Tomorrow I am in first thing in the morning to see you, and a fresh day. Friday you have your first home visit…SO it’s a week to look forward to, and I feel that excitement. I can hardly contain myself at the thought you will take your shoes off in a house, the first time in over 9 months you’ll be out of a hospital…

Yesterday, I flipped, I flailed, so I knew I had to refocus, deep breath, and remount, I have, and I am going ‘bring it on!’ to next week…

Me xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Alex, and it strikes again...

Little Mitzi-first day at school, first ever uniform...

July 14^th 2012

Dear Alex,

And again it strikes. Fists clench, teeth clench, tears cannot flow. I have to gulp it all back, force it in, slam that iron lid back on the emotions I need to expend to cope with what has just happened.

This morning I feel like we’re going places, all week I have felt the same, we march on, and I feel like we’ve had it easy (well, relatively) and this is the other side. I have spent a week in relief, safety, praising the Most High. Now again, it strikes.

Even Monty this morning makes the comment he’s excited to be going to see you. It feels too good to be true…it is.

You are frustrated, so hungry you’re driven to biting hard my arm; crying and I have to deal with it in front of four kids looking on. You left teeth marks.

Yes I know it’s not the real you, but the consolation of that? It’s worthless, because where is the real you then? You bit me hard. I suck in the pain and get you a yoghurt, four kids with cabin fever wanting drinks, treats, attention, me.

Then the most part is spent with you in tears, angry. I have to call it a day, it’s too much for everyone. I cannot cope; the kids don’t understand and demand more of me. You need me to help you, I can’t do it all. I feel like screaming ‘I CAN”T DO THIS!!!!’ oh for a minute of a different life, a happy family life…why not us? Why can’t we be a ‘happy family’?

You get so worked up you shout, and you lash out, head butting me and grabbing me hard. Panic attack arises in me, but I HAVE to deal with this, with four kids, on my own…

And today, I feel the anger as a result. Why us? Why? Where are you God? Can’t you help?

Awakening my heart to beat again this week, I felt the security of letting go, thinking ‘it’s all alright now, on the up’ and then the visit I have been telling the kids to be excited for as they’d see such a difference in you, turns into this.

It was a stifling experience, and after it all, I just have no choice, I have to walk out, being OK for the kids, feeling the pressure. Feeling like I should be there with you, for you. And I take them to a party, I can’t look the other parents’ in the eye, I’m so choked up.

Why do I have to keep on ‘just being alright?’ keep on slamming the lid shut on how I am? Where do I actually come in on all of this, when do I have space?

A monster of anger has got a grip of my throat; I make it through the party, switching off in their conversations, trying to appear as though I am ok, that I am with it. But I am desperate.

Then getting in, with tired muddy kids, who have picked up on how I have been, who have seen daddy being the way you have been. There’s nowhere to park where I live, I feel like ramming cars out of the way, smashing my way through the front door. I reach the sofa, having got the kids into the bath, I need to scream, to let it out, I have my fists so tightly clenched I can hardly breathe. I pray to God to give me the strength to get through bedtime. It's tiring being alone at these points...

No, tonight, today, none of this is OK, none of it is alright. I am angry I have to do all this, how can I possibly? How is it actually possible for one human of little strength to keep battling like this?

My feet drag, my legs pull, my weight, exhaustion swamp me. Entangle me…

Lola spills my cup of tea all down the back of the computer-I stay calm, there’s cat vomit on her freshly washed, put back on this morning, bed sheets, I quietly pull them off and shove them in the machine again. Naming blessings, but not really feeling it. Someone’s put a party popper in the tumble drier, it explodes. I smell burning plastic, forgetting I’d left dinner in the oven to cool along with plastic plate and plastic spatula, it’s all melted, I lift the frying pan out, my only frying pan, the handle cracks and dinner falls all over…well, at least the dog has his dinner prepared, on the floor.

Thank you I can make another cup of tea. Thank you I have the ability to get bed sheets off, and a washing machine to re-wash them. Thank you for the abandoned cat Monty found. Thank you for rice cakes and butter and hunks of cucumber for the kids’ quick tea.

But I don’t really feel any of it.

Then the kids want a puppet show before bed. They love this. It’s become a way of safely talking about you, how they feel, of play, of banter, of fun and hysterics. Of me spending time with them, curled up on their beds.

I do it. We laugh; I push the panic to one side.

My frown is deep, my hands tremble, and I write all this. I feel calmer, but tonight I feel like I can’t go on much longer.

And how can this be after just this morning feeling the calmest I ever have felt, the hope, the beauty of our son’s words at looking forward to seeing you, after the heartache he’s been and is (as they all are) going through.

How can a cavern so deep have been opened up and sucked me in so hard that I am lost, deeply covered, feeling unable to scramble out…

This is so volatile this path. I need strength, but I cannot get it from me…

Maybe tomorrow will be different…And the party popper in the tumble drier actually did make me laugh...

Me xxxxxxxx

Dear Alex, healing...

You swore SO much putting this tent up!

12^th July 2012

Dear Alex,

Red kites soar, wrapping themselves around the wind, the sky…exuding tranquillity, peace. I stare, and try not to swerve the car….!

Somehow, I cannot understand, why now, it’s as if a huge fog has lifted, as though months of drifting, unaware for the most part, a veil has been lifted, blown down. You gain strength, I feel a presence in you, around you…it’s as though I can feel the healing…

 Following a migraine, a friend catches me this morning, eyes like the proverbial p holes in the snow, squinting, staggering, late on the school run. She offers to look after Esmie, who did not want to come into hospital today. Biting down on my initial ‘oh, we’ll be fine, thanks’  reaction, I gratefully accept the offer of help. I know for Esmie, for me, it’s the best solution. Esmie is happy.

I get to hospital, there is a problem, you have pulled out your feeding peg in the night, they cannot get it back in without surgery. Gulping back fear at the thought you are ‘nil by mouth’ and of the medical procedure, I am anxious, as are they all, you have to have it put it back in to hydrate you and top up your intake of food. The speech therapist (who surveys your progress and is responsible for swallow tests, feeding and so on) is called. She has been, yet again, floored by your progress. Last week you were moved on a stage again, single cream consistency drinks. Two weeks prior to this it was double cream, weeks before the swallow test she had done was the most dangerous she had ever done she said…and was therefore extremely hesitant to try again. When she did, she was astonished, and double-thickened drinks came shortly after. Today, she says honestly, she’s not overly concerned. She thinks they will be able to get enough fluid and food into you naturally…! There may be no need to put a feeding peg back in- AND free fluids, no thickener!

She cannot put her finger on your astounding inexplicable progress in medical realms…

Prayer heavily follows your progress, many pray, send thoughts, energy, asking for more healing, holding you up…

Therapy today is a room, a bed, lavender oil, music, set up for you and me to just ‘be’…I have often requested some physical freedom for you. Always strapped into your chair, held, surrounded and hemmed in, I have asked for some ‘space’ time for you, even on mats on the floor where you cannot go anywhere, or do any harm! Today, my request is here…

We listen to music, you are transferred onto the bed, I lie next to you. Window next to us, I lie, I give in, I laugh and ask you if you mind if I cry for a bit? You smile and stroke my hair…that’s just tipped me over the edge! And I do, I cry. I cry relief, healing, witnessing your progress, at not squinting quite so hard to see the light at the end. Out of the window I watch the clouds pass by- a kingdom of energies, tracing, racing patterns out, still, ballooning. Skies that speak a myriad words, express emotions in their grandeur, eloquence.

What a time we passed, happy in each other’s arms, your eyes are open, your touch never ceasing, your skin’s smell. Your smile, which does not leave your lips. We lie together in heaven…and again, I feel it. All the longing and the heartache for you to progress, it feels like it is here, the healing.

Afterwards, a comment is made ‘Alex, the muscles on the left hand side of your face-they look like they’re working! I have never seen that before’…

You smile, your eyes shine, glisten, as do mine with tears as I have to leave…

How can I show you my love for you? My hopes, my fears that have crushed me at times, suffocated me…now I feel differently, I feel (almost!) an inner peace, a hope so furiously ignited that I breathe it with ecstasy…you’re coming back…

Me xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Alex, a humbling day...

July 11^th 2012

Dear Alex,

Boy tears now fall, he’s thrashed, let out, blamed, slammed, now I’ve approached. I rest, he turns furiously away, voice hardly working, I can hear the anger, the grief in his throat. I try to reach out, console, my hand is whacked away. I stay; still, crossed legged, waiting. Taking his own time, trying not to push, just making sure he knows I am there. He gives in, it’s bubbled frantically over, he throws himself into me, ‘I miss my dad’. There, he’s said it, acknowledged. ‘So do I’ I whisper and cuddle my boy hard, and tears roll.

He now has his turn in my bed, mummy’s nest! He traces the patterns in the bed head, humming ‘paradise’ by Coldplay- possibly THE worst ever written song, sorry Coldplay, but there’s nothing significant about him humming ‘para para para para para para dise….’ My bed is certainly not. But he hums, and I listen, our boy soothed, and I write to you, Alex, as he does. Girls asleep, the day’s almost done.

Hail stones pound, shaking the ground awake. Our girls' summer dresses held up tight, socks, shoes scattered, the kids chase through the ankle high puddles, little bottoms bared, freedom, their feet find. Luckily other mums did not frown too hard, although I do not know it made them smile as broadly and laugh as loudly as me! 

You miss all this...

It’s been a disjointed day. You were asleep in your chair almost the whole time I was in, quiet. I did get a smile. I therefore spent the morning holding your hand, chatting to others, Esmie on my knee.

I ache now, shoulders, head. No you to give me a massage, or tell me to shut up whinging! Just, as usual, no you…

So many people are involved now, on board, trying to ‘make waves’ for you. If you knew how many have done things, how many people intend to. It’s astonishing; I am surprised regularly by the kindness of others. Just today, after an initial brief chance encounter, people who don’t know me, you, the kids, sit with me, planning, offering help, organising. Their energy, kindness, I cannot put into words. I am truly humbled by these guys*, and others who want to, and have, helped.

My head continues to pound, despite tablets, I am going to have to go.

Be awake tomorrow…I need you to talk to.

I miss you, more every day…

Me xxxxxxxxxxx

*(You guys know who you are and as I haven’t checked with you, I am putting no names up!)

Dear Alex, if there are a few things I've learned...

July 9th 2012

Dear Alex,

Autumn scorched leaves in early July; Summer has not yet graced us with its warmth…

Yet I have found, through the bulging rain filled skies, divine scenes and promise... Clouds lined darkest grey, giving rise to lighter grey, strikes of white light penetrate with a sun striving to pierce the threats of rain.

It hasn’t (or has rarely!) succeeded. Occasional sun, but seemingly months of rain. Reflecting the tears I have shed, I think my tears alone have resulted in the final lifting of the hosepipe ban!

The frustrated gardener in me has finally got hold of pots, to grow my own take away garden. Always renting, I have never had the motivation to plant flowers, grow beautiful gardens in places I may move from. But now settling, feeling some ‘space’ some slowing, I plant and grow, and relish the buds developing.

You are so low when I visit today, feeling the cold of the food they put through the stomach peg, you hold onto me as the nurse does her duties. All the invasion, all the different people, having to try and compute and understand your surroundings, not being at home, waking up on a normal day with me and the kids, all be it at stupid o’clock…I think you’d chew your right arm off to have that instead.

So much to realise, understand, so slowly it happens as the neurons in your brain fight to find new pathways, fight to be revived and take on new life.

Regenerating dormant brain cells to find new pathways through and winding around damaged areas. It is truly incredible what the brain can do, given the right stimuli and time.

But this is just it, time…

Time, which races by, snatches years of lives, has children growing, moves us all on. And yet you, I, wait for rehabilitation, re-educating your brain. You start from scratch, the brain has never done this before!

If there are a few things I have learned from this, it’s patience, endurance, tolerance, re-shaping expectations, seeking hope where none can be found.

This is an excruciatingly painful phase, I believe you are aware now of your situation, you are aware of how you used to be, and have no idea what to expect. And honestly, no one can tell us. Which is why a consoling ‘don’t worry, babes, it’ll all be fine’ is not a truth.

All I can tell you is that we are together in this. I will never give up, and I know neither will you.

It’s just learning strength, finding more strength than you ever imagined possible. Love through one of the toughest strains that can be slung carelessly at someone; ‘here, deal with that one’.

No one can tell us how far you’ll get, but we just have to trust. Believe and fight. Forever maybe, but rather an eternity of that than to have lost you altogether…

Fight on my lion heart!

Me xxxxxxxx

Dear Alex, slowing down the race of life...

Leaving France, 5 months ago...

July 7^th 2012

Dear Alex,

Cupcakes cool on the racks, the smell of baking fills the house. I (geekily) truly delight in the fact I can do this, (not well, 25 sank) but the appreciation of baking, mixing, cooking, rising, cooling then icing…I can get my head round it, I enjoy it, and I am capable of doing it. These days even drinking a cup of tea I am grateful for, I should always have been, and I have learned to be grateful for the simplest of things.

It makes me realise the pleasures in the moment. Challenging my focus, not 'oh, man, I only have 5 minutes for a cuppa’ But, ‘wow, I have 5 whole minutes to down a cup of tea, which I am able to make, drink’ and in appreciating it as a much bigger thing than I did in the past, I am drawn to the moment I live in, enjoying simple pleasures, offering thanks for all these gifts…

I have calmed, once always frantic, hence my ‘manic mum’ name, mopping floors, cooking, doing children, animals, well, all sorts, and in making myself take these deep breaths of gratitude for it all, I see more, I appreciate all, I feel hugely blessed and balanced. No need to frantically go at everything, never appreciating, always performing with such speed, life was a race.

I sit and eat an ice lolly with the kids in the garden, we chat, I dwell, I delight in their stories, smiles, niggles, all of it, and time has slowed, because I appreciate the moment in a very real way, by being thankful for each second, and each thing I have to do. I do not do any less, I guess I do a lot more, now! But my eyes and breathing are open to gratitude speak, and it’s slowed me down internally.

Today you hear the kids voices, each time they come in, your serene smile never leaves your face, you close your eyes in peace, you reach out continually to touch one of them, stroking their hair, feeling my watch on my wrist, my arm, enjoying, basking in family time.

You are different when they are there, so peaceful, relaxed, absorbing them, their love, their chatter, it is so powerful the energy kids bring in their innocence and chat, twirling in too big dresses, falling to the floor, sitting on your lap drawing. Asking you questions, checking you’re not too cold, too hot. Looking after you.

I go to bed late at the moment, I do not sleep well, can’t get to sleep, it must be a phase. I am just unable to wind down.

But my head is filled with thoughts of you, your incredible progress, the fact that today I said I’d be back soon and you replied ‘you’d better be’! you have made a few jokes this week, your character seems to be bubbling on up to the surface a bit. Gently breaking through at times, and it’s as miraculous as watching a baby take its first steps.

I am content; I love how you seem to have stepped up another level. I chatted to you today about how I felt that at the moment you needed to pause, take in fully where you had got to, rather than getting frustrated with the rest you still have to do, I felt that I should tell you that you need to look back, and not forward for a while, to stake an ‘Alex has done this part’ flag in the mountainous journey of achievements you have made so far. Time to look at where you have come from, not where you still need to get to.

You nod, understand, and squeeze me so tight and tell me ‘I love you’ when I tell you I love you, you say ‘not as much as I love you…’ something you used to say to me before!

I am on cloud nine at the moment with your improvements, although I now have to go and ice precisely the 30 cup cakes that did not sink, and it’s already 10.30 pm…!

I do love you Alex, I am so overwhelmed by you, and although we have so much further to go, we have come so very, very far…remember that…

me xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Alex, three whole seconds...

July 6^th 2012

Dear Alex,

As I leave today (having had a rare visit on my own with you) I watch for a while through the centre doors…it’s lunchtime, you sit, head upright, being fed your lunch. Eating, swallowing well, it’s an amazing sight.

Full of promise and how far you’ve made it.

I get to come back in again tonight to see you, Lola comes with me, some mummy and daddy time on her own. She makes herself a picnic all by herself, tuna mayonnaise sandwiches, flapjack, cucumber an orange and an apple and twiglets. She brushes her hair, gets herself in a pretty dress and stripy socks and sandals. Bless her heart, she’s growing up fast…

At first you were in your chair, but you’re tired and ask to go to bed. You seem flat, unhappy. Lola lays down beside you and we have a few laughs, but your energy ebbs low and your frown and tears overtake the small smiles. You tell Lola you love her, stroke her head, cuddle her close and cry into her hair. You kiss and you kiss her and tell me ‘this feels so weird’ referring to you and your situation.

We both try hard to lift your low spirits, but they’re too low. I lay next to you on the side the arm and hand can’t move. All I can do is cuddle you, tell you how far you’ve come. The mountain you’ve already climbed. To look back at the moment, see what you have done.

This is a part of an amazing recovery process-awareness, and I have been hoping for this for nine long months. That you know where you have to go, that you were not always like this, that the fog would lift. I did not hope for the distress, the tears, the heartache…I don’t know that I expected it to be anything else, I just hoped, and still do, it would not be so painful.

But how can it not be? When you, Alex, see where you are.

The improvements are mountains you’ve overcome, but you are unable to see it now, you feel there’s so far to go…

You shout at me when we have to leave, it’s 9.30pm, visiting finishes at 10, and I have to get back to the other kids. ‘go away, leave me!’ over and over. I do not let myself absorb it, I fight hard to not take it in. I know you’re lashing out, angry, frustrated. I repeat to you that I am here no matter what, whether you tell me to go, I will be back in everyday, I am never quitting, and neither are you.

To see you like this is torture. But when I leave, you have calmed, you sleep, and Lola is reassured that you have your lion and the teddy they bought for you. She thinks you’ll sleep well with them.

This is agony Alex, I will never know what you truly feel, I can only teeter on the outside and imagine.

But today you stood for the first time, alone, for 3 seconds. Chest out, stomach pulled in, straight, and you held it for 3 seconds. This is another first. Each week there seems to be another first, and maybe you cannot see it through your anguish to be further on, but I will remind you, and I will never quit.

I am amazed by you, you still, 10 and a half years on, blow me away Alex Wood, and I love you for better, for worse, in sickness and in health…you're not getting rid of me!

I love every inch of you, through and through, and I know our love is strong enough to fight this battle…you are healing, recovering, as agonisingly slow as it is, just imagine another nine months form here where you’ll be…

I am back in tomorrow with the kids. We’ll go out, get some fresh air, breathe, together as a family.

You’re still my everything, and am here, bound to you for an eternity.

I hope you have peace in your dreams tonight.

Me xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dear Alex, 4th July 2012, Nine long months today...

4^th july 2012

Dear Alex,

Nine months ago today…Nine whole long, agonising months.

After watching the video Jamie did for you (which PLEASE SHARE!!) I suddenly reaslised where you had come from, so I wanted to look at the positive moments, focus and refocus and soak it in...

I have wept, dried up, been given rain drops of hope and hail stone pellets of despair. I would never have thought I could make it this long nine months ago…

And life keeps going. And it keeps going without my hero, my best friend and my eternal love by my side…

And I look at you today, you are so different from the initial months in rehab. So very, very different, hoisted out of bed in a sling to sit in a wheelchair, not moving, not speaking, not opening your eyes. Longing for your touch, your voice, your words…

Now, nine months on, I have much of this. Words every so often, although speech is very unclear. Your touch all the time when I am near, your head (which drooped constantly to the right hand side-they didn’t know if you’d ever get head control back) moves purposefully to me, pressing into me. Your hand holds mine, reaches out, strokes the kids, holds me tight.

Your eyes open most of the time, although your sight is not there…

Your head has strength and control, you are even eating! Alongside the stomach peg which they still feed you through, you eat pureed meals three times a day, they sometimes try you holding the spoon, and you direct it (sometimes successfully!) to your mouth.

You are upright and walk (extremely heavily assisted) through a gym. Sometimes looking ahead, body (surf trained) standing almost tall and proud at times …taking steps on your new journey. Your upper body supporting you for short periods of time sitting unaided…Not harnessed into the wheel chair, straps everywhere to keep you forward and not flopping.

You said to me on Monday when asked what do you think about? ‘I think about you all the time’ and you frown your eyebrows and cry ‘I just want things to be like before’… you have thought processes this indicates, and can express them occasionally.

I bring in filter coffee, to smell and to make. Aided, you pour the coffee into a cafetiere, you plunge it when it’s brewed and with my help, you pour it out for us…something you did for me before, late morning at home. My special coffees made by you…sugary and frothy milk.

Esmie sat on your knee and made a clay pot with you the other day, you roll the clay with my help with your right hand, I support the arm.

The moments, the weeks that pass when you appear to not be there, and I am left wondering if this is it, you have gone? You stare into space, are unmotivated, not speaking, unresponsive, and I want to scream ‘Alex, where are you? Where have you gone?’ and drag you out. These times are hard, impossible, and I have to dig in deep to remind myself you will keep going, keep on fighting, but I never succeed in fully reassuring myself you’ll come back fighting…the hope flickers dim at these points, and my resources are tested to the ultimate limits. I groan internally and my soul fades…

Only you do reappear, you beam when you hear my voice, you hold me tight with your right arm, lift the left at the shoulder. We take it in turns, the kids and I, to massage out and coax your fingers on your left hand to uncurl.

You speak again, you laugh, you are my joy, my happiness, my hope and still, very much my Alex. These times I almost breeze through, because I think I can take anything on for just having a brief moment of a bit of you. Surely this will consciously, unconsciously come to the fore, gradually, repairing with time, love…

Doesn’t love heal? The Most High watch on, and encourage where all hope is burned, left singed souls scattered, despairing?

Aren’t you the living, breathing proof?

A product of love, purpose, and what purpose-four souls looking on, willing their daddy back.

Thank you God for this week, for your speech, delight, perseverance and smiles…

Thank you God that I truly believe, I will get almost my whole Alex back…

Things will never be the same again; we will never be the same again. But we don’t need to be scarred; burned out-we can be replenished in a very true and very different sense.

This journey for you, for me, no, I would never have accepted, but as I have to, I will tell you again and again that I am fighting for you, I LOVE you and I am, and will be eternally, yours Alex Wood…

Me xxxxxxxxxxxxxx