The funeral was two weeks ago today and it’s still hard for me to accept Jessica won’t be coming home. I suppose only time can bring about that sort of acceptance.
It’s strange I know but I can’t help feeling she’s only away on holidays or over at Bree’s or Mum’s. Sometimes it even feels like she is just off playing somewhere and I expect her to come barrelling through the back door at any minute, dirty and bloody from climbing a tree or exploring.
She wasn’t a very girly girl. Dolls and ribbons weren’t really her thing. I suppose she got that from me. Physical stuff though, now that she loved. I took her to gymnastics classes once a week and she was trying to convince me that she needed to join the swimming club. I wish I’d let her. It might have put us in a different place that day.
When she was in a quiet mood she would play with her teddy bears, read or do something creative. She loved art, she had so many drawing and colouring books, scrap books filled with her own pictures.
But the feeling she’s out playing doesn’t last for very long before I once again realise it’s just not so. She is never again going to come running through the back door to give me a muddy hug, or any other door for that matter.
Sometimes I find myself wondering if it would have been easier if she’d been sick. That serious, terminal kind of sick where you’ve been told your child will only live so long. I guess though I probably wouldn’t have handled that any better. It probably would have been worse. I wouldn’t have liked to see her suffer and at least with the way she died, she didn’t. That’s what they told me anyway. I suppose I can always be grateful for that – but in reality?
Every day spent with your child is precious, special. There are times it doesn’t seem that way I know, but now I spend hours wishing I had just a little extra time with her. The thing is no matter how she died, even if I had of known her days were numbered, I would still feel as though she had been stolen from me.
It’s strange I know but I can’t help feeling she’s only away on holidays or over at Bree’s or Mum’s. Sometimes it even feels like she is just off playing somewhere and I expect her to come barrelling through the back door at any minute, dirty and bloody from climbing a tree or exploring.
She wasn’t a very girly girl. Dolls and ribbons weren’t really her thing. I suppose she got that from me. Physical stuff though, now that she loved. I took her to gymnastics classes once a week and she was trying to convince me that she needed to join the swimming club. I wish I’d let her. It might have put us in a different place that day.
When she was in a quiet mood she would play with her teddy bears, read or do something creative. She loved art, she had so many drawing and colouring books, scrap books filled with her own pictures.
But the feeling she’s out playing doesn’t last for very long before I once again realise it’s just not so. She is never again going to come running through the back door to give me a muddy hug, or any other door for that matter.
Sometimes I find myself wondering if it would have been easier if she’d been sick. That serious, terminal kind of sick where you’ve been told your child will only live so long. I guess though I probably wouldn’t have handled that any better. It probably would have been worse. I wouldn’t have liked to see her suffer and at least with the way she died, she didn’t. That’s what they told me anyway. I suppose I can always be grateful for that – but in reality?
Every day spent with your child is precious, special. There are times it doesn’t seem that way I know, but now I spend hours wishing I had just a little extra time with her. The thing is no matter how she died, even if I had of known her days were numbered, I would still feel as though she had been stolen from me.
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