5.30am is becoming depressingly familiar. Though to be fair, it’s better than 2am. I come to consciousness and for a while lie there listening to the birds, being gradually aware of the sun on the curtains, and then boom, the knowledge is back with me. Or rather, the not knowing.
It can be so paralysing. I’m continuing to go through the motions. Clothes are washed, dishes done, Twiglet got to school, but decisions are crippling. I can stand in the kitchen wondering what we will eat for half an hour and still be none the wiser.
It is getting better though. This is my mourning period and I can see myself coming out the other side. But new losses hit me every so often. I mourn the loss of a ‘normal’ family life, the loss of my emerging life after the intense period of motherhood. I worry what life will be like for Twiglet – will he always be the one whose needs come second place to the concerns of hospital appointments? And so on. And strangely, I mourn the loss of petty little jealousies – previously I had been getting increasingly jealous of other mums as I could see the gap between Pudding and his peers getting wider. Now I just don’t want my son to die.