I feel like over the last two days on an emotional level I’m right back where I was in June and July. Tears are never far away, and it is difficult to carry on with the everyday things such as getting dinner ready, doing the shopping or washing up.
I want to disappear under the quilt and say to hell with it all. I want to swear loudly in public. I want the comfort of a bacon sandwich or acres of chocolate.
I want the most difficult decisions we make about Pudding’s future to be which subjects he chooses at GCSE, not the choice between mainstream or specialist schools. Or whether we enrol him on a clinical trial.
I want the sun to stay out and keep the gloom of winter at bay. I want to have a conversation with my son. I want him to walk to secondary school with his mates.
I want to choose our next house on the basis of which street it’s in, rather than whether there is space for wheelchair access.
I want to go back to being able to enjoy a novel.
I want someone to tell me that they have found a cure and everything will be ok.
I want him to bring his girlfriend home from university to meet me, so I can embarrass him with tales I tell her about his childhood.
I want him to have a quick and easy death.
I want him to live.