I knew there was nothing to be done
Warning: This piece contains discussions of losing a young child. Please take care when reading and know that there are organisations that can support you such as Child Bereavement UK and Sands.
This piece has been written by Dad with input from his family and friends (others’ inputs are written in Italics).
Over the years I have spoken infrequently about William and I have never written about him. When I have it’s always been direct and to the point which is just my way even if it’s often misconstrued as a lack of empathy. I’m a product of parents who didn’t hug, boarding school at a very early age, junior solider and a very stiff upper lip but this is our story.
On the 25th June 1997, my wife gave birth to our son William. I remember clearly holding this tiny little boy in my arms and looking out the window of the hospital, feeling a huge sense of pride but equally terror at the responsibility I was now holding.
No tears of joy, just a real feeling of “I can do this”.
Deep breath, chest out, chin up!
William was not an easy baby – he was a challenge – but we loved him. He was very clever, speaking and walking early and had a shock of red, curly hair. My only fear for this little boy was the bullying he would receive throughout his life because of the colour of his hair; I know how much I had suffered but this was a long way off.
In April 1999, William was suffering with a viral infection (which we later learned produced ulcers in his throat preventing him from breathing). We visited the doctor and were told he would be okay with a bit of Calpol etc.; certainly nothing to worry about. But early on 13th April 1999, I felt or heard my wife going to check on William and though there was nothing new in this or any reason for concern I then heard a scream; a cold guttural, animal scream. The type where you know instinctively, something is very, very wrong.
William was lying in his cot with his shock of ginger curls but the colour in his face was all wrong. I knew and recognised the colouring instantly; how could I not? I had seen enough dead people over the years. I phoned an ambulance and remember going back to William; deep breath, chest out, chin up; professional. There were things needed to be done.
I heard the ambulance and went out to meet the crew; I knew them as I was a local police officer. I followed the ambulance crew into the house, took them to William and I said, “Don’t hurt him, if you don’t have to”; I knew there was nothing to be done.
A police colleague who lived opposite knocked at the door and I told her William was dead; I cried in her arms for a few moments and that was it, I didn’t cry again that day or the day after. I remember my wife taking William to the ambulance but no real details; just a deep breath, chest out and chin up. Be strong.
The house was then full of police and ambulance crews that I knew. I answered the questions that I knew would come and watched as they filled in the forms as I had done before and very quickly we were alone. I phoned the family and they came, I phoned friends but I had nothing to say; didn’t know what to say or how to say it. I was the strong one. I had to support my wife and the family as everyone was grieving, they needed and wanted me to be strong.
E (Sister): I was at work when I learned that William had died. I’d been surprised to see my partner Nick arrive at my workplace which wasn’t like him. As I rose from my desk to greet him he said, “you need to come home” and then he just kept repeating the phrase time and time again; “William’s died”. My legs gave out twice on the short walk to my car — my tear streaked face formed a stark contrast to the happy students milling around the University campus that day.
When you asked me to put a notice in the local paper with details of the funeral, I spent ages looking through my Mum and Dad’s copy of the paper to see how other funeral notices were worded. I didn’t want to get it wrong.
M (friend): I received a call from you which I took to a separate room away from the family and the immediate tone told me there was something very wrong. It was very difficult to take in what was being said and I could not believe it. I felt total devastation in a way such as William was part of my own family!
I remember thinking about the autopsy, visions in my mind, I wanted to block out, but couldn’t. I never spoke of this to anyone, just bottled it up. I drove with my brother in law to the funeral parlour, where they all knew me. We’d often shared dark humour over the years but there was no humour now. Deep breath, chest out; chin up.
M: I spoke to you as much as I could before the funeral, trying to judge the space and support you needed. The calls were always hard to start with but by the end you would open up more to me. It seemed all so surreal until I was stood on your doorstep. Your wife showed her emotions to everyone but I noticed you were in a mode and you had up the strength-front. I didn’t think this was wrong and had no judgement; I was sure I would have done or would have liked to have done the same.
I knelt alone beside Williams coffin and wept. I poured my heart out, consumed by an overwhelming sense of failure; of how I had let my boy down. I was meant to keep him safe and strong; I had failed him.
But I stood up and lifted the coffin because it was the practical thing to do; I was carrying my boy into the church. We picked the hymns but the vicar changed them. I didn’t have the strength to argue but I regret not standing my ground; I had failed again.
There was no black at the funeral; I wore my England rugby shirt. I remember looking at M, an Army buddy, and saying, “I need to carry William into the church, don’t let me fail.” I didn’t. Deep breath, chest out, chin up and I carried my son to the front of the church which was standing room only.
We drove to the wake at the local social club where I drank and drank and we sang rugby songs. I didn’t cry, I didn’t know how to. I would see my wife surrounded by family and friends, lot of tears, lots of hugs and holding hands. All I had to do was to be strong.
Two weeks later and I was back at work as a trainee detective which had a drinking culture; it was just the way it was; a different time. I remember the looks of colleagues who didn’t know what to say or how to say it. The ridiculous “how are you doing?” questions; what did they want me to say to that? I was angry; drinking; was working and providing. I was being strong.
M (friend): We continued to talk and ensure you were both okay. You did seem to get over it too quickly but again this was a front and I think this was you putting it away into a box and focusing on moving forward. I tried to speak to you about it more and more but you weren’t up for it. I hoped that you would come back to it once you got going again but as time went on, we only seemed to speak about it when you brought it up which wasn’t as often as I would have liked.
My wife and I never recovered from losing William. I worked away from home a lot and our marriage eventually broke down; my fault.
E: I feel guilty that I don’t talk about William, the reason being sparing others any pain or embarrassment. Every person that I have talked to about it, and there aren’t many, have not known what to say. And then I imagine this is what it must be like for you, how difficult it must have been for you to talk about it, and have people understand, and say the right things.
R (sister): You were just trying to get back to some form of normality and that is completely understandable as why would you want to dwell on your son being taken away from you so unfairly and without growing up to have the piss taken out of him for having curly, ginger hair?! But I did recognise a change in you in that; there was this inner anger. My mistake was probably not asking you how you were but nobody teaches you how to deal with loss and there is no right or wrong way.
This is the first time I have ever written this down and I have cried writing it; maybe I should have done this years ago. Some years the anniversary would matter, some times it wouldn’t. Occasionally I cry but not often and rarely about at anything in real life; I fear I have seen the worst and become hardened to it. I certainly don’t speak about William often enough.
Nobody wants to hear about how I feel; it’s all so long ago. There’s nothing anybody can do.
Deep breath, chest out, chin up.
Having been asked to write about William, I reached out to friends and family and the different perspective has helped. Its good to talk, I am just not very good at it.
Toni asked me, having read the first draft, if I had ever truly grieved for William and the answer is probably not; I am not sure I know how is the short answer. Most days I am able to carry the weight of William with me but on others I am just unable to. I need to learn to share that weight.
I know I am not alone and that others grieve alongside me. I always wanted to protect others and didn’t want to cause them pain but the reality is, by sharing, we could have helped each other.
Detective Sergeant
FOM Toni’s note: I have the privilege to know Dad personally and wouldn’t just call him a friend but one of the most special people in my life and I love him dearly. I knew of William a few months into our friendship but to read about his short life through his Dad’s and others’ eyes is as beautiful as it is painful. Though I made the offer, I am truly humbled that Dad wanted to try and share William with us all and it was an honour to be entrusted to do so.
