This isn't goodbye

We all have to say goodbye at some point in our lives. Be that at the end of a party, or at the end of someone’s life. Most of the time, a true goodbye is not meant to last a lifetime, but just “bye” for a brief moment in time.

It is called a “goodbye” contact for a reason. Mine was called a “goodbye” contact. I hated that term. It’s true. I was told that the contact would be for 1 hour and during that time, I was “to make the best of it”. How can you make the best of saying goodbye to the 9-month-old you would give your life for? I was told that this would be the last time that I would see my son for at least 18 years, and then, and only then, it would be his choice if he was to ever want to see me and make contact.

Monday 23rd October 2017 1pm-2pm. I didn’t want to wake up that day, I wanted it to pass me over.

I brought a new dress for the occasion, (a dress that hangs in my wardrobe, vowed never to be worn again), not that he would notice, but workers put it into my head that this was a day to be celebrated.

Well, it wasn’t a day to be celebrated, it was the day that I would start grieving. That’s what you do right? When you are saying goodbye to someone “forever”. When you are losing the one thing that keeps you on this earth. The one thing in the world you love more than anything. When you say goodbye, it means goodbye.

Normally, I would arrive early and set the room up with some of the toys that he had been engaging with, but I had an amazing contact supervisor. She had already placed some of the toys he would play with, within the room. To me, that both meant a lot, as I could pre-focus on just having a good hour making memories, but it also hurt. I can look back on it now, it was part of how they aim to make the hour more meaningful, where you don’t have to worry about the little things.

He was brought into the room by his foster carer, in a little sailor’s outfit I had picked out for him only weeks before. It’s the little things that matter. She had kindly given me an envelope with the final photos, milestone details and the little extras I had asked for (i.e.. The first time he rolled over, the date of his first bath etc…), in return, I had spent the previous night writing her and her family a letter. Thanking them for being welcoming, non-judgemental, flexible, and most importantly, thanking them for looking after my little man for me. I thanked them for the selfless job they do when they welcome a child into their home, not knowing the background, and they treat you like a member of their extended family. (Sarah and family, if you ever read this- I will always hold you in my heart for the kindness you showed me during the worst time of my life, and for the love, you have for J).

We had already done foot and handprints. Each contact we took photos, I wrote in a journal and I gladly shared the photos with his mum when the time came to meet her. I would have loved to have done more, or at least be more involved in the planning of the contact, but it was just right for us.

Cuddles, kisses, helping him to walk and hoping he would say “mamma”. We got an “Mmm”, that was the first and last time I would hear him speak. We played with the colourful butterfly toy that had been used since we started tummy time. The plastic balls, the drum with the coloured beads in it, all the noisy toys- of course, I wouldn’t have expected my child to be quiet. There were several times when I would hold back the tears. But you can see the pain of the restraint in the photos.

36 photos and 6 videos captured the hour. The time went by in a blink of an eye, and soon the time came to give Sarah a hug, and kiss the little man for the last time. It was time to start grieving the loss of my son. I was left standing there, holding the little sailor's cap (that didn’t fit his head) listening to him cry as he was carried away.

Deep breath. Take a deep breath. But the breaths couldn’t stop the tears from falling or the heaviness in my heart as I heard his cries disappear. This was our final farewell. This was the start of the grieving process.

I gave another letter to the contact supervisor. I thanked her for teaching me how to be a mum. After all, there is no manual, and I had no family to support me. I walked away from there just about holding it together. I got home that day and went to his room. I sat by his cot (of only which he had ever slept in for 30 minutes) and cried the whole night.

This wasn’t goodbye, this was our TTFN. Ta-Ta For Now

It would be 1043 days until I would next set physical eyes on Little man, by then he was grown up.

I told you it was TTFN!