Sometimes I wonder if I made the wrong choice. I wonder when I watch my son play without a brother, when I celebrate milestones which should have come in pairs. I wonder if the doctors were wrong in their gloomy prognosis of a child without a future. I wonder what would have happened if we had fought for his treatment, if we had demanded that he be allowed to live, if we had brought him home.
I wonder what difference it would have made to our lives, not to have lived through a sadness that doesn’t ever leave, not to be weighed down daily by a death we can’t speak of. I wonder what future we would have had.
I wonder what it would be like to take a day off from this grief that envelops me no matter where I am. What it would be like to live a life without such sorrow.
I wonder how he’d look – this four year old son of mine.
I wonder if people can see it in my eyes. And if they can, I wonder why they lack the compassion to deal with it.
I wonder if we should have been braver, should have fought more, should have questioned more. I wonder if he hurt, if he realised, if he knew how much he was loved.
Because of all that, sometimes I think I made the wrong choice.