We’ve been pitched into such a strange, howling ‘non space’ in the last six weeks. Yep, it’s six weeks tomorrow morning. My head remains in a ‘shrieky/turmoil ridden/too, too awful to fully engage with anything’ state of agitation. My heart? Well, I can’t go there. Not sure I ever will.

We had two days this week in London with Tom and Owen. As we’ve done for the last couple of years. This was ok-ish. Thanks boys. We had fun. We chatted, we wandered about. Rich and I walked round the Serpentine while they explored Oxford Street. The open water/countryside type space that allows me to breath. Later, I swallowed my irrational fear when the two of them went on the Star Flyer ride on the South Bank.

I managed to keep the anguish largely confined to moments in between family time. When it was just Rich and I. Between remembering LB moments. The camping trip a couple of years ago when LB announced “I know nothing about fishing, I just know about women”. Re-living memories of the ‘do’. The do that’s becoming a cornerstone of our reflections about LB. That it was as good as it could have been, an enormous comfort.

And then the many memories of LB in London. The space he loved. He consistently wished from an early age that he ‘was a Londoner’. On the ‘Just you and me mum’ trips that was one of the few things he’d say. On the South Bank this weekend, we reflected on how much LB would have loved the busker standing in the Thames. Singing about Pentax pens. The flame proof moth. What a guy.

I spoke to little sis Sam today. She’s got a rocking bereavement counsellor friend who is happy to give me a call, love her. When you get a waiting list for this sort of gig, it ain’t really that helpful. The Oxfordshire based children’s service, Seesaw, are on it.

Rich and I sat out in the garden earlier, talking about what’s happened. As we do all the time. He thinks I’m doing ok really. In the circumstances. Grief is total crapshite. How could it be anything else? He just wanted me to know that. And I am. It’s unspeakably, indescribably awful. A stifling cage of enduring, unstoppable shite. The whole ‘investigation/inquest and beyond’ stuff is unthinkable. I’ve read and re-read the unit and social care notes. I have some idea about what lays ahead.

What upsets me most in all this is where is LB? Where is our hilarious dude?  How can the processes that will (or are, or may be) creaking into being ever capture who he was? Who he should have been?  I want to know how our beautiful, funny boy will remain visible? As a person. And not just be another ‘case’ to be briefly picked over in some sort of faux ‘important’ investigation/review only to be ultimately ignored. Parked in the graveyard of learning disability and indifference.

I don’t suppose for one moment I’m alone in howling about this. Thankfully.

But I’m doing ok overall on the grief front. I agree with Rich. It’s just a festering pile of fuckingcrapshitebollockfilledtosswank.

Sadly.