I watched immobilised by horror as they pulled back the
sheet that covered Cathal. I hardly recognised my child.
When I had seen him on the previous day in the hospital he
had been warm, his soft hair resting lightly on the pillow.
Now I saw this pale corpse, his head bandaged, in this cold
place. I could see the great black marks on his shoulders and
his side, showing that he had tried to turn away from the car
when he had rounded the corner and crossed the road. This
memory is the one that reminds me of his last seconds, as I
cycle by that place every day. I felt his forehead, and now
I understood what the coldness of death really meant. It was
an icy coldness that somehow sapped the humanness from
my child.
Extract from When a Child Dies. Footsteps of a Grieving Family. Published by Veritas.
Tags: bereavement, death of a child, grief