Grief is grief.

The mother whale carrying her dead calf has popped up on my news feed a lot in the last few weeks. I have avoided the article for the most part because hey, it's sad and it's just a fucking whale right? But a mother is a still a mother. Grief is still grief, and sometimes, whatever species, we're just not ready to let them go...

3 days after Archer died, I jumped out of bed demanding to see him. Something in me snapped and I couldn’t bear to spend one more minute away from him.

My mum and my sister drove me up to Charles Gairdner Hospital. I remember slouching down as low as I could go in my seat, staring at the light rain hitting the window, secretly hoping a wayward car would just smash into us and put me out of my misery.

The walk from the entrance to the morgue was the longest fucking walk of my life. My chest hurt, I was weak from lack of food & water, I looked like a zombie and I could feel the stares of hospital staff and people everywhere I went.

The ‘morgue’ wasn’t anything like I thought it would be. I thought they were going to take me into a sterile medical room with giant, silver drawers... but I’m guessing that’s probably not appropriate for grieving families. Instead, I walked into a warm, carpeted area, more like a reception to a fancy private hospital.

We were taken into a smaller room, it had chairs and a little side table with tissues and flowers. In front of me was a giant glass window, which had a long blue curtain drawn. I told the Councillor that I was there simply to be in the same area as him, to be close to him, to feel him near - I had no intention of seeing him, until she told me he was right behind those curtains.

I sent my Mum in first. I’m not sure why. If she had told me to not go in I probably still would have gone, but she didn’t... she told me it was OK.

I asked the Councillor if his mouth was open. As weird as that was, I needed his mouth to be open because it was ALWAYS open. Those who knew Archer know that he had the fattest little tongue that always protruded out of his mouth. If they had done something unnatural to keep his mouth closed, I didn’t want to see.

His mouth, was indeed slightly open, just as it always was.

I walked around the corner and saw him. I don’t think I even cried. I just walked straight up to him and grabbed his little hand. His cold little hand. It’s an indescribable cold, an unnatural cold. The human body isn’t meant to feel like that.

They had dressed him in a onesie and put a beanie on him. I knew what the beanie was for. He had his “operation” (as the Councillor liked to call it) that morning, so they had to hide any evidence of that. He never wore a hat or beanie, he refused to keep it on his head, so this look was new to me.

I sat and rubbed his little hand, I rubbed it and held it so hard that it eventually started to feel warm. I closed my eyes, put my face up to his hand and pretended for a minute that he was OK.

I looked at his little face, but not too closely or for too long because although I knew it was Archer, he didn’t quite look like Archer. His blue little lips, his pale skin... my little boy wasn’t bouncing around and being naughty, he was still.. so still. It wasn’t right.

I just focused on his hands. His fingernails had dirt under them from his last day alive digging and getting dirty at Serpentine Falls. Blue ink traced his fingers where they had taken hand prints.

I was imagining what it would be like if he just opened his eyes. If he took one of those huge gasping, dramatic breaths like they did in the movies and woke up. I imagined just picking him up and telling him how much he scared me and that I loved him so much - and then I got to take him home...

Before we left I just had to take his beanie off and as soon as I did his whole face changed. His fluffy stands of hair fell out from under the hat and he looked more like himself. “There he is” my mum said.

I kissed him and I said goodbye. I gave a little teddy to the Councillor to keep with him, I made her promise me she would put it in so he wasn’t alone. I know she probably wasn’t allowed, but she promised me anyway.

That day was one of the most impossible things I have ever done, and I have done many impossible things. Of all the guilt I harbor and all the unheard apologies to him, "I'm so sorry for leaving you behind" passes my lips the most.

Mama Whale, you carry that baby for as long as you need to. Drop him only when the weight gets too heavy and you're strong enough to carry him only in your heart.

While a grieving mother no longer carries the physical weight of her child, the weight of their absence is far heavier.