Six, on a Tuesday

If there is one game I love to hate to play at this time of year, it's the "what was I doing on this day" game. Friday August 15, 2008. The day I was sent home from hospital in early labour, the day things really began to spiral out of control, but of course I didn't know that yet.

I've picked apart those days countless times over the years, mostly here on this blog when then wounds were fresh and the shock of her loss had left a gaping hole in my heart. I wont do it again this year. Because if I've learnt nothing else, it doesn't change anything. She's still gone. A cold, hard realisation that has certainly sunk in, six long years down the track.

But of course with the days and dates lining up this year, the full force of the course of those events is hitting me hard. I anticipated it, so I suppose you could say I am prepared, at least. I remember looking ahead on the calendar a few years back to see when the days and dates would first line up, and now, here we are.

Tuesday August 19, 2014. A Tuesday. Tuesday for Tuesday's Hope.

I know we're not there yet, but the truth is it is highly unlikely I will sit down to write on that day, her birthday. In fact I have no idea what we'll exactly be doing that day, but sitting at the lap top to spew familiar words of grief wont be one of them. Hiding from the world as we try and go about our normal Tuesday business will be the main plan of attack and possibly sharing some food we love with some people we love will be the other.

Life has changed so much this year. I'm working again for the first time since we lost her. Angus has kinder three days a week. Juju is being us Juju and driving us crazy (and making us laugh) at every turn. If we're not working we're running or riding bikes or generally just being swept along in the busyness that is life.

Three years ago we complicated this time of year greatly by having another baby - clever us! So of course we are trying to temper our grief, sadness, longing and anguish for the girl who will be three on Monday. She demands a Frozen cake - banana in flavour - and yellow sparkly shoes to wear on her special day. And who could deny her! Love a girl who knows what she wants, especially at the ripe old age of three. There will be a party and trampolining and festivities to celebrate all that she is and all the joy she brings us, but when the clock strikes midnight on the night of her birthday, the joy is washed away and we have to get through another birthday without our Hope.

Six whole years, and I have no idea how we got here. I don't want to do this again. The familiarity of the longing that strikes us each winter is getting so tired. I hate that we have to keep coming up with new ideas each year to try and bounce part of our sadness.

We've done so much in her name since she left us, and I feel like the last few years it has really snowballed. In a good way. More than $40,000 raised for the Stillbirth Foundation Australia from the sale of the Fairy Tale prints, $4000 raised last year when we ran the City2Surf in Sydney and nearly $7000 raised again this year (and there is still time to donate, if anyone is feeling particularly generous).

People like to tell me how strong and inspirational I am. And really it makes me cringe. Because I don't feel that way. Far from it. I just figure, what else is there to do? I have to expend that energy that otherwise would have gone in to caring for her somehow, and this feels like the best way. If raising money can make one person aware or save the life of just one baby, then that's a good thing.

But for all the time I spend banging on about raising awareness and breaking the silence and doing good in her name, really I'm a coward. Because I don't talk about her much. Hope, I don't talk about YOU much. I can't. It hurts. The sadness threatens to engulf me sometimes, so for the most part it is easier to shoot off a few Facebook status updates, hide behind my keyboard, and avoid actually talking about the situation. If I start crying, sometimes I'm afraid I might not ever stop. I'm not even really sure how I stopped in the first place.

I miss you baby girl. I hope I do enough to honour your memory. I wish I could do more. Mostly, I just wish you were here. Six years on and I miss you as much as I did the moment your perfect, yet still body slid out of mine.

Gone, almost

About a year ago I tried to resurrect this blog by giving it a lovely makeover (thank you Fran!) and getting myself a shiny new domain name, which I forked out some hard earned cash for. I thought I would try and write more and put new spins and slants on my grief that has played a leading role in my life since August 2008, given it has taken more of a back seat in my life for the past couple of years.

It didn't really work. I still don't visit here often and what's more troubling to me is, I think, that I visit all of you even less. I thought I'd never stop reading babyloss blogs. But the truth is, I rarely read them at all anymore. I feel like I've broken a thousand rock solid promises, as I thought I'd always need to read, comment, and share - give the love back. But mostly it is just time, and I suppose a new level of healing. A place I thought I'd never reach - this time five years ago this seemed like a land of unicorns and fairies. Completely unattainable.

A friend emailed me the other day to let me know some very troubling news. She said my blog was no longer "there" and that it had disappeared, or been deleted. Through the busy haze of life with small children and a shift working husband, I vaguely remembered getting emails about paying to renew my domain name, but I never did. I didn't see much point - the blog would still be there without it and it wasn't cheap. But by letting it lapse, all of the blog seemed to disappear with it. Thankfully the panic was only short lived and five minutes of fumbling around in my settings brought the blog and the words I've poured out here over five years back to life. But I was worried.

I'm not overly tech savvy and I don't know much about this blogging caper (still) and sometimes it seems like all I've really got of Hope are the words I've shared here since she left me. The blog turns five years old in a couple of days as I started it a couple of months after she died. What would my grief be without all of this, without Tuesday's Hope? I might not come here often and you might not all see "Hope's Mama" come up in your comments as much anymore, but I still like knowing this and all of you are still here, should I need it or any of you again. The relief once I got it all up and running again was immense.

I have been meaning to write for a few months now. I never even posted about Hope's fifth birthday or the epic journey that was moving house, but the thoughts are always there and the urge to write is always reasonably strong. A blog post generally always sits around the middle of my to-do list, it just never seems to find it's way to the top.

I am here today though. And I guess that's all that matters. I have a lively two year old beside me. I have my very soon to be four year old off at kinder for a few hours and the majority of my thoughts at this very minute, are with Hope. I don't get to say that very often these days, as truth be told she just doesn't get the chance to totally dominate my thoughts like she once did. Life simply doesn't allow it. But with the worry of almost losing the blog, the blog anniversary and the birthday of the boy who brought me back to life after she died all buzzing around in my head this week, I knew I needed to come here to put myself back in all of your blog readers. Whether anyone still reads here or not is a complete mystery to me, but at least I can one day look back and know that on 14 November 2013, I came here to record my thoughts about my firstborn baby girl who I still wish was here every god damned day.

The Birds of Grief

It would be remiss of me not to come here at this time of year and talk about the daffodils. Bang on schedule, they are beginning to emerge from the damp earth. We planted those daffodils in March 2009, the week we found out we were pregnant with Angus. We hoped they would make it, just like we hoped he would. Both continue to bloom beautifully, year after year.

The daffodils of course signify that Grief Season is upon us. I talk about it every year, I don't really need to cover the same old ground again. Nothing really changes, though this year everything looks a little different.

There is another marker each year that reminds me the difficult days are just around the corner and that's the birds, or The Birds of Grief as I've come to call them in the dark reserves of my mind.

I'm no nature buff, but I think they are the Currawong (Google could probably tell me, if I could be bothered to look them up). They have a pretty and distinctive song, and around mid July each year, when we hit the half way point of winter, I begin to hear them.

In the winter of 2008, I heard them a lot. In the first weeks of winter, the house was quiet as we waited for our baby to arrive. I was home on maternity leave, lounging about, stroking my bump and I heard them. Weeks later when we returned home from hospital without her, the house was quieter than it had ever been before, and I think that's all I heard. The following year they were just as loud as I sat through the final month of Angus' pregnancy, frozen in fear and hoping beyond hope we'd have the complete opposite pregnancy outcome.

The last few years, the birds have been harder to hear. The children drown out their songs, which is a lovely situation to find myself in. But this year, though the children seem to be louder than ever before, I've really noticed them again, and it is both comforting and sobering. August is nearly here and our girl will be five years gone. Five whole years.

This time of year is always a time of quiet reflection and sombreness. And while that is still true, this year it is also a time of great change and upheaval - 80 per cent of our belongings now reside in cardboard boxes in a storage facility around the corner, while we ride out these final two weeks with our furniture, clothes and bare essentials before we move to the house of our dreams, just a kilometre or so across town.

The daffodils are coming, The Birds of Grief are singing, August is nearly here yet when it does arrive, we wont even be here, in our first home, the children's only home and the only place we've ever known true brokenheartedness. We'll be starting fresh with a whole new 12 month cycle of grief ahead of us, hoping the birds reside in the trees in our new neighbourhood and that the daffodils we plan to plant there will bloom on schedule again next year.

Running for Hope

As you know our first born daughter Hope was stillborn five days past her due date after a healthy and low risk pregnancy on 19 August, 2008. 

This August, she should be turning five. Instead of celebrating her birthday with cake and candles as we should be, Simon and I will be embarking on the 14km City2Surf fun run in Sydney, Australia to help raise funds for the Stillbirth Foundation, an organisation that we have supported since Hope died. 

Our renewed health and fitness has helped us so much in the last 12 months, both mentally and physically and in particular with our grief as we continue to come to terms with Hope's death. 

This is a life long path of healing, and by taking part in the City2Surf, we hope to raise vital funds for this silent killer of our precious babies.

Our fundraising target is $2206 - which represents one dollar for every baby stillborn in Australia each year, according to latest statistics. That's about six babies a day - six too many. If that figure shocks you, don't worry it shocked us too. We need to change this. 

Every dollar counts, so if you can support us in any way, even just a $10 donaction, we'd be greatly appreciative.

Thank you.

Sally & Simon

http://www.fundraise.city2surf.com.au/Sally_Heppleston731 

Right where I am 2013: two months out from five years

It is Sunday morning, and I head off for my usual Sunday run. Well, usual for the past eight months or so anyway. The kids both scream for me at the window as I leave - neither one of them ever enjoy it when take off, but this is something I need to do now and I know they eventually get over it and enjoy their time hanging with Dad. Winter has well and truly set in, and I'm frozen to the core. I wonder why I'm not rugged up at home in my ugg boots sipping warm tea and eating a huge helping of pancakes or "pannies" as the kids call them, like I once would have done on a Sunday morning like this in winter, my least favourite time of year and especially for the past four years.

The grass is crisp with frost and the fog has settled in around the trees, trunks bare with the dregs of the autumn leaves in damp piles around their bases. The light is magnificent, and the sky has a brilliant almost opaque colour, like nothing I've ever seen. I wonder why every single person in the neighbourhood isn't out admiring this raw, earthly beauty, but for now I just enjoy what is almost my own personal art exhibition, put on by Mother Nature herself. Shards of light pierce through the trees, like beams of hope from heaven. Is heaven a real place? This morning I think it most certainly is.

Right where I am now is the fittest and healthiest I have ever been my entire adult life, and I feel bloody fantastic. I started running last October and this July, I will take part in my first ever half marathon. Once upon a time I thought you should only run if you're being chased, or maybe if you're crazy. Not so much now. There is an awful quote floating around that I've seen shared on social media of late that reads "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" and the thing is, for me it has nothing to do with being "skinny" but being fit, strong and healthy, things that have alluded me for far too long now. I have certainly lost a lot of weight, and perhaps I could now consider myself thin, but "skinny" has not and will not ever be the aim. Having three children in three years has done things to my body that no amount of clean eating and running will change. The number on the scales and on the tags of the clothes I wear don't really mean anything, I just enjoy having a lust for life again, in a way that perhaps I have never had, even before Hope died.

I had no idea how much my weight and and compromised health as a result, was affecting every single aspect of my life, and probably most profoundly, my grief. Because the grief certainly affects every single aspect of my life - whether I'm peeling a potato, scrubbing the toilet, reading a book or driving to the shops - almost five years on it can and still does catch you off guard.

When I was out running today, admiring the winter sun pouring in through the trees, I swear I saw a vision little girl standing at the base of a winter sunbeam, on the path up ahead of me. She was wearing a long flowing dress, and had shoulder length straight brown hair, with a neatly trimmed fringe. It is exactly as I imagine my girl would look about now, slightly different to my other kids and in a weird and ironically uncanny sort of way, the odd one out. She had arms outstretched for me and I gasped, because for the first time since she left me, I was able to picture what she would look like this very moment, and for once I wasn't just thinking about myself, MY loss and my BABY who died, but the almost five year old girl that we are right at this moment all living our lives without.

And this life right now, it is wonderful. There is so much going on, so much change afoot and damn it I wish she was a part of it. But the truth is I've been so busy living this life, taking care of the two small humans who buzz around at my feet and demand more of me than I thought was possible, that I don't get much time to think of her and really miss her. Not like I once did, anyway.

But today, while I was out doing what I've been doing every Sunday since October last year, taking care of me so I can better take care of everyone else, I thought of her, and in that moment I was able to conjure her up amidst a little ray of light from the great afterlife in the sky, it was beautiful. I wasn't sad or solemn and it didn't make me writhe with anger like my grief previously has, rather it was just touching to be reminded that no matter where I am or what I'm doing, she's never really far away, even if it has taken me almost five years to experience a moment like that. Moments like those will probably always be fleeting, and I don't expect to have another like it tomorrow, but her life was fleeting, so I'll just take them as they come.

I hate winter. I hate it for all that it signifies for our family and for all the horrid memories it brings back to the surface, and in many ways I think I always will, but today I could appreciate the beauty that this time of year also has to offer, because for so long I've shut myself off to it.

When Hope's fifth birthday rolls around in a little less than two months, the same time spring will thankfully be on our doorstep, we'll also be in a new home, which is the main reason there has been so much going on here of late. We're moving from the only home she ever knew, not that she ever got to make it to the outside to live here. But she was conceived here, and I spent nine months in this house nurturing her. And when she died, I came here to grieve, declaring these four walls my safe haven from the brutally harsh world out there that I was for a long time not ready to be part of. And now here I am, living in that world again, running on Sundays, moving house when I thought I'd never be able to and taking part in it all again. The exciting part is I know we're moving on to bigger and better things, too. We absolutely adore our new home and can't wait to get in there. It was one of the most zen, warm, homely and welcoming places I have ever set foot in, and now it is ours. We know our old home holds more memories, both good and bad, than we could ever imagine to accurately tally, but that's the thing with memories, we'll be taking them with us, and thankfully we won't need any boxes for them.

You never forget, you never move on, but five years on, there is healing and there certainly is happiness and folks, I think I've found it.

2012
2011

One special day

This time five years ago, I was in our western most state, visiting friends and family on one last holiday before the baby arrived. Safely in to the second trimester I had not a worry in the world, well apart from how I was going to cope with labour and in my role as a new mum, but nothing out of the ordinary. Life was good.

At the same time in the same state lived a lovely young mother by the name of Carly, nursing her brand new rainbow baby. A term I hadn't yet come to know, a term I wish I never had to know. Just over a year from the devastating death of her son, this special mum was just starting to breath again and learning to put one foot in front of the other. She'd survived the unthinkable and in the mean time had also brought a new life in to the world. I had no idea who she was or that in just a few short months, our lives would spectacularly collide.

Fast forward to August of that same year. 2008. I don't need to repeat the story here. What happened to that young mum in early 2007 had now happened to me. Her baby died, and mine had too.

A few weeks after that tragic event, the reason for this very blog, I was floating around online when I came across Carly's blog. I've told the story about how the hairs on the back of my neck stood up when I read her post titled Tuesday's Hope. Which was the post that brought about her amazing project, To Write Their Names in the Sand. That's how all this started, that's why I'm here and that's why I blog about my baby who died. Because Carly inspired me (even though I don't write here nearly enough as I should).

From very early on in my relationship with Carly, I knew one thing: I would one day visit Christian's beach with her. This was a sure thing. A few years after we met online, we were lucky enough to meet in person when she travelled to my state and came to Angus' first birthday, then again a few months later but just last weekend, almost five years to the day since the last time I was in her part of the world, our dreams came true, and I visited the beautiful Western Australian beach with her at sunset and watched her at work, doing her amazing, beautiful, important and meaningful thing.

I knew for a long time this trip was coming, as we had a family wedding to attend in Perth. I'd be lying if I said I was more looking forward to the wedding. I wasn't. I was desperate to catch up with Carly and get to that beach with her. To feel the sand beneath my toes, then to dip them quickly in to the water. This beach, Christian's beach, is just about known around the world as Babyloss Mecca. Thousands upon thousands of grieving parents have landed on Carly's page after their baby has died, just like I did, and become part of her community. They look to her for guidance and healing as they embark on their journeys as bereaved parents. Now here I was with her, in her home. Being with Carly and her family is like being with royalty, and they in turn treated us the same way.

Carly is an angel on this earth, I am sure of that. You know I don't know if I even believe in angels, but I believe Carly is one regardless. She picked us up from the airport early on the Friday morning and then went out of her way for the next 24 hours to make our time with her precious, memorable and comfortable. Nothing was ever too much to ask and her laid back nature, typical of the folk in the west is charming and endearing. The world needs more people like Carly.

People probably have a lot of ideas about the life Carly and her family lead, but in reality it is a regular suburban kind of life with small children, it is just that it is dusted with magic. They have a lovely, comfortable yet modest home in the outer suburbs of Perth but it is so gorgeously decorated with her stunning photographs, items from the beach and numerous other elegant trinkets. The first room you walk in to in the house is Carly's office and hub of her babyloss empire. There is a huge fish tank on the wall which sets the mood of the room. Calm and peaceful, but you also know from looking at this space she's incredibly busy and working really hard when she's here.

But like any house where three small children reside, there will only ever be so much calm and peace. Chaos also abounds. Lunches have to be made, two out of three children have to be ferried off and out the door to school. The three year old buzzes around, asking for sandwiches and for her favourite movie to be played, over and over again. We were desperately missing our own kids at home so it comforted us to see other kids doing regular "kid" things just like ours. Carly is busy with her work, but she's certainly a lot busier looking after her kids.

Carly goes to the beach most nights, but is guided by the weather and the clouds. I could sense she was nervous on our one night with her, fearing that Mother Nature would mess with our grand plans which had been the best part of five years in the making. She went outside numerous times in the afternoon to gaze up at the sky to see what might be in store for us. "Looks like it will be a good one Sam, awesome clouds," she'd holler to us back inside.

The kids don't go to the beach with her every night, but on this particular night they were coming with us as the adult to kid ratio was not out of whack with her husband Sam, Simon and myself all tagging along. Sometimes Carly's parents go too to help lighten her load.

Getting kids ready and out the door to go anywhere for anything is never easy. But when it was time to go, in a flash shoes were found, appropriate clothing was put on, a little bag was packed and off we went. Carly had her trusty note pad and pen and of course her camera and we piled in to the cars and left.

Carly's three girls all seem to get different things out of their time at the beach. The eldest, Scarlett is a quiet thinking type of kid. She put a lot of thought in to the particular items she packed for the beach including a cushion to sit on, towel, umbrella to shade her from the sun and/or rain and her shell collection, which she of course she lovingly added to throughout the night. Middle child and precious rainbow River was in the water. The whole time. Pounded countless times by wave after wave, she emerged every single time with a big fat smile on her face. This is a kid with real spunk. Of course she's too little to be left totally unsupervised in the water, but damn this is also a kid who can swim. She's clearly grown up in the water and she had an absolute ball splashing around the entire time she was there. She gleefully told us about all of the sand she had stuck in certain places when we left. And little Ocea, the same age as my Angus and just a barrel of laughs, spent the entire time running up and down the sand dunes. She must have covered three kilometres in the hour or so we were there. She did not stop, and she'd even skipped her afternoon nap. A few times someone had to chase after her, but mostly she just ran. And ran and ran and ran. So in their own way, all of the girls made their own fun at this magical place.

I was cautious of the fact that Carly's time at the beach is precious. As much as I just wanted to soak it in, chat to her and watch the sun go down, Carly was there with a job to do, as she is every night she goes. For all the chaos and and busyness at her home, at the beach she totally goes in to her zone. She diligently wrote the list of names out, then immediately got to it. First she drew butterflies. About a dozen of them, maybe more, I lost count I was so in awe of what she was doing. Each exquisite and each done with love. Though they were done so much faster than I could have ever imagined. Absolute works of art, that's she's turned in to such a finely honed skill. Carly knows this beach probably better than any other person on earth and I watched her as she studied the surf and the tide before deciding where to begin to draw next. Very rarely was her work wiped out before she had a chance to photograph it. It is an amazing skill she posses. She works in harmony with the water and it is a beautiful thing to see. If she does lose a drawing, she certainly doesn't get upset about it, that's all part and parcel of what she does.

On to the names. She can't start taking photos too early while the sun is too high in the sky, or the light wont be quite right, but once the sun gets to a particular spot on the horizon, it is go, go, go. Name after name after name. And she has to work fast, because at this point, the sun starts to drop very quickly. Even if she has hundreds of names on her wait list, which she so often does, there are only so many names she can get done at a time while the weather gods are smiling on her.

About half way through the sunset, I'm lost for words. The light totally changes. From orange and yellow hues, the sky begins to glow with gorgeous pink and aqua tones. It is like nothing I have ever seen before, too beautiful for a stupid Iphone to properly capture. I'm sure if you listen carefully, you can hear the beach humming with it's amazing and healing energy. Carly tells me this always happens, it is just part of the magic of this place. Dozens gather to watch sunsets here each night, and it is no wonder why. Carly cusses at the people who live in the huge houses behind the beach with magnificent ocean views - "why aren't they out there watching the sunset, I'd be out there every night if that was my bloody house". So would I Carly, so would I.

Of course, Carly writes Hope's name for us. This moment we've waited so long for. She writes her name, she draws a butterfly and she assures me the photos are gorgeous. I snap a few shots on my phone, share them with my friends online, look over to catch Simon's gaze, then just like that it is gone, washed away like all the other thousands and thousands of names she has written. Isaac, Kayla, Lily, Thomas, Stephanie, Robert.... all beautiful names. So many names. Too many babies gone too soon.

Before long the sun has set, time for writing names and taking photos is done. Carly tells me she could keep going as the light is still lovely, but she promises people sunset photos, and if she takes a photo after sunset, then she's not giving them what they've asked for. However I gasp, I notice she hasn't written Christian's name, and she had earlier told me she writes his name every night she's at the beach. She said she had thousands of photos of his name, to which I told her she should make a book of all those photos. But I was wrong, she had written his name. A fleeting moment I had somehow missed, but all moments at this beach are fleeting. All are beautiful, but all slip away as quick as the waves roll in and out again. The ocean of course stops for no one. Carly shows me the photo of his name on the back of her camera, yet another gorgeous image to add to her ever growing collection. I'm so thankful Mother Nature played nice for us tonight, as we haven't always been on great terms, obviously.

Light then soon begins to fade. People leave the beach. We round the kids up and Scarlett packs up her things. We head home via Carly's parents house who live just a few minutes from the beach. Carly's girls get cool drinks from their doting nanna and take showers to get the sand of their little bodies. We chat to her family who are as warm, lovely and welcoming as Carly. It is like we've known them our whole lives and in the half an hour we're there, they make us feel at home. Like royalty again. It is not hard to see where Carly gets her nurturing nature from. The apple certainly didn't fall far from the tree.

I think I spent most of the 20 minute drive (yes 20 minute, Carly doesn't live on the beach's doorstep like I'm sure many assume) back to Carly's house in silence. I couldn't believe the beauty I had just witnessed and that after four and a half years, I had finally made it to the beach with her. So many chats and emails were spent talking about this day, and now it had been and gone.

Our bodies, weary from the three hour time difference fell in to the freshly made beds Carly had prepared for us. And though I was exhausted beyond measure, I laid there for what seemed like hours thinking about my night with Carly at the beach, and how very special it was. I wish I had no reason to know Carly, but I'm so lucky to have met her at the same time.

We awoke early, far too early for the rest of the Dudley household on a weekend morning, but when everyone else in the house finally did rouse, we were treated to Carly's famous pancakes, because that's just the kind of girl she is. She then spent the morning running around after us as we got ready for our wedding, even loaning us her car so we could make the hour and a half trip to other side of the city. And the next day, her hospitality continued as she made sure we got to where we needed to be, all the while taking care of little Ocea who had earlier that day fallen and broken her arm in two places!

It took me much longer than I'd wanted write this post, but that's how it is in a house where small children reside - I've had a very busy and stressful week getting back to reality since our trip. Which makes it all the more remarkable to me that Carly keeps producing the amazing work she does, day after day. It takes so much time, dedication and commitment and everything she does is done with absolute love, that's a sure thing. I know there haven't been many, but over the years I've seen the odd person questioning or doubting the authenticity of her work and to that I can only say one thing - you're all wrong. Of course I never doubted Carly for a split second, but I've seen it with my own two eyes now. Carly is a loving mother, wife, daughter and sister but she's also absolutely devoted to her role within our community to bringing healing and happiness to those hurting the most with her generosity and beauty. And there is beauty in every single thing she does, even the pancakes she churns out in bulk on a Saturday morning.

So it didn't matter that this post was a week in the making, because some memories will last a life time, and this one certainly will.

Christmas 2012 is...

Over! Oh yes it is. This was going to be a Christmas 2012 post, then that somehow got away. Then it was going to be a New Year post, but that date slipped by as well. And the next one. Then two more whole weeks, but such is the way of life these days with a three year old and one year old.

Christmas and in fact all of 2012 was full. Satisfying. I lost a lot (mostly weight) but gained so much more (friendship, fairy tales, strength, resilience, confidence, healing). 

Christmas 2012 was truly and honestly wanting to write this post, dozens of time over, but choosing life instead of the laptop, jogging over sitting, living instead wallowing. Christmas 2012 was looking forward to the day with two excited munchkins rather than dreading the day because of the ache for the one who wasn't there. She was missed, and is missed, but there was peace and calmness this year that hasn't been there in the Christmases we've previously had without her.

Christmas 2012 was taking the kids to cut down a Christmas tree at the same place I went to cut down a Christmas tree nearly every year of my childhood, then enjoying the gorgeous smell of pine for the best part of the month. It was wrapping presents until late on Christmas eve and feeling giddy knowing how much they were going to light up the face of the little boy unwrapping them the next morning. It was chewing on carrot sticks left out for reindeers, eating shortbread left for an imaginary fat man in a red suit, and going to bed and feeling a little bit lost in the magic of it all, not uncommon to when I was a child myself.

However Christmas 2012 meant we had to make our yearly cemetery pilgrimage on Christmas eve rather than Christmas Day itself, as other priorities and practicalities dictated it so. Once upon a time, I might have beat myself up about this, but this was ok, really it was. Hope, though dead, slots herself in to our lives and wraps herself around everything we do, and all that we are, but on this occasion, this was how it had to be. There were the presents to open Christmas Day by the crazy excited three year old and his slightly less interested one year old sister, there was pork crackle and the perfect roast potatoes to get ready, not to mention an hour car trip to get to the equally excited cousins with a brand new Christmas trampoline. And after all that, there were a few more days of work for the tired man of the house, and much packing and de-Christmassing for me to do in order to get ready for a two week camping holiday away with the family.

Christmas and New Year 2012/13 was leaving behind most of our creature comforts of home, and setting up a borrowed camper trailer by a lovely river in the country our family has visited for years, to camp. A truly character building holiday I must say. We had a powered site and toilets and showers and all those other lovely mod cons, but we sweltered away in 40 degree heat, day after day after god damn day, and somehow we all had a ball (mostly, I believe after less than a week at home, I am already glossing over the truly maddening parts of the trip - children screaming and not sleeping and roasting hot canvas tents and all of that). 

I really do believe these sorts of things are wonderful for children. As much as I love to visit different parts of the world, there is a certain charm and something so comforting and familiar about visiting the same place each year, at the same time of year - and this is a truly beautiful place. All the same families go and the friendships and relationships build, grow and strengthen every year. I know the children are going to love it more and more every year, and this year especially, Angus, really seemed to come of age. More of a little boy, less of a baby. Though always my baby, of course. 

These are the sort of holidays that memories are made of. True, strong and unforgettable family memories. Of course, these were the sort of memories we thought Hope would be able to create as well, but that's not to be. God damn it. When you're pregnant and daydreaming about your baby and how your life will be and what you'll do with said baby when he or she arrives, you imagine taking them camping to your favourite holiday spots. You imagine opening presents with them on Christmas morning, you imagine them tasting a bit of pork crackling for the first time then slipping them your last bit, because you love them and you will do anything for them, even giving up the tastiest morsels on your Christmas dinner plate. You imagine doing with them all the fun and joyous things life has to offer, because you certainly don't imagine they are going to die. Before the are born. This is what I did, and this is one of the cruelest legacies of stillbirth. I imagined it all. I got nothing.

Christmas 2012 was wonderful. I didn't seize up in the lead up. I didn't let the grief engulf me. I enjoyed it for what it was, took delight from the joy my living children got out of it and I truly can't wait to do it all again this year. So far, 2013 has been good to me too and I know while I get my boy ready for three year old kindergarten in a couple of weeks, I'll have wistful and teary moments thinking about the girl who should be starting four year old kinder but I'll soldier on. I will because I have no other choice and because for four and a half years, though not always graceful, that's all I've been doing. Soldiering on. Even through Christmas and at least this time around, I really can say I enjoyed it to boot.

Merry belated Christmas and a happy belated new year as well.

(A selection of my terrible photos that correspond with the times I've just written about. I never claimed to be a photographer, only a writer. Of sorts. If I have a New Year's resolution, it is to learn how to properly use the very expensive camera I have! Or I can always just stick to the iPhone and the array of lovely filters!)