Mummy Muddles

Tonight

2013-05-21T21:10:00.000+10:00

Tonight I cry dear boy
For you my love, I weep
I am lost and all alone
For the hurt so close I keep.

You see I've lost the joy
It went with you so high
I'm left bereft and empty
The painful dread is nigh.

My swollen eyes will shut
And dreams of you I might
be so truly honoured with
I hope this black of night

In the morn I yearn for you
But despair shall be the face
that I am to be greeted with
With the Sun's early grace

Take me my sweet one
with you this black cold night
I hope for reveries of you
in which I grasp you tight.

The reality of life without
is harsh and far too real
The earth has lost its beauty
Its time without your sweet appeal.

If only I could hold your face
to gaze within eyes so blue
And tell you for 20 short months
My world was rich with you.

Love you Hamish.

Dreams

2013-05-14T13:02:00.006+10:00

Grief is inescapable. You can try and hide from it and sometimes you may even succeed. Eventually though, it will track you down and find you. It's a very good detective.

It is there in the morning when I lift my eyes to a new day, it bids me good night when emotional fatigue takes over. Sometimes, it even finds its way into my dreams. Sly isn't it?

I've had a few lovely dreams of Hamish where I get to hold him, kiss him and cuddle him. I remember one in particular, where I'm pretty sure I spent the whole dream covering him in kisses. My dreams of Hamish are beautiful and the euphoric feeling when I first see him is overwhelming. It's like the reality was a bad dream, not the other way around.

Unfortunately, all of my Hamish dreams have the same ending. They all finish with my son dying again. Always peacefully. It's like he eventually just goes to sleep and never wakes up. I cannot describe the utter devastation I feel every time this happens. It's like I got the golden ticket and just when I think life is going to end up roses, it is snatched away from me.

I understand why it happens this way. I guess it's to prepare me for my waking reality. It's designed to allow me to process gently that this is just a dream and not reality. I will not wake to his adorable face and his infectious laugh. I will be not able to touch his smooth skin, or inhale his baby boy scent in real life.

It's cruel but I'm always thankful give for the opportunity to be with him again, even if it's only in my confusing subconscious.

In one of my dreams, Hamish spent a lot of the time looking at a towering clock. The hands of the clock kept moving but not in a linear fashion. The time moved without rhyme or reason and his sky-blue eyes were fixed on the hands. I was getting upset that he was staring at the clock rather than at me, but I knew it was because he had to go and he was waiting for the right 'time'. Upsetting. Yes, extremely.

In an earlier dream, Hami told me in baby babble that his ears no longer hurt (he had a middle ear infection on the day of the accident). For some reason, I knew exactly what he said and I expressed gratitude he wasn't in any pain.

I'm grateful for my dreams, another chance to be with my son in an alternate reality. It will never take the place of the real thing, but I'll take whatever I can get. Sometimes, I beg for a 'Hami dream' when I feel desperately low and crave him. Sometimes I am rewarded, sometimes I am not. I'll keep asking.

Perhaps since Hami passed away, I've become more aware of my dreams because even if they aren't about Hamish, they are significant. I find they are clearer, more defined, vivid and startling. I know 'before' I didn't think about my soul, my purpose or the unseen. Perhaps now I'm more 'tuned in' to that aspect of life. The unrealised has pushed its way in and I'm being forced to explore it, allowing me to live my life more 'aware'.

My new reality hurts, it always will. But with this new reality comes an altered sense of self, an ability to look beyond what's in front of me, and a sense of purpose that comes from such intense loss. I don't know what it all means yet, but I've opened myself to all possibilities and I'm giving myself permission to move forward in the direction of my new life. The signs are there, now its up to me to put one foot in front of the other, and discover. Perhaps, I'm allowed to have new dreams. The hands of time will tell.

Thanks for listening.

Hands of time

2013-05-06T15:13:00.000+10:00

We reached six months on Saturday. I tried to tell myself that this day was no different to the one before it. Nor was it different to the one after it. Without even trying, it was. The tears were flowing all day. I was unable to escape the inevitable sorrow the day brought. My mind was muddled. Despite having scheduled activities with our children all day, I find myself getting lost, losing track of time and then, while standing on the side of the netball court watching my daughter, surrounded by lots of other parents, feeling overwhelmed and very alone. It was a small moment, but I was acutely aware of my position, how I felt at that moment, how my life had changed, and how broken I would always be.

Hami's hand in mine

Nobody that morning knew my feelings. I contained them perfectly and was even able to cheer on my daughter from the sidelines, but they were there. They are often there beyond a composed exterior. Sometimes I wonder how on earth I managed to conceal them so effectively. I think I'm getting better with practise. My friend Jodie, mentioned this to me this morning. She said, "that pain will always be there, you'll just get better at hiding it." So true.

I know I'm getting better at 'life'. I have started to tackle bureaucracy. Nothing special, just the ordinary bureaucracy that comes with living in a modern world. Since Hamish left us, things have been neglected in that area, and I'm striving to be back on top of them. As I've discovered the world isn't overly understanding when it comes to things like money and paperwork. There are certain things that will always need to be done regardless of what you are going through. The world has the audacity to keep turning, always.

Today though, my world stopped. Just for a little while. Donna from Twinkle Toes came to deliver Hami's castings of his hands and feet. The lovely Kat, from Hannah's Foundation, organised for Donna to do the castings after Hami had passed away. Such a gift. Beautiful little hands and feeds, unique lines and prints belonging to a treasured and precious little boy. These little castings were not only beautifully framed but at Kat's request, Donna made us extra ones to hold. I cannot explain the emotions I felt as I cradled his little hand in mine. I'll try.

The real thing at just six weeks.

I examined every line, every crevice in that little hand. I tried to remember what it felt like in real life. It's warmth, it's beauty. I shut my eyes, ignored the coldness of the casting and imagined all of the things those little hands did in just 20 short months. The sand they dug, the crayons they held, the food they threw. They were beautifully busy little hands, capable of mischief, capable of tenderness. Soft, silky, mine. Fresh and new.

These little gold hands cannot replace the real ones, but every now and then, I will hold them in my own and remember the magic and they mayhem they were responsible for.

Oh, Hamish, today my heart aches, truly aches with grief for everything you were, everything you now are. I will never recover. I can only march on, with you always in my heart, my mind. Your soul is eternally entwined in mine.

I love you.

Thank you for listening.

Wearing

2013-04-24T13:06:00.001+10:00

Hamish is consuming a lot of my head space, as usual. Along with the painful pining, I find myself putting Hamish in almost every situation. If I’m driving in the car, I imagine him dancing to a upbeat song on the radio, his chubby arms bouncing up and down in time, chuckling with delight. When I’m dishing up dinner, I imagine putting a plate before him. “Dot (hot)?” he would ask. “No Hami, not hot, it’s OK,” I would reply. Despite my reassurance, he would puff excessively to ensure it was cool before digging in with gusto. Tonight, as I called the kids to dinner, I imagined him calling them as he did, in the most adorable way, “Din-NAH!”. I imagine the extra noise, the extra cuddles, the heart-melting smiles, the additional joy.

I see his face in every curly-haired toddler on the street. I find myself straining to hear them, study their expressions and absorb their laughter. Desperately seeking Hamish.

I miss him more at this moment than I can possibly describe; it’s hard to breathe through the sobbing. Oh, to run my fingers over his skin, through his hair, kiss his lips. Grief is cruel, excruciating and although most of the time I live with the dull ache of loss, sometimes the pain is sharp, like a literal knife through the heart. Like tonight. It hurts. A lot.

As time marches on, I’m aware that my ongoing grief is exhausting to read, even a little bit boring, I imagine. I understand that, I do. There’s only so much one can say to a grieving mother whose pain never ends, there’s only so much one can do. There’s only so much I can say, I can write, I can be. Whatever that is, whatever grief I write of, whatever way I behave, the grief remains ever-present, underlining every action, every word, every look. “There’s the woman who lost her little boy,” I imagine people whispering to each other. Whether they do or not, I don’t know, but I suspect they do.

My identity has morphed into the mother who lost. The one who looks lost, feels lost and is acting her heart out on a daily basis. Hand me a freaking Oscar right now, and while you’re at it, hand it to every other grieving parent who is trying to live, to make sense out of the horror, to live some kind of 'normal' life.

Except we will never be normal. In fact, I've redefined the word 'normal'. My new normal is to be better than the person I was before. I'm striving to kinder, to give more, complain less, all in the name of my son who was taken from life far too soon. My new normal is understanding that sometimes, despite all my efforts, I have to be content with just 'being'. My new normal involves talking to Hamish every day, sometimes in my head, sometimes out loud. It's my way of living through the pain. My son has not ceased to exist, he can't be seen, but he can be sensed, felt. I am using my senses like never before.

I try so hard to feel the light every day, even on the darkest days. I take deep breaths, I revel in the love of my family, I smile and laugh with friends, I write with fervour. I do it all, but as the day wears on, the grief starts to wear me. I slip in on early evening and can’t seem to take it off as the night moves on. When my bed finally calls me, I'm exhausted and I give into its request.

My psychiatrist has asked me to distinguish between writing for relief and writing for therapy. That some things need to be written and are not for public consumption. This is a particular therapy designed for those with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I need to write details, hard, boring details, revisit the accident, the horror, the worst day of my life and relive it over and over again. The theory is, that by doing so, the worst is eventually able to be faced. That the agony it brings, fades with repetition. I’m yet to try it. I’m scared of the trauma will flatten me, that I will not be able to function, to care for my kids. Mostly, I’m scared of the pain. I know it will almost unbearable. Almost.

Anyway, that’s enough rambling for one night. My eyes are sore and puffy and my bed is calling my name.

Good night.

Thanks for listening,

Speaking

2013-04-17T16:03:00.000+10:00

Speaking in public is a common phobia, but it is the only thing I've ever felt good at. I'm not sure why? I think its partly to do with an innate need to impart passion, to share, to prompt interaction. I'm a very social being, always have been, and perhaps public speaking is another opportunity for me to connect, to share, to make a difference. It may be one word, a sentence or a paragraph; you never know when it may make a difference to someone. Equally, you never know when you may meet someone who turns your world, giving it a much needed spin, not unlike the wheel of fortune.

Despite my vulnerable and unreliable emotional state, I agreed to speak at the Digital Parent's Conference in Sydney last month. It's not something I would normally shy away from; another chance to meet, interact, to learn. My husband asked me to think about it, considering that some days I wake up barely able to breathe without my son, let alone speak about the ravine of loss I live with every day.

I didn't stop and think for a single second.

Another chance to speak about Hamish, to say his name, speak of his ravishing soul, his unspeakable beauty. Of course I would speak. Why wouldn't I take the biggest podium, on the biggest stage, if it meant honouring Hamish?

I keep forgetting I need to take care of myself. That I'm not whole. That I have a major emotional deficiency, that my loss is almost larger than myself. I lost my child. My sweet, beautiful Hamish. Perhaps it is simply enough that I rise, I sustain my own life and the lives of my family, and then I slumber, albeit with vivid and startling dreams. But I can't live like that, even with the depth of agony that such loss entails. I need people. I need them like I need air. I need to see them, speak to them and touch them. I need to feel the love inside someone's arms. That's what sustains me. Connection. Any old human connection.

I woke to my alarm at 2.20am to drive to Brisbane so I could catch the 5am flight to Sydney. I tried to rest on the plane, but the words I was about to speak were dancing around my head and my feet drummed in time on the floor of the plane, probably to the annoyance of the man sitting next to me. I felt strange. I had donned a conservative dress and black patent heels. I'm not sure why I felt the need to look professional? First and foremost I am a grieving mother, should I give a rat's what I wear?

Photo courtesy of Fe at Lumsdaine Photography

I arrived in Sydney and took a long, deep, breath. First stage complete. I had successfully woken, driven and flown to my destination. I was doing OK. No tears, no breakdowns. I was in control. To the outside, I was a professional woman on her way to a meeting, not a grieving mother desperate to honour her son and speak of how writing her grief had helped her live to that point. I hopped into a taxi and made small talk all of the way to the conference. An hour. He had no idea either. I had successfully fooled more people. I was getting very good at my wearing my mask of composure. It fit me well.

Once at the Conference, I snuck in and took a seat at the very back. No need to draw attention; a safe place to sit, take stock and gather my wits. Who knows what I would face, who I would see, what I would feel compelled to say? My experience with bloggers is that they are an intelligent lot, very friendly, supportive of each other (check out twitter if you need assurance). I am in awe of some of them. What I wouldn't give for some of their voracious wit, talent for aesthetics and their command of the blogging genre?

I was here to talk about 'blogging through adversity' with two awe-inspiring bloggers Tiff from Three Ring Circus, Lori from RRSAHM, moderated by Grace from With Some Grace. Beautiful souls all three of them. The mutual love was instantaneous. I'm starting to think grief is instantly recognisable, despite the incredible facade we sometimes wear.

It all went well. I didn't get through the hour without sobbing. I knew it would happen and I was OK with it. Above all, I wanted to impart the message that I survived because I wrote. I wrote the numbness, the horror, the trauma and the pain. But more importantly I wrote the love, the joy, the memories and the blessedness. I am not cursing the universe for the immense suffering, I'm praising the Heavens that I held the sweetest little boy in my arms for just over 20 months. Twenty beautiful months. Those months were a privilege, an honour. An honour I will hold in my heart forever.

I learnt from the wisdom of two incredible, inspiring women. Thank you Tiff and Lori for giving me hope, for sharing my pain and for allowing me the privilege of your words. I tried to sit and listen for the rest of day but my head was starting to throb and I was conscious that I was speaking again in the evening at the 'Mother Tongue' session. I was reading out my piece that recently won the 'Parenting Express My Child Short Story Competition' called 'Honouring Hamish' in the evening. I held on. I spoke to many others who were exceptionally eloquent in their support for Hamish and I. I spoke to people who couldn't look at me without bursting into tears. I even reassured one blogger, who broke down in front of me.

Photo courtesy of Fe at Lumsdaine Photography

It was an exhausting, draining day. It was also successful. I connected. I met beautiful souls and I got to utter my son's name hundreds of times. It was a good day.

Lori's writing talent is gob-smacking, as is her generosity. A beautiful human spirit. She wrote this post. For me. Imagine my surprise, my amazement at her stunning words...

http://www.rrsahm.com/2013/04/for-rachel/

It was a wonderful reflection for me. She captured my state that day with startling accuracy. She read me. Like a book. Lori knows grief and she knew mine. Thank you for being there for me, for keeping me upright at the end, when I felt spent.

I will continue to accept these challenges, should they cross my path. The Digital Parents Conference feels like a badge of honour. I grew a little bit more, despite living in the shadow of grief and I'm determined to keep going. I am determined to live with Hami's name on my lips, to allow the words to rain down when they start to well and live the life of an activist, not a victim. On the good days at least.

Thanks for listening,

PS. Much love to Brenda Gaddi and Maria Tedeschi for looking after me at the Conference. xxx

Ocean

2013-04-12T12:56:00.002+10:00

The ocean is an excellent analogy for grief. The ebbs, the flows, the currents, the rips. How sometimes you can immerse yourself in its wonder, appreciate its salty beauty and allow it to gently lap at you. How other times, without warning, you find yourself in a dangerous rip, struggling, moving perilously away from shore.

This week, I was in a rip, flailing, panicking that I was once again losing my grip on life. I am writing my tribute to my son, to the overwhelming love and peace he gave me. But I also needed to write the worst and when I emptied the bucket full of pain onto the page, I found myself in darkness, the air, thick, black and heavy. I went back to breathing in short, shallow breaths. I had a day when I could only lie in bed and sob. The writing contributed which in retrospect I feel probably was a good thing. There's no point hiding from the overwhelming pain and horror, I'm guessing that eventually, it will find you and scare the living daylights out of you.

We also had another marker. Six months. Six months since I stroked his skin, kissed his lips and heard his voice. Six months since I lost the little soul who gave me sanctuary, respite, and allowed me to feel overwhelming love. Six months. A lifetime and a blink of the eye. Six months since I was whole. Six months since I lost my child. Hamish. Sweet, beautiful Hamish. (I love you baby).

Since the loss, I've also gained. Discoveries, insight, spiritual certainty. I've discovered new strength in the written word, I've discovered the beauty of humanity, along with the depth of human pain and I've discovered that as human beings, we can be resilient, if we fight. I've learnt that love really is all we need (it's not just a cliche). I know that we don't stop existing after we die, that there is an afterlife.

How do I know?

I feel Hamish. He comforts me at different times. I receive strength when I thought my bones had turned to water, I gain insight when I wonder if my head can be any more muddled, I see beauty on the darkest days. Some may say, 'oh, well that's the meanderings of a grieving mother'. They may be right.
They may be wrong. But I feel my son.

One afternoon, when I couldn't bare to go on a single minute. When the wave of grief not only crashed over me but pulled me under, I lay on the bed, a mere shadow of a woman. I was spent from sobbing, I was so tired, so extremely tired of living with an excruciating level of pain on a daily basis. I heard the rest of my family outside my bedroom door. Racked with guilt, I went to rise from my bed. But I stopped. I felt a firm hand on my forehead and I immediately relaxed. I let my head sink into the pillow, and I found relief in sleep. I slept deeply and solidly for two hours. I woke, not cured, but a little lighter.

There are other signs. I found a feather on our internal staircase on a particularly low day. A feather? Inside? I get tingles on my head and down my arms. He is with me, of that I am certain. For a mother who feels ripped apart, those little things provide comfort. My baby hasn't ceased to exist, he is in another place and this is how he 'talks' to me.

When you stand on the shore looking out to the horizon, the sea looks like it stops in a beautiful place where it meets the sky, but we know it doesn't. I think from where we're standing, it looks like life has an end date, but I know it doesn't. Not everyone will agree with me and that's OK.

Today I'm wading in the shores of grief, the day after my birthday. A relatively pointless day to me, but not to my family, who relish in such things. I blew out my candles and wished for a sign from Hamish. As soon as I received this painting from Sue, I knew I got it.

So today, I am not brilliant but I'm not breathless and dysfunctional. I am OK and that's a good day for me.

Thanks for listening,

Words

2013-04-02T16:11:00.003+10:00

Today the words are dancing around my head, waiting to waltz onto the page. The sentences have impatiently been waiting to written as I immerse myself in the school holidays. Balancing grief and family life is not easy. There are days when I simply want to grieve, to lie and feel Hamish, to remember, to cry. And sometimes those days have to wait. This morning I took my kiddies to the beach, they scooted along the shoreline, carefree giggles dissolving into the wind.

Battling a bit of cold but still adorable

It's imperative they escape the house, the walls can become oppressive and we start to wander in circles like forlorn sheep. To have no boundaries, to flee, wind whistling, sun shining is therapeutic. I can feel the weightlessness of freedom. The pure abandonment, the loss dissipates in the beauty of our part of the world.

But now I have to write. I have to feel the words, the texture, the grittiness of them. I suddenly realised after days of constructing them in my head, that it was imperative to release them. I fear them gone and I don't want to lose a single one. Maybe someone else feels them too? Maybe they need the texture of them as I do? This is the place to 'put' those words. This is my grief. Plain and clear for all to see.

I woke a few days ago with a startling epiphany. My beautiful boy, the one I grieve for so desperately is not forever gone. And on the days when the black hole is cavernous and endless, that's the one thought I need to cling to. My son is separated from me. He is in another realm and although I cannot feel him (torturous) or speak to him (agonising), he is not gone from me. He is here, with me. We will see each other again. For some reason, of that, I am certain. That must never be forgotten. I feel like writing it on my wall so I can wake to it each day. YOU WILL BE WITH HAMI AGAIN.

For someone who has had questionable faith in the past, it amazes me that I can write that with such certainty. But I can. I believe without question, that my son does not cease to exist. He is eternal and one day I will join him there. It is for that reason, that people keep saying I look 'well'. I'm not well but I'm doing OK. Loving my husband and children, whispering to my son at every available opportunity, knowing that he's but a light year away. Faith is an incredible thing. It lifts your soul when its at its heaviest. When you feel as though you may as well have been buried with it, it surprises you, endlessly.

Homework time with cousins ("Where's mine?" says Hami)

My faith exists because I believe we are here to live, to learn and to love (cliche I know). And I know that Hamish would want me to live my life as an activist for love not a victim of it. Some days I succeed, some days I do not. But I try every day. So what do I have faith in? I have faith in humanity. I believe (despite the terrible in it) that humanity is inherently good. I believe in kindness, that giving to others is what makes life worth living. I feel like I have received more than I have given and that is something I will have to rectify for the rest of my life.

The pulsating headache that I've been battling today has finally eased a little. Perhaps those words were literally fighting to get out? Regardless, my session of therapy has succeeded (and rather inexpensively I might add!).

Thank you for listening (and for your ongoing messages of love and support).

PS. Much love to the beautiful writer Nikki Gemmell who honoured Hamish so generously in her column in The Weekend Australian on the weekend. I'm forever grateful.

Low

2013-03-27T18:36:00.004+10:00

Today my heart feels absent. The Hamish hole is cavernous and overwhelming. It consumes; it's unavoidable, inescapable.

In essence, today was bad. That's the simple heart-wrenching truth.

I so desperately want my son son back. I want to embrace him, kiss his sweet lips and tell him I love him. Distraction serves me well some days, but today it failed. No peace, no enlightenment, just the pain and agony of a normal day without my son. Despite the glaring sunshine and the chirping birds, I feel like I'm in the depths of winter, shivering with loss and abandon.

This morning I watched my daughter sing and dance in the Easter Assembly at school. I beamed at her on-stage antics, erratic dance moves and blooming enthusiasm. It was infectious! As the show continued on, I was drawn to the small boys looking dapper in their uniforms. Shirts tucked, socks up, big smiles. Hamish won't wear a uniform; I won't watch him perform in the school play. There will be no piano recitals to attend, no soccer matches to barrack for from the sidelines. Today I'm grieving for the future we won't have. The glaring absence of a future, near and far.

I'm tired of holding it together. I'm exhausted from maintaining the lives of my family but today I'm just weary of holding myself together. So I let myself go. As I watched my son and daughter play on the playground while Miss B finished netball training, I felt the tears well, my heart constrict and the strength dissipate from my being. As my children fought over a handful of chocolate eggs in the back of the car, I became angry. Anger is an emotion that I have successfully controlled over the last few months. But this afternoon it gnawed its way out and I shouted. "They are chocolate eggs! Chocolate eggs are not something to fight over. Why on earth are you being so petty!"

I was being totally unfair of course. It's perfectly normal for 3 small children to fight over an even number of chocolate eggs, but I couldn't negotiate. I couldn't broker a peace deal. I just shouted and then I cried. All the way home.

Master F did what he always does when I lose the plot. "Oh mummy, PLEASE don't cry!" Miss M looked at me and said, "It's Hamish isn't it?" and Miss B said nothing. And I felt guilty, again.

It's just one of many days that I should be prepared for. I have had countless before and there will be many, many more. Unfortunately, despite their frequency, I'm still not prepared for the lows when they hit. The barrage of feelings that range from everything from guilt and regret to forlorn and lost.

As unexpected as the lows, are the 'highs'. The pride that comes from the goodwill of my 3 children. I love them vigorously and I am truly grateful for each of them, despite my outburst today. The love that my husband has given me in spadefuls over the last couple of days. I'm thankful for my sister and friends who are always there to wind me up when I start to unravel.

Tomorrow will be another day. What it will bring, I don't know. But I will be in it. Breathing it, living it and hopefully not just enduring it.

Thanks for listening.

Writing to live

2013-03-25T15:14:00.001+10:00

Always do what you are afraid to do. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I find there is almost calm determination to my demeanour these days. I'm not sure what to attribute it to? Sometimes, I believe it's because I've achieved an element of fearlessness. What is there to be scared of when the worst has happened? It's almost like it's wearing me, proudly and plainly. Sometimes, the fearlessness feels not of this world; my newfound faith in the spirit of my son guiding me, powering me, inside me. I believe I'm on the path I'm meant to be on at this point in my life. I falter sometimes; the developments that arise from honouring my son astonishing me. I'm forced to catch my breath, gather my wits and press on with goal in sight.

I haven't blogged for a week and a bit (it's been desperately trying to find a way out). I've been busy honouring my son in new and important ways. On Wednesday, I drove in the darkness to the airport to catch the first flight to Sydney, my eyes batting with fatigue. I went to address a room full of inspiring bloggers at the Digital Parent's Conference. Along with two brave women, Tiff from Three Ring Circus and Lori from RRSAHM, I explained why I chose to blog my grief, to expose my raw and extremely painful truth to the world.

The answer is simple. It wasn't conscious. The night before Hami's funeral, I was experiencing a depth of pain like no other. It was unfathomable to me that life would simply go on without the love of my life. I didn't think I'd survive, but I didn't quite now how I wouldn't. I paced, I sobbed, I ached, I wanted to be sick but I couldn't. Finally, broken and exhausted, I sat down at my computer and wrote a letter to my boy to express my intense feelings of loss and grief. I didn't intend it to come out the way it did and the posts that followed were not intentional either. It felt like 'do or die' for me. I guess that's when it became increasingly obvious, I needed to write. Blogging for survival. It sounds ridiculous but its true.

I guess I could have grieved in less public ways. I could've bought a journal and scribbled mercilessly into it. But the pounding of the keys is almost therapeutic in itself and the love and loss that has seeped from this blog has inspired and willed me to continue with this path. Incidentally, a beautiful friend from long ago posted me a rose-coloured leather journal that I now treasure with my life. I use it to write odd musings, to doodle flowers for Hamish (like I used to do when we showered) or just to tell him quietly that his mother never stops living for him, how she loves him with every breath, and how his absence is mourned and ached for. Sometimes I etch in whispers little secrets of the strange thoughts that pass through my muddled mind or the beautiful things I miss about him. I took it to Sydney, put it in my suitcase and stressed on the plane that if my suitcase was to go astray, my heart would go with it. Fortunately, my worry was in vain.

I have started writing my book. I have a deadline and determination. I will continue to honour my son in public and in private. I believe Hamish has so much to offer the world; his unconditional love and joy has tendrils that will stretch far. They've already curled around the hearts and minds of bereaved parents across the world and that gives me hope. It gives me a purpose and any bereaved mother will tell you, that's what she needs until she sees her child again.

Thanks for listening.

Heaven

2013-03-13T12:52:00.000+10:00

If you are going through hell, keep going. Winston Churchill

I'm not sure I believe in Hell. I think if we make a hash of this life, there are consequences on the Other Side but I certainly don't believe in eternal damnation. I'm sorry if this upsets anyone. I just like to think that God has it all under control and every person has a chance to make amends.

Would I say I'm in Hell on Earth? No I wouldn't. Yes the pain feels unlivable, unbearable and searching for a fragment of light in every day is sometimes extremely difficult, but I'm in a haze of love and for that I'm eternally grateful. I'm in a fortunate position of seeing the beauty in humanity. The generous, the compassionate, the kind, the beautiful. They lift me up, even with the heavy weight of grief upon me. The ugly doesn't raise its head very often and if it does, it's usually in my own head. Granted, I don't watch the news much these days.

Holding Hami at six weeks

I'm honoured and touched that so many other bereaved mothers would share their stories of love and loss with me. I think sharing is healing and by joining hands and speaking out, it's taking those horrific internal feelings and setting them free, even if it's only for a little while; feathers spread, wings wide. We may be nursing battered, broken hearts but I believe our babies want us to soar. I think that's why on the terrible, dark days, when grief threatens to consume, I look to the skies, seeking comfort from the clouds, searching for God's fingers poking through them.

Perhaps that's why I find it so extremely difficult to go to the cemetery. It forces me to look down. Down to the darkness, where my son lies. He's not there. I'm sure of it. Head up, eyes skyward, whispering into the wind, "I love you Hamish." It allows me breathe, to be, to absorb the beauty around me. Maybe that's why those who grieve find so much comfort in creatures that fly? Ladybirds, butterflies, dragonflies and birds. It gives a sense of lightness, of sweet souls soaring through Heaven; freedom in every sense. Isn't that what we want for our angels? Wings capable of taking them to great heights?

I whisper in the wind. I'm convinced he can hear me. So I tell Hamish I love him everyday; several times. I kiss the air and I hope he feels them; my breath on his angelic lips. It gives me hope; believing that the veil is thinner than we think. I know we use the term, 'Rest In Peace' when someone we love passes away and I want nothing more than peace and eternal happiness for my baby, but I also want joy, laughter and giggles. I hope he's shining his light in Heaven as he did on Earth. The first draft of his headstone read 'Resting in God's arms'. I certainly hope not. I hope he's tickling Him under the chin, bouncing on His knee, and smothering His face in sweet kisses. That's what he's known for.

It doesn't stop the craving, the missing, the eternal want. It's always there, reminding me of what I lost, what I had. I find I'm seeking out babies and toddlers in public. For a while I avoided them like the plague, now I want to pick them up, smell their deliciousness and stroke their softness. It's the missing. The void is simply torturous. So, I drink in my 3 living children. I run my fingers through their hair and really feel their cuddles. They are here and I'm so grateful for that. One of my kids is having some learning issues at school. Someone said to me, 'oh that's the last thing you need.' But it really isn't. She's here, she's healthy, she's beautiful inside and out. She is supported at home and at school and loved unconditionally. She is HERE. Everything will be fine. Hello Perspective, my old friend.

Next week I'm speaking at the Digital Parent's Conference in Sydney. If you are by chance going, please come and say hi, I would love to see a friendly face.

Thanks for listening,

Dear Hamish

2013-03-08T12:44:00.000+10:00

Today baby, I just want to talk to you, to pour out my heart to my beautiful boy and give you a sense of the magic you brought and continue to bring to my life.

You sparkled. You radiated and gave me unprecedented levels of peace. When you were with me, I felt very calm. You had that ability. It's only now that you are gone that I realised, how for 20 short months, you were my comforter, my security blanket. Just having you in my arms, made my heart bulge and my eyes glimmer. I still reach for you. In the dark, in the light, my arms hover, waiting for your essence, hoping for any element of you. Grasping at the air, hoping for Hamish magic.

Sometimes I feel the futility of grief so powerfully that I wonder how it is possible that I still exist. The only way to escape that overwhelming feeling of desperation is to shut down a part of my brain and allow triviality to wreak havoc. Sometimes I'll look at pretty shoes online or drink hot chocolate with a magazine in a cafe. Anything but think in depth at the hollowness of my heart or the eternal ache in my head. Without the escape, my mind would implode with excruciating sorrow, I'm sure of it.

I miss you so much, sometimes I don't want to crawl out of my cave-bed. I just want to stay, weep and feel the wretchedness of your absence. But everyday I get dressed, put on make-up (minimal amounts anyway) and present myself to the world in various forms. I have a public face Hami. I do it for you, for your Daddy and for your sisters and brother. Someone recognised me from my blog at the shops the other day. She said, "I don't know how you do it? I think you are amazing." I told her, I do it for your brothers and sisters. But that's not entirely true. I do it for you too. I want you to be proud, I want you to point your mummy out to the other angels, like I used to do with you. "Look at Hamish, so brave, so joyful, so sweet."

Someone told me the other day they lost a brother. Although he missed his brother when he passed away in another senseless tragedy, it was his parents he really missed. He wanted his broken parents to be repaired, made whole, so they could function again as a family. If you see me smiling and playing with your siblings, please know that I haven't forgotten you. You are permanently in my heart, etched into my soul. That every second I imagine you with us, adding to the beauty already in play. You are mine. Forever part of everything I was, am and will be. You are my past, my present and my future. Love is like that, boundless, endless, without beginning and end. To infinity and beyond (do you remember Buzz Lightyear?).

I'm sorry I haven't been at our tree lately. It's been raining constantly as you know. Perhaps I should just sit in the rain and be with you, let the wet drench my skin and shiver with its intensity. I'd rather sit at my desk with all of my 'Hami things' and feel wrapped in your warmth and write with love. I hope you don't mind. That's what I needed to do today. Sit and be with you.

Today I had coffee with Katie. She misses you too. I adore Katie so much. She loved you not as your day carer, but as your second mum and for that I'm truly grateful. She really knew how special you were. It's not in my mind. Katie felt it too. She told me when you were alive that she wanted to keep you, how she could see that little light burning bright within you, like I could. I couldn't keep it together. I sobbed with every sip of my drink. I think it's because Katie 'knows'. She knows the intensity of joy you brought and the intensity of its deficit. She is struggling without you, as I am, but she also lives with you in her heart and she's learning how comforting that can be.

I've cried a million tears today my love. I think it's time for me to stop. To achieve some kind of peace today, I need to stop and take care of me.

Know that the love I have for you knows no end. Now and forever,

Your mummy. x

Five months

2013-03-04T08:10:00.002+10:00

Five months ago, my entire world shattered in a blur of untold pain and torture. We watched our 20 month old son Hamish, breathe his last breath. With his last breath, it felt like everything good in the world left with him, his beautiful soul leaving this world with my heart clenched in his sweet hand. Watching him die was a moment of untold horror. How on earth would I take another step? How could I breathe? Eat? Sleep? Love? Parent? How could I be anything other than a brittle shell of a human being?

We were driven back home from the hospital and as we reached our driveway, the enormity of what had just happened became overwhelming. I stepped out of the car into the brazen light, I crumbled, screamed. My world imploding in a shroud of darkness and despair. How could I walk into his home without him? How could I live any semblance of a life?

Somehow, gradually, with mountains of support, hand-holding and unspeakable volumes of love, we have reached this point. I would never of believed in the possibility of living, let alone loving and occasionally even laughing. Yes, that has happened. The sorrow is ever-present, leaving an indelible mark on my heart, but I have survived and even lived five months on. I am here. This statement on its own feels totally miraculous.

Hamish by Sue Barnfield
Thank you for the most beautiful gift Sue. x

Some days it still doesn’t feel real. As a favourite song came on the radio the other day, I immediately smiled and glanced into the back seat where his car seat used to be, certain I’d see Hami there laughing, his arms bouncing in delight to the beat. He wasn’t and my heart writhed in pain. I imagine him laughing and playing with his brother, particularly when F looks lost and alone and the beautiful difference he made to our family every day feels like a ever-present black hole we, as a family, are forever skirting around.

The loss is ever-present but I am learning to live with the lead heart I have beating in my chest and the dull-ache in my head. Tears flow daily but there is lightness to counteract the dark. My children bring joy (how can they not?), a coffee with a friend can make a whole day worth living and a hug from my husband can squeeze out some of the harshness of life.

As I write, the wind has picked up and doors are slamming with every gust. It’s like a secret signal between God and I. He knows when the load of grief is particularly heavy. It’s like He’s just letting me know he’s there, Hamish is with him and everything is OK on that side of the veil. I live in hope that it’s just us living without Hamish and that Hamish isn’t having to endure the separation. I hope that he is with me, willing me own, the wind at my back, the step in my walk. Always.

Seasons

2013-02-25T11:49:00.001+10:00

The rain is relentless. It's sorrowful intensity soaking into my skin despite being cosy and dry inside. The weather isn't a trigger but it certainly doesn't help grief. Although the beaming sunshine feels wrong, it does do good. It's warmth and dazzling bright keeping my eyes wide and my skin off-white. I don't appreciate the sunshine enough. I should be lapping up it's feel-good properties before the shorter days take hold and we bury ourselves in layers. Ahem, yes I live in Queensland, Australia where 'winter' isn't really winter. but I'm a lightweight in the cold weather.

I can see why seasons are so often used as an analogy for grief. I guess if I follow this analogy I'm currently in the depths of winter, shivering with the pain of loss and hibernating from the harsh realities of life without my baby boy. The problem for me is I can't see Spring. It's almost been five months since I lost my Hami and there isn't a single day where grief's hold isn't suffocatingly tight. Some days I can breathe, some days I struggle to inhale, every day is inescapable.

I told my Psychiatrist the other day that I feel like I've been given a life sentence, resigned to a lifetime of heartbreak. Of course, each and every day won't be Hell on Earth, but the pain and sorrow will always be there, forever and ever. Hamish was part of me and I am permanently emotionally disabled. He instantly replied with, "Do you think you deserve to be punished?" I wanted to say "no" but that wouldn't be truthful. My reply was this: "Yes, in a way. Hamish was a gift and it was my job as his mum to protect him and I failed to do that, so perhaps a lifetime of agony is what I deserve." It was an accident, I know that. My psychiatrist tells me that it doesn't matter which way I look at it, I didn't cause this. It was an accident. It was an accident. It doesn't matter how many times I repeat it, I still flinch with the senselessness of it.

I just hate that day so much, with uncontainable anger. I hate all the stupid things that went wrong. There were about 7 or 8 things that should not have happened all at the same time and now we are living without our light, our sweetness, our joy. Oh God, how do I do it?

Someone asked me the other day if I'm writing myself deeper into grief. As I dissect and examine its depths, do I find myself unable to climb out? I didn't need to ever contemplate the question. Absolutely not. The writing orders the mess, contains the crazy and expresses the pain. I completely understand if it drags others under but it keeps me afloat, as much as it can.

A few readers have written to me to say that they their spouses have asked them not to read my blog. Some have stipulated they read it when they aren't at home, others have told them to cease completely for fear of making them too downcast. Can I just say that is not my intention. I do not want to depress anyone else or upset them in anyway.

I know the grief is deep and painful but I also hope this blog reflects the true miraculous joy I experienced with my son. How Hamish has taught me to love in ways I didn't know how. That if I'd never had him, that the loss would have been deeper and broader, even without being aware. I'm so thrilled I had the privilege of being his mummy, and in that respect I'm so incredibly lucky. He has taught me that love knows no bounds, lasts for eternity and extends beyond this realm.

Hamish taught me life's greatest lesson. Perhaps one day, that one simple fact will overtake the sorrow. Perhaps.

Thanks for listening.

Fighting

2013-02-19T21:44:00.001+10:00

I wish there was a warning system for a grief melt-down, not dissimilar to a tsunami warning system. At least you could prepare for it when it hits you. You would cancel your daily scheduled 'appearances' in public, you would take shelter and get ready for impact.

Hami at the start of beautiful day

Certainly there are triggers which may be anticipated. Supermarkets for one. One glance at a curly-haired toddler in a trolley and I tend to look skyward to will the tears to stay at bay, at least until I can get out of the darn store. Sometimes, I may successfully avoid the toddlers (as gorgeous as they are) but just the memory of erratically racing the trolley down the aisles, complete with car noises, to the delight of my chuckling boy (and the dismay of other shoppers) is enough for me to flee. Sometimes it's the baby aisle and a simple glance at his favourite snack that makes my heart constrict.

I just miss Hamish. I miss him so much I don't know what to do with myself. I know I've said it a million times before (and thank you for listening every time) but I just miss him to my core. I still crave him like an addict who's gone cold turkey. Every ounce of me screams for him daily and my body is left wanting, my heart is left empty. It's a sentence for life that has only just begun. The hopeless futility of it all beggars belief.

I miss this gorgeous, messy angel

The pure weight of grief is debilitating. My natural instinct is to take the full strain of its fullness and to let it snap me in two but I've discovered I'm a fighter. I never thought I was but I must be. I run, I train, I write. I get up every day, ensure my three beautiful kids are dressed in the right uniform, and have full lunch boxes. I organise their extra-curricular activities, RSVP to birthday parties and keep the household functioning (I said functioning, not clean). I take my 3-year-old swimming and to FitKids and sometimes we cook pancakes when we are at a loss. Simple everyday tasks to keep life's cogs turning. I am a life participant with grief's heavy hands on my shoulders.

When there tsunami hits, there is nowhere to run, no escaping its brutal force. I just have to retreat to my room and let it's desperate sorrow wash over me and let the agony drip down my body. Luckily I am mostly alone when it hits, but sometimes my children bare witness to my overwhelming grief. As I gasped for breaths through sobbing the other night, my daughter came over and rubbed my back, my son gave me a sticker for being 'a good mummy' and handed me a photo of himself with his sisters to 'make me happy'. There they are again, my 'pin-pricks of light'.

There are more 'pin-pricks' from the unconditional love of friends, family and strangers. When a cooked meal arrives on my doorstep I instantly feel bad. I'm capable of cooking, this meal really should have gone to someone who needs it more than me I think to myself. Two hours later I'm sitting at my desk sobbing into my hands, grieving for my son, grateful to the inherently beautiful souls who will feed my family that evening. Randomly, my friends have arrived with flowers, cakes or sent me texts or messages letting me know we are not forgotten. I love you all so much. You, through your inherent goodness, give me hope that life is worth living. If not for me, than for my husband, my kids, my family, my friends and readers who will me into every new day.

A particularly arduous shopping trip.

On Saturday night I went to a friend's 40th birthday party. A party! I couldn't believe I was actually going. Not only did my husband and I go but we dressed up in 1920's costume as per instructions on the invitation. As I glanced at my reflection, I felt a little silly, hardly appropriate kit for a mother in mourning. Then I thought perhaps Hami would love to see his mummy like this, not sobbing at her desk, pitying her wretched heart. Perhaps he wants a mummy who is an activist, not a victim. Who takes the bull by the horns and wrestles it to the ground in triumph.

It's about turning the horror into honour and the pain into purpose.

I won't manage it everyday, it's new, raw and exhausting. But I'll give it my damnedest.

Thanks for listening.

Perspective

2013-02-14T15:02:00.001+10:00

“God has not been trying an experiment on my faith or love in order to find out their quality. He knew it already. It was I who didn't. In this trial He makes us occupy the dock, the witness box, and the bench all at once. He always knew that my temple was a house of cards. His only way of making me realize the fact was to knock it down.”

― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

It's amazing to me how we can live life thinking we have control, knowing reality and predicted outcomes. I certainly felt that way. Tragedy and its consequences barely crossed my muddled mind. I was focused on 'the juggle'. Children, house, errands, bills, work - how to manage it and allow an element of enjoyment into all of it. "So how will I manage the two little boys on my own at my eldest daughter's netball game?" How can I pick up the girls from school with both my boys asleep in the car?" "How will I scrape the hardened Weetbix off the tiles?" These were just some of daily conundrums. Hardly taxing are they? My cheeks tingle in shame at the extent of my first world problems.

And here I am.

Going through the same motions but with a new perspective. Dealing with daily crap, knowing nothing matters but love, human connection, and soul beautification through giving. Allowing light and love into my life to dig myself out of the depths of darkness and despair. I had a life, but I wasn't living it as I was meant. Hindsight is cruel and taunting.

Today I fantasised about Hami miraculously returning to my arms on Earth. I'm not delusional. Desperate, but not delusional. I imagined how my life would irrevocably change. How every smile would be absorbed to my very core. How every cuddle would be long and heart-felt, his skin constantly stroked and smelt. I would absorb his very essence and give him my time unselfishly, lovingly, unconditionally. That's a second chance I will never have. He is gone from the atmosphere and I'm left with the heavy thud, shortness of breath and the hole. The hole that will never be filled, never healed. It will always be there. I may just get better at living with open wound in my life.

As my husband returns to his demanding job and I turn to my domestic quietness, I struggle with the silence (on the days Little F is at Kindy). I often find myself walking into the boys' room, stroking toys, books and clothes. When I'm out, I imagine Hami at my feet. I think about the mayhem we would potentially be causing at the Supermarket, the sweet giggles that poured out of him, and the loving glances he shot me constantly. There's the thud again. Heavy, oppressive and ever-present.

Today, Little F and I had swimming lessons. He's gradually improving but it's very difficult to watch him in the water still. I fake my smile and give two thumbs up when he paddles a few metres on his own, all the while holding my breath and feeling the pain in my chest. He gazes at me, smiling angelically, waiting for my praise. I give it as enthusiastically as I can.

As he was standing in the shower after his lesson, I realised how different his life has become. There was nothing he would do, without the input of his little brother. If Hami had if been in the shower with him, there would have been laughter, play and sweet moments (and perhaps a fight over the shower spray). Today I watched him stand under the stream in silence watching the bubbles of water dance down his legs and swirl into the drain. He was quiet, retrospective and I just felt incredibly sad. He just won't remember the joy like I will, the incredible lightness Hamish brought to everything. It's up to me to remind him. Not now, not all the time, but he needs to know about the little brother who made him giggle and showed him the less serious side to life.

Today I sat down and did a little writing exercise. I opened my journal and wrote the first words that came into my head. I gave myself a minute to write and this is what I wrote:

In the beginning, life was meant to be simple. It was meant to be about love, pure and simple. Complexities enter and life soon becomes messy and we all need to remember to clean our souls, just like the houses we live in. Some people don't understand this until the worst happens. The unimaginable. Then we are left with confusion and despair. To achieve clarity and enlightenment, you need to cleanse your soul of the 'stuff'. Be brutal and live simply and concentrate on love and living a life of joy. It doesn't need to be messy. It's time to create the change.

I like it. I think I'll try this again very soon.

Thanks for listening.

PS. This week I found out I won the Parenting Express/My Child magazine Short Story competition for 2012. My piece 'Honouring Hamish' will be in the March edition of My Child magazine (Australia).

The hard tasks

2013-02-08T13:38:00.002+10:00

Since Hami's birthday, the pain has been intense. It's like the overall sense of loss peaked at that point and now my husband and I have limped back to our respective caves to lick our wounds in self-pity. We come out every now and again to check on each other but the communication has not been flowing as easily as I would like. It's hard. It's bloody hard. Even for us who have always been a strong team.

Hami and Miss M having a giggle.

The fight is not an easy one. I don't try and cover my scar, it's pinkness gleaming ever-present. My husband's scar isn't as easy to find and it's harder for him to reveal. I'm making an assumption here but I think the dads in this situation often get a little left behind in the grief process, left to gallantly pick up the shattered pieces of their wives and families.

I'm used to exposing my vulnerabilities and emotional turmoil to my team of friends who pick me up on every stumble, feed me when I'm incapable of feeding myself and ensure I'm out and functioning almost every day. Yes, I'm a talker (you may have gathered that!). My husband's support network is different. He has amazing caring friends; two of them stood in Emergency with us as the doctors desperately tried to save our beautiful boy. One of them drove us down to the Children's Hospital in Brisbane when Hami was transferred in a helicopter there at 2am. They are incredible. It's just don't operate the way my girlfriends do. I respect that and understand that we all are different with unique ways of coping with the oppressing sorrow, but I wish my husband would be more open, if not with me, than with the people hovering around him, somebody, anybody.

Just four days before...he fell asleep on the rug!

You may've noticed my blogging has dropped off a little. At the moment, it's all about energy. It's low. I'm using up so much of it just trying to be 'normal'. Kids are back to school, Little F is at daycare 3 days a week and for the first time in nearly 10 years, I have space and time. There are so many things I 'should' be doing. My 11/12 tax return is glaring menacingly at me from the corner of the room; a messy stack of important papers standing jauntily beside it. I see my husband's eyes wander it to the pile every day on his return home from work. I know the thoughts...has she done it today? Why not? Will she EVER do it?

It's hard to summon the energy to care, let alone to be. There are jobs to be done, errands to run but every day my list remains mostly unticked. If they are attempted, they are often unfinished. I was proud of my clean out of the linen cupboard attempted last weekend. For over a year, sheets, towels and pillowcases were folded and gently shoved in. But inevitably, with every clean-out or de-cluttering job, I will come across something Hami played with or slept on. As I pulled out baby blue cot sheets and a quilt with his name embroidered on it, I sobbed into it's fluffy warmth. The overwhelming loss leaking out of me. The job was abandoned as I retreated to my cave to once again shelter myself from the confronting reality of life without my Hamish. Oh how I miss you sweet boy.

Trying to get his quilt out

He had a special quilt that was made of soft, organic bamboo and he loved to stroke it when he went to sleep. He would suck on his little tongue and stoke it as he rolled over to sleep. It would instantly calm him in any situation and sometimes he would reach through the cot bars and yell out to me to get it out for him. It seemed natural for the quilt to go with him. He needed it, he would need the gentle comfort it would bring on his ascension to the new world awaiting him. Now I almost regret it. I wish I had that quilt to press against my own skin, it's silkiness softening my sobs as it did his. It would never compare to the feel of my darling, but I would've like to cuddle it all the same.

Enough for today. The hot tears are already threatening to soak the collar of my shirt and 'the list' is pointing its bureaucratic finger at me.

Thanks for listening.

Dignity

2013-01-31T15:30:00.000+10:00

On my daughter's 6th birthday, her grandparents gave her a fish tank with two gold fish. Miss M was truly delighted. Her very own pet! The orange one was named 'Bubbles' and she called the white fish 'Angel'. Despite dutifully feeding her fish and cleaning her tank, approximately six weeks later, I found both fish floating lifeless on the surface, eyes glazed. Miss M was at school and with my little boys both asleep my mum offered to replace Miss M's precious pets before her return. We decided she would just be too devastated to discover the untimely deaths of her beloved fish. With just minutes to spare, mum dashed into the pet store and picked up identical white and gold fish and popped them in the tank.

Releasing a balloon at the memorial

Over the next week, Miss M commented Angel had grown considerably and Bubbles just didn't look right but we persevered, assuring her the fish had experienced a sudden growth spurt (as goldfish do!).

Yesterday, 18 months later, Miss M came to tell me that Angel wasn't looking right. "I think she's sick Mummy," she murmured dolefully. Sure enough, Angel had passed and was resting on the bottom of the tank. "I'm so sorry honey, but Angel has died," I said softly. "Oh, that's sad," she replied, tears welling up. As we went about retrieving Angel and cleaning the tank, my daughters went about creating a resting place for Angel. They placed her in a container on a bed of pebbles with a small amount of water with plants surrounding her. They chose a pretty place in the garden to place Angel and set about digging a small grave and after burying Angel decorated the grave with feathers and pipe cleaners.

I watched the proceedings with complete awe. Just 18 months ago we were unable to present death to our daughter and now, having endured life's worst offering, the passing of their baby brother, my daughters were facing death again on a smaller scale, with grace and dignity.

When I think about what my children have endured, it feels like someone has stamped on my heart. Not only did they witness their mother screaming and frantically try to resuscitate their brother, they witnessed the paramedics do the same, whilst I wailed and clawed at my skin. They huddled in the corner sobbing out their hearts as I begged and pleaded for Hamish to come back to us. They said goodbye to their brother in hospital before he passed and kissed his lifeless body.

At Hami's memorial

The memory of these proceedings is frighteningly vivid and causes such intense and unfathomable pain that I'm not sure I can breathe. Sometimes I look at my children laughing and playing and I wonder where they have put that. Where have the put the most devastating life event they have ever known and probably ever will know? How does it fit into their daily lives? We talk about Hami every day. We look at his books, we remember his laugh and I encourage them to talk to him like he's just across the room. I don't want them to ever forget him. Ever. But the dreadful events of 'that' day and the consequent horror, I would desperately love to be erased from their memory. I want my children back untouched, innocent and pure. I want only flowers and fairies in their lives, not death and despair.

My babies

But I didn't have a choice. The unimaginable happened and we had to handle it the only way we knew how. My husband and I are surviving but our children are doing more than that. They are living with Hamish in their hearts. Laughing, loving and living in the moment, truly aware of how precious life is.

The pain of living without him and the trauma will always be part of my fabric, weaved into the tapestry of my soul. Everything has changed. The loops and knots of my life were unexpected, unplanned, unfathomable. But I am forced to live with the story that is interwoven in my being. There is no chance to start again.

I wonder what the final pattern will be? Will the picture ever become clear, or will it just be an erratic display of colour and texture, devoid of an overall theme? Or will the pattern make sense over time? For my children, I hope that the love, joy and utter happiness Hamish brought is forever ingrained in their hearts, if not in their mind. That they love knowing the true depth of love and they laugh knowing the sweet sound of his voice. Perhaps they will hear it faintly from Heaven.

That is my prayer for them.

Vulnerable

2013-01-24T21:40:00.002+10:00

Today I learnt how important it is that I 'go gently'. How in the rush of trying to maintain 'normality', I forgot how incredibly vulnerable I am. Like tissue paper, wafer thin and very easily damaged, particularly when pressed.

My two beautiful boys. Hami always smiling.

I'm reading Anita Moorjani's book 'Dying To Be Me'. It's about Anita's own Near Death Experience with cancer, what she experienced, how she chose to return and how she uses what she learnt in the other realm to 'live fearlessly' in this life. I understand her message and would love to implement it in my own life but with grief continuing to shackle me to relentless sorrow, how do you rise above it and live as love, with purpose and meaning? I want to be like Anita, living completely without any fear, believing tirelessly of her own worth and value on this Earth. Of course, there are certain things I don't fear, death being one of them. Death isn't frightening to someone who has lost a child to the other side (sorry I'm assuming other bereaved parents feel this way). But in many ways, I do fear life, my new life, without Hamish.

I'm having trouble keeping my emotions in check, and that in turn, is threatening my ability to empathise with other people. I just don't see 'troubles' the the same way I used to. Most of them are inconveniences, things that can be worked through over time and overcome. I want to give. I want to give as so many people have given to me over the last 3 and a half months. I want to pay it forward, knowing that little things can make a big difference. Unfortunately, I can't yet see outside of my own intense pain (at least just yet) and I guess today I recognised it.

We tried to put on smiles for Hami's birthday in NZ.

I lost Hamish suddenly. There were no goodbyes, no chance to get in extra kisses and cuddles. There was no chance to prepare for his departure from this life in any shape or form. He was stolen from me, abducted instantly and that beautiful, beloved extension of me was forever gone. He was my favourite part of me. He was everything I wish I was. Non-judgemental, forever happy, content to bask in the love of his family without a care in the world. What a gift Hamish was! To come, to love with his total being and to leave, not in the least bit tainted by the angst and pain that lurks in the world. In some ways, he lived perfectly. He didn't get his heart broken, his trust was in tact and all he did was give, particularly to us his family, who were very happy to receive.

Unfortunately, I am living with the broken heart, with the fractured trust, and the battered life. At some point I will want to live my life again, with meaning, with purpose, without fear. Maybe I will, one day, but all I can do right now is breathe, to keep out of life's trivialities (or let them wash over me), and to love and take care of my family and hopefully myself.

In her book, Anita talks a lot about the importance of self-love. How crucial it is to living in bliss and embracing life. That's something I've never been very good at. I've never been a smart enough, thin enough, successful enough, a good enough mother, daughter, sister, wife, friend. I've never trusted my own instincts, trusting my friends before myself. Even when I've been complimented for writing this blog, I've dismissed it. I've set my own standards so ridiculously high, it was incredibly easy to fail and beat myself up for not being enough.

Perhaps that's a good place to start in my 'new normal life' without my beloved boy. Perhaps I need to give myself a break, practice self-care and stop giving myself unrealistic expectations to live by. Maybe I need to stop setting high expectations of others and just accept them as they are, as people capable of great love, as I am.

Sorry, it's all rather 'on the couch' tonight. I guess healing has to start somewhere right? As my Psychiatrist tried to tell me the other day, "You don't have to be intelligent, rational and post-renaissance about it all. You just need to tell it as it is."

I'm trying.

Thanks for listening.

Remedy

2013-01-21T21:27:00.004+10:00

Today I feel weary. The oppressive heat that swamps and swarms probably isn’t helping. I glanced in the mirror and the reflection looked grief-stricken. New lines, sunken eyes and under stretched mouth.

I was told me the other night that I’m doing well under the circumstances. I immediately bristled. It’s something you don’t want to think you are...‘well’. It sounds too perky, too normal. I certainly don’t feel well (or any other synonym you may use). I feel messed up, broken, confused. Grief isn’t a phase or a period. It isn’t a season or a song. It is forever and the enormity of it is exhausting. Utterly exhausting.

So the question I already have the answer to is, how do I do it? Of course the response is, “One day at a time”. I don’t like the solution. It’s too simple, and it bewilders me that such a complex, painful, debilitating condition of grief can be simplified into this one statement.

My heart aches. Since Hamish turned two on Tuesday, I can’t get a grip. My husband and I spent the day, our last day in Queenstown, New Zealand, with tears cyclically running down our faces. The beautiful day that would’ve been. TWO. Excited giggles, cake, balloons, Happy Birthday merrily sung by three excited siblings, two proud parents and happy extended family. Oh, the joy of the day lost makes my heart burn, my chest heave. I read on Facebook, complaints about a two-year-old’s behaviour. Please. Give me supermarket melt-downs, give me screaming lungs, give me big, loud, shouty NOs. I would do anything for them.

I’ve been on a quest to learn every single detail about where Hamish is. I wish I could be content with very generic statements like, “He is in God’s arms” or “He’s playing in Heaven” but I am not. I am his mother. I need to know where he is. What is he doing? Who is he with? Is he happy? Does he miss me? I’ve read books on afterlife, NDEs, Heaven and Spirit. I’ve googled, I’ve flicked, in my quest to feel at peace. But every account is different; the descriptions varying greatly. I feel confused, lost. So I’ve decided to stop. To have faith in love beyond the veil. That he is the circle of God’s love and give my frazzled mind a small break.

So today I feel depleted. Spent of love, of energy, of life. From the outside, I am living my life, not languishing. I am attending to my husband’s business, I am caring for my children, I am mixing with friends but it all feels like a charade. I’ve decided I’m getting good at masks. They crack inevitably, but for the most part I’m keeping it together for the general public. At home, my husband and I circle the house like lost puppies. Not sure where we should be, how should we act or what we should feel. It’s all very Woody Allen.

School goes back in just over a week. As my children go back to the routine of school and Kindy, I will have three days to myself to do house and business chores, to write and to be. I’m concerned though. I’m worried the silence will threaten to consume me and draw me further into the dark cloud of grief. Will the silence of Hami’s giggles be more pronounced and despairing? Will I become embittered, frightened, lonely? From a practical perspective, I think I have enough people around me who care to pull me out of the abyss. I don’t think I’ll be left in the dark chasm for too long. I hope.

Intense and prolonged pain does tend to mess with your head. I’m off to the psychiatrist again tomorrow. I like my Doctor a lot. He speaks to me intelligently, with reason, science, and comfort. There is no wrong, guilt or blame with him. There is only reason. I walk out realising I create the crazy, the crazy doesn’t create me. It’s strange but I’m looking forward to seeing him (it used to be the hairdresser). I’m desperately sick with grief. I think the remedy is calm, peace. Maybe he has it on prescription?

One can only dream.

Thanks for listening.

Rainbow

2013-01-14T07:22:00.000+10:00

If Heaven could be found on earth, where would you find it? Is it a place? A sense? A feeling? Is it dusk, sundown or midnight? I believe the only place heaven can be found on earth is in unconditional love. The kind of love that sees through scars, flaws and and glaring imperfections. The kind of love that knows no boundaries and bridges two people together under any circumstance. But if Heaven could be found geographically, the first place I would think of is Queenstown, New Zealand. With immense, jutting mountains, shimmering turquoise lakes and ethereal mist, it’s not difficult to see why it’s been used for Tolkien’s Middle Earth in the movies. It has a slightly surreal feeling; you are there but you are not. You have transported to a place of mythology and legend.

I am in Queenstown and I so desperately wanted to surrender to it’s beauty. I wanted to allow it to carry me to places of hope and beauty. Not only is it wildly beautiful but it's a place Hamish has been. He was only ten weeks old, but safely ensconced in my Baby Bjorn pouch, he walked the length and width of it with me. I hope even in his infancy, he absorbed its magic and Queenstown absorbed his.

It’s spectacular landscape is not lost on me this time, to be sure. It’s jaw-dropping and inspiring. Unfortunately my heart is unable to be romanced by its ruggedness or swept away by its angelic features. I guess that’s where unconditional love comes in. I loved Hamish unconditionally. He made my heart soar daily with his gorgeous humanness. He made me alive in a way no landscape ever could. Now that he’s gone. What am I to do? Is every beautiful God-created space forever to disappoint? Is every beautiful image to be tarred by the huge gaping hole my son has left.

For the foreseeable future, yes. I think it is.

Because the pain is soaring to new levels every day. There isn’t an hour in my day where I don’t yearn for his face, pine for his presence or feel broken-hearted.

I just don’t know what to do with it. It just hurts so much.

I’m trying to run it off. I think it may help. Pounding the pavement and chanting his name under my breath, seems to be small therapy. But his absence is permanent. It lurks around every hour, taunting me, calling me, desperately pulling me down. On Wednesday, the second day of our break here I felt particularly despondent. I was jogging slowly in drizzly rain and thinking to myself, “what’s the point?” I then asked Heaven to send me a sign. “Give me a reason to carry on,” was the thought. I continued up the sharp ascent to our hotel and had to stop at the top to take lungfuls of air. I turned back and faced my sign.

A rainbow.

Could there be a more powerful sign from a child who loved nothing more than to use every crayon in the box? From a child who covered every blank canvas in our house with colour?

Despite this symbol of hope, once again I was forced to scrape myself off the pavement the very next day. It’s like the as darkness descends, my soul slate is wiped clean and I am forced to summon new strength every morning, as certain as the sun will rise.

My children, although missing their brother, look at it differently. They see a new day with endless possibilities. Their resilience and optimism astounds me, inspires me, depresses me. Because I just don’t understand it. I guess that’s because I’m Hamish’s mother. Only Hami and I have that permanent bond that stretches beyond the land of the living and into the life beyond. But I’m grateful for it.

My husband and our two munchkins Miss M and Little F

My little boy would have been 2 tomorrow. Such a beautiful, big age. He would’ve been a beautiful two. My angel would’ve been filled with love, excitement and joy and as usual, it would have latched onto my other 3 kids. He had that way about him. They all picked up on his endless humour and sweet manner and ran with it. Tomorrow I will miss the laughter. The Remarkables of Queenstown will echo with the silence of Hami’s sweet laughter.

Two.

I can’t go on. Eloquence is useless at a time when my heart feels too broken. It’s too hard, too torturous.

Someone told me that God only gives the biggest fights to his strongest warriors. I think He may’ve misjudged me. I’m not sure I have the capacity endure this. Some days I think I think I’ve got it in me, I’m calm, hopeful and confident I’m walking this path the very best I can. Other days I want to give up. I feel alone, disheartened, broken. Forever broken.

How do you get past this level of pain? I’m not sure. But I will grasp onto my rainbow whenever darkness threatens to prevail. And I hope that if you are on this same torturous journey that you will hang on with me.

Thanks for listening.

Abyss

2013-01-06T08:35:00.002+10:00

Grief can be an abyss. A great, gaping chasm of emptiness, pain and suffering. Sometimes you flounder around in the darkness unable to get a foothold or handhold. It doesn't matter what small progress you make, you eventually slide back down to the bottom with broken fingernails full of dirt. It's cold and lonely and very dark at the bottom. It's easy to lose hope. Perhaps you'll always be there. Perhaps you'll die there.

The Great Chasm of grieving for a child sometimes feel like it has no depth or width. There is no time or space for it to begin and end. It is limitless and unquantifiable.

For the people who love you at the top, it may seem like you’ve been down there a long time. Shouldn’t you be making your way out by now? Shouldn’t you have at least made some headway? Surely there’s a ladder down there somewhere?

There is no ladder. There is no ‘right’ way. One day I’ll shimmy up the sides and feel the sun caress my face and the next I’ll curl up in the corner, exhausted from trying. Time will not heal but other grievers assure me, my brave Aunty Lyn one of them, that you won’t get over the abyss, but you’ll get through it. It will always be there. I’ll just get better at navigating it.

I’m sorry if this analogy is depressing. For me, it’s why the words ‘One Day at a Time’ are so powerful. If I look at the potential length of my life and the amount of pain I will feel every day, it’s tempting to give up. But I can’t. I can’t give up for my family, my friends, myself and most of all, for Hamish. As incredible, amazing, wonderful as it would be to have him in my arms again. It’s not my time. I’m not sure why? Perhaps I have a plan, a higher purpose I have to fulfil. Perhaps my purpose is simple: learn to climb out of the Great Chasm of Grief. It may be that simple, but I suspect it’s not.

I miss Hamish. I miss him desperately. His laugh, his ever-shining light. It’s like someone blew out the candle in my life. I said as much to my husband yesterday, who looked back at me with heart-broken eyes and said, “you will always miss him”.

Yesterday we drove 2 hours away to my grandparents farm to celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary. Yes, 60 years! A phenomenal amount of time to live, let alone spend it with one person. My grandparents are incredible people. Hard-working, honest, giving, loving people. They only see good in their family. They love unconditionally and they give all they have. I looked at them and realised they live their lives as they should. No pretences, no fuss. Simply and honestly. I can learn a lot from them as I’m sure many could. They need each other and very little else. We couldn’t stay long as grief tires us easily but we gave our love and left.

It makes me look at the stuff that surrounds me and realise I don’t need so much of it. I need to de-clutter, simplify. The problem is I look at the mountain of toys in the corner of the living room and think how can I give away the ones Hamish touched? The ones that made him smile? Should I? Could I? I look at interior design magazines and pine for the minimalist spaces where things are simple, functional. There’s so much room to breathe. But there’s so much love in the stuff in our house. They invoke memories and nostalgia.

I feel the same way about my house. It was Hami’s only home. It made him very happy. I ‘see’ him giggling down the hallway. I ‘see’ him chasing his brother around the kitchen. I ‘see’ his little face popping up beside me in bed. But I also see the horror, the tragedy, the nightmare. It’s a double-edged sword living here.

Today, the rain is relentless and I like it. The sky is soaking the ground with its tears. It’s been too hot and sunny of late. It feels wrong to see the sky dazzle on the hard days. Today I won’t try and scramble out of my abyss. It feels warm and necessary today. Maybe I’ll climb out tomorrow.

Thanks for listening.

Peace

2012-12-31T21:09:00.001+10:00

Peace is a dream on the horizon. It's elusive and mostly unachievable but occasionally, it's filmy silhouette caresses my fingertips. It gives me hope that I will not always feel turmoil, horror, blackness. It dips and rises and gently hovers above me before dissolving into the atmosphere.

Hami loved the beach

Today I touched it. I know what it feels like and I hope to feel it again and I found it in the most unlikely place. In water.

My beautiful baby boy died because of water. Even writing the word 'water' fills me with horror, dread and pain. Quicksand camouflaged as icy blueness. As much as I'd like to, I can not escape it. As the mercury arches over 30 degrees most days, my children beg to swim in my sister's pool (ours is off-limits). How can I refuse the joy it gives them to splash and play with their cousins? For a few weeks now I've been forced to watch them play in the pool. I still glare at it through narrow eyes but I allow my children to revel in its relief. My kids don't blame the water for taking Hami away, they blame the gate for not doing its job. I blame myself, my husband blames himself. Blame, guilt, regret. Nasty, soul-destroying feelings. But the water played a part in the horrific nightmare that never ends.

Me in water? A completely different matter. Even on days when the temperature touches 40 degrees I swelter, revelling in the uncomfortable feeling it provides. How can I consider it? How can I find relief in the very substance that took my son away? Some days I even have difficulty living when my son is not.

I did it.

Yesterday I took a step. Actually it was a massive leap. I awoke at 4.50am and my sister and I drove to the beach to meet up with a group of runners for a gentle 7 km jog. Nourishing food for a starving soul. But even in the early hours of the morning, the humidity sapped our energy and as we returned to the main beach all of the members of our group took off their running shoes and entered the sea. I didn't second guess myself. I didn't think about the implications. I just did it. I allowed the gentle waves to crash at my back and pull at my hair. The power of what I was doing didn't escape me for a single second. I kept my head skyward as if to show my son. "Look Hami! Look what mummy is doing. Are you proud of me my darling?" I wanted to shout. I tried to keep the terrible negative thoughts from entering my mind and I mostly succeeded.

I wanted to hate the sea. I wanted to curse it's refreshing saltiness, but I only emerged feeling slightly more healed than I did when I entered it. I don't want to give the water credit for its restorative qualities, but in a small way it licked my gaping wounds. They will never be healed, it's pink rawness ever-present, but there is something about embracing nature, hope and life that forces you to see it's beauty. I needed to be reminded that my life is not over, as I think/want it to be most days. It can be renewed. It can be renewed in the most unlikely of places.

It is now just a few hours away from midnight. My daughter doesn't understand why we aren't celebrating New Year's Eve as we do most years. "Daddy and I don't feel like celebrating," I explained. "But New Year's Eve is meant to be celebrated," she said. "Not this year, I'm sorry" I replied. I feel very little for it. It is a not a chance for new beginnings. It is not a blank page in a new book. The slate cannot be wiped clean. Hamish is my past, my present, my future. He is my forever. A new calendar year means nothing to me except I'm another day closer to being reunited to my sweet, beautiful angel.

However, I do have goals for the next year and the year after (call them resolutions if you will):

1. To write a book for Hamish
2. To ensure my children feel loved and treasured every day
3. To honour Hamish every day
4. To tell my husband I love him every day
5. To nourish my body and soul
6. To be a good friend
7. To live a meaningful life
8. To feel self-worth
9. To live more simply
10. To feel gratefulness

It's ambitious to be sure, particularly for a woman unable to make plans for tomorrow. Achievable? I hope so.

Whatever, your dreams, goals, aspirations are for 2013, I wish you all the very best.

Thank you for listening this year. I'm lucky to have found such understanding and support.

Love,

Christmas

2012-12-27T08:04:00.001+10:00

The perfect gift from my husband

26th December, 2012

Christmas has swept over us and failed to flatten us like a devastating tsunami as I (and everyone else) expected it might. As the sun rose over the horizon Christmas Day, the absence of one set of footsteps, one excited giggle and the toddler tearing of paper was glaringly obvious. It was powerful and heart-sinking, but we focused on our three earthly children, watching them squeal with delight over their little gifts before showing them their big present: a springfree trampoline. There was something cathartic about watching them bounce, squeal and laugh as they bounded higher and higher in the air.

One of my favourite memories is of Little F and Hamish playing on the springfree trampolines at my daughters' school. Once the girls were safely ensconsed in their classes, I would allow Little F and Hami a quick bounce before heading off to the park or FitKids or wherever we were off to next. Little F was physically co-ordinated enough to bounce but Hami would run around in circles laughing hysterically at his brother's bounding. He would giggle and laugh before coming over to me to kiss me through the trampoline safety net, "MWAH!" we would say as we touched lips through the net. Hami loved this game and we would do it at least 20 times before I would be forced to playfully chase them off the trampoline. My heart aches at the memory. I can't imagine a happier time in my life.

Therefore, it was so easy to create in my mind Hami's reaction to this present. He would've loved it and I pressed my lips against the net to imagine what it would be like to feel his lips on the other side. The only thing stopping me from collapsing in a wretched heap was the thought that Hami had witnessed this gift and was laughing at his siblings bouncing around playfully from behind the spiritual veil.

Christmas Day - looking and feeling strange

And then I slept...

I am not surprised. The pain of this day without my beloved baby was too much for my body to bear, so it took respite in the only place it could. The rest of my family quietly played with their new toys and waited for me to wake so we could all go to my sister's house for the next round of Christmas Day. The thrills continued for my children throughout the day as they ate, swam and opened presents from their grandparents and cousins. They truly had a great day. I managed lunch and presents but once again succumbed to sleep after eating. I once again sought solitude and settled in with a new book from my sister entitled, 'Proof of Heaven' by Ebel Alexander, MD. In this book Dr Alexander, a Neurosurgeon, documents his own Near Death Experience. I am becoming a prolific reader on books on afterlife - Christian, Buddhist, Spiritual - in a hope that I may better understand what my angel baby is part of. I completely understand if this sounds a little crazy or desperate, it probably is. But I will never cease being Hamish's mother. I need to know that my son is loved, looked after and happy. I'm not sure I can survive otherwise. As a Christian, my faith should be enough to sustain this picture for me, but unfortunately I need more. I need details, experiences, perceptions, proof. I need to 'know' my baby is in the most beautiful place enveloped in God.

It's the mechanics of Heaven I'm keen to learn. Does God allow Hamish to come and visit us from time to time? I swear I 'feel' him with me sometimes. Can he flit between two worlds? I know I'm thinking about this all with very limited human perceptions. I know I should just let go of my need for details and put all of my faith in God and trust that Hamish is safe, loved and forever at peace. I know I've certainly come a long way on my own spiritual path, but as it winds off into the distance, I know have a long way to go.

On the other hand, I am not at peace. I struggle every day to keep the feelings of profound loss, sorrow, guilt, remorse and pain at bay. It usually bubbles over at night when fatigue sets in and I no longer have the energy to keep the cork in the emotional bottle. Love keeps me alive and I hope eventually it will guide me to peace.

On Boxing Day, I kept his sweet face in my mind from dawn until dusk and as darkness descended, I lit a candle in hope that he knew that his mother had not forgotten. I felt desperate today but unsure of who to turn to, I slept again, this time not so peacefully. I had terrible nightmares of being chased by a mass murderer, machete at the ready. I could feel the point of his weapon against the back of my neck but I decided to fight back with a light sabre (no I'm not a Star Wars fan). There is probably some perfectly reasonable explanation for such a dream, but I was too upset to interpret it when I woke crying.

I have lifted myself from the depths of despair (writing this post has helped once again) and I am calm and ready once again to rest my head on my pillow. Tonight I will pray for peace, a break from the painful grip grief has on my heart.

Tomorrow is a new day and as the sun rises from the horizon I will face it with all the strength I have.

so let us make our music and dream our dreams, for without imagination the sun would not rise nor the stars twinkle. and without creation and destruction there would be no ripples in a pond. there is meaning in every leaf, so come look for it with me. Arthur O'Shaughnessy

Thanks for listening,

Fly away

2012-12-24T14:55:00.003+10:00

Friday 21st December

I’m standing at the window of my hotel, in awe of the bulging, bustling city streets and I suddenly realise how bizarre it is that I’ve come to the city for solitude. For the first time since my son left the earth, I have left home and I’m spending it alone, in a strange hotel in a vaguely familiar city. I can’t tell you why I made the decision to fly away for the night. How can I possibly rest in comfort nestled in strange sheets with an unfamiliar scent? But I felt like I needed to and I’m trusting my sharpening instincts a lot more than I used to.

I think I came here to write. To test my familiar emotions in an unfamiliar place. My bedroom has become my haven, so much so that I’ve almost been frightened to tip-toe outside. But like every obstacle that I’ve hit in the his gut-wrenching journey, I’m facing it. I’m staring it down with wolfish yellow eyes, daring it to knock me down. So far I’m doing OK. No break-downs. No destructive thoughts. Just solitude. A comforting cocoon of solitude. Will I emerge and flutter my way through the throngs of shoppers below? I don't think so. It’s safe here and I can gather my scattered thoughts and just ‘be’. I can talk to Hamish without feeling self-conscious and I can write without feeling like I should be interacting with my kids.

I’m lucky to have my husband. He doesn't judge or try and predict my emotions and he accepts my 'needs' and accommodates them the very best he can. I can’t pretend we're always on the same grief time line. Some days I’m ‘together’ and he is ‘apart’. Some days I burst at the seams in the house and he wanders the garden feeling bewildered and alone. It’s a cruel and epic journey and I’m discovering no two people walk the same broken path. We trip and stumble at different times and occasionally our paths meet and we can lean on each other and catch our breath. Those are the times we live for because although we are engulfed in a cloud of love and support, only he and I know the true intensity of Hamish’s loss. We created our beautiful boy. We witnessed his true beauty in body and we could only watch in great despair as he took his last breath. We both cradled our darling and crumbled as the life left his sweet earthly body. Only we know the true extent of the massive black hole we are left with and the dangerous fragile world we are now to navigate without him.

That’s not to say the people willing us to live aren’t helping. They are. I write to understand the frightening depth of my feelings, but the love that emanates from my blog gives me breath and slows my galloping heart. Please, never underestimate the value of the words you give me. There no words that will bring back my son. If there were I would have found them, but knowing I’m not alone in loving and grieving my son, knowing that I have respite in the hearts and minds of people all over the world, wills me back to my laptop again and again.

Thank you. This blog, along with massive support from family and friends, has saved my life. It has resuscitated a woman who died with her son. She came back to life a different woman, irrevocably altered for better or worse, but she is here, breathing, living, loving. A part of her was unrecoverable; that's the part that will always be with Hamish.

I was reading a book to Little F a few nights ago. It was one of Hamish's favourites, "Where is the Green Sheep?" by Mem Fox. I imagined I was reading it to the two of them, one on each knee like we used to. We got the end where there is a picture of lots of different sheep in different situations. There are sheep in the sandpit, drinking tea, dancing, swimming, fishing and cycling to name a few. Little F and Miss M were having a great time identifying themselves and members of our family with the sheep. Miss M said, "the one on the bike is Daddy!" "Yeah!" responded Little F. He then pointed to the sandpit, "this one is me and Uncle Ben" he said. He then pointed to a sheep crying buckets of tears. "This one is Mummy crying for Hamish." I looked at him, willing my self to stay together. He then pointed to the sheep in the sky flying with angel wings. "And this one is Hamish!"

Yes it is my sweet, yes it is. My son is grieving and understanding in his sweet little three-year-old way and it gives me hope for all of us. We are all here loving, remembering, honouring, in our own age-appropriate ways.

I didn’t have the strength before to follow through on my dreams, my confidence withered by the demands of motherhood. I was so busy as the mum to four beautiful, bustling beings that I couldn't see the wood for the trees. Now, I'm determined to honour my son, to demonstrate to him on a daily basis that Mummy is braver than she thought, stronger than she believed, and loved more than she thought she ever deserved.

Thanks to Hamish, even in solitude, I am never alone.

Thank you for listening.

Creeping Christmas

2012-12-20T22:34:00.002+10:00

As Christmas creeps closer, my heart is pounding with the pressure. Isn't it unfortunate that Christmas isn't just a day to celebrate the birth of Jesus and be with the people you love? It's a whole 'thing'. If you manage to escape the mania of it, please tell me how? No matter how hard I try to hide from it, it looms over me at every available opportunity.

Our children assembled and decorated the tree

After 8 days of avoiding the supermarket, our fridge was bare. I had to face it. At this point, one of my best friends usually talks to me about the virtues of online shopping. I know it's there and I've used it in the past, but it requires organisational skills that I don't have any right now. It's not until we are out of milk, cheese, bread, fruit and cereal that I'll say, "Oh, I think I may need to go food shopping." That's about all my head can manage right now. It's part of the mantra I'm living right now, 'one day at a time'.

I had the option of going to the supermarket sans kids, but I decided to take my three-year-old boy. He's excellent company and distracts me from other trolleys with cheeky toddlers of Hami's age riding in them. He helps me past the baby section with his cheeky chat and distracts me from the emptiness I feel as I mindlessly snatch items from the shelf, trying not to think of what Hamish would've preferred.

The only downside of taking Little F grocery shopping is he's really into Christmas this year and gets crazy excited at the sight of any Christmas paraphernalia. He is now aware of Father Christmas and is overwhelmed at the idea he'll come into our house on Christmas Eve and leave a present under our tree. "But Mummy we don't have chimneys!" he cried in despair the other day. Fortunately, my friend Suz gave us a special Santa key. "It's magic," I said. "Santa can open our door with the magic key," I assured him. He instantly relaxed but the excitement is still threatening to bubble over. "No more sleeps mummy?" he asks hopefully every morning. "Just four more," I answer, my heart sinking. "Four more".

One particularly tiring shopping trip.

Four more sleeps to the morning when three excited children discover gifts under the tree, minus one happy toddler. Four more sleeps to a family Christmas lunch where a table laden with food is awaiting minus one cheeky food thrower. Four more sleeps to the quiet of his cheeky giggles; the absence of his beautiful face; the silent patter of his tiny feet.

The math doesn't add up. Will it ever balance? I seriously doubt it. Our family will always be in debt, in the red, in deficit.

Somehow, through the joy of our other three kids, we will get through another day without our beautiful boy. Because really it's just like every day. It's hard, it hurts and I have to bludgeon through it like I'm tangled in a dark forest, searching for a way out. It takes strength, it takes courage, it takes conviction. The conviction that I am meant to be here, living, breathing and loving for my son.

Some days, I catch a glimpse of sunlight, some days I don't. But I am here, I am standing and I refuse to be stuck in the swamp of Christmas.

I've considered going to the cemetary to say Happy Christmas to my baby but I've decided it will dramatically ruin me. So on Christmas night, I will sit and watch the stars, search for the brightest and pray it gives me the strength to live another day without my love...

...and I will whisper, "It's all for you."

Thanks for listening.

There he is...my stunning boy. Love you. x