The Son and Daughters Who Missed Christmas

It's been a strange couple of days without the boys.  I have appreciated the peace and quiet.  Relished the ability to keep the house tidy for more than a nanosecond before the floor is littered with lego/zoobs/magnetix and the air is filled with either shrieks or demands.  But I've missed them.

One of the mums I have recently started to become friends with, whose son is in Johnny Drama's class, met me for a mani/pedi and lunch on Saturday.  She is verging on 9 months pregnant with what I presumed to be her second child.  Turns out that's not the case, as I discovered while we chatted with our feet luxuriated in a soothing foot spa.  She gave birth prematurely to twin girls two years ago, in very similar circumstances to my own, both of whom died.

We shared our stories.  I asked about her daughters.  It was nice to be able to talk openly about my dead son with someone who totally understands.  Has stood in my shoes.  Had her world obliterated and yet despite all the odds is still standing.  Did not quite think she would ever again be able to perform the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other but now is nearing the light of a different tunnel, with a new baby.

She was on my mind ever since our lunch.  I couldn't shake the thoughts of the loss of her little girls out of my mind.  It hurt me to think of the pain that she has gone through - and of the deep abiding grief that she still feels.  I eventually wrote a short email.  I am never sure that this is the right thing to do, how my words will be received but luckily they struck the right chord and she replied a day later.

In part of her email she said the following, "you inspire me in so many ways - your ability to talk about Mack without crying and your ability to honour him within your family and with friends.  I am starting to get there but it still brings such heart ache that I struggle."

And I guess that this is predominantly the choice I have made - to try to find the good in the loss of my first child.  To remember the intense joy I felt - the immediate connection - as he was placed in my arms. To be grateful for having the chance to know him at all, however fleeting.  And yes, I will talk about him openly,  without any embarrassment or concern for whether or not it makes other people uneasy and uncomfortable.  Dead babies are not everyone's favourite topic of conversation (I have found this particularly true of the checkout staff at Wholefoods.  Just kidding).  But frankly I don't give a shit.

But that doesn't mean to say that the grief and longing for my son doesn't hit me with a sledgehammer on a regular basis.

What would I trade for just ONE day with my son, who would now be 7 years old?  An arm?  Most definitely.  A leg?  Yep, take your pick.  My brain?  Well, what's left of it.  My heart?  Oh, he has that already.

I would just love the opportunity to smell his hair.  And to look into his eyes.  And exchange a smile.  I would like an ordinary day.  Not Christmas or anything eventful, just a plain run-of-the-mill day with the usual squabbles and backchat and child-created chaos.  And those sudden unexpected moments of pure bliss - like when Johnny Drama paused before getting in the car this morning with his dad, then ran back to the front gate to shout, 'I love you Momma!  I love you so very much!'.

I want that.  I want him.  I want to be able to be Mum to him.  Oh how I still long to fulfill this very simple instinct that was created the moment he came into the world.  Will this longing ever go away?  I am just so curious as to 'who he is' and 'who he would become'.  My two living boys are so remarkably unique and individual and it is, predominantly, a total joy being privileged enough to be a part of their lives.  To play such an important role for them (assuming of course that I don't totally fuck it up).

And I wish more than anything - and day by day more than ever before - that I could do the same for him.  And the knowledge that I never will is sometimes the greatest loss of all.