What to do when there's nothing left to do?

A little while I ago I wrote about some of the reasons why I write here, as I was thinking about approaching my 200th post written in memory of Max. I have reached the magical number. I've exceeded it. And I don't seem to have any desire to slow down with the writing, to wind it back in order to focus on other things. I still need this place. I think I will always need it. It gives me something tangible on which to capture thoughts and feelings of my little boy that I would not otherwise have.

I've heard other grieving mothers talking about the way they 'mother' their lost babies; how the desire to still do things for them is so very strong. There aren't very many ways that we can do this. Those of us whose babies are now ashes don't have a grave to tend, and there's only so much tending of a static underground space you can do, even if you've got one, I guess. As the months pass the list of 'administrative' tasks that we must take care of dwindles. The birth is registered. The death is too. The thank you cards are written. The memory box is created. The photos are framed. The flowers are planted. The question of what else there is left to do is a very distressing one, when you realise that the answer is 'not much'. And so, many of us write. We can't cuddle, or bathe, or dress, our babies, but we can write to them and for them, and in honour of them.

Yesterday, my dearest of dear friends, Kate, came with me to take Max's cremation urn to the funeral home to be filled with his ashes. This is my last job; the last thing on my list of things to do for Max. There's probably a reason it's taken us seven months to get to this point. Partly it's because we are perfectionist procrastinators and no urn would do, and no time seemed like the right time for doing. Partly, though, I was hesitant to have my list completed. If the last thing is done, what the hell do I do with my life then? What do I think about? What do I plan for? Because it's sure as hell none of the things I want to be thinking about or planning for. I want to be here on the couch with my little baby. I want to be taking him for walks in his pram, which is gathering dust in the cupboard, and which I cannot bear to look at. It stinks of potential. It stinks of waste. It's never been used and yet I want to throw it away. I wouldn't mind kicking it a bit, either. I don't care that it cost $500. It makes me feel sick, that pram. It makes me feel sick.

Anyway, back in that post I mentioned, when this blog was still the private domain of a few close family and friends, I asked those who were reading to contribute something small to this special place to tell me what it meant to them, or what they found here, or what Max meant to them. Kate wrote me a very beautiful letter, which made me cry. That's not unusual as I am the type of person who cries at the drop of a hat at the best of times, let alone at the worst. I am very proud to share it with you. I am very proud to have Kate as part of my family, for she is more than a friend. She is one of the only people on earth who can bear witness to Max's life. She was there when he was born. She saw him in all of his beauty and grace. And she has been there for me since, in every way.

Thank you, Kate, for delving into your heart and digging out these gems, which I will treasure forever. I love you so much.