Our new special jewellery

For over twelve months now I have been looking far and wide for a piece of jewellery to wear in memory of Max. I was very fortunate to receive a few keepsake gifts bearing Max's name and his initials from friends after he died but I also wanted to choose something special that I could wear every day as a quiet reminder that he is always with me.

I began wanting a locket but could not find the perfect one. Then I wanted an amber pendant, but you guessed it, I could not find the perfect one. I have been fighting a losing battle to find a piece of jewellery special enough to represent everything Max was, and is, to me. I think I was silly to try as there is not an object on earth that could possibly signify such love, such pride, and such sadness.

Leslie had been wanting to get a necklace he could wear too. Then one day recently he came up with the idea of wanting a rabbit pendant - the rabbit being the Chinese zodiac sign under which Max was born. Immediately it seemed like the most wonderful idea. I wanted something that had special significance to us but that would not necessarily be immediately obvious to anyone else. The rabbit would be perfect.

I spent ages on Etsy and other websites looking for a suitable pendant but all those I found seemed a little too cartoon-like or were just made out of cheap materials. Then yesterday I decided to go and spend some of the gift cards I received at Christmas and I must have been in a wandering mood. I stumbled into a Pandora store and found the rabbit that I wanted. I've never been in that store as I thought I hated those silly charm bracelets with all the bits hanging off them, but it turns out that when you wear the bracelet with just one or two charms connected it in fact looks very simple and sweet, just what I like. I snapped it up and ran home to tell Leslie that he should go back to see if he wanted to get the same one. He did, and ended up getting the little rabbit to wear on a leather strap necklace.

When this baby girl is born I will add something that represents her, too, and I may add an 'M' for Max also. I had trouble taking pictures of the bracelet as it showed up terribly in all of my shots, so here is a picture of it from the internet, and the silver Pandora bracelet it is attached to you have probably seen before.

 

We will wear our jewellery for our own sweet bunny rabbit, our darling Max, and strive always to find new ways to remember and honour him.

Mummy and daddy love you, Max - always and forever.

Christmas without Max

I kept thinking that this Christmas would be our first without Max, but of course it wasn't. Christmas came exactly a month after he left us, festive cheer hurtling towards it when we were least equipped to deal with it. I remember thinking it seemed like cruel timing having to face family events and other people's happy children at a time when we were still struggling to draw breath. Due to some incredible thoughtlessness on behalf of Leslie's family, who had all made plans that did not involve us, we found ourselves facing Christmas day alone, bereaved, with only boxes full of a dead baby's clothes for company. Thankfully it didn't come to that. My dearest Kate and her amazing family came to the rescue with a wonderfully pleasant lunch invitation that we accepted, almost desperately. Though we were quiet, withdrawn and sad, we managed to make an acceptable, if not enjoyable, day out of it with wonderful company, none of whom expected anything of us except to sit, eat and drink, which was about all we were capable of.

This Christmas we had planned to fly to Hobart to spend it with my mum and my family, which we had not done for the last two years. We booked Leslie's dad to come and feed the kitties (it's impossible to get them into a cattery at this time of year), rolled our way out of bed at 5am on Christmas Eve and made our way to the airport, even though part of me felt like we'd be better off spending it alone where we did not have to pretend to be happy. I'm glad we didn't though. We had a peaceful, easy day with my small family and the excitement of all the small children present (my family has a lot of toddlers) didn't seem to sting as much as I had expected it might. My skin is tougher these days - so much tougher, like Teflon, where things don't stick as much as they might once have done.

Max was in our thoughts at many times throughout the day, but perhaps most of all on Christmas Eve for some reason. We both missed him. We just missed him so much. It wasn't so much of a distressing emotion - I didn't sob or break down - but it was just there, hanging heavily within us where we suspect it will always be. So many of my thoughts were also with the families of other missing babies I have come to know over this past year. I wondered how they were getting through the day and what rituals they'd stumbled upon to make their little darlings a part of the life that has gone on without them.

We were very touched that my mum made a special effort to make sure Max was included in our Christmas traditions. She had two special baubles made with his name on them, one for our tree at home, and one for her tree, which we just loved. And when I was strolling at the shops one day recently I found another little bear decoration with Max's name on it that I could not resist. Both of them have come to mean so much to us and we will always make sure to make a special occasion out of putting them on the tree in years to come. We hope that next year Max's baby sister will be able to help us with her chubby baby hands.

Speaking of baby sister, she was also not forgotten on Christmas day. She had her own presents under the tree from her very excited Nanna. She got so many things that both Leslie and I were secretly fearful that there might be nothing for us under the tree next year and instead a million presents with her name on them! I hoped....you know what, I might have even prayed that we'd have this baby with us next Christmas.

The Christmas season has fallen at a very vulnerable time of my pregnancy, with the terrifying 23 week mark just a few ticks of the new year clock away. My fear of this baby dying is, I would say, quite extreme at this moment and I know I won't see myself clear of it until she reaches the point of viability, probably not even then. How many ways can I compel her to stay in there? I've been tempted to grab a needle and thread and conduct my own cervical suture procedure so she couldn't get out no matter how hard she tried. I'm struggling to sit with this 'wait and see' approach that the preterm labour clinic are taking. They won't provide any preventative treatment or intervention unless they see evidence of the cervix shortening. I'm not quite that trusting. I want all of the interventions. It still feels like they're taking chances I'm desperately uncomfortable taking. But I have to trust them. That's what everyone keeps telling me. But that kind of trust is hard to cultivate let alone maintain alongside this level of terror.

Leslie has two weeks home from work and we plan to do some things around the house and take the time to enjoy each other's company. I'm feeling well right now, really well, I just wish I could shake the feeling that my world is only a breath away from crashing down around me.

Hope project

My mum has been busily conducting her own little 'hope' project over the last few weeks. She's a very talented seamstress, crafter and general clever-dick, and she has been knitting the most gorgeous outfits for our little baby as a way of holding onto hope that she will arrive safely enough to wear them. When you're too petrified to hope for yourself it is so nice when others are able to take over and do the hoping on your behalf. I know a lot of people are hoping for us right now. If you are one of them, can I just say that we are so grateful.

These little clothes are too adorable not to post bragging photos of, so here are some pictures of what we hope to be able to dress our little daughter in when she arrives.

On sharing

I sent Christmas cards far and wide this week. In them, I thanked people for whatever kindnesses they had sent our way during the last harrowing year. I took the opportunity to announce my pregnancy to a number of people who had fallen by the wayside - acquaintances, really, that were almost friends, but who faded into the distance as I withdrew out of their lives and into myself these past months.

I didn't want to share the news for my sake, for the hearty congratulations. The fact that I've left it 20 weeks without even mentioning my pregnancy to some people illustrates how cautious I feel about sharing the news with anyone whose heart I don't implicitly know. But this baby, like her big brother Max, deserves to be known and celebrated, no matter what happens from here. If she dies, she deserves to be mourned. I know that must sound morbid to some of you, but that's just how it is - I plan for my daughter's death as much as I plan for her birth, for that's all I know. My entire experience of motherhood is one where birth and death share the same unforgettable moment. And all the while I hope to god she can't translate my thoughts for I've become so superstitious and I don't want her to even know that death is an option for her. If I think it does she know it? If so, how on earth do I stop thinking it when it feels like such a real possibility? I don't dare to even mention the fact that it's possible for a baby to be born too soon in case she's listening. Don't get any ideas, baby. You have to stay there whether you like it or not.

In response to my Christmas cards came a couple of text messages of appreciation and well wishes. Of course I don't object to the congratulations - to people's genuine displays of hope and happiness for us. I want all of those things for us and our baby. What I don't want are the empty promises and thoughtless platitudes that accompany my admissions of doubt and fear. 'We are hopeful, but cautiously so...' was the sentiment I expressed in the cards, meaning that we are very aware that we are not guaranteed a living baby at the end of this. What I received in return was a couple of 'I understand your apprehension but you have to think positively and trust that all will be well this time!' That particular chestnut was from someone who welcomed their own first baby into the world this year, who is currently enjoying the fruits of 'normal' motherhood.

Deep breath.

Do I? DO I? How can anyone ask me to trust that anything will ever be 'well' again after my darling baby boy was so quickly, so cruelly snatched from his mother's grasp? Am I supposed to just forget the fact that it ever happened? To endure this pregnancy without any apprehension would be akin to a pathological fantasy, and though I would love to be able to tell myself that lightning doesn't strike twice or that the universe will right the scales by providing me with some balancing good fortune, the reality of my situation is that no one, not even the foremost experts in the field of maternal/fetal medicine, can promise me, or will even dare to hint, that it won't, that it can't. 'We don't have a crystal ball'. That's what they say. So what's with the lay people's rainbows and sunbeams? How do they know? They don't understand my apprehension. They don't understand it at all.

It's been months since I've felt this call to anger. This is mostly because month by painful month I've shed myself of contact with those who proved themselves unable to sit with my pain and uncertainty and surrounded myself with only those who were willing to accept and abide with me through that hopelessness. Those people can whisper into my ear 'it's OK to hope' or 'there's a good chance everything will be OK this time'. Those people can have happy conversations with me about the things we will do when this little girl comes home with us in May. They've earned that right. They wouldn't suggest that positive thinking would have any bearing on the outcome of this pregnancy. Why? Because it's bloody mad to think so, that's why. If I found a copy of The Secret on their bedside table I'd hit them over the head with it and hope they'd thank me for it later. What I think has nothing to do with it. If Max taught us anything it was that we know nothing at all of anything.

But what do you do with the well-meaning acquaintances, family members, colleagues and strangers who spout the bullshit and impose on you the power of crystals or positive affirmations to change your fate? You know they're just trying to make you feel better, but how do you make them understand that it's not their job, that it's not what you want from them? How do you tell them that such sentiments sting and make it seem like what you are feeling is not 'correct' or 'right'? How do you balance wanting the world to know about your growing little baby and not wanting them to have anything to do with it at all?

I suppose, like all of this, I grin and bear it. I respond where I can. I vent when I can't. I breathe. I wish. I hope, bit by bit, day by day.

A moment of unreserved joy

The week before Christmas has brought us tidings of great joy, so to speak, with the milestone of our 20 week ultrasound finally arriving. I was so nervous for this scan, hyper-vigilant that something terrible would be revealed. The truth is, I wait for something terrible to be revealed every day of this pregnancy, but on that day, like the few that have passed since, nothing terrible came to pass and instead Leslie and I were relieved and ecstatic to find that our little baby is doing extremely well in there, growing strong and kicking all the expected developmental goals.

The TWO HOURS we spent in the waiting room beforehand were rather anxiety-inducing and we became more and more stressed and irritable wondering how on earth the system could be so disorganised. While we waited I was asked to participate in a research project aimed at predicting pre-eclampsia, so getting blood taken and everything associated with that kept us occupied for about half an hour of that time, and made me feel a bit better from the knowledge that I was helping them stop terrible things from happening to other people.

I don't think I saw much of the baby on the monitor during the scan. I was too busy carefully watching the doctor's face as she measured thigh bones and zoomed into brain sections and highlighted blood flow in and around our baby's heart. She was a really nice doctor, but she so happened to have a face that looked concerned when she was concentrating. She kept frowning and screwing up her face and looking closer at the screen without saying anything, and every time she did I stopped breathing, terrified of what she might have been seeing. I think she was just being very thorough, which is good, but I wish she could have been so with a relaxed smile on her face, which would have put me much more at ease!

Our baby was lying with its little hands crossed one over the other and posed perfectly for all the pictures. I have been feeling lots and lots of movement over the last week and the scan confirmed that our baby is a squirmy one that likes to dance around and make the most of all the space it is currently enjoying.

The scan this week took the place of my usual pre-term labour clinic appointment, and so I was subject to yet another transvaginal ultrasound to check the length of my cervix, which is, thankfully, still very long and closed. That's the way it has to stay during these crucial next few weeks and I desperately wish they'd intervene and stitch it or staple it shut, or put me in traction upside down so the baby can't possibly come out. I know a lot more about the old cervix than I did before, but I still don't trust it. I just hope that this constant surveillance is enough to deter it from making any premature moves.

Our annoyance about being kept waiting for so long soon dissipated as we became increasingly intoxicated by the little tidbits of good news the doctor sent our way. Cleft palate? No. Excellent! Cerebellum present and accounted for? Yippee!

Hands in front of face - not a very clear picture, baby!

We were in two minds about finding out the sex of the baby, well, at least I was. Leslie was pretty keen to find out, and I was too, it's just that I was afraid. I had assumed the baby was a boy all throughout the pregnancy so far. It felt right to be having another son, as that's what I had gotten used to, but I also worried I would be upset if it were a boy. I think I was scared I would start to think this baby was Max returned to me if it were another boy; that it would look exactly like him, be exactly like him. I don't know, it's hard to explain. Apart from those fears, the sex of the baby of course didn't matter to us in the way it seemed to matter to me with Max's pregnancy. It's funny how after you've lost a child all the things you once thought you would have wished for your baby get boiled down into a single, ever-repeating phrase: I just want a baby that's alive. You hope that by saying it enough it might just, possibly, in your wildest dreams, come true.

I just kept thinking how I want this baby, this beautiful, healthy, perfect, longed-for baby to live and to thrive, and to come home with us in good working order. That is my Christmas wish, my wish in a fountain or on a star, my prayer to the gods and heavens (all of them) and even Santa Claus if he got my letter. Hell, I'll wish on anything these days.

In the end we did find out the sex. I decided that we deserved the opportunity to have something tangible to celebrate in this pregnancy which is filled with so much uncertainty and fear. I wanted to have a day of celebration. I wanted to be able to start thinking about this baby as a real person without being afraid I would jinx the whole thing. I want the chance to do what normal pregnant women do - decorate a nursery, buy little toys and books, knit clothes and pick out names. And so, we asked the doctor to secretly write down the sex on a piece of paper that we could look at afterwards in a private moment. Neither of us wanted it blurted out in the room where we couldn't respond in the way we wanted to. After the scan was finished we hurried down to the cafe in the foyer, sat down, and set about opening up the CD case where she'd written on the back of the ultrasound photo. Butterflies were simmering in our stomachs and we decided to count to three before quickly flipping it over. I almost couldn't bare to look. Then, I glanced down, and next to a smiley face drawn in black biro was our revelation, and on reading it our hearts stopped:

We were suddenly having a baby girl...a little daughter...a sister for Max...to love and treasure. And we felt so joyous, so light, and so hopeful that for a little while that day everything else seemed to melt away. What a beautiful, joyous Christmas gift we've been given, and we felt that our darling Max was right there with us.

And so, a healthy baby girl to nurture and grow for what I hope will be the next 20 weeks. We are so delighted to share such a happy piece of news with all of our families and friends.

Sharing my experience of neonatal death

Last Wednesday I was asked by Anne from SANDS to accompany her to a midwifery professional development day at The Women's to speak about my experience as a newly (well, fairly newly) bereaved mother. A group of midwives were participating in a whole-day series of seminars about perinatal loss and were keen to hear from someone who had been there - someone who might be able to talk about the things midwives did that helped and the things they might be able to do differently in the future.

I jumped at the opportunity to speak. I was so heartened that they were intent on finding ways to improve their practices for bereaved parents and that this was considered by the hospital to be a valuable pursuit. Of course I was also very glad of the opportunity to talk about Max and to be recognised as his mother, something which happens less and less the further away from his birth and death I get.

It was much harder than I anticipated to come up with things to say. Lately I've had trouble finding the words to express anything much. I've noticed myself becoming quite insular as this pregnancy progresses, my worries and fears too big and unwieldy to even attempt to give voice to. As a measure of protection for myself, I imagine, I've also found it hard to talk or write about Max or my experience without him. The memory of profound and searing pain seems too great to invoke when so much is at stake. I'm tiptoeing through the days trying to anaesthetise my brain so that it cannot go back and so that it cannot go forward. Both are scary places for me right now.

I was so proud of myself for being able to do this, though. It was for me another way I could give something back, or to create something valuable from Max's life. Though I was absolutely emotionally exhausted afterwards I was very glad I was there that day. My story was received with great respect and many of the midwives present were visibly moved by the description of my experience and by the few photos I showed of Max during his short life. I received quite a few sincere hugs afterwards and much genuine gratitude that I had been brave enough to share such a painful, intimate experience with yet another room of strangers.

Here is the talk I presented that day, in memory of Max, and in gratitude to the people who had helped him into the world, and who helped me afterwards.

****

On 24th November last year I gave birth to a beautiful, perfect baby bay, Max. He was a long-awaited first baby, but he would not be mine to keep. With no warning, I went into spontaneous preterm labour at 23 weeks, and Max was born weighing only 682 grams. He died in his daddy's arms when his heart finally stopped beating almost six hours later. Though his life was brief, his impact on our lives was profound and ongoing. A year on, Max is still very real to me. Sometimes I can still feel his feather-weight in my arms.

When I arrived at this hospital that day with back pain and cramping I had no inkling of what was about to unfold. I was not prepared with support people or even a change of clothes. I shared the very worst day of my life with a room full of strangers - obstetricians, midwives, neonatologists. Though the shock meant that so much of what happened that day is a blur, I remember vividly the small things some of those strangers did to help and support me. The things I remember most weren't grand gestures, but they will stay with me forever.

At only 23 weeks pregnant I was very unprepared for labour. I hadn't attended any antenatal classes yet and I could never have been adequately prepared for the fact that I would have to go through that process with the knowledge that all the pain would be for nothing, that my baby would die. The midwife who looked after me for the majority of the labour seemed to know exactly what to say and when to say it. She would say 'now this is going to happen' or 'now it's going to feel like this' and it really did. She never lied to me, but she also didn't overwhelm me. She told me not to be scared and I trusted her. She helped me feel like I had some measure of control over a situation in which I had no control. She made me feel as if I was not alone, and that meant so much. Having the same midwife for the majority of the labour was really important. I don't remember her leaving my side.

The midwives who cared for me sat with us after Max was born for what seemed like hours as we held him in our arms. They genuinely shared our sorrow and they expressed their regret and sadness openly. Those two midwives were the only people on earth who met our Max aside from the two of us and it has given me great comfort to know his life had meaning for them, too - that we're not the only ones who will carry his memory.

We were fortunate to have a midwife who was a talented photographer. As she sat with us that lonely night she took some beautiful, tender photos of us all together. I can't begin to tell you how deeply those photos are treasured, though of course there could never be enough photos. Those images were the greatest gift we could have been given.

Other mementos we were given, which are so valuable to us, are imprints of Max's footprints and the hospital ID tag he was wearing. We were given the sweetest outfit to dress him in. This helped to normalise our experience. At all times Max was treated as tenderly as a live baby - always with great respect. My partner was offered to cut the umbilical cord when Max was born, something else that recognised our role as 'real' parents of a 'real' baby.

The midwives' gentle encouragement and guidance was very important to me. I was in shock and looking for someone to tell me what to do and how to be. I needed someone to tell me what was OK and what was 'normal' as I didn't know the answers to any of the questions I was asked, such as whether I wanted to see Max and hold him after he was born. Or rather, I thought I would want those things but I didn't know if that was OK. Without being pushy the midwife made it seem like those would be normal things to do and I really needed that reassurance and direction.

Having spoken to other bereaved mothers over the last year, I feel very grateful for the compassionate care I received from all of the health professionals at the hospital, and for the protocols that enabled them to respond to our situation in such a careful manner. I was very sad to realise afterwards, though, that the reason the staff responded so well was because our baby was not the only one they'd seen die. It is absolutely heartbreaking to know that they'd done it all before, and have probably done it all since. Nevertheless, I was so grateful to benefit from that shared experience.

Of course over the past year I've also had a lot of time to think about the things I'd like to have happened differently, and while I have no specific complaints about experience, there are some things I have reflected on in hindsight that I'd like to highlight for, if God forbid, I had to go through this experience again.

I wish some of the questions I'd been asked were repeated a few times. As I was in shock, exhausted, and in a drugged haze, I don't think I took a lot of what was said in, or I didn't realise its significance at the time. For example, the midwife asked me if I wanted to bath Max shortly after he was born and for some reason I said no. I really wish someone had asked me again as I regret not having had that experience with him. I don't think I knew what I was saying or why I was saying it.

I wish someone had explained to me what death was like. My son's was the first dead body I'd seen, let alone touched. I couldn't have articulated it then but I was scared and ignorant of what would happen to his dear little body after he died. I thought he would disintegrate before my eyes, go horribly stiff and rigid, or start leaking blood out of his mouth or nose, and I know now that this fear contributed to me wanting to leave the hospital before any of these horrible things started happening to my poor little boy. I wish someone had demystified this for me as I regret feeling as if I had to go home and leave my baby the very next morning.

I wish someone had come to talk to me to discuss the very scary question of 'what now?' before we walked out of the hospital with empty arms. I wish they had made sure that I was really ready to go because in actual fact we just didn't know what to do except to go home. For example, it didn't occur to me that I would be allowed to invite family and friends in to meet Max even after he'd died. I also didn't think to change his clothes so I could keep something of what he had worn, what had touched his precious skin. When we left a new staff shift had just begun and a nurse I'd never seen before came to take Max away - the last time I ever saw him. No one told me exactly what would happen to my baby after we left the room and I didn't get to see where he'd be taken. Leaving him so abruptly was the most distressing moment of my life, far more distressing than the moment that I realised he had died. That I survived to tell you about it today still truly astonishes me.

I wish there were emergency packs of toiletries for women in my situation. After Max was born I just wanted to shower and wash my hair and clean my teeth, but no one could find me a toothbrush or a hairbrush. Those things sound silly now, but I'm sure they would have helped, if only momentarily.

Lastly, I wish I'd been told about some of the external organisations that could have offered their services to me whilst I was still in the hospital. Places like SIDS and Kids and SANDS have a lot of literature, especially about how to create memories with your baby while you still have the chance, but it's too late to find out about these things after you've already gone home. This kind of support is time specific and I wish the hospital had provided it to me earlier. Likewise, there are places like Bears of Hope that provide care packages for parents so they don't have to leave the hospital with empty arms like we did. I would also dearly loved to have known about Heartfelt, an organisation of volunteer photographers who could have come to take professional photos of our family while there was still time. We can't get those moments back so it is crucial for parents to know about these things straight away.

If I could end on perhaps what has been a very special moment I experienced from a wonderful member of your profession recently. At the moment I am 18 weeks pregnant with a little brother or sister for Max, which is a whole other anxious story. However my first hospital appointment with a midwife at 12 weeks, by stroke of fate, happened to be with one of the midwives who'd cared for me on the day Max was born. I can't tell you how much it meant to me that she remembered us, and because she'd seen us go through this experience she really understood the stress and fear that have consequently become a part of this pregnancy. I felt known and understood, and not having to tell my story from scratch to a stranger was about the best thing that's happened during my care for this pregnancy so far. She even offered, personally, to accompany me back to the birth suites where Max was born in the new year so that I can deal with some of the fear and trauma I might associate with the place before this baby is born.

These are the things that count. It is the small kindnesses and moments of true empathy and compassion that make a difference.

Thank you for making a difference to me; to dear little Max.

Just the beginning

The storm of emotions I've experienced since Max's birthday came and went has been truly exhausting. With my thoughts constantly oscillating between the present day and those early days one year ago I've felt in a bit of a dizzy tailspin, unable to stop whirring about in order to focus on anything or anyone much. I've been irritable and impatient with Leslie, which is out of character for me, and generally feeling all churned up. I can't seem to stick with one single emotion, either. There's been a resurgence of shock and disbelief, the beginnings of confusion as I wonder how on earth a whole year has passed in the blink of an eye, and the ongoing sense of loneliness and longing I have felt since Max died - that pervasive sense that perhaps nothing has any point, or at least any that I will ever be able to find again.

It was very special to have my mum here for the weekend of Max's birthday, and it touches my heart to know all the ways in which she, too, is incorporating her first grandchild into her life. Not normally one to express her emotions at all, she wrote the most beautiful, heartfelt poem to Max in a birthday card that I will treasure forever. She also gave us the most beautiful gift to help us remember Max each year on his birthday. It's a ceramic angel candle holder, with a space at the front to put a numbered candle. This year the number one sits proudly in the space, it's colourful dots lending an air of quiet celebration to an event that will always be so bittersweet for us.

My lovely, thoughtful friend Leah also gave me a very special gift, which meant more to me than she had anticipated. It is a little doll made from felt, wrapped in a little green cocoon. The thing is that as soon as I saw it, it reminded me so much of Max. This is exactly how he looked when he was born and wrapped in a little fleece pouch by the nurses. The likeness is uncanny. I was really taken aback that she had managed to find such a thing, and that so much meaning could be packed into one little package.

Max's very special aunty Kate, who was there when he as born, and her husband Mark, gave me a beautiful yellow rose plant - yellow being the colour of remembrance (we had everyone wear yellow ribbons in memory of Max at his funeral). I couldn't wait to get home and plant it and watch it grow, as I have the other rose plant we've been tending to in Max's honour.

My good friends Pauline and Katie also spoiled us all with various sweets and cakes they'd baked especially for the occasion. I know their goodies were very much appreciated and admired!

That Max was remembered and celebrated for the amazing little boy he was means the world to me. I received thoughtful text messages of support from a couple of people I have not been in touch with all year who still remembered that the date was a special one. That both surprised and heartened me. The most unlikely and unexpected people have made wondrous efforts to abide with us in our pain over the past year and as a result our friendships and relationships have grown and changed, as we have. Most have changed for the better - I've become closer with many people I might have previously considered acquaintances. On the flip side, sadly some friendships have faltered and been lost - something that seems to be an all-too-common phenomenon amongst bereaved parents.

The passing of a year feels like it should be the end of something, but of course it is just the beginning - the beginning of a lifetime without my baby boy, with each year that will pass a regretful refrain of what might have, what should have been.

To darling Max, from Nanna

Here is a beautiful poem my mum wrote for Max on his birthday - words we will treasure forever.

Today is your first birthday.
Today you should have been blowing out your candle on the cake we would have made for you (well we would have helped you blow out the candle).
Today we should have been singing happy birthday to you.
Today you should have been tearing at the paper on your presents.
Today you should have been squealing with excitement.
Today you should have been playing with your new toys.
Today you are not here to do these things, that I so looked forward to...
Today you will celebrate your birthday with your other family members who are taking care of you in your world.
Those that can't be here either, to celebrate your birthday with us.
Today you will be watching over us, as we give thanks for having you at all, even for a short time, a time better than no time at all.
Today you will look at your family from afar, smiling, knowing that you will always be in our hearts and in our thoughts and so very dearly loved.