200 Posts in Memory of Max: Kate's letter

Dear Janelley,

You are the best friend I have ever had. We have each spent a lifetime chasing imaginary or sometimes just impossible goals that we've set for ourselves. It comes as a shock when you realise you might just want a baby; something people have been doing for millions of years and something you can do in your teens without a degree or HECS debt or a house or a car or a partner or a trip to Europe or a career. Something other people want and seem to receive easily. Having a baby? Illiterate crack addicts do it every day. It can't be so hard. But what happens if the worst thing that can happen is something beyond your experience, beyond even your imagination. What happens if your baby dies? What does it mean? Who is to blame? What do you do?

Well if you're you (and luckily you absolutely are) you follow the truth of what you feel when you feel it. If you feel sad, you cry, if you feel happy (even for a split second) you laugh. If you feel upset, you say so, if you feel angry you take up yoga (OK I made that one up). Because you feel so strongly and so sincerely, you feel compelled to write, to challenge, to speak the truth. It hasn't been an easy path, there are not many people who are like you (I know this or we would hang out with them too!) and it can be confronting for people when much of our lives can very easily be lived without any authenticity. It's easy and I have done it, to drift along in life, to live pay cheque to pay cheque, to go out drinking, to think about new shoes for long periods of time, to focus on the trivial because the truth is too much. You don't have this choice; it's missing from your DNA, and probably for a very good reason - because the world needs it. I need it. Leslie needs it and Max needs it.

It's not like 200,000 words magically appeared on your blog, you put them there. Each and every one. Your truth as it was at that exact moment in time. And that's probably only a fraction of the words that were swimming around in your brain. There are no words that will ever make it OK that Max died. There are however words inside you that will help, words that will heal, that will inspire, that will mean something to you and to other people who find themselves wanting or having to read them. No one would have wished this in you or on anyone else; I'm not saying that Max's death has made you more of a writer, because you were already a writer. What this tragedy has done is make you fierce. It has made you, like all mothers fiercely protective of your children, and I know that you will remain that way forever. While there is nothing you can do to bring Max back, I think what you are doing and should continue to do is be truthful with yourself and the world about Max. If it's too confronting for people or they think they can have an opinion about how you feel or should behave then they can just fuck off.

Every good piece of writing should end with profanity, don't you think?

All my love and continued admiration.

Kate xx

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.

Thinking about 200 posts

I am soon to write my 200th blog post, here, on The Beginning of All Things. This, in itself, is cause for reflection. Many of my posts have well over a thousand words inside them. In fact, it is probably a conservative estimate to suggest that I have written 200,000 words here over the last six months. Who knew that there was so much to say about death? About grief? About longing? Six months ago my vocabulary of loss was almost non-existent. Now, I talk about loss as if it is all life has to offer. I've found a thousand synonymous ways to talk about death, and I'm still constantly finding new perspectives from which to look at life's endings.

Some may believe that this morbidity is a character flaw - that I should lighten up and start to see the positives in life instead of wallowing in grief. For example, perhaps I should be thankful that there's nothing physically wrong with me that would suggest we cannot try for another baby. To be relieved that I am not caring for a severely disabled child, as Max could have been had he lived. To be grateful that I don't have the financial pressures to return to full time work before I am ready. Of course, I'm aware of all of those smal mercies. I'm thankful always for Leslie, my house, my cat, my family, my friends. But don't you dare, stranger or acquaintance, or sometimes even friend, point me in the direction of positive things, implying that I should thank my lucky stars my tragedy was not worse. You have no right. No right at all, unless you have also had 100% of your children snatched away from you after they were born, unless you've had them lying lifeless in your arms. Some people have lost all of their children, and some people have lost even more than that. They have earned the right to advise me, perhaps, but the difference is that they never would, for they understand the folly of trying to apply comparative 'measures' to tragedy.

So don't you dare imply that I am selfish or self-absorbed in thinking and writing only of my own loss. Don't you dare imply that I should 'suck it up' and put my own grief aside so as not to offend others by having to look upon its ugly face. For once in my life I'm throwing the whole rule book to the wind. As far as I am concerned there is no longer any 'right' or 'wrong', there are just moments, and experiences, and expressions, and they will be what they will be. I will not filter so as to protect someone's opinion of me. I will not grieve politely so as to save others from embarrassment. I will not pretend to be happy and joyous at your good news if I don't genuinely feel so. I think that it is too much to ask of a person barely surviving the daily motions of life to dutifully keep her gushing wounds in check at the same time.

That is the reason for this blog - so I have a space in which to record my own experience, as it happens to me. It is as public as I want it to be (which, for the moment, is not very). I can wail and moan and express my anger and frustration as often, and as with as much detail, as I'd like. I don't have to worry about hijacking the conversation with my grief, as this is not a conversation, it's a monologue; more than that, it is a secret diary, in which I've entrusted a few special loved ones with the key. I've had to choose those loved ones carefully, as one or two I had considered part of my inner circle really hurt me by judging what I write, and applying their own standards to my experience of grief. However the people I know and love best of all, who are most of its current readers, would never deny me the right to feel how I feel, no matter if it upsets or confronts them, or confuses them. They just let me be.

The people I've invited to read here are a carefully selected few who are intelligent, feeling, thinking individuals who are not afraid to join me in my grief. They are not scared that it is a contagious disease that will infect them should they gather too close to it. They might still find it confronting, but they are not afraid to challenge their own feelings and beliefs as a result of something I've written or said. They do not take my desperate bitterness at the unfairness of what happened to me and my baby as evidence that I wish their babies dead in Max's place. They are secure enough in themselves to know that anything I say, or write, or feel, is not really about them at all, and instead all about me trying to make sense of what has happened and trying to find meaning amongst the rubble, however awkwardly, hurtfully, or unsuccessfully that plays out. They want to grow alongside me, and to integrate my experience, and my little son, into their own experience of life, so as to develop as more compassionate, loving human beings, with a deeper understanding of life.

Well, at least that is what I hope and believe of all seven or eight of you who gather here. And I'd like to hear from you - every single one of you who come to witness the the annihilation, and sometimes the rebuilding of my heart. I'm asking something of you, as a donation in kind for your continued intimate access to this inner sanctum. To commemorate the hundreds of thousands of uncensored, unedited words I've shared with you, I'm asking you to tell me where those words and images have hit. Who are you? How do you know me? Who are you to Max? Why do you read here? What, if anything, have you learned about life, or about loss, or about pregnancy, or about truth? How has my darling Max impacted on your life? What do you think about when you think about us? What do you think of what I write here, and what I have shared with you in real life? How do you think I have changed, for better and for worse?

I've asked beautiful Leslie, and my beloved Anika, to start the ball rolling, by providing a special post for my 200th entry. I think she is writing a letter. I've also asked her little Sasha to draw a picture for, or of, Max, but I'm not sure how forthcoming she will be with the request. She's such a busy little girl these days - far too busy to talk to me on the phone. I can only hope she will have a rare moment of toddler creative generosity, for my sake!

Will you write, or draw something for me to post here? It doesn't have to be long. It could even have dot points. But I want to include you here, in this special space for Max, as our experience has affected you, too. I want you to share some of yourselves, as a result, if that is not too much to ask.

Please, email me your contributions, your thoughts and feelings, to beginningofallthings@gmail.com. I'd like to start including your contributions as guest posts over the next week or so, but at the same time, don't feel like you need to rush. I'd rather receive something from you late, than not at all.

This is my way of showing you that I consider you part of this journey, and that while I know from experience that I will have to leave some people behind as I begin to build my 'new' reality, I don't intend to have any of you anywhere other than right by my side. I value your input, I thank you for your unwavering support and love, and I love you in ways I cannot even begin to explain. That is what I really want to say.