To my little birthday boy,
Your darling little mouth. Your kissable, soft cheeks. Your tender baby hands. Your perfect innocent heart. I long for every part of you today on your birthday.
It's hard to believe it's been a year since I held you - so briefly - because to me, your mummy, you are still so real, so present. Sometimes I can still feel the feather-weight of you in my arms if I close my eyes and imagine you there where you belong.
You are the thought behind my every word and gesture. There's nothing I do where you are not with me, inside my aching heart and all around me.
This time last year we still had hope that you would live. You held on inside me for as long as you could, right up until the very end of the day until night came and everything in the world was calm and peaceful. I know you did everything you could to stay with us - taking a big, strong breath and beating that wonderful big heart of yours - but the challenges you faced were insurmountable. We could none of us survive what you faced. I am so thankful that you tried.
The moments we shared, though there could never have been enough of them, were the most intense, unbelievable and precious of my whole life. I could not believe that you were mine, and as I held you I could not believe how anyone expected me to let you go. I still can't comprehend how this became our fate, my little one. I don't know how I got out of the hospital without you, or how I've ever stepped back inside since.
I wish that you had seen the sun. I'm amazed that it continues to shine without you.
I wish that you could have opened your eyes, just once, to see your adoring mummy and daddy's faces. I only hope you felt our love and adoration in other ways.
I hope you did not experience a single moment of our sorrow. I hope we could at least protect you from that.
I wish - how I wish - that you were still here with me today. I wish you knew what it was like to open birthday presents and blow out candles like all the other little boys and girls I know. I can't look at other children without imagining it is you I see instead.
You have my heart, Max, inside your baby hands, today and always.
With all the love I have to give,
Your Mummy
xoxox
Showing posts with label Dear Max. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dear Max. Show all posts
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Monday, June 4, 2012
Dear Max, send us hope
Dear Max,
It's been six months since you left us, and still your daddy and I remain painfully in the dark about why we could not keep you. There is not a single day that passes that I don't recall to mind the delicate contours of your little cheeks, and that I don't try to re-animate you with sheer power of my mind and will.
Your mummy has discovered that she is stronger than she ever thought possible as a result of losing you, but she's still not powerful enough to bring you back. There's no one who can do that.
You brought us so many special gifts on the night you came, and the greatest of them all was enabling me to experience, if only for the briefest interlude, being a mother. It was a feeling like no other, and one I miss desperately. It's as if you awakened in me an instinct I'd only glimpsed up until now; one that I practice with other people's children all the time, but that I know will never truly be realised again until I can be a mother to my own child, in my own arms, where you should be, still.
Our perfect boy, you showed us how much love we have to share, and in your honour we want to keep on sharing the love you gave us. We'd like to open our minds and our hearts to a new baby; one who will never replace you, but who will instead keep your memory alive, and who we hope will bring their own gifts to help us heal our hearts, and who will share with us a sense of hope for the future.
Daddy and I feel so torn about our hope for another baby. We have to come to terms with so many things. The most important of these is that having a new baby will never mean that you have returned to us. It will be an entirely different person we'll be asked to love and welcome into our family just as we welcomed you with all of your unique promise and potential.
We have to manage our guilt, too, which when we let it threatens to overwhelm. In some ways it feels as if even thinking of having another child is the most unforgivable act of disloyalty to you. I can't bear the thought that you might feel replaced or in any way less loved or valued as a result of our wish for a baby.
We also live with so much uncertainty now. We worry about choosing the right time to try again, even though we know more than ever that there's no such thing as a 'right' time; that everything that happens in life is an entirely random, unpredictable occurrence.
The uncertainty morphs into fear very easily when I consider that perhaps you were my only chance at motherhood and that I won't be able to fall pregnant again, or that if I do, that baby will die too. The fears escalate with barely the slightest provocation and it takes all of my will and energy some days to quieten them.
I don't know what it will mean to be pregnant with another child that is not you, and I don't know how my profound experience of anxiety and grief will affect that journey. I just know that it must in every way. Will you be with me on that journey, Max? Is that too much to ask of you?
I guess what I'm asking for is your permission, darling, to begin to hope again and to use the gifts you gave me in the best way I know how - in sharing them with others, especially with a brother or sister of your own flesh and blood.
I'll never know for sure if you give me your blessing. I don't even know if you are able to have thoughts and feelings anymore. But in asking for it I'm hoping to feel a sense of peace that will tell me that we are doing the right thing, and that this is what you would want for us.
Our love for you will never, could never lessen or change. You are as much a part of me, and your daddy, as is our own breath.
Max, we wish for hope. We wish for peace. We wish that you could let us know the sentiments of your own little heart, that beat ferociously as we held you in our arms.
With all our love,
Mummy and Daddy
It's been six months since you left us, and still your daddy and I remain painfully in the dark about why we could not keep you. There is not a single day that passes that I don't recall to mind the delicate contours of your little cheeks, and that I don't try to re-animate you with sheer power of my mind and will.
Your mummy has discovered that she is stronger than she ever thought possible as a result of losing you, but she's still not powerful enough to bring you back. There's no one who can do that.
You brought us so many special gifts on the night you came, and the greatest of them all was enabling me to experience, if only for the briefest interlude, being a mother. It was a feeling like no other, and one I miss desperately. It's as if you awakened in me an instinct I'd only glimpsed up until now; one that I practice with other people's children all the time, but that I know will never truly be realised again until I can be a mother to my own child, in my own arms, where you should be, still.
Our perfect boy, you showed us how much love we have to share, and in your honour we want to keep on sharing the love you gave us. We'd like to open our minds and our hearts to a new baby; one who will never replace you, but who will instead keep your memory alive, and who we hope will bring their own gifts to help us heal our hearts, and who will share with us a sense of hope for the future.
Daddy and I feel so torn about our hope for another baby. We have to come to terms with so many things. The most important of these is that having a new baby will never mean that you have returned to us. It will be an entirely different person we'll be asked to love and welcome into our family just as we welcomed you with all of your unique promise and potential.
We have to manage our guilt, too, which when we let it threatens to overwhelm. In some ways it feels as if even thinking of having another child is the most unforgivable act of disloyalty to you. I can't bear the thought that you might feel replaced or in any way less loved or valued as a result of our wish for a baby.
We also live with so much uncertainty now. We worry about choosing the right time to try again, even though we know more than ever that there's no such thing as a 'right' time; that everything that happens in life is an entirely random, unpredictable occurrence.
The uncertainty morphs into fear very easily when I consider that perhaps you were my only chance at motherhood and that I won't be able to fall pregnant again, or that if I do, that baby will die too. The fears escalate with barely the slightest provocation and it takes all of my will and energy some days to quieten them.
I don't know what it will mean to be pregnant with another child that is not you, and I don't know how my profound experience of anxiety and grief will affect that journey. I just know that it must in every way. Will you be with me on that journey, Max? Is that too much to ask of you?
I guess what I'm asking for is your permission, darling, to begin to hope again and to use the gifts you gave me in the best way I know how - in sharing them with others, especially with a brother or sister of your own flesh and blood.
I'll never know for sure if you give me your blessing. I don't even know if you are able to have thoughts and feelings anymore. But in asking for it I'm hoping to feel a sense of peace that will tell me that we are doing the right thing, and that this is what you would want for us.
Our love for you will never, could never lessen or change. You are as much a part of me, and your daddy, as is our own breath.
Max, we wish for hope. We wish for peace. We wish that you could let us know the sentiments of your own little heart, that beat ferociously as we held you in our arms.
With all our love,
Mummy and Daddy
 |
| HOPE |
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Five months
My dear Maxie,
Five months have passed without you, and I don't know where they've gone. Five months is the length of time I had you with me. It seems like such a long time since I held you, but on the other hand the days have passed in quick succession with little to differentiate one from the next. Your mummy does not feel like her life has much meaning without you. On good days I try to think of some things I'd like to do, things that will make me feel like me again, but I can't seem to muster the enthusiasm to follow them through. I say to myself 'but what does it matter? That thing is meaningless. What is the point in striving to achieve anything when it can all be taken away in an instant'? And that's what I think on a good day!
Your room is still here for you, just as it was. It's so empty and cold, though. Sebastian, your new little kitten, likes to play in there though. He likes to chase drinking straws around and chase his own tail and he loves that there's lots of space in there for him to run about. He is giving mummy and daddy so much love and we wish you could be here so he could lick your little face as well as ours. I think he would have been a great companion to you, and of course Peppy misses you too. He was going to take advantage of all the time I would spend on the couch feeding you and putting you to sleep.
I still cry for you, in heaving sobs. They come from so deep a place that my whole body seems to drown under their weight when they come. Sometimes I feel them there under the surface all the time, and I have to fight to keep them back. Other times, like last night, they come out of nowhere while I'm watching TV and your poor daddy is left wondering what on earth happened. We were watching my favourite show last night, 30 Rock, and Liz Lemon and her boyfriend decide they'd both like to adopt a baby. It's supposed to be a comedy, and it was far from an emotional moment on the show, but all of a sudden I started crying when I remembered how excited I was when we first decided we wanted to bring a baby into the world.
I wish more people talked to me about you. The truth is, the times when your name is mentioned to me are few and far between. I guess it is hard, as no one really knew anything about you, so what can they say? It's not like they can say 'Max would have liked this' or 'Max would have done that'. You were imaginary to most of the world, except your mummy, daddy and Aunty Kate who all were blessed to know how very real you were.
Your daddy and I would dearly love to have another baby - a brother or sister for you - but we are so scared. We don't want you to think that we could ever replace you, and we are worried that everyone will think we are 'over' you, or 'better' because we dare to hope. I am so sensitive to other people's reactions to you, and to me. I know it doesn't matter what others think, as you and I know the truth that you will be forever my son, and always with me, but it pains me nonetheless to think they can have an opinion on something they know nothing about. In many ways, I dread the excitement that would accompany news of another baby as I would feel it was offensive to you and your memory. But at the same time I want to be able to feel excited, to feel hopeful. Deep down I believe that is what you would want me to do, and that you would want me to share the deep love I have for you with another little baby who needs it too.
Mostly I am scared that I will not be able to keep a new baby safe, as I was not able to protect you from a fate you did not deserve or expect. I know it was not my fault that you died - that I would have done anything to make it stop - but I still carry so much guilt and regret. I don't trust my body to do the right thing. I don't trust myself to know when something is wrong and to act upon it. I don't think I trust that I deserve to be a mother.
But lots of people have told me I am a good mummy to you. I try so hard to do things for you even though you are not here. Did you know that your mum and dad, and their friends and family, raised $5000 for the doctors at the hospital where you were born so they can help babies like you? You don't know much about money, I know, but $5000 is five times the amount we had expected to raise. We feel so proud we can do something in your name that would make a difference to the world that you were a part of, if only for a short time.
Your mum has also been talking to lots of other mummies whose babies have died. It has been so helpful to know that they understand what we are going through. And it seems like most of them understand how we feel. I write on this blog, and in other places, about how I feel all the time. The other mummies have told me that I am able to express all of their pain and feelings and fears in ways they sometimes cannot. It is scary to open yourself up and tell the world your innermost thoughts and feelings, but I hope you are proud of me for taking that risk so that other people might better understand what it is like when a perfect little boy like you dies for no good reason.
There's no good reason why you are not here with me, darling. I wish there were. Though what would be a 'good' reason for your death? I guess there is no such thing.
Though I still wonder where you are, and about what it means to die, the quest for the answer is not causing me as much distress as it did a few months ago when I was turning every which way trying to find someone who could tell me the definitive 'truth' or the matter. I guess I've come to terms with the fact that there are things I will never understand, although I secretly hate this so much. I wish you could just come to me and tell me somehow all the secrets of the universe. But I know you don't have any more control over where you went than I do over the fact I had to let you go. Most days I settle for the realisation that you are all around me, in everything I do and every thought I have. Your essence is within me, not in an imaginary heaven. I can't think of a more fitting place for you to rest except in your mummy's every thought, feeling and breath.
I miss you so much my precious baby. I just miss you so very much.
I love you forever.
Your mummy xox
PS. Here is a picture of you and me. It is so precious to me to see you in my arms.
Five months have passed without you, and I don't know where they've gone. Five months is the length of time I had you with me. It seems like such a long time since I held you, but on the other hand the days have passed in quick succession with little to differentiate one from the next. Your mummy does not feel like her life has much meaning without you. On good days I try to think of some things I'd like to do, things that will make me feel like me again, but I can't seem to muster the enthusiasm to follow them through. I say to myself 'but what does it matter? That thing is meaningless. What is the point in striving to achieve anything when it can all be taken away in an instant'? And that's what I think on a good day!
Your room is still here for you, just as it was. It's so empty and cold, though. Sebastian, your new little kitten, likes to play in there though. He likes to chase drinking straws around and chase his own tail and he loves that there's lots of space in there for him to run about. He is giving mummy and daddy so much love and we wish you could be here so he could lick your little face as well as ours. I think he would have been a great companion to you, and of course Peppy misses you too. He was going to take advantage of all the time I would spend on the couch feeding you and putting you to sleep.
I still cry for you, in heaving sobs. They come from so deep a place that my whole body seems to drown under their weight when they come. Sometimes I feel them there under the surface all the time, and I have to fight to keep them back. Other times, like last night, they come out of nowhere while I'm watching TV and your poor daddy is left wondering what on earth happened. We were watching my favourite show last night, 30 Rock, and Liz Lemon and her boyfriend decide they'd both like to adopt a baby. It's supposed to be a comedy, and it was far from an emotional moment on the show, but all of a sudden I started crying when I remembered how excited I was when we first decided we wanted to bring a baby into the world.
I wish more people talked to me about you. The truth is, the times when your name is mentioned to me are few and far between. I guess it is hard, as no one really knew anything about you, so what can they say? It's not like they can say 'Max would have liked this' or 'Max would have done that'. You were imaginary to most of the world, except your mummy, daddy and Aunty Kate who all were blessed to know how very real you were.
Your daddy and I would dearly love to have another baby - a brother or sister for you - but we are so scared. We don't want you to think that we could ever replace you, and we are worried that everyone will think we are 'over' you, or 'better' because we dare to hope. I am so sensitive to other people's reactions to you, and to me. I know it doesn't matter what others think, as you and I know the truth that you will be forever my son, and always with me, but it pains me nonetheless to think they can have an opinion on something they know nothing about. In many ways, I dread the excitement that would accompany news of another baby as I would feel it was offensive to you and your memory. But at the same time I want to be able to feel excited, to feel hopeful. Deep down I believe that is what you would want me to do, and that you would want me to share the deep love I have for you with another little baby who needs it too.
Mostly I am scared that I will not be able to keep a new baby safe, as I was not able to protect you from a fate you did not deserve or expect. I know it was not my fault that you died - that I would have done anything to make it stop - but I still carry so much guilt and regret. I don't trust my body to do the right thing. I don't trust myself to know when something is wrong and to act upon it. I don't think I trust that I deserve to be a mother.
But lots of people have told me I am a good mummy to you. I try so hard to do things for you even though you are not here. Did you know that your mum and dad, and their friends and family, raised $5000 for the doctors at the hospital where you were born so they can help babies like you? You don't know much about money, I know, but $5000 is five times the amount we had expected to raise. We feel so proud we can do something in your name that would make a difference to the world that you were a part of, if only for a short time.
Your mum has also been talking to lots of other mummies whose babies have died. It has been so helpful to know that they understand what we are going through. And it seems like most of them understand how we feel. I write on this blog, and in other places, about how I feel all the time. The other mummies have told me that I am able to express all of their pain and feelings and fears in ways they sometimes cannot. It is scary to open yourself up and tell the world your innermost thoughts and feelings, but I hope you are proud of me for taking that risk so that other people might better understand what it is like when a perfect little boy like you dies for no good reason.
There's no good reason why you are not here with me, darling. I wish there were. Though what would be a 'good' reason for your death? I guess there is no such thing.
Though I still wonder where you are, and about what it means to die, the quest for the answer is not causing me as much distress as it did a few months ago when I was turning every which way trying to find someone who could tell me the definitive 'truth' or the matter. I guess I've come to terms with the fact that there are things I will never understand, although I secretly hate this so much. I wish you could just come to me and tell me somehow all the secrets of the universe. But I know you don't have any more control over where you went than I do over the fact I had to let you go. Most days I settle for the realisation that you are all around me, in everything I do and every thought I have. Your essence is within me, not in an imaginary heaven. I can't think of a more fitting place for you to rest except in your mummy's every thought, feeling and breath.
I miss you so much my precious baby. I just miss you so very much.
I love you forever.
Your mummy xox
PS. Here is a picture of you and me. It is so precious to me to see you in my arms.
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