Lost and lonely

This week I feel so lost and lonely. I did not realise how much Max's due date had been in my mind for the last four months, nor how its passing would leave me feeling adrift, without an anchor, and with no dry, safe land in sight. I don't know what to do with the time that now stretches endlessly in front of me. This last week has felt like the symbolic end of Max's life, but only the beginning of mine - the beginning of the life I have to try to live without him. Today I wish that I would be struck down on the spot so that no longer have to contemplate this. On other days I feel shadows of my old self in my determination to keep going and to somehow find peace. It's a confusing and exhausting time. I don't know where to find the energy.

After a lovely chat with Anika last night I miss her more than ever. She is making tentative plans to come back to Melbourne and they seem so promising - child care enquiries, job applications - but I'm afraid to go along with them. I want a sign, somehow, that their return is a sure thing before I get my hopes up. I worry that having to let them go, again, will spin me back to the bottom of the ladder I'm every day trying so desperately to climb. I almost can't imagine how wonderful it would be for her and Sasha to be only a few streets away from me and part of my everyday life once more.

Anika and I in happier times

I also miss Kate, though it sounds silly to say. I feel lately that I am constantly throwing myself at her and that she is just as often withdrawing away. She has a whole new set of responsibilities - a law degree - and less time than she had before. She has discovered that her uncle has terminal cancer, which I know to be a strain on her mind. I know it is unfair of me to expect her to have me in her every thought, but I think I just feel so desperate to have someone by my side that I must be a constant source of stress and annoyance for her.

I have not contacted Sharon since her baby was born. I don't want her to feel any of the sadness and sorrow and envy I feel towards her and her son. I feel that anything I do or say is infected by it and impossible to hide so I say nothing at all. I know this is not the best way to deal with this situation, but it's all I feel capable of. I have not seen Isaac's photo and I am afraid to. I am so afraid to see what Max should look like right now; to see a baby breathing and screaming and robust when the last one I saw was dead in my arms.

I want these thoughts and images to stop. Some days I have respite from them, but it is as if when they come back that they are twice as distressing as before for me having forgotten them. It's like when you miss a week at the gym and when you return you can't believe how much it hurts all over again; how quickly you lost your fitness.

Kate gave me these flowers on Saturday: beautiful yellow roses that have softened and bloomed in the days since then. I look at their colour and wish I felt like that inside. Sunny and bright, rich and warm.

Both Sides Now: Lyrics

Both Sides Now

by Joni Mitchell

(Played at Max's Memorial Ceremony)

Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds * that way

But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I've looked at clouds from both sides now

From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all

Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As ev'ry fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way

But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away

I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way

But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day

I've looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all
I've looked at life from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all

© 1969 - Siquomb Publishing Company

Godspeed (Sweet Dreams) Lyrics

Godspeed (Sweet Dreams)
By the Dixie Chicks

(Played at Max's Memorial Ceremony)

Dragon tales and the "water is wide"
Pirate's sail and lost boys fly
Fish bite moonbeams every night
And I love you

Godspeed, little man
Sweet dreams, little man
Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels wings
Godspeed
Sweet dreams

The rocket racer's all tuckered out
Superman's in pajamas on the couch
Goodnight moon, will find the mouse
And I love you

Godspeed, little man
Sweet dreams, little man
Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels wings
Godspeed
Sweet dreams

God bless mommy and match box cars
God bless dad and thanks for the stars
God hears "Amen," wherever we are
And I love you

Godspeed, little man
Sweet dreams, little man
Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels wings
Godspeed
Godspeed
Godspeed
Sweet dreams

Max's Blessing, read by Kate

Kate explained the significance of the balloons to our family and friends, and then gave a blessing before we released them up into the sky. Here is what she said.

These are not just any old balloons. They cost $1.50 each, so I’ve been instructed to explain their significance lest you think they are just for tawdry decoration.

There are 23 balloons of baby blue – one for each of the weeks that Max lived, and kicked, and tumbled.

There are 17 pearl white balloons that signify each of the weeks he had still to grow.

There is one lone, sunny, yellow balloon. Yellow represents memory. - memories of Max, his heart and his spirit, the things we all promise here today that we will never, ever forget.

We send these balloons to the grey clouds to encourage them to show us a silver lining. We send these balloons to Max, wherever he may be, so that he will know we miss him, we love him, that we let him go.

Darling Max,

Into the freedom of wind and sunshine
We let you go
Into the dance of the stars and the planets
We let you go
Into the wind’s breath and the hands of the star maker
We let you go
We love you, we miss you, we want you to be happy
Go safely, go dancing, go running home.

As the balloons caught the wind and flew away, we all joined hands as this song played. I cried a lot during it. It was a beautiful moment.

Mummy's Speech

I shared this song with everyone before I spoke at the memorial service to recognise Max's due date.



Here is what I said.

Everything that ever was or could have been culminated in the moment that my little child drew his first breath, gasping as if he’d emerged from a joyful dive under the sea. He didn’t open his eyes, but who could blame him? How could the surgical sights of a delivery room, no matter how dim and mood-enhancing the lights, compare with what he’d seen in his fetal Atlantis?

Afterwards I was glad he’d held them closed shut against the intrusions to his dream life. He was in this world but not of it; a creature so serene because he would never have to confront the traumas and disappointments of this world like the rest of us.

He emerged with a determined heartbeat, and a hearty breath, but with no other earthly concerns or responsibilities to weigh him down. He was all lightness, and I held him as if he was a butterfly that’d landed briefly upon my hand; one I knew would fly away should I make the slightest move. He was the most longed-for visitor. He might have travelled light, but he left me with a heavy heart as the beginning of his legacy. His end was my beginning. The beginning, as I’m realising, of all things.

Almost four months have gone by since Max was here. I do not know where the time has gone, and I have no real memory of where I’ve been or what I’ve done since then. It’s all just hazy – as is my sense of the world, its promises and its betrayals, all of which, until recently, I thought I understood.

As it turns out, I don’t. I don’t understand a thing. The song I just played, of which I’m sure you are all so familiar, summed it up more eloquently than I could ever hope to. When Joni Mitchell sang ‘I really don’t know life – at all’, well, I finally get what she meant; that any control, or certainty over life or love we think we have is only an illusion.

This realisation, that I am ultimately powerless, has been so hard to accept. What I would give to once again be ignorantly under the misapprehension that I could avoid or mitigate disaster by ‘doing the right thing’. I’ve spent my whole life doing the right thing only to find that it has afforded me no such protections. My son still died. Other people’s sons did not. And I feel ripped off, and angry, and bitter, and jealous and just plain murderous some days. I am a Moran after all. On other days I feel immensely calm, at peace, grateful for the powerful lessons Max taught me and hopeful that I will live a richer, more rewarding life for having known him.

Today I long for Max in all the ways you would imagine of someone who has had a baby born and snatched away in an instant. This week has been immensely challenging as his due date signifies an end to all of my illogical beliefs that he might be reborn. My very-catholic grandmother would be relieved that I’m still harboring closet fantasies of divine resurrection. My psychiatrist might not be.

Max is not coming back, though, is he?I know that. But he will never truly be gone whilst I still live either. That’s why I go on, even when I think I can’t. Like the song just said, there’s something lost, but something also gained in simply living every day.

I wrote Max a poem. I want him to hear it today, but it means you’ll have to forgive me whilst I also inflict it on you. I may be a decent writer but I’m a pitiful poet. Lucky you’re my friends, huh?

It’s called To Max, with Love.

When you were born I saw the sun.
It shone so briefly, then was done.
I didn’t get to be your mum;
You had to go away.

And now under the dark, black clouds,
I’m on the street shouting out loud
Your name, my darling, which makes me proud.
Won’t you come back to me today?

My arms they ache to hold you tight,
To wrap you up, so warm at night
To touch your face in the morning light,
As if you were mine to stay.

My baby, are you now at rest?
Do you lay your head on mummy’s chest?
Nothing would make her feel so blessed;
Would make everything okay.

I cry because, oh no, at last,
Hope of your return has gone; it’s passed.
The time, it’s gone so very fast.
I didn’t get a say.

Bring me a season, one that’s warm,
To help to heal my heart’s fierce storm.
Send me a rainbow; hope reborn.
Help me find a way.

I look for you in starry skies,
Each night before I close my eyes.
You’ll always be my lucky prize.
You’re safe, now, where you lay.

Our Ceremony to Remember Max

Today, the 24th March 2012, we held a small, informal ceremony to mark the day on which we expected to welcome Max into our lives.

I'd had mixed feelings about holding the gathering throughout the week. On the one hand I really wanted to have it to show Max that we had not forgotten him; that we were still mourning the loss of everything that he would have been to us. In a way, I also wanted it to be a reminder to our families and friends not to forget us; that our loss was just as raw as it ever was and that we are still so painfully suffering. As Max's due date on Thursday had passed without too much of the emotional trauma I had expected, however, I started to dread having organised another day whose pain I might not escape so easily. I thought about cancelling it, but I decided, after talking to Melanie, to take the pressure off me feeling like I had to feel a particular way. The gathering would take the mood of however I woke up that day. If I felt sad, I could express that sadness. If I felt relief, I could express that too.

We met, along with about 15 friends, at Darling Square in East Melbourne at midday. We used to live nearby and it is a lovely part of the world, as well as a really quiet, peaceful, pretty park. I had organised some balloons that I wanted to release up into the sky, but we had a bit of trouble getting them to the venue. I had not thought about how they would fit into the car, and they only just did, although Les and I both felt quite sick from breathing in all of the rubber on the way there!

We set up a table with his balloons, my favourite photo of him, and the teddy bear that was made for him by my Aunty Mary. I'd chosen two songs to play and prepared a speech that I wanted to share with everyone.

Leslie, Kate and Mark at Darling Square

It was an unusual bunch of people who gathered with us. Many of my close friends were unable to attend, but it was really lovely that some people I don't see very often took their time to come and express their condolences to us and to share in this important day with us. 

We began with a song: Joni Mitchell's Both Sides Now. I have always loved this song, but in recent times I have listened to it with a new understanding of what she was singing about. Listening to it had brought me great comfort over the last few weeks, and I wanted to share the message of the song with everyone present. I'd also like to share it with those of you who are reading this blog, so here is a link to the song, as well as to the speech I gave after it.

Leslie spoke to thank everyone for attending, but especially for all of their support over the last four months. We could not be more grateful for those who have given us their time and their hearts. 

Afterwards, Kate helped us explain the significance of the balloons and she read a blessing out to Max, which I'd found through a support group a few months ago. It was a beautiful, beautiful moment. She read this, we listened to a very special song (Godspeed by the Dixie Chicks) and we released the balloons up into the sky. The wind took them eastward and onward towards the horizon. 

Here is what Kate said.

I felt exhausted after the ceremony, but also peaceful. Our friends had all gathered around us as the song played and held our hands. Everyone said how beautiful it was; how my words had touched their hearts and helped them understand how we feel. In short, the sentiment was that through our pain we had helped our friends and family also grow. 

I feel so fortunate to have the gift of expression that enables me to so easily share my feelings and experiences with others so that they, too, might see the things that I see. I do not know how I would have survived this experience without being able to write about it. I don't know how those who cannot as easily express their feelings cope with having them all pent up inside.  I felt very touched that other people had benefited from me sharing my story, and I also felt that Max would be proud of me. I faltered as I spoke those words, and a few times I cried, but I did it for him. Everything I do in my life now I do for him. I want him to see me, hear me, feel me, wherever he is. Wherever he goes. 

Some of our friends stayed on to enjoy a picnic with us, which was just lovely. Here is Les and his best mate Hugh sharing some quality time:

The weather held out, and the sun came out just as I was giving my speech, which was perfect timing. I feel that Max was there. I really do. And I'm glad we took the time to publicly recognise the significance of this date. 

Thank you to everyone who came and helped make it special. We love you all.

22nd March 2012: Max's Due Date

The 22nd of March, the date which I have had etched in my mind for nine months, finally arrived. Max did not. He was further away than he ever was - a helpless, despairing thought.

The day itself I had been dreading, but in fact the days leading up to it were far more emotionally wretched. My friend's baby, who I've talked of many times, arrived safely on Monday. Although I was relieved to hear of his arrival, the news spelling the end of an anxious limbo where I waited for the inevitable pain to greet me, it was the news that started my unravelling, as I feared it would be. From that moment on I felt Max's absence afresh, as if the wound were newly inflicted, stinging and throbbing. I cried more than I have since I first suffered the shock of Max's death. I feel that this baby has taken Max's place. No matter how much I try to console myself that this is not the case, I feel it to be true. One baby could live, one baby could die. Someone chose mine to suffer the latter fate.

By the time today came around the acute pain from earlier in the week had settled and mostly just felt exhausted. Leslie and I had planned to spend the day together doing pretty much anything we fancied. We just wanted to be together, to be quiet, to be thoughtful, to go slow. We managed all of that on what turned out to be an unexpectedly warm, sunny day.

Our day began with a late breakfast at our favourite local cafe, Miss Marie's. We walked there and back and enjoyed each other's company in the fresh Autumn air.

Getting caffeinated at the start of the day

Afterwards, we visited the Heide Museum of Modern Art, which is somewhere I've wanted to go for an absolute age, but never seem to have gotten around to. The grounds of the museum - an old working dairy farm in Bulleen - are absolutely beautiful, and you can enjoy them for free. The property used to be home to John and Sydney Reed, art collectors and benefactors who formed the Heide Circle in the early 1930s. The Heide Circle, if you don't know, was frequented by some of Australia's now best known modernist painters, as well as writers, poets and other creative folk. Though I don't always enjoy modern art, I did enjoy just being there in the quiet stillness of the galleries; a contemplative space rich with history and memory.

Leslie enjoying the grounds of the Heide

We stopped for refreshment at the cafe they have on site. I had a lovely mint tea sourced with mint from the two kitchen gardens Sunday Reed set up so that the artists colony would be self sufficient. You can visit the gardens and they are truly amazing. I learnt an interesting fact, that I can't believe I didn't know: that pumpkins grow on a vine on the ground, not underground as I always assumed they did! Here are some lovely pumpkins soaking up the sun.

My favourite exhibition out of the three showing was Forever Young: 30 Years of the Heide Collection featuring works from the first circle of radical young artists who were supported by the Reeds during the 1930s and beyond. A selection of documentary photographs taken by Albert Tucker were really fantastic and evocative, capturing the key figures who had lived and worked at Heide during that time. The photographs were by far my favourite part of the exhibition.

Leslie, though perhaps not as keenly interested in art and history as I, nonetheless professed to have had a good time wandering around with me. There were some moments that baffled him, however, such as this one:

'Is this a sculpture or just a dead tree?' he was heard to ask. I must say, even I did not know the answer to that one. The grounds were dotted with several unusual sculptures, including this one, which was my favourite:

No doubt Les was looking forward to the part of the day that included Devonshire Tea, which luckily for him came next. We'd briefly considered driving out to the Dandenongs to visit Miss Marple's Tea Room as we have done once before, but we were feeling lazy and decided we'd like to keep it local so we went to the Fairfield Boathouse instead. In actual fact, their Devonshire Tea was decidedly average. The tea was crappy, the scones not warm, and we were chased by a number of very determined bees who wanted to partake in our jam. Here is the spread we had:

Our Devonshire Tea overlooking the Yarra at the Fairfield Boathouse

Though Fairfield Boathouse's wares were disappointing, we were just pleased to be hanging out together somewhere nice and sunny, spending some quality time together. This we did the best way we could.

Me at the Boathouse

Neither of us mentioned Max much this day, but we both knew that he was present in our every thought and action, as he will be every day for the rest of our lives. 

I feel relief that the day has passed, but saddened that my time without my baby boy has gone so fast. The passing of this date also raises many questions for us about the future that we do not yet know how or when to answer. The time that I spent pregnant seems so long ago, almost as if it never took place. We are now filled with uncertainty about whether, or when, I will have that experience again. Whether we will dare, I guess, to hope that things might turn out differently next time. It is our heart's wish to take this leap of faith; to honour Max with a baby brother or sister, but we know it will be an extremely tough road that does not have a guaranteed happy ending and we want to make sure, as much as we can, that we are strong enough to walk it.

Today, though, it was just Mummy, Daddy and Max and all of our dreams of what might have been. 

To Max, with Love

I don't profess to be a poet. But on this day, when Max should be here, I feel that no one has any right to hold bad poetry against me, so I wrote some anyway. 

To Max, with Love

When you were born I saw the sun.
It shone so briefly, then was done.
I didn’t get to be your mum;
You had to go away.

And now under the dark, black clouds,
I’m on the street shouting out loud
Your name, my darling, which makes me proud.
Won’t you come back to me today?

My arms they ache to hold you tight,
To wrap you up, so warm at night
To touch your face in the morning light,
As if you were mine to stay.

My baby, are you now at rest?
Do you lay your head on mummy’s chest?
Nothing would make her feel so blessed;
Would make everything okay.

I cry because, oh no, at last,
Hope of your return has gone; it’s passed.
The time, it’s gone so very fast.
I didn’t get a say.

Bring me a season, one that’s warm,
To help to heal my heart’s fierce storm.
Send me a rainbow; hope reborn.
Help me find a way.

I’ll look for you in starry skies,
Each night before I close my eyes.
You’ll always be my lucky prize.
You’re safe, now, where you lay.

An invitation

Leslie and I would like to invite you to a small, informal ceremony we are holding in memory of our little baby Max, to mark the date on which we expected to welcome him into our world. This day will come to pass with great pain for us instead of the hope and excitement that should rightly accompany it. We would like you to share this day with us and help us confront, once again, the unfathomable, irreversible loss of our child - our greatest love.

Please join with us to remember Max and celebrate his life:

When: this Saturday the 24th March 2012 at midday.
Where: Darling Square, Cnr Simpson & Gipps Streets, East Melbourne

We will be staying afterwards for a picnic lunch in the park. Please feel free to bring some lunch, along with your families or significant others, and spend some time with us.

It would be great if you could let us know if you are able to make it, so we have some idea of how many people to expect. Please email janelle.moran@gmail.com 

Darling Square, East Melbourne

Protecting his memory

‎It's been said that when a baby is born, it's a mother's instinct to protect their baby, but when a baby dies, it's the mother's instinct to protect their memory. That's all we have left, only a trace of what once was, a snippet of a dream.

This is the week, long awaited, that my baby was to be born. The march of time has brought it forth despite my whimpering protests that I am not ready to say goodbye to the dream of my baby returned. Though I know my baby is dead - we held him as his heart beat its last and we felt the cooling touch of his skin - in my heart I cling to a stubborn belief in the magic of resurrection.

Perhaps that day was a figment of my imagination and I will open my eyes to find it only the anxious nightmare of a woman who's actually in labour, and I won't be able to believe the nasty tortures my brain has inflicted upon me in my sleep. In another scenario, I turn up to the hospital this Thursday - Max's due date - to find him there waiting for me. 'He is ready now,' they tell me, revealing that they've  been keeping him in secret until he was fully grown - from that day to this - as the biggest surprise ever successfully kept.

Over the past few months I've had many dreams that I've found Max in all manner of unlikely places, each time grabbing him greedily with relief that I've finally found him after carelessly losing track of his whereabouts. Is that what happened to my darling? Was I too careless to mind whether he lived or died - careless enough to let him disappear without warning? Did I leave him behind during a moment of overwhelming tiredness? Did I wish him away through my early ambivalent thoughts about pregnancy?

The passing of this week will see the end of my fantasies of Max's return - at least an end in the belief that they might miraculously come true. The 22nd of March, though an arbitrary due date that gave no promise it would actually be the day of my baby's birth, represents in my mind the end of my pregnancy, though my body knows that the pregnancy ended a long while ago.

This disparity between the knowledge of the mind and of the body is something very strange to experience. I've been caught between these two different consciousnesses oftentimes since I pregnant one moment and a bereaved mother the next. My arms have ached, physically, for a baby I know no longer exists. For long after his birth I felt phantom kicks and flutters where none could possibly be. Sometimes I still feel like a pregnant person, and am surprised to later have to acknowledge that I am not one, especially when others visibly are. I struggle with the fact that no one can tell, physically, that I've had a baby, that I'm someone's mother.

Max is not coming back. I know this, and yet, because I've realised how little I really know of the world, I convince myself that his return is a possibility - a remote possibility, yes, but then so was his death. Somehow this seems to justify my desperate belief.

Leslie and I are planning to pass the day of the 22nd together, doing something special and nice. We have a list of things to choose from, but I don't know, none of them seem quite right or quite fitting enough. I guess nothing we could do on a given day would ever feel significant enough to honour Max's life, so perhaps we'll have to be content doing something that we ourselves enjoy, and that might bring us some small comfort or joy.

We will mark the passing of Max's special day on Saturday with an informal ceremony at Darling Gardens in East Melbourne, near where we used to live. Then, afterwards, I don't know what we'll do - that day or the rest to come. I just don't know.

A baby is born to my oldest friend

Today is the day that my oldest friend's baby boy will be born - her second child. Pregnancy and birth, as I have learned the hard way, are experiences over which we have much less control than we realise, and in some cases, frighteningly little knowledge of what to do when things go wrong. There is little uncertainty surrounding this baby's entry into the world, though. He will be born via elective c-section - his mother's way of controlling what has long been for her an overwhelming fear of childbirth. Before I became pregnant in July last year I used to share this intense fear of natural delivery. For years my friend and I joked that we must plan to get pregnant at the same time one day so as to be able to  have side-by-side caesarians, like truly civilised women should.

Years later, through some stroke of fate, my friend did become pregnant very shortly after I did - a period of only a fortnight separating the gestational ages of our babies-to-be. But this is where our imagined similarities would end. I knew from the beginning we would not share the same birth experience in the way we always said we would. In part this was because I'd by then undertaken a significant amount of mindfulness-based cognitive therapy that taught me to better manage, instead of avoid, the sources of my anxieties, including childbirth. I was still afraid of the unknown - of pain and of tragedies that might befall me - but I knew that I had become resourceful enough to face the complications life might throw at me with courage and strength.

What I didn't know was that the differences between mine and my friend's experience of birth and motherhood would soon become more manifold, more significant, than this, when during the last week of November, long before he was expected, my baby was born, and died in his father's arms. He was born for no known reason at 23 weeks gestation - what the doctors like to call the 'threshold of viability' - and though he fought mightily, he really did not have much of a chance. Today, in contrast, my friend's baby will be born and all expectations point towards the fact that he will live - not just for a day, as my baby did, but through all the days to come - the days that my baby, too, should have lived.

There is no doubt that the excitement of my friend and I expecting a baby at the same time has come to have a very painful, awkward, complicated flip side. Through no fault of her own, my friend has become the unfortunate donkey on which I pin the tail of my very profound anger and grief. Her very presence in my life, and the soon-to-be presence of her little baby, are unavoidable, physical reminders of my tragedy. She has what I do not, not because she wanted it more, or deserved it in some way that I did not, but because of the unfathomable logic of a universe that deals with the game of life and death as if all of its players are numbered cards, some of whom will land face up when the deck is scattered and some of whom chance says must inevitably land face down in the mud.

'Why me?' - the refrain of my life since my son's death just over three months ago - has this week turned instead to 'why her?' Why should her baby live if mine cannot? Why should she have the enviable gift of two healthy children and two uncomplicated pregnancies and my only experience of birth so quickly turn into, instead, into a death? I don't consciously hate my friend for her good fortune, and neither has she given me cause to. More than anyone she has recognised and tried to mitigate the pain that her pregnancy might have caused me over the last couple of months. She has been respectful, thoughtful, she has given me space and managed her own pain, fear and regret at my baby's passing so that I might never have to know or hear of it. She does not deserve the place she has taken in my imagination as victorious opponent instead of faithful friend. But there she stands, nonetheless, so far away from me in thought and feeling that it's hard to tell if the distance will ever, can ever be bridged.

I am awaiting, every minute, the message that will tell me her baby boy is here. I will be relieved, and I hope, happy for my friend that she will not have to suffer as I have. But I will howl and protest too, loudly and unapologetically. The sense of injustice I feel at my son's death has spurned too raw and festering a wound not to call forth such a primal, seething rage.

In my moments of fear and despair about this little boy's impending birth I've invite the dark-faced, winged goddess of Nemesis - of divine retribution - to visit upon me and restore equilibrium to my world; to better balance the scales of justice; to relieve me of my overwhelming indignation towards my oldest friend and her innocent baby; to re-distribute the cards of fortune so that neither she nor I must face each other in such regrettable opposition. But despite my cries Nemesis does not appear, as per her myth, to untangle the messy threads spun so unfairly by the fates. I am alone in my bargaining - there is not a single soul on earth who would trade me. My baby has died. This baby will take his place.

So I wait for news of his birth as if he were the last remaining germ of bubonic infection, set on killing us all so that he, instead, can live. And as I wait, I commit a thousand apologies to the wind with which he'll today come rolling in. I'm sorry, my friend, that you and your baby must, because of me, suffer so the loss of a friend, one who cannot be there for you as you celebrate your son's birth. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

* Note: A little while after writing this I heard news that baby Issac Lucas Gourlay-Hutchison was born at 8.24am weighing 7lb. 8oz. A healthy baby boy.