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.

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.

This time last year

This time last year I was living my dream on the French Riviera. Well, maybe not quite my dream, but as close as I will probably ever get. My ideal would be living there amongst the literary heavyweights of the early twentieth century. Edith Wharton, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Somerset Maugham, Dorothy Parker, Evelyn Waugh - all of them escaped to the Côte d'Azur for one reason or another, spurred by favourable exchange rates, the climate, and just because it was a very fashionable thing to do. All I could muster was two weeks in the place that had so long before captured my imagination. I was to spend my mornings studying French at the Alliance Française de Nice and my afternoons wandering around in the stunning, plentiful Spring sunshine.

la port de Nice

Nice is no longer, I suspect, what it used to be. The Promenade des Anglais (known by locals at 'la prom') is predictably touristy, but not overly so at this time of the year. I was in Nice for just long enough to get to the point where I felt at home - so comfortable that I could have seriously contemplated staying permanently! The Nicoise (if that's what they're called?) are quite friendly, and I became well known at my local boulangerie each morning (and assisted politely when my French faltered!) I had a favourite supermarket and I'd even been asked on a date (remembering Leslie was at this time reliving his own bachelor days in Italy!)

How the locals get from one end of la prom to the other

At this time last year our lives were filled with such promise and so many exciting plans for the future. We knew we wanted to try for a baby when we got back to Melbourne, and were really aware that it might therefore be a long time before we had the opportunity to travel or see the world in that same carefree capacity again. For two weeks I pretended I was living another life - that I belonged in Nice, and on some days, that I never had to come back!

In a beautiful gothic cathedral by the seaside, the Basilique-Cathédrale Sainte-Marie et Sainte-Réparate de Nice, I lit a candle for the little soul I hoped would become my baby, wishing him or her health, happiness and a speedy journey. I could not have known how soon after that my long-awaited child's flame would go out. My baby was surely never meant for the dark, only for the glorious light! When and where did my wish, my dream, get tangled up with such a cruel destiny? Who deigned to grant my heart's desire and then snatch it away?

Baroque magnificence nestled by the seaside

Inside the Cathedral

The candle I lit for my much-wanted baby to
show him/her the way to my heart

When I look at my photos of Nice I see somebody I used to know. I don't, any longer, see me. I was not a mother then. I did not know grief. I was under the mistaken impression that I had finally come into the happiness and love that I deserved, and I was of the naive belief that there might be more to come.

Happily soaking up the sun by the pebbly seaside

I was so afraid when we left home for two months that something awful would happen to my loved ones while I was so far away. I never once considered that something more awful than I could ever have dreamed up for them would end up happening to me so soon after our return.

My darling Max is everywhere in my memories of this trip - the thought of him, the dream of becoming his mother. No wonder I look so happy.

In March 2011, on the trip of a lifetime, I contemplated the future. In March 2012 I contemplate it again, but with such different, indescribable emotions. 2012 is an empty year for me. I feel absence everywhere. It's in the expected places - the ache in my arms, for example - but in unexpected places too - the expression on my face, my aspirations. any plans I may have had for my future have been robbed of their meaning and possibility. I grieve for those things too - for the promise of a life of substance instead of the empty pleasures, which I feel will be the only kind I ever experience from now on.

One day I will go back to the Cathédrale Sainte-Marie and light a brighter, longer-burning candle to light the way back to me for my baby. I will find him there as easily as I will find him anywhere, for that is where the thought of him began. I hope my baby is resting in the light of his mother's hopeful smile there; that he knows nothing of the pain and heaviness of my heartbreak at his passing.

Contemplating life near the choppy waters of the Mediterranean Sea