Footprints

Tanned, relaxed, recharged, (not pregnant, because I know a lot of you were dying to hear) and still unshakably melancholy; I am back.

This holiday was just what we needed, but yet we return home and we feel just the same.

It was probably better than I thought it would be, and I say that with some hesitancy. I feel I can only tell the fellow bereaved that I had a good time because they know, they truly know that by having a good time, it does not mean I am even one inch healed. Far from it.

I think I only cried once. Or maybe twice. The first time being on the phone to my mum, on the evening of the 19th, Hope's six month "birthday" or "anniversary" or whatever it is we get to call it when my period decided ever so kindly to show up and rain all over my happy holiday buzz parade.

We'd had such a great day that day, and I'd decided to let go and hope, just a little. Despite the fact it was another 19th, it was six months on, it didn't dampen my mood or weigh too heavily on my mind. It was just another day. All days are equally hard as they are all spent without her. We took an early flight to Hawaii's Big Island to see the volcanoes. I figures seeing real, active volcanoes was as good a way as any to spend such an auspicious day. At one point on our bus tour, we were warned to stay in the bus if we had several particular health complaints, or if we were pregnant, because of the dangerous levels of harmful gasses in the air.

I thought to myself "well I just could be, maybe I should stay on the bus". I looked at Simon, he knew what I was thinking, but I got out of that bus, thinking surely if I was, just five minutes looking at these amazing, smoldering volcanoes couldn't hurt me or that tiny life ever so possibly developing within. Well stupid me, there was no life in there to begin with. Oh I was crushed, but given that it happened early in week one, I tried to not let it ruin the rest of the trip.

We spent most of our time in Waikiki. A few days was enough to get the real gist of that place. We were hassled daily on the streets with pushy vendors offering us cheap tickets for luau ceremonies and tacky sunset cruises. Funnily, most assumed we were on our honeymoon. "Hey honeymooners!!!!" I would hear them yell out. Oh, if only they knew. Funny how they also seemed to know we were Aussies without even hearing us open our mouths. Do we look funny or something? Well as one rude hotel staff member pointed out, he suggested we don't speak English when I tried to ask him to book a cab for us. Dick.

We visited the stunning islands of Maui and Kauai and were blown away by just how breathtakingly beautiful they were. We really didn't have much of an idea what those two islands had to offer when we booked our flights and hire cars there, but we were ever so pleasantly surprised in many more ways than one.

Simon handled driving on the WRONG (not the right) side of the road and we completed the majestic Hana Highway on Maui, stopping for fresh fruit and coconut candy all along the way. Me, hanging out the window feverishly snapping photos where I could, because it wasn't always safe to stop on the sometimes tiny, one lane highway.

And on Kauai, we were rendered speechless by the magnificent Waimea Canyons (who needs to go to that other Canyon?) and the huge and imposing Na Pali Coast. And the small hippy, surfing communities where we enjoyed great food, real Hawaiian hospitality and some of the most stunning beaches I have ever seen (and this is coming from a proud Australian, and I think WE have the best beaches in the world) were just perfect places to spend our days and to watch the time slowly tick by.

Back on the island of Oahu, we were able to take a few trips to visit beaches on the famous North Shore, where we just sat and watched the surf and watched the ever so brave surfers tackle her mighty waves, we trekked out to Waimea Falls and marvelled at the beauty of the sparkling, rain forest gardens, and we summoned up all our energy to climb up Diamond Head Crater to get a look out over busy, kitschy but charming Waikiki.

We visited Pearl Harbour, ate shrimp (although now that I'm home I can call them prawns again) off more shrimp trucks that I dare to count and Simon tasted beer from some of America's finest microbreweries and put a serious dent in his "yet to try" beers list.

It was a great holiday (and yes that word confused you Americans, we don't say vacations) but yet we still return home feeling so empty.

For two whole weeks, even though I ached with her loss as I have done every day for these past months, I did not get to speak her name. I did not get to share my daughter like other parents do. For all the many thousands of people we passed on the streets. No one knew. This is both comforting and disheartening all at once. I liked the anonymity yet I felt like a stranger in my own skin. How could no one know? Surely that gaping hole in my heart is obvious? Surely they can see the sadness etched upon my now changed face. Surely they can't think that belly and those thighs just came from one too many cheeseburgers?

It started early in the trip. Like arriving at the airport the same time as a family - Mum, heavily pregnant, Dad, little girl, maybe two, just, and his parents (I can only assume they were his as they looked alike and she was African and this older couple were not). And in the end it turned out I was right because I do love to eavesdrop.

They ended up sitting in front of us on the plane. The little girl, for most of the hour trip to Sydney (before we had to board a new plane bound for Honolulu) was sneaking little peaks at Simon and I through the cracks in the seats. We were playing a charming game of peakaboo with her, little did her mother know. She was such a gorgeous little thing. Beautiful dark skin, soft dark curly hair and such a bright smile. So small too, with her Mum well on the way to bringing baby number two in to the world. How lucky she was able to fall pregnant again so quickly, I just thought to myself. Oh why not me? Eventually her Mum did see that Simon and I were playing fun little games with that girl and she smiled at us a few times. Probably like most, thought we were on our honeymoon. Probably thought we looked like a lovely young couple who would soon welcome new life in to this world.

Then at Sydney Airport, waiting to check in for our next, long-haul flight, I heard her talking to another Mama in the line, with her little girl, maybe four years old. They got to have that conversation only real mothers have, where babies are present and real and you can see them. They were chatting, comparing notes, exchanging thoughts and tips, while I could only listen on. This little girl from the plane, her name was Angel. Little Angel. Oh how I wanted to join in. I wanted to tell them about my girl. About my Hope Angel. I wanted to join in and be a real mother with them. But I could only listen and look at them with sad eyes, as I continue to sit on the sidelines and wait. Wait to become a real mother where my motherhood is tangible and obvious. Not hidden beneath the sadness of my eyes and the heaviness of my heart.

As it turns out, this family was on our flight again on the way home. They recognised us, and shared a few smiles with us throughout our almost full day journey to finally make our way home. As quiet as little Angel was on her flight over to Hawaii, on the way home, she was anything but. Oh how little Angel cried on the flight, and they were sitting right over from us. They took it in turns to hold her. Mum, now a further two weeks pregnant, and obviously so, Dad, grandma, then grandpa. Then I noticed the other pregnant woman behind us. Sitting in the middle seats, she asked if the two people next to her could be moved so she could put her feet up, as she needed to keep them elevated to stop them from dangerously swelling. Of course, the flight attendants buzzed around and fulfilled her wishes because who would say no to a woman 32 weeks pregnant (yes, I did more eavesdropping to find out these details). I watched this woman who while she looked tired, grumpy and uncomfortable tenderly stroke her belly. I saw her steal glances with her husband and look across at sweet Angel in her mother's arms and think "In just two months, that will be me". I saw that glimmer of hope and excitement in her eyes, that just six months ago was so brutally snuffed out in mine. I heard others on the plane talk to her with that same excitement that people used to use when they spoke to me.

She complained of her swollen ankles and fingers, but then someone said it, "but it will all be worth it". Oh yes, it will all be worth it they all echoed. All the while, me just sitting there, dying inside.

Turns out Hawaii just served up landmine after landmine for us when it came to trying to escape our shitty reality. Turns out Hawaii is a VERY popular place for new, young families to take holidays. So many families and I shit you not, so many baby girls. I know I probably notice them more, but my god, they were every where. And most seemed to be that age somewhere between three and 12 months. And all I could think was "she was pregnant at the same time as me, and look what she got, and look what I got. She got her baby girl, I got shit pie". Seems like Hawaii is also a REALLY popular place for nice young couples to take that one last trip before baby arrives. The babymoon, as it were. We took one of those too, you know. We did that. Squeezed in that last trip. Strutted around led all the way by my bulging belly that we so tenderly stroked and talked to. So many huge baby bellies, staring me in the face. Many of them covered up by not much of a bikini, so out there, so beautiful. So not me, although sometimes I wondered with all this new weight I'm carrying, if some people go the wrong idea with some of the floaty, summer dresses I was wearing. I was sure I was going to get "that" question at some point. Sucking my stomach in became incredibly tiring in the end.

Then there was the one on our last day. Proud Mama crossing the street, proud Dad already pushing a pram with one in it and her t-shirt read "BABY" with a huge arrow pointing down to the huge bulge holding her sweet child within. No, REALLY?

I gave out many sad eyes on this trip, but I saved my best for her. I have always thought those shirts are a bit naff anyway, but this one just made vomit rise up in my throat. I said to Simon as we safely made our way past this major landmine, "did you see that?" "Oh yes" he was nodding before I'd even had a chance to finish my question. I just look at him and say why? How? How did we get here? Why did this happen? Why is this our life? I still awestruck and dumbfounded with the disbelief. I am still so numb.

So many times I wanted to share my Hope. I guess on any holiday you make conversation with all sorts of different people from all corners of the globe and all walks of life. Over breakfast at the hotel. On a bus trip to somewhere, anywhere. At a bar over beers (or as it were a juice for me, as I still could not allow myself to give in and even enjoy ONE drink - that's just the control freak in me thinking if I DON'T it will somehow make it easier), just anywhere and everywhere. Then it finally happened. With an older Japanese man at breakfast, who barely spoke a word of English.

"You look..... ahh, young," he says.

"Yes. Me, I'm 29. Simon - 30. Yes, we are young."

"Oh. My son. He born 1973."

"Yes, we were both born 1979, so he's six years older."

The conversation muddled along. We asked if he was travelling alone. He said his wife was upstairs. Then he asked if we were travelling alone. We said yes, even though the soul of our dead daughter was with us at every wave, every waterfall, every greasy cheeseburger indulgence.

"So no son or daughter?" he said.

"No", Simon exclaimed, before I'd even had time to drudge out my well rehearsed but only sometimes-used sorry-ass and downright sad speech.

I guess this is one of those times that you learn about the whole "men and women grieving differently thing". I said to Simon on the way back up to our room "why did you say no, why didn't you open a can of dead baby on his sorry ass?" and he just said it would have been too hard and too sad and he barely spoke English and he really just didn't have the energy with only one pissweak shitty hotel coffee with only shitty non-dairy-creamer off it under his belt. (Seriously, non-dairy creamer - what the hell is with that?)

So two weeks passed, and we did not speak her name to anyone. There was another family on our bus tour to the volcanoes. Perfect family. Mum, Dad, one boy, one girl. My little dream family that lives only deep within my shattered heart. I tried to engage with these kids, and the Mum a few times, but she was giving me nothing, so overprotective was she of her two offspring. Quite frankly, she really pissed me off. We were given shell leis on the tour but I didn't really want mine and I could see the little girl didn't have one, so I offered her mine. The Mum said that's ok, she already got one (but she was obviously not allowed to wear it because oh I dunno, maybe it was a choking hazard or something - how the fuck would I know, as I clearly know nothing as to her I was clearly not a mother, just some young thing out enjoying an indulgent holiday). I wanted to tell this Mother that I was a Mother, too. And that maybe she should loosen the fuck up. I sat and stared at my phone for a while, with Hope's lovely little photo on the screen saver beaming back at me. I wanted her to glance over my shoulder and see, I wanted her to say "Oh my, what a beautiful baby, is she yours". So many times I wanted to share her. So many times I wanted others to know why that sadness is deep within my eyes, but each and every time, I had to hold back.

Is this going to be my life now? It has only been six months, yet already I feel I have to keep so much of her away. So much of her memory, her legacy has been packaged up, bundled away and it has only been a mere six months. I have many (hopefully) long years ahead of me. I know new children (if they will ever hurry up and grace me with their presence) will add a new dimension to things, but right now, there is so much screaming at me that I need to somehow move forward, and get on with things, yet I still feel so horribly stuck.

The trip was amazing. I do feel so torn saying that. But I know you will understand. Especially those of you who have just recently taken post babyloss holidays yourselves. We left no stone unturned. We travelled the way we always travel - pushed every day to the limit. Up early, days full, to bed late utterly exhausted but thrilled with all we had immersed our senses with. We're not very good "lie on the beach and sip cocktails all day kinda people". We did that for a week of our honeymoon in Malaysian Borneo, we really like to make the most of things and treat each destination as if we'll never be back. To really make the most of things.

We did make the most of things. We made the most of what is now such an insipid existence for us both.

We laughed, we ate way too much food, we got seriously awesome tans and did not get burnt in the process (hallelujah for Hawaii still having an Ozone Layer), we shopped for hideous amounts of crap we really don't need with my favourite purchase being a pair of pajamas that say "if life hands you lemons, squirt them in people's eyes". We laughed and marvelled at another new culture, not yet experienced on our travelling adventures. We fumbled our way through tipping etiquette. We found it amusing that Americans eat their salad before a meal and not with the meal and that one can have SO many dressing choices for one little salad. We ordered cheap Chinese and ate it on our balcony as the sunset. We marvelled at real, live humpback whales swimming ever so close off the coast of Maui. We sunbaked and swam in the ocean each and every day. We soaked it all up and took it all in.

We did so many wonderful things. All without her. We will always do everything without her. How is it even possible that I'm able to have and then openly admit I had anything that even remotely resembles a good time without her. It is truly astounding. But the Human Spirit is a wonderful thing and that thing called time, just keeps dragging me along, even though I tried so hard to dig my heels in to the soft, Hawaiian sand.

So I'm back to my new reality today, with a heavy heart (and a god damned nasty cold, made worse by planes, airports and stupid transiting, and its the first I've had in a long time, because I didn't so much as get a broken finger nail when pregnant). I know I will soon slip back in to my old ways. Blogging. Reading blogs. Emailing the last remaining few who have not yet forgotten about me and who are still patient enough to put up with my woes and the desperate aches from my broken heart. Today I committed myself to reading each and every post I missed for two weeks, and as of about an hour ago, I have succeeded. I felt like a school kid all over again. Or back to my journalism days with a deadline looming. I know I didn't have to finish reading them all today, but I felt I owed it to you all, as you have all been there for me, and I wanted to be there for you. I might not have had time to leave love and comments for you all, but be sure not a word of yours was missed.

I missed a lot while I was away. Dairy products. Vegemite. Real bread. Vegetables. Reliable internet access. My dog. My couch. Your words.

But mostly as always I just missed her. As much as we were able to outrun all our woes, even for the briefest moments, I just plain missed her, in ways I will never truly be able to articulate.

Nice to be back. I hope you're happy to have me back. And so with that I leave you with our footprints on the shores of Waikiki beach. And after taking it, I couldn't help but notice the footprints in between ours, the footprints that will never be. The footprints however, that have tread all over our souls.