Realisations

I watched a cow give birth on Hope’s birthday yesterday. Well that is not exactly true. I probably missed the big event by a minute or two as I was busy cheese tasting at the time, as you do on your stillborn daughter’s second birthday.

We’d just finished sampling some of the finest cheeses from the region we were visiting when I looked down to what the farm/cheese shop owner had previously told us was the “moo-ternity” ward when I got a feeling about one of the cows. I noticed something white and stringy dangling from the rear end of one of the heavily pregnant cows, and pointed it out to the woman. She very casually said the cow had probably just calved and was waiting to deliver the placenta. Sorry for the visual there, but we've all been there – giving birth, that is.

She was right. There was a brand new calf on the ground that the mother cow was busily licking clean in what can only be described as the first moments of maternal loveliness, even if it was a cow I was watching.

But I started to think to myself move, little calf. Move. I waited for what seemed like an eternity, eyes fixed on the proud new mother, and by now whatever it was the cheese woman was babbling on about was starting to sound like static. Move, little calf, move.

Knowing full well that it is far more likely for Mother Nature to screw up and let a mother cow lose one of her calves during pregnancy, labour or birth, I realised seeing a stillborn calf was probably the last thing I needed on this already heavy and sombre day. Even if the cheese was delicious.

Eventually, the little calf moved its head. It was alive. The miracle of birth. Thanks very much, Mother Nature. Where the hell were you when I needed you this time two years ago, eh?

Realising seeing a dead calf would have been very bad news for me on second Hope’s birthday was not the only big reality check I had while we were away. Many little quirky things happened to us during the week, and amongst those moments, a few things became clear to me or at least, clearer.

Just because you've taken a road trip down the coast to a sleepy seaside town to mark the auspicious occasion of your dead daughter’s second birthday, it does not mean your family will be spared from further pain.

My poor sister’s dog died on Hope’s birthday. If my family gained nothing else from Hope’s death, it was a healthy dose of perspective, but this loss sucks none the less. The poor little dog was only one. Ate rat poison a week earlier. And they never noticed. Never noticed she ate it. Never noticed she got sick. Never noticed she was dying. And they didn't get her to the vet in time to save her life. It is very sad, and I’m so sorry for my sister and my brother in law who had to bring the dog home and later bury her on the same day he'd just stood at his dead niece's grave. Just insult to injury really. She was a cool little dog. But it speaks wonders of my sister that every time she brought it up, she made sure she said “it is ok, I’m more sad about Hope”. She even called to tell us about the dog in the car on the way to Hope’s grave. Interesting to note though more of her friends commented on her facebook update about the dog than they did on the one she had earlier written about Hope, but that is hardly surprising. Dead dogs are easier for people than dead babies. Nothing new in that.

I don’t really believe in signs, but we did get rained on quite heavily twice on her birthday while we were out sightseeing and trying to pass the day away. The believer-in-signs-and-miracles me would think “this was a sign from my missing daughter”. Hello, here I am, Mum and Dad. I am nature and I am beauty and I am all around. I am here, in the rain, kissing your cheeks, wetting your hair, showing you that I am never far, always close. But the cynic in me says: rain is just rain and we should just check the weather forecast more often and have less trust in it when they predict clear skies during the wettest winter we've had in many years. We should also plan our little sightseeing trips better and I should get fitter and stop above-mentioned cheese tastings so I can get my heavy, fat ass back to the car quicker to avoid being stuck in the rain in the first place. Simon was able to run carrying the baby, but I was barely able to shuffle carrying just my own weight.

On the same note, we also thought that because it was her birthday, we might get lucky at the whale viewing platform. After all, we were there at the right time of year and we’d been told that seeing a whale was pretty much a sure thing. I was pretty convinced we’d see one and that Simon and I would be able to steal a glance, know through the powers of reincarnation our daughter had manifested herself as a whale splashing about and having a whale of a time (oh puns, I love you) in the vast ocean, just to show us she was with us. That she was close. But alas, no whales for us. So the cynic in me wins out again. We did see a seal though. Just one. So who knows, maybe she was sending a sign after all. Who am I to say how things like that work? I really have no idea, but I'll take what I can get. As most of the time she just feels so gone. So very, very gone.

Sickness and injury does also not escape you just because you are grieving and remembering your daughter on the day she would have turned two. Simon had a dreaded case of ManFlu in the week leading up to her birthday, and on the day before her birthday, the two year anniversary of her death, I was also struck down with a case of the nasty bug and felt like utter crap the rest of the time we were away. Throw in a coldsore and a sty in both eyes, I was a miserable wreck and of course let Simon know about it every chance I could. He was a much better sport about his ManFlu than I was, I must admit.

Fear also continued to play a big part in the day and it is obvious to me now, it is never going to let up. I remember thinking on her birthday last year that Angus was just going to up and die on me in utero, just as Hope had done 12 months prior. I used my Doppler a lot on her birthday last year, as I was terrified August 18 and 19 were forever going to be marked as the day/s my children died. This year, with Angus safely here, things weren't a whole lot different. As we drove around the wet, soggy, dairy farming countryside, getting lost (although Simon will deny that) and arriving at restaurants hungry and frazzled, only to find they were shut (yeah, that was fun and enough to almost tip me over the edge of trying to hold it all together and not lose the plot completely), I must have turned around to check on Angus in the car seat 100 times. You know, because I'm sure sometimes babies just die sitting in car seats. He’s still rear facing, so we have a little mirror set up so I can see his face, and if I couldn't see obvious signs of breathing, I’d touch his head or put my hand in front of my face just to make sure. This is the sort of crazy that stillbirth brings to your life. The constant waiting for the other shoe to drop. The nagging fear of what is lurking in the shadows. The knowing how bad things can really get. Not just being scared of it, but actually knowing. Thankfully Angus got through the day unscathed. Rained on twice, yes, but he remained perfectly healthy and gorgeous as always. Even if he didn't nap as he should. Even if he did throw all his lunch on the ground at the second-choice lunch venue we ended up at.

When your daughter is stillborn in August, the dead of winter, it makes getting away for her birthday hard if you can only afford to travel local (because yes, money troubles don't leave you alone at this time of year either, as it would turn out). The weather was miserable. Beyond miserable. Cold, whipping winds blowing straight up off the Antarctic. Rain, rain and more rain and hail, thunder and plenty of killer storms. Sure, the weather matched our moods but when you’re staying in what can best be described as an extremely rustic holiday house, devoid of such modern pleasures like a TV, internet connection and central heating, it does make things tricky. It was of course better than being at home and on the couch watching the clock and waiting for the day to be over, but the trip was hardly relaxing and rejuvenating as I’d hoped.

I cringe at the naive, innocent and clearly never-having-travelled-with-a-small-child me who just last week uttered the words that I hoped I’d come home well rested and refreshed after the trip. Who the hell was I kidding?

As blessed as we are to have Angus here this year, when you have a baby who doesn't sleep well, they are certainly not going to sleep any better when they are away from home or just because it happens to be the birthday of the mysterious big sister he’ll never get to meet. It also doesn't mean he’s still not going to want to feed at midnight and 6am and be cranky for many of those hours in between. So yeah, I'm still tired.

We dutifully set up the port-a-cot when we arrived, first time out of the box after we purchased it as the former eager and excited versions of ourselves when pregnant with Hope, and he took one look at it, and gave us a look of “you've got to be kidding me, I'm not sleeping in that”. Angus slept in our bed the entire time, which of course isn't a big deal and I do enjoy it, but when he didn't do much actual sleeping, sprawled out diagonally between us, it did make it hard. The bed was of course also a far smaller and far less comfortable than our own, as is often the case when staying away from home, so I have certainly returned more tired and less rested than when I left.

While Simon and I made a concerted effort to get ourselves in holiday mode on the long and scenic drive along the coast, Angus didn't seem to get the memo that holidays are for resting and sleeping in, especially when such holidays are taken during this particular week in August.

It has become clear to me that trying to run away from our pain and our grief might not always be the best idea every time August rolls around. Last year, we vowed to make it a tradition to get away on her birthday, but when your wonderful family is back at home gathered around your daughter’s grave and having lunch without you, it does leave you feeling pretty ordinary and like a bit of a wimp. I think for now though, while her loss still feels so new to us (I wonder when it wont?), and while Angus (and any other siblings that come) are still little, getting away is still the right thing for us to do. When he’s a bit bigger and perhaps has a greater understanding of who this unorthodox big sister is and how she fits in to the family, maybe then we can stay home to spend her birthday with our family and friends and take him to visit her at her grave.

Trying to escape our pain by running away is a futile plan at best. Lesson learnt, if we didn't already learn it last year while lazing around in the much warmer northern part of our country – there is nothing you can do to make yourself feel better on the day. Getting away, staying home, baking a cake, not baking a cake, going to her grave, crying in your bed all day, having plans, or trying to wing it and go with the flow as we've now done two years running – all options fall way short when you think of exactly what you should be doing. What ifs haunt my every thought. The could haves, would haves and should haves taunt me each step I take.

We did get a lot of support on the day. I had set my expectations low, so I guess I was pleasantly surprised. There were people we did hear from when we didn't think we would and vice versa. We did hear from less this year than last year, and this year also didn't have the grand feeling about it that her first birthday did, but none of that was really surprising. In some ways it was much easier. At 4.35pm I was just stepping out of the shower, then I breastfed Angus. Last year we'd been fretting how to spend the exact moment of her birth all day, but this year, with being so busy to tending to each and every one of Angus' needs, that moment on the clock really just passed by like any other. But in other ways, this year was a billion times harder and when I really stop to think about it, I can see it getting a little bit harder every year. Yes, even with Angus here. Yes, even if we are blessed to welcome other living children. And yes, I feel like a right shit for saying that, especially when I think of those who haven’t yet been as lucky as us, and might not ever be.

As the messages and texts piled up in our inbox, all full of words and thoughts so carefully constructed with such heartfelt grace, it made me think - I don’t want to play anymore. I want off this ride. This is not what I want to do on August 19 for the rest of my life. It isn't fair. I don’t want messages of condolence. I don’t want people to be thinking of me. Thinking of her. Lighting candles. Leaving flowers at her grave. Making donations. I just want her back, damn it. I just want a regular birthday party for a regular little girl. I just want her back.

Two years. It does still feel like yesterday. The missing is getting oppressive. It really is dawning on me just what forever really means. I’m overwhelmed. I really don’t want to do this anymore. Who ever said time heals was lying, I am sure of it.

I feel like dead baby road kill. Everyone stopped and got out of their cars to check on us when she first died. Many did on again her first birthday. Now the bare minimum only slow down and give a cursory glance as they cruise off in to the sunset of their happy, shiny, non-babylost lives. I just want back on that ride. I want that old life back. I really, truly do not want to do this anymore. I am done. Finished with it. Over it.

My heart feels heavy. It is sitting like a lead weight at the bottom of my chest cavity. The build up this year wasn't as bad. The day itself was bearable enough despite rain, getting lost and lunch plans gone awry. And so far, just 24 hours later, on the two year anniversary of when I walked out of that hospital without her, limp, empty arms at my side, I am surviving the crash and thump back down to reality as we surge forward in to year three. But I still just miss her.

I guess that’s the biggest realisation, and it is hardly an earth-shattering one or something that had never dawned on me before now. It is that the missing goes on. The longing continues. Grief walks with you and never leaves you the hell alone. And the wishing for things to be different never, ever stops no matter where you are or what you’re doing on their birthday or any day for that matter.