Sunday 27 May 2012

Right Where I Am: 3 years, 8 months, 27 days

Last year, I hesitated. Between her birthday and the day that she died. This year, I don't. Today, it seems to be the death that is the more significant date, the 29th of August 2008.

***

One of my colleagues left work yesterday. Off to pastures new. He had the traditional British leaving do, a night at the pub followed by a curry.

I would have gone. I have enjoyed working with this competent, cheerful young man. I wish him well.

I explain to my husband. That I would have gone.  If circumstances had been otherwise.

'Why didn't you?' he asks.

Because I would have had a couple of beers. And then, inevitably, I would have got maudlin and melancholy. To be honest, I often get that way even without the assistance of beer. So I'm better in my inverse. A relief in my absence. As I often am these days.

And he doesn't contradict or reassure me. That it's ok. That I'm still good fun.
Because we would both know that would be a lie.

Right where I am, I'm not good fun. I suspect I won't be again. Too sensitive, exposed nerve endings trailing from my finger tips. 

***

It has been a beautiful, sunny day here. The green, lush trees and grass of the UK contrasted against the unexpected blue of a cloudless sky. The children splashed in the paddling pool (filled via bucket because of the hose pipe ban. Before you all dob me in to the authorities and get me a £1,000 fine for using a hose pipe. Bucket. I promise. M'kay?) The air smells of the boys next door's cigarette smoke and long ago teenage music festivals and someone in our neighbourhood sings Happy Birthday over a megaphone. I wonder if that is ironic given my reading matter but decide that I'm not clever enough to make that call. One of those words that the ill-educated probably shouldn't use.

I've been dipping in and out of the other posts here over the course of the day. Amidst the heat and the pool and the sharp sunlight. Reapplications of sun screen. Requests for juice. The removal of stones from Reuben's gummy jaws. I disappear from the garden, becoming only an echo in the wires. Visiting with my first child. I emerge with reddened eyes.

Although, even as I read, I'm aware that I am doing all of you an injustice.
Reading your words but unable to give them the full appreciation they deserve, that your children deserve.
Because surely I should stop, over every post. I should pray.
Or make something. With golden wires and intricate turning parts. Or carved from plain stone and smooth driftwood.
Or perhaps I should destroy something. Burnt offerings, smashed crockery.
A ceremony, a ritual, a mark, to make a mark upon the earth. That vain human wish.

I try to absorb all the details, the stories, the photographs, the love. I raise a fist to the sky (not literally as I am overlooked in my back garden and I'm too English for fist waving under the possibly observing eyes of my neighbours) and I cry. But what I leave with, is the love. It is the love that reddens my eyes. It is the love that makes me feel that surely all of this cannot be contained, cannot be entirely in vain, that our love reaches them, that it finds them. Because it seems to stream out of my computer screen, into this garden in the English suburbs. Where the sun is shining and a woman is crying quietly, so as not to draw attention to herself. Some peculiar and sad magic, bringing all that love into this small patch of ground, to this nondescript woman sitting on her square of lawn.

I'm relatively old here, in this corner of blog world. It is the love that keeps me here. For those achingly brief children of ours. The love that at once rips at the skin over my heart and wraps me up in the embrace that should have been theirs.

The love I have for my own daughter. A love that has no doubts, no reservations, no fears. So unlike the rest of my life. I doubt everything now, from my choice of sandwich filling to these words on the screen. I doubt myself, the bundle of failings and guilt that I so often seem to be.

But not her. Never her. There is no room for doubt when love and death follow so hard upon the heels of one another. It's now or never. And today I am reminded. Of that fearless, strong love. It runs through my readings of this project like a strong, steel wire at the core.

I still seem to need to witness, to listen, to echo. To, as Sally wrote so perfectly in a recent comment, to pay my respects. So here I am. Right here. Reading blog posts in this corner of the internet. Today. 3 years, 8 months and 27 days later.

Join in here

I've posted this song before but it is where I am, again, today.
Watching the flares travelling down the wires.

Some moments last forever but some flare out with love, love, love


41 comments:

  1. Catherine, you do such a lovely job of honoring not only Georgina, but all the babies gone too soon. I found myself reading the past two nights, wanting to honor and be present, but also trying to keep up as I got so far behind last year I missed many posts. But, yes, each does deserve a prayer or an offering or moment. The best I can find to do is to write comment (though so often ineloquent or inadequate). When I think of you, I never see the exposed nerves trailing, only the big, big heart.

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  2. I'm doing my best to keep up this year as well. Seems most of the world blogs while I sleep so I often feel overwhelmed when I wake up to so many new posts. But I am doing my best, as I feel each and every baby lost deserves that of me. This project really makes me want to give back, because I got so much from this community when she died. Such an invaluable safety net.
    xox

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  3. Catherine, you comment on everyone's posts. That is amazing. You don't just comment, you read and reflect. You are an amazing writer and support. I hope you know how much you give to this community, to the people here. I love the Mountain Goats, and this piece just beautifully captures this place of grief and love. Thank you for sharing it. xo

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  4. Thankyou for your presence, for raising your figurative fist to the sky, for your tears.

    And this.."A love that has no doubts, no reservations, no fears. So unlike the rest of my life. I doubt everything now, from my choice of sandwich filling to these words on the screen. I doubt myself, the bundle of failings and guilt that I so often seem to be"
    ..like you reached into my brain to describe the daily quandary I find myself in, that I have not been able to understand.

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  5. I agree wholeheartedly with Angie: you are an incredible writer and supporter of other mothers. I often wonder about the toll this might take on you...I can picture you in your garden absorbing the love of all of us for our children and then sending it back out, and I hope you know that when this kind of love refraction tires you out or overwhelms you, you can take a break and we will hold you up the way you have held all of us up.

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  6. exposed nerves and doubt, check and check.

    Beautifully written. It is the love, for our children and from our readers, that sustains us.

    much love to you in your warm garden

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  7. i always find myself quite honored when you leave a comment. i take your insights to be wise and your writing to be thoughtful. thank you for this piece. much love, and always remembering Georgina.

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  8. Such a beautiful post... your writing is amazing and so heartfelt. Thinking of you and love to you always xoxo

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  9. I feel the same as you ... trying to read posts by others by sneeking them in between a bottle feeding or dinner making. I feel as if I should read them in a more sacred manor, in quiet, alone. But that is not where I am and this is the best I can do. And I feel the love connection you speak of. It keeps me here too, even if less frequently than before.
    Reading and remembering with you.

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  10. Much love to your gigantic heart, and blowing kisses to the sky xoxoxo Love, Nan

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  11. I too feel honored when you leave a comment. You hold the words of others who have lost close just as you hold our babies in your heart. This is a beautiful post. I've been stunned by these posts, just as I was last year, and you've captured why so well. Remembering Georgina with you. Much, much love.

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  12. Your words are like liquid gold. Whether they are filled with longing, regret, love or questioning...the words are beautiful. The words themseleves are never enough because they can not give us back what brings us here...but they will have to do. I will take your tears umongst your garden and splashing children. I will hold your heart close to mine and reflect that they are broken but still beating.

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  13. Oh, Catherine. I love this post, love thinking of you in your garden, doing mommy things, doing babylost mommy things, holding onto the love. And I love the mirror you hold up to all of us, the way you recognize the love that's here, in with all the other things, always.

    And, of course, I'd go out for beers and a curry with you any time.

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  14. I love this, thank you so much.

    "The love I have for my own daughter. A love that has no doubts, no reservations, no fears. So unlike the rest of my life." I feel the same way - all of my other emotions and every other aspect of my life is tainted by some degree of uncertainty, complication or maybe lack of clarity, but my love for my twins is the most pure form of anything, really, I have ever known. Thanks for pointing that out.

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  15. You are so very lovely.

    Choices, planning, future. I find them similarly hard. Perhaps we need a self help group. I keep bumping up against things which are unexpectedly tricky. I am permanently surprised by them.

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  16. I hope to someday have the fearless undoubting love for my girl as you do for yours and be able to express that on a page so beautifully written. It is comforting to know there are people out there, no matter what corner of the blog world they are, that care to read and send love, prayer and belssings to others walking this path, to love thier children and share in the grief in some sence. We then know we are not alone in this. We are all loved and so are our children. Thank you.

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  17. Such a beautiful post, thank you for sharing where you are. You are a wonderful writer and your love for both your daughters resonates in every word. I love the Mountain Goats - that song is a perfect match for this post.

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  18. Thank you so much for commenting on my "Right where I am" post. Angie commented that you read and reflect on other mama's posts and I truly feel the same. You came to my post through a link, and yet your comment made me feel like you understood...you cared...you validated my deep sadness and my hope for my rainbow.

    There is no doubt to your love for your daughter that is no longer here in your arms and the love for the children that are. You can second guess sandwich fillings, skirt/blouse combos and anything else that seems somewhat important through out your days...but my GOD, it is quite obvious she is still a part of your every day <3

    Love to you and Georgina

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  19. Thank you for writing this! Thank you for thinking of all the baby loss mamas out there! Your words mean more than you can know. Beautiful post!

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  20. Catherine, you are such a beautiful soul, your writing is delicate but full of strength too.
    I'm struggling this year to keep up with all the posts, and like ou, I want to savour them, pay my respects, offer something..
    You are so right, there is so much love out there for all our children.x

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  21. Exposed nerves...I think they will always be present in some shape or form...it is clear you are filled with love for both your daughters...My rainbow was supposed to be a twin but at 14 weeks into my pregnancy we found out his twin was gone. While I know your loss was very different, I also felt connected to you because of that. My rainbow has 3 Heavenly siblings and I know they watch over him as I am SURE Georgina watches over her sister <3 THANK YOU FOR SHARING <3

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  22. Your writing is so eloquent as always and speaks right to me. I am always so worried that my thoughts and feelings are "normal" but this post just went straight to my heart because this is me. I avoid parties because I'm much better at home and in nature I feel a pull so strong to my daughter that I just know she is close. Much love to you and our girls.

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  23. I love that you are here. I find comfort knowing that you are here.

    Thank you for the insight and the images and the beauty and the love you bring to this landscape.

    xoxoxo

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  24. "I've been dipping in and out of the other posts here over the course of the day. Amidst the heat and the pool and the sharp sunlight. Reapplications of sun screen. Requests for juice. The removal of stones from Reuben's gummy jaws. I disappear from the garden, becoming only an echo in the wires. Visiting with my first child. I emerge with reddened eyes."

    I think for those of us with dead children life is always going to be the mundane and ordinary (and lovely too) punctuated by moments of great sadness and longing. I don't know that those moments of red-rimmed eyes amongst the laughing and splashing of life will ever go away completely.

    I'm glad you're here in blogland although I wish you weren't. You know what I mean.

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  25. I absolutely adore everything you write, ever and ever.

    When my husband was not my husband my father took him to dinner. My father tends to drink, a lot. He requested of C that, if ever when they're together my father should get maudlin, he punch my father in the face. I can't believe he still married me.

    This is my lineage and I know 'bout the drinking blues. But I'd share a pint or two with you and we could dry into them as much as we pleased. If only.

    Love to you, friend.
    xo

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  26. Catherine, I want to thank you for the lovely words you left on my blog today, making me feel so validated in my feelings and thoughts. I always need that.
    It seems that you and I share a lot in our stories. They are so much different, but we do know aching loss and the long NICU journey. I'm so sorry to hear of your sweet Georgina while I trumph with you over Jessica. The words you write here are so beautiful and so full of love and I just admire you for it. I absolutely love what you said about being too sensitive with exposed nerve endings... I feel that is thee perfect way to describe myself. On this journey, it is so comforting to read words that evoke a resounding "YES!" inside your head. To relate to someone else and not feel so alone in all of this. So again, I thank you for sharing your story with me and all that are blessed to have found you as well. <3

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  27. I have read the other comments and caught myself nodding along the way. Considering I had a long week and certainly not coherent anymore, I'll cheat and say: what the other said. All of them. Because that's how bloody awesome you are. Thank you. xo

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  28. I am here to pay my respects too. I wish I could do more, write more. I wish I had the magic words to ease the pain of living in a world without your child/children. I am sending peace, good thoughts and a hug since I do not have more at the moment. Thank you for sharing your beautiful post. Take care.

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  29. Sigh.

    Your words are so beautiful. I feel ill-equipped to comment because anything I write would just be babbling in comparison. Love to you and all your babes.

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  30. "The love that at once rips at the skin over my heart and wraps me up in the embrace that should have been theirs."

    This. I don't cry much anymore but I have spent the last few days with tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. This project has opened a deep seam of hurt and love in my heart.

    It's something I ALWAYS sense when I read here. You are so self-deprecating but the overwhelming feeling I get from your posts is your strong love and your beautiful mother heart (which isnot a feeling but an object but I know you'll understand!). You are so generous with it too - your mother heart pours out into all our blogs and I thank you for it.

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  31. This is such a beautiful post. Thank you so much for your sweet comment on my post. I'm so sorry for the loss of your Georgina <3

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  32. I feel that whatever I write would be so inappropriate and stupid. So I won't write anything in particular. Just THANK YOU!

    Thank you for sharing.

    Hugs
    Maria
    xxxxx

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  33. Your words are like liquid gold.
    (thanks, Renel)

    ..like you reached into my brain to describe the daily quandary I find myself in, that I have not been able to understand.
    (thanks, Via)

    you are an incredible writer and supporter of other mothers. I often wonder about the toll this might take on you...I can picture you in your garden absorbing the love of all of us for our children and then sending it back out, and I hope you know that when this kind of love refraction tires you out or overwhelms you, you can take a break and we will hold you up the way you have held all of us up.
    (thanks, Marchisfordaffodils)

    Much love to your gigantic heart
    (thanks, Nan)

    Catherine, you are such a beautiful soul, your writing is delicate but full of strength too.
    (thanks, Jeanette)

    I absolutely adore everything you write, ever and ever.
    (thanks, Mary Beth)

    Considering I had a long week and certainly not coherent anymore, I'll cheat and say: what the other said. All of them. Because that's how bloody awesome you are.
    (thanks, Skytimes)

    Your words are so beautiful. I feel ill-equipped to comment because anything I write would just be babbling in comparison.
    (thanks, car)

    It's something I ALWAYS sense when I read here. You are so self-deprecating but the overwhelming feeling I get from your posts is your strong love and your beautiful mother heart
    (thanks, Fireflyforever)

    I feel that whatever I write would be so inappropriate and stupid. So I won't write anything in particular. Just THANK YOU!
    (thanks, Maria)

    Without everyone else, I'm speechless. Lousy, but true.

    And I didn't even quote all the comments I wanted to...but it gets embarrassing.

    You know how I feel about you, CW of CWs,

    CiM

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  34. You write so beautifully. Paying my respects to you and Georgina <3

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  35. I would like to gently pay my respects too. I don't get around much anymore but it doesn't mean I've forgotten.

    This thread makes me want to write about Emma. And then I realise that her blog is gone and that I have finished. I worry that that is a disservice to her. That I thought a harmonica blog more important. But I need to write about the mundane I can't, couldn't, keep doing grief. Maybe commenting on your own wonderful writing best shows right where I am...

    Love,

    Emma's Daddy

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    Replies
    1. Hello Emma's Daddy.

      I miss your blog. I think of you when I read Jill's words and I know that Emma had two very special parents. I know you don't forget. You don't read to write to tell me, or anybody else, that you don't. We know.

      I think it is good that you are writing a harmonica blog. If I could play an instrument perhaps I would be better served writing about that. It isn't that another subject is *more* important, it is just another subject.

      C xo

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  36. I admire the time you take to stop by each post as it's something I wish that I could do but don't get the time to read and comment much as I used to. I know how much it means though to get love and support through comments. Thank you for sharing you heart and your love.

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  37. Your words are so beautiful. I cried as you describe so eloquently the love for these precious babies, the love for your sweet daughter, and the strength and confidence evident in your love. What a wonderful gift you give these babies and their parents - the attention that you give to their stories, the honor you pay to these children and families you have never even met. Thank you.

    Remembering your precious Georgina Jane.

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  38. No injustice done, none at all. You leave beautiful, thoughtful comments all over our little corner of the internet that I often read more than once just because they are so beautiful and thoughtful. You write here and give so many of us an outlet for our feelings that we are unable to summon up ourselves. You do a lot, dear, even if it doesn't seem that way to you.

    Now, I feel I do an injustice because it is so hard to get time at the computer to even comment lately, much less comments (or posts) of your caliber. But you? No, no injustices done. xx

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  39. "...surely all of this cannot be contained, cannot be entirely in vain, that our love reaches them, that it finds them..."

    Oh please. Please. Please.

    If it is true, if our words do reach them, Georgina must feel very special, very mothered, very loved. Your words are beautiful.

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