Dreams

Grief is inescapable. You can try and hide from it and sometimes you may even succeed. Eventually though, it will track you down and find you. It's a very good detective.

It is there in the morning when I lift my eyes to a new day, it bids me good night when emotional fatigue takes over. Sometimes, it even finds its way into my dreams.  Sly isn't it?

I've had a few lovely dreams of Hamish where I get to hold him, kiss him and cuddle him. I remember one in particular, where I'm pretty sure I spent the whole dream covering him in kisses. My dreams of Hamish are beautiful and the euphoric feeling when I first see him is overwhelming.  It's like the reality was a bad dream, not the other way around.

Unfortunately, all of my Hamish dreams have the same ending. They all finish with my son dying again. Always peacefully. It's like he eventually just goes to sleep and never wakes up. I cannot describe the utter devastation I feel every time this happens. It's like I got the golden ticket and just when I think life is going to end up roses, it is snatched away from me.

I understand why it happens this way. I guess it's to prepare me for my waking reality. It's designed to allow me to process gently that this is just a dream and not reality. I will not wake to his adorable face and his infectious laugh. I will be not able to touch his smooth skin, or inhale his  baby boy scent in real life.

It's cruel but I'm always thankful give for the opportunity to be with him again, even if it's only in my confusing subconscious.

In one of my dreams, Hamish spent a lot of the time looking at a towering clock. The hands of the clock kept moving but not in a linear fashion. The time moved without rhyme or reason and his sky-blue eyes were fixed on the hands. I was getting upset that he was staring at the clock rather than at me, but I knew it was because he had to go and he was waiting for the right 'time'.  Upsetting. Yes, extremely.

In an earlier dream, Hami told me in baby babble that his ears no longer hurt (he had a middle ear infection on the day of the accident).  For some reason, I knew exactly what he said and I expressed gratitude he wasn't in any pain.

I'm grateful for my dreams, another chance to be with my son in an alternate reality. It will never take the place of the real thing, but I'll take whatever I can get. Sometimes, I beg for a 'Hami dream' when I feel desperately low and crave him.  Sometimes I am rewarded, sometimes I am not. I'll keep asking.

Perhaps since Hami passed away, I've become more aware of my dreams because even if they aren't about Hamish, they are significant.  I find they are clearer, more defined, vivid and startling. I know 'before' I didn't think about my soul, my purpose or the unseen. Perhaps now I'm more 'tuned in' to that aspect of life. The unrealised has pushed its way in and I'm being forced to explore it, allowing me to live my life more 'aware'.

My new reality hurts, it always will. But with this new reality comes an altered sense of self, an ability to look beyond what's in front of me, and a sense of purpose that comes from such intense loss.  I don't know what it all means yet, but I've opened myself to all possibilities and I'm giving myself permission to move forward in the direction of my new life. The signs are there, now its up to me to put one foot in front of the other, and discover. Perhaps, I'm allowed to have new dreams. The hands of time will tell.

Thanks for listening.

Hands of time

We reached six months on Saturday. I tried to tell myself that this day was no different to the one before it. Nor was it different to the one after it. Without even trying, it was. The tears were flowing all day. I was unable to escape the inevitable sorrow the day brought. My mind was muddled. Despite having scheduled activities with our children all day, I find myself getting lost, losing track of time and then, while standing on the side of the netball court watching my daughter, surrounded by lots of other parents, feeling overwhelmed and very alone. It was a small moment, but I was acutely aware of my position, how I felt at that moment, how my life had changed, and how broken I would always be.

Hami's hand in mine

Nobody that morning knew my feelings. I contained them perfectly and was even able to cheer on my daughter from the sidelines, but they were there. They are often there beyond a composed exterior. Sometimes I wonder how on earth I managed to conceal them so effectively. I think I'm getting better with practise. My friend Jodie, mentioned this to me this morning. She said, "that pain will always be there, you'll just get better at hiding it." So true.

I know I'm getting better at 'life'. I have started to tackle bureaucracy. Nothing special, just the ordinary bureaucracy that comes with living in a modern world. Since Hamish left us, things have been neglected in that area, and I'm striving to be back on top of them. As I've discovered the world isn't overly understanding when  it comes to things like money and paperwork. There are certain things that will always need to be done regardless of what you are going through. The world has the audacity to keep turning, always.

Today though, my world stopped. Just for a little while. Donna from Twinkle Toes came to deliver Hami's castings of his hands and feet. The lovely Kat, from Hannah's Foundation, organised for Donna to do the castings after Hami had passed away. Such a gift. Beautiful little hands and feeds, unique lines and prints belonging to a treasured and precious little boy. These little castings were not only beautifully framed but at Kat's request, Donna made us extra ones to hold. I cannot explain the emotions I felt as I cradled his little hand in mine. I'll try.

The real thing at just six weeks. 

I examined every line, every crevice in that little hand. I tried to remember what it felt like in real life. It's warmth, it's beauty. I shut my eyes, ignored the coldness of the casting and imagined all of the things those little hands did in just 20 short months. The sand they dug, the crayons they held, the food they threw. They were beautifully busy little hands, capable of mischief, capable of tenderness. Soft, silky, mine. Fresh and new.

These little gold hands cannot replace the real ones, but every now and then, I will hold them in my own and remember the magic and they mayhem they were responsible for.

Oh, Hamish, today my heart aches, truly aches with grief for everything you were, everything you now are. I will never recover. I can only march on, with you always in my heart, my mind. Your soul is eternally entwined in mine.

I love you.

Thank you for listening.

Wearing

Hamish is consuming a lot of my head space, as usual. Along with the painful pining, I find myself putting Hamish in almost every situation.  If I’m driving in the car, I imagine him dancing to a upbeat song on the radio, his chubby arms bouncing up and down in time, chuckling with delight. When I’m dishing up dinner, I imagine putting a plate before him. “Dot (hot)?” he would ask. “No Hami, not hot, it’s OK,” I would reply. Despite my reassurance, he would puff excessively to ensure it was cool before digging in with gusto. Tonight, as I called the kids to dinner, I imagined him calling them as he did, in the most adorable way, “Din-NAH!”.  I imagine the extra noise, the extra cuddles, the heart-melting smiles, the additional joy.

I see his face in every curly-haired toddler on the street. I find myself straining to hear them, study their expressions and absorb their laughter. Desperately seeking Hamish.

I miss him more at this moment than I can possibly describe; it’s hard to breathe through the sobbing. Oh, to run my fingers over his skin, through his hair, kiss his lips. Grief is cruel, excruciating and although most of the time I live with the dull ache of loss, sometimes the pain is sharp, like a literal knife through the heart. Like tonight. It hurts. A lot.

As time marches on, I’m aware that my ongoing grief is exhausting to read, even a little bit boring, I imagine. I understand that, I do. There’s only so much one can say to a grieving mother whose pain never ends, there’s only so much one can do.  There’s only so much I can say, I can write, I can be. Whatever that is, whatever grief I write of, whatever way I behave, the grief remains ever-present, underlining every action, every word, every look. “There’s the woman who lost her little boy,” I imagine people whispering to each other. Whether they do or not, I don’t know, but I suspect they do.  

My identity has morphed into the mother who lost. The one who looks lost, feels lost and is acting her heart out on a daily basis. Hand me a freaking Oscar right now, and while you’re at it, hand it to every other grieving parent who is trying to live, to make sense out of the horror, to live some kind of 'normal' life.

Except we will never be normal.  In fact, I've redefined the word 'normal'. My new normal is to  be better than the person I was before. I'm striving to kinder, to give more, complain less, all in the name of my son who was taken from life far too soon. My new normal is understanding that sometimes, despite all my efforts, I have to be content with just 'being'.  My new normal involves talking to Hamish every day, sometimes in my head, sometimes out loud. It's my way of living through the pain. My son has not ceased to exist, he can't be seen, but he can be sensed, felt. I am using my senses like never before.

I try so hard to feel the light every day, even on the darkest days. I take deep breaths, I revel in the love of my family, I smile and laugh with friends, I write with fervour. I do it all, but as the day wears on, the grief starts to wear me. I slip in on early evening and can’t seem to take it off as the night moves on.  When my bed finally calls me, I'm exhausted and I give into its request. 

My psychiatrist has asked me to distinguish between writing for relief and writing for therapy. That some things need to be written and are not for public consumption. This is a particular therapy designed for those with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.   I need to write details, hard, boring details, revisit the accident, the horror, the worst day of my life and relive it over and over again. The theory is, that by doing so, the worst is eventually able to be faced. That the agony it brings, fades with repetition.  I’m yet to try it. I’m scared of the trauma will flatten me, that I will not be able to function, to care for my kids. Mostly, I’m scared of the pain.  I know it will almost unbearable. Almost. 

Anyway, that’s enough rambling for one night. My eyes are sore and puffy and my bed is calling my name.

Good night.

Thanks for listening,

Speaking

Speaking in public is a common phobia, but it is the only thing I've ever felt good at. I'm not sure why? I think its partly to do with an innate need to impart passion, to share, to prompt interaction. I'm a very social being, always have been, and perhaps public speaking is another opportunity for me to connect, to share, to make a difference. It may be one word, a sentence or a paragraph; you never know when it may make a difference to someone. Equally, you never know when you may meet someone who turns your world, giving it a much needed spin, not unlike the wheel of fortune.

Despite my vulnerable and unreliable emotional state, I agreed to speak at the Digital Parent's Conference in Sydney last month. It's not something I would normally shy away from; another chance to meet, interact, to learn. My husband asked me to think about it, considering that some days I wake up barely able to breathe without my son, let alone speak about the ravine of loss I live with every day.

I didn't stop and think for a single second.

Another chance to speak about Hamish, to say his name, speak of his ravishing soul, his unspeakable beauty. Of course I would speak. Why wouldn't I take the biggest podium, on the biggest stage, if it meant honouring Hamish?

I keep forgetting I need to take care of myself. That I'm not whole. That I have a major emotional deficiency, that my loss is almost larger than myself. I lost my child. My sweet, beautiful Hamish. Perhaps it is simply enough that I rise, I sustain my own life and the lives of my family, and then I slumber, albeit with vivid and startling dreams.  But I can't live like that, even with the depth of agony that such loss entails. I need people. I need them like I need air. I need to see them, speak to them and touch them. I need to feel the love inside someone's arms. That's what sustains me. Connection. Any old human connection.

I woke to my alarm at 2.20am to drive to Brisbane so I could catch the 5am flight to Sydney. I tried to rest on the plane, but the words I was about to speak were dancing around my head and my feet drummed in time on the floor of the plane, probably to the annoyance of the man sitting next to me. I felt strange. I had donned a conservative dress and black patent heels. I'm not sure why I felt the need to look professional?  First and foremost I am a grieving mother, should I give a rat's what I wear?

Photo courtesy of Fe at Lumsdaine Photography

I arrived in Sydney and took a long, deep, breath. First stage complete. I had successfully woken, driven and flown to my destination. I was doing OK. No tears, no breakdowns. I was in control. To the outside, I was a professional woman on her way to a meeting, not a grieving mother desperate to honour her son and speak of how writing her grief had helped her live to that point. I hopped into a taxi and made small talk all of the way to the conference. An hour. He had no idea either. I had successfully fooled more people. I was getting very good at my wearing my mask of composure. It fit me well.

Once at the Conference, I snuck in and took a seat at the very back. No need to draw attention; a safe place to sit, take stock and gather my wits. Who knows what I would face, who I would see, what I would feel compelled to say?  My experience with bloggers is that they are an intelligent lot, very friendly, supportive of each other (check out twitter if you need assurance). I am in awe of some of them. What I wouldn't give for some of their voracious wit, talent for aesthetics and their command of the blogging genre?

I was here to talk about 'blogging through adversity' with two awe-inspiring bloggers Tiff from Three Ring Circus, Lori from RRSAHM, moderated by Grace from With Some Grace.  Beautiful souls all three of them. The mutual love was instantaneous. I'm starting to think grief is instantly recognisable, despite the incredible facade we sometimes wear.

It all went well. I didn't get through the hour without sobbing. I knew it would happen and I was OK with it. Above all, I wanted to impart the message that I survived because I wrote. I wrote the numbness, the horror, the trauma and the pain. But more importantly I wrote the love, the joy, the memories and the blessedness. I am not cursing the universe for the immense suffering, I'm praising the Heavens that I held the sweetest little boy in my arms for just over 20 months. Twenty beautiful months. Those months were a privilege, an honour. An honour I will hold in my heart forever.

I learnt from the wisdom of two incredible, inspiring women. Thank you Tiff and Lori for giving me hope, for sharing my pain and for allowing me the privilege of your words.  I tried to sit and listen for the rest of day but my head was starting to throb and I was conscious that I was speaking again in the evening at the 'Mother Tongue' session. I was reading out my piece that recently won the 'Parenting Express My Child Short Story Competition' called 'Honouring Hamish' in the evening.  I held on. I spoke to many others who were exceptionally eloquent in their support for Hamish and I. I spoke to people who couldn't look at me without bursting into tears. I even reassured one blogger, who broke down in front of me.

Photo courtesy of Fe at Lumsdaine Photography

It was an exhausting, draining day.  It was also successful. I connected. I met beautiful souls and I got to utter my son's name hundreds of times. It was a good day.

Lori's writing talent is gob-smacking, as is her generosity. A beautiful human spirit. She wrote this post. For me. Imagine my surprise, my amazement at her stunning words...

http://www.rrsahm.com/2013/04/for-rachel/

It was a wonderful reflection for me. She captured my state that day with startling accuracy. She read me. Like a book. Lori knows grief and she knew mine. Thank you for being there for me, for keeping me upright at the end, when I felt spent.

I will continue to accept these challenges, should they cross my path. The Digital Parents Conference feels like a badge of honour. I grew a little bit more, despite living in the shadow of grief and I'm determined to keep going. I am determined to live with Hami's name on my lips, to allow the words to rain down when they start to well and live the life of an activist, not a victim. On the good days at least.

Thanks for listening,




PS. Much love to Brenda Gaddi and Maria Tedeschi for looking after me at the Conference. xxx

Ocean

The ocean is an excellent analogy for grief. The ebbs, the flows, the currents, the rips. How sometimes you can immerse yourself in its wonder, appreciate its salty beauty and allow it to gently lap at you. How other times, without warning, you find yourself in a dangerous rip, struggling, moving perilously away from shore.

This week, I was in a rip, flailing, panicking that I was once again losing my grip on life. I am writing my tribute to my son, to the overwhelming love and peace he gave me. But I also needed to write the worst and when I emptied the bucket full of pain onto the page, I found myself in darkness, the air, thick, black and heavy.  I went back to breathing in short, shallow breaths. I had a day when I could only lie in bed and sob. The writing contributed which in retrospect I feel probably was a good thing. There's no point hiding from the overwhelming pain and horror, I'm guessing that eventually, it will find you and scare the living daylights out of you.


We also had another marker. Six months. Six months since I stroked his skin, kissed his lips and heard his voice. Six months since I lost the little soul who gave me sanctuary, respite, and allowed me to feel overwhelming love. Six months. A lifetime and a blink of the eye. Six months since I was whole.  Six months since I lost my child. Hamish. Sweet, beautiful Hamish. (I love you baby).

Since the loss, I've also gained. Discoveries, insight, spiritual certainty. I've discovered new strength in the written word, I've discovered the beauty of humanity, along with the depth of human pain and I've discovered that as human beings, we can be resilient, if we fight.   I've learnt that love really is all we need (it's not just a cliche). I know that we don't stop existing after we die, that there is an afterlife.

How do I know?

I feel Hamish. He comforts me at different times.  I receive strength when I thought my bones had turned to water, I gain insight when I wonder if my head can be any more muddled, I see beauty on the darkest days. Some may say, 'oh, well that's the meanderings of a grieving mother'. They may be right.
They may be wrong. But I feel my son.

One afternoon, when I couldn't bare to go on a single minute. When the wave of grief not only crashed over me but pulled me under, I lay on the bed, a mere shadow of a woman. I was spent from sobbing, I was so tired, so extremely tired of living with an excruciating level of pain on a daily basis. I heard the rest of my family outside my bedroom door. Racked with guilt, I went to rise from my bed. But I stopped. I felt a firm hand on my forehead and I immediately relaxed. I let my head sink into the pillow, and I found relief in sleep. I slept deeply and solidly for two hours. I woke, not cured, but a little lighter.

There are other signs. I found a feather on our internal staircase on a particularly low day. A feather? Inside?  I get tingles on my head and down my arms. He is with me, of that I am certain. For a mother who feels ripped apart, those little things provide comfort. My baby hasn't ceased to exist, he is in another place and this is how he 'talks' to me.

When you stand on the shore looking out to the horizon, the sea looks like it stops in a beautiful place where it meets the sky, but we know it doesn't. I think from where we're standing, it looks like life has an end date, but I know it doesn't.  Not everyone will agree with me and that's OK.

Today I'm wading in the shores of grief, the day after my birthday. A relatively pointless day to me, but not to my family, who relish in such things. I blew out my candles and wished for a sign from Hamish. As soon as I received this painting from Sue, I knew I got it.

So today,  I am not brilliant but I'm not breathless and dysfunctional. I am OK and that's a good day for me.

Thanks for listening,

Words

Today the words are dancing around my head, waiting to waltz onto the page. The sentences have impatiently been waiting to written as I immerse myself in the school holidays. Balancing grief and family life is not easy. There are days when I simply want to grieve, to lie and feel Hamish, to remember, to cry. And sometimes those days have to wait.  This morning I took my kiddies to the beach, they scooted along the shoreline, carefree giggles dissolving into the wind.

Battling a bit of cold but still adorable

It's imperative they escape the house, the walls can become oppressive and we start to wander in circles like forlorn sheep. To have no boundaries, to flee, wind whistling, sun shining is therapeutic. I can feel the weightlessness of freedom. The pure abandonment, the loss dissipates in the beauty of our part of the world.

But now I have to write. I have to feel the words, the texture, the grittiness of them.  I suddenly realised after days of constructing them in my head, that it was imperative to release them. I fear them gone and I don't want to lose a single one. Maybe someone else feels them too? Maybe they need the texture of them as I do?  This is the place to 'put' those words. This is my grief. Plain and clear for all to see.

I woke a few days ago with a startling epiphany. My beautiful boy, the one I grieve for so desperately is not forever gone. And on the days when the black hole is cavernous and endless, that's the one thought I need to cling to. My son is separated from me. He is in another realm and although I cannot feel him (torturous) or speak to him (agonising), he is not gone from me. He is here, with me. We will see each other again. For some reason, of that, I am certain. That must never be forgotten. I feel like writing it on my wall so I can wake to it each day. YOU WILL BE WITH HAMI AGAIN.


For someone who has had questionable faith in the past, it amazes me that I can write that with such certainty. But I can. I believe without question, that my son does not cease to exist. He is eternal and one day I will join him there. It is for that reason, that people keep saying I look 'well'. I'm not well but I'm doing OK. Loving my husband and children, whispering to my son at every available opportunity, knowing that he's but a light year away.  Faith is an incredible thing. It lifts your soul when its at its heaviest. When you feel as though you may as well have been buried with it, it surprises you, endlessly.

Homework time with cousins ("Where's mine?" says Hami)

My faith exists because I believe we are here to live, to learn and to love (cliche I know). And I know that Hamish would want me to live my life as an activist for love not a victim of it. Some days I succeed, some days I do not. But I try every day.  So what do I have faith in? I have faith in humanity. I believe (despite the terrible in it) that humanity is inherently good. I believe in kindness, that giving to others is what makes life worth living. I feel like I have received more than I have given and that is something I will have to rectify for the rest of my life.

The pulsating headache that I've been battling today has finally eased a little. Perhaps those words were literally fighting to get out?  Regardless, my session of therapy has succeeded (and rather inexpensively I might add!).

Thank you for listening (and for your ongoing messages of love and support).



PS. Much love to the beautiful writer Nikki Gemmell who honoured Hamish so generously in her column in The Weekend Australian on the weekend. I'm forever grateful.

Low

Today my heart feels absent. The Hamish hole is cavernous and overwhelming.  It consumes; it's unavoidable, inescapable.

In essence, today was bad. That's the simple heart-wrenching truth.

I so desperately want my son son back. I want to embrace him, kiss his sweet lips and tell him I love him. Distraction serves me well some days, but today it failed.  No peace, no enlightenment, just the pain and agony of a normal day without my son. Despite the glaring sunshine and the chirping birds, I feel like I'm in the depths of winter, shivering with loss and abandon.

This morning I watched my daughter sing and dance in the Easter Assembly at school. I beamed at her on-stage antics, erratic dance moves and blooming enthusiasm. It was infectious!  As the show continued on, I was drawn to the small boys looking dapper in their uniforms. Shirts tucked, socks up, big smiles. Hamish won't wear a uniform; I won't watch him perform in the school play. There will be no piano recitals to attend, no soccer matches to barrack for from the sidelines.  Today I'm grieving for the future we won't have.  The glaring absence of a future, near and far.

I'm tired of holding it together. I'm exhausted from maintaining the lives of my family but today I'm just weary of holding myself together.  So I let myself go. As I watched my son and daughter play on the playground while Miss B finished netball training, I felt the tears well, my heart constrict and the strength dissipate from my being. As my children fought over a handful of chocolate eggs in the back of the car, I became angry. Anger is an emotion that I have successfully controlled over the last few months. But this afternoon it gnawed its way out and I shouted. "They are chocolate eggs! Chocolate eggs are not something to fight over.  Why on earth are you being so petty!"

I was being totally unfair of course. It's perfectly normal for 3 small children to fight over an even number of chocolate eggs, but I couldn't negotiate. I couldn't broker a peace deal. I just shouted and then I cried. All the way home.

Master F did what he always does when I lose the plot. "Oh mummy, PLEASE don't cry!" Miss M looked at me and said, "It's Hamish isn't it?" and Miss B said nothing. And I felt guilty, again.

It's just one of many days that I should be prepared for. I have had countless before and there will be many, many more. Unfortunately, despite their frequency, I'm still not prepared for the lows when they hit. The barrage of feelings that range from everything from guilt and regret to forlorn and lost.

As unexpected as the lows, are the 'highs'. The pride that comes from the goodwill of my 3 children. I love them vigorously and I am truly grateful for each of them, despite my outburst today.  The love that my husband has given me in spadefuls over the last couple of days. I'm thankful for my sister and friends who are always there to wind me up when I start to unravel.

Tomorrow will be another day. What it will bring, I don't know. But I will be in it. Breathing it, living it and hopefully not just enduring it.


Thanks for listening.