five

Tomorrow (Thur 6th Feb) will be five years since I lost my daughter Tilly.  It's been five years so, naturally, no-one else remembers.  Not my parents, not my friends and I am sure not even A.

There's no-one else I can tell, no-one else who will tell me that it is okay to still grieve except you who read this because you have also gone through similar.

I am very sad tonight.

April

April 17th: two-year anniversary of A and me splitting up
April 23rd: my darling little cat got sick
April 24th: after expensive tests, my darling little cat was diagnosed with hyperthyroid.  It could have been a lot worse, but she now has to have 2 tablets a day for the rest of her life.  There are other, more invasive, treatment options but she's going to be 19 (!) in June and I don't want to put her through anything like that
April 25th: my mother is told that she needs to have an operation on her foot which will mean 6 weeks without being able to walk and a further five months of physio before she recovers mobility.
April 28th: five-year anniversary of losing Starchild.  I don't know if A remembered, he didn't remember when we were together so I can't imagine he remembers now.  But his mother did and she sent me a lovely text message.
April 30th: vet calls to tell me that my darling little cat also has a urinary tract infection which will need 4 weeks of antibiotics

Gentle reader, April has sucked arse.

a year in music

A year ago today A and I parted company.  A whole year!

When he first left I was all http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iY17nf6kvw4

Then, a few months later I went through a phase of http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZBR2G-iI3-I

And now http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vx2u5uUu3DE&ob=av2n

a day like any other

Every day I think about my babies.
Tomorrow will be the same.
Every day I miss my babies.
Tomorrow will be the same.
Every day I wonder what Starchild and Bean and Little Stars would look like now.
Tomorrow will be the same.
Every day the hole in my heart is almost tangible.
Tomorrow will be the same.
Every day there is something missing.
Tomorrow will be the same.
Every day something, some thought, some sight, will make me catch my breath at the pain of loss.
Tomorrow will be the same.

Tomorrow is just another day like any other; I will mourn my babies no more or less than today.  But tomorrow is 6th February and two years to the day that we lost our precious daughter Bean and it hurts so much that I feel like I am going to shatter into shards.

because I can't say this out loud

Dear IRL friend,

I live in your world.  

I rejoiced for you when you met your wife and found yourself stepping in to a ready-made family.  I celebrated with you when your wife got pregnant with your biological child.  I read and replied your emails during your wait for fatherhood, I admired photos of your baby in utero and from across the miles I held your hand as you worried about whether you were really ready to be a parent.

I bought and sent gifts when your daughter was born, for her christening, for her first birthday.  I admired more photos, I asked the right questions, I responded to your letters which were all about your daughter and your step children in kind. 

I forgave you when you didn't write after I lost my precious Starchild, my darling Bean, my tiny Little Stars.

I live in your world.

I am struggling to adapt to a childless life.  I see pregnant women, parents, children, grandparents everywhere.  I concede summer and Christmas holidays to my colleagues who have children.  I cover for them when they need to take time off for plays and concerts and sports days and measles and tummy upsets.  My taxes help to pay for maternity leave and child support and free school meals.

I live in your world.  

I listen when people tell me I should just adopt or just relax or that some people just aren't meant to have children.  I laugh like it's funny when people tell me I can "have my kids for a day if you want, that'll change your mind", I agree I am so lucky I have more disposable income and that I can lie in bed on Sunday mornings and I can drink wine every night.  That I should get over it and move on.



I live in your world.

I remember your birthday, your wife's birthday, your stepchildren's birthdays, your daughter's birthday, your wedding anniversary.  I don't expect you to remember my exact loss dates or know my unfulfilled due dates, why should you?  They are just random days to you and I understand that.


But I wish that just this once, just this time, you had remembered that I lost my babies on Christmas Eve and you didn't send me a festive card made up of photos of your children.