Well, we made it through the first year.
I can't believe everything we've packed into a year. Michael giving up legal practice; moving; study; kid stuff - some of it very positive such as feeling as though they've finally settled into our new family dynamic, some of it difficult such as getting them settled into a new town/school and sorting out visitation with their father; financial stress caused by ongoing dispute over payout for the partnership; and of course a pregnancy.
Throughout it all we've experienced trauma, grief, sadness, laughter, contentment, stress, pain (physical as well as emotional), excitement, nerves, anxiety, joy. And throughout it all we haven't once wavered in how close we feel to each other. We've been the one constant and I'm kind of proud of that.
Anyway... the anniversary. We spent the day with the kids, which was what we wanted. We had to go to a BBQ (a work do for Michael) but we were all together. The kids happily came and went from us to playing outside with other kids and that was nice. We went shopping and bought the first plants for Kat's garden.
We said right from the start that we would buy a plant every year on her anniversary to make a garden and also that we didn't want to buy the first of them when she died; we wanted to buy the first one on the first anniversary. Our intention all along had been to buy a rose each year but in the lead up to actually buying something I was getting nervous about growing roses in this climate. We decided to go to the nursery and look at roses first then if we didn't want one to look at a lemon tree. I liked the idea of her tree being productive, of using the fruit from it. And Michael liked the lemon being yellow for Kat (it's the colour we associate as "hers" since so much of what we bought for her unintentionally turned out to be yellow).
So we got to the nursery and the roses looked decidedly sick and there were no fruit trees. Next stop - Big W. The first thing we found was a lime, the second was an olive. As soon as I saw the olive tree it just felt right. Especially when I read the care instructions and it mentioned the olive being a symbol of peace and happiness. We walked around with the olive in our hands but kept going back to the lime as well. We stood and talked about it for a moment and decided to get both.
Just as we walked towards the limes to pick one up the kids came running over excitedly saying "there's a butterfly". We turned around and there was the most magnificent blue butterfly fluttering directly above where we had just been standing as we decided to get both plants. I turned to hug Michael and found myself sobbing. Stood there in his arms, weeping into his shoulder in the nursery at Big W. Didn't care.
Our trees have now been potted up and they are both beautiful.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
"Innocence and Experience"
I've written before - although I can't remember if it was on here or in the personal diary I kept for 3 months before starting this - about "Innocence and Experience", a series of poems by William Blake that Michael and his mum talk about a lot. In the days after Kat died I felt that the hope we/I had held for her had been Innocence; her death was Experience.
The first anniversary is upon us now. I've been so focused for almost a year now on the 20th November being Kat's Day that it was only last night I stopped to think that there's another anniversary. The 19th is the day we found out our girl had passed away.
I haven't really done a great deal of "this time last year"... Of course there has been some of that, I think it's only natural in the first year of grieving. I remembered the date that we found out I was pregnant with her, for example. And being pregnant there has also been an element of "at this stage of pregnancy with Kat..." but again, only really at key times, such as 15 weeks (when I'd been 'sick'), 18 weeks (first ultrasound that showed any problems) and 25 weeks. All in all though my grief has very much been in the present and I haven't spent all that much time looking back. Now though it's the anniversary and so I look back.
The 20th is Kat's Day. It's the day we will consciously involve the kids in spending time together as a family in memory of Kat. We will buy her a rose plant and some flowers to put in a new vase that is just for her flowers when we happen to buy them throughout the year. It was the day we got to see and hold our girl.
The 19th marks the worst moment of my life. Of course there was a whole lot of pain still to come; if I could measure pain as such, probably the moment Kat was laid on my chest stands out as the most raw, animalistic moment. But hearing that there was "no heartbeat... I'm sorry to tell you that your baby has passed away" was... the moment. It was the moment my soul was ripped apart and my own heart seemed to stop for a moment and I stood staring down a black hole in which the rest of my life would be lived as a person who knew the unimaginable pain of outliving a child.
Today is the 18th. And on the 18th I was still Innocent. I thought our girl was still alive and that the next day we were going away to Newcastle for our appointment to see her heart beating on the ultrasound. Most of all? I was looking forward to having a couple of days alone with Michael.
The first anniversary is upon us now. I've been so focused for almost a year now on the 20th November being Kat's Day that it was only last night I stopped to think that there's another anniversary. The 19th is the day we found out our girl had passed away.
I haven't really done a great deal of "this time last year"... Of course there has been some of that, I think it's only natural in the first year of grieving. I remembered the date that we found out I was pregnant with her, for example. And being pregnant there has also been an element of "at this stage of pregnancy with Kat..." but again, only really at key times, such as 15 weeks (when I'd been 'sick'), 18 weeks (first ultrasound that showed any problems) and 25 weeks. All in all though my grief has very much been in the present and I haven't spent all that much time looking back. Now though it's the anniversary and so I look back.
The 20th is Kat's Day. It's the day we will consciously involve the kids in spending time together as a family in memory of Kat. We will buy her a rose plant and some flowers to put in a new vase that is just for her flowers when we happen to buy them throughout the year. It was the day we got to see and hold our girl.
The 19th marks the worst moment of my life. Of course there was a whole lot of pain still to come; if I could measure pain as such, probably the moment Kat was laid on my chest stands out as the most raw, animalistic moment. But hearing that there was "no heartbeat... I'm sorry to tell you that your baby has passed away" was... the moment. It was the moment my soul was ripped apart and my own heart seemed to stop for a moment and I stood staring down a black hole in which the rest of my life would be lived as a person who knew the unimaginable pain of outliving a child.
Today is the 18th. And on the 18th I was still Innocent. I thought our girl was still alive and that the next day we were going away to Newcastle for our appointment to see her heart beating on the ultrasound. Most of all? I was looking forward to having a couple of days alone with Michael.
Friday, November 12, 2010
It's the weekend of the butterflies.
This could make me sad, but instead I'm feeling really peaceful today and enjoying the memory.
The actual date is tomorrow, but it was this weekend last year that we went over to Michael's parents' house and we all went up to see Jon English playing an outdoor night concert in the Warrumbungles. I had a simply wonderful weekend. I felt that the seven of us - Michael and I, the kids and Kat and Michael's parents - were a family. It was the word that kept coming to my mind, along with connected. I felt so incredibly connected to Kat. I felt the kids connected to Michael and his parents. His mum and I were so excited about Kat and were enjoying looking at a pregnancy website she had found. At that stage I was starting to think that a virus had interrupter Kat's growth and that she would always remain that few weeks small for her age - which in the long run would be nothing at all. I was worried about the lack of amniotic fluid and what it meant for her lung development but I thought there would be something the doctors could do for her after she was born. We were worried about her, but I was also the most optimistic out of any stage in the pregnancy. And she was Kat. It had been confirmed from the amnio that we were having a girl. She wasn't "the baby" anymore. She was Kat. She was real.
As we sat outside in a beautiful spot in the Warrumbungles, all of us together eating a picnic dinner and listening to music, a mass of orange butterflies appeared right in front of me. Rory and I were sitting together and the two of us were captivated by them. As I watched they started to gather around my feet. I still have no explanation for why, but I looked at those butterflies fluttering around my feet and it felt like it was connected to Kat. Of course, the next (and only other) time I would see a mass of orange butterflies was in our backyard after her funeral. A single one came into our house and I just KNEW it was her. Thus began the butterfly connection.
When we got home on the Sunday night I finally got out the book we had bought for her a couple of weeks earlier and read to her. It was the book of cat poems that Cats is based on. I read to her and she kicked and kicked and kicked. It was the most she had kicked in weeks and weeks and I thought that everything was going to be OK. Later that night I got my Cats DVD out and watched it. The next morning I woke up from dreaming of Kat as a grown woman standing on a dark stage singing Memory. I was positive for one moment that she had died. I immediately pushed the thought out of my mind and continued to feel the happy optimism that had built over the weekend. In hindsight I never felt her move again. Very occasionally I would feel... something... that I thought was a small kick. I continued to feel them for a few weeks after she was born, so I don't know what it was.
I've always believed that Kat had something to do with my mind that last week. The last ultrasound we went into was the only one we had that I expected to see her heart beating. All the others, even the three in the first trimester, I went into absolutely convinced that there would be no heart beat. Before that last one though I spent the day getting more and more nervous, thinking that I was imagining the worst. I was imagining that she wouldn't have grown a full two weeks' worth since the last one. That there was even less amniotic fluid. That there were more pockets of fluid on her body. But underlying all of it, I was looking forward to seeing her heart beat. I was expecting to see it. We sat in the waiting room at the hospital seeing people carry their babies into the paediatric clinic and saying "that will be us soon". I have always believed that Kat wouldn't let me entertain the idea that she was lying dead inside me.
Since Kat died I've struggled, more so in the beginning than now but still now to some extent, with the hope that we held for our girl. I've resented it knowing that as soon as I contracted that virus her fate was sealed and we had no way of knowing it. I had no way of knowing that something inside me had attacked my precious baby girl. But today I find myself remembering that last weekend that she was alive, remembering the hope and cherishing it. I cherish that so close to the end and all that came afterwards we had that one happy weekend.
This could make me sad, but instead I'm feeling really peaceful today and enjoying the memory.
The actual date is tomorrow, but it was this weekend last year that we went over to Michael's parents' house and we all went up to see Jon English playing an outdoor night concert in the Warrumbungles. I had a simply wonderful weekend. I felt that the seven of us - Michael and I, the kids and Kat and Michael's parents - were a family. It was the word that kept coming to my mind, along with connected. I felt so incredibly connected to Kat. I felt the kids connected to Michael and his parents. His mum and I were so excited about Kat and were enjoying looking at a pregnancy website she had found. At that stage I was starting to think that a virus had interrupter Kat's growth and that she would always remain that few weeks small for her age - which in the long run would be nothing at all. I was worried about the lack of amniotic fluid and what it meant for her lung development but I thought there would be something the doctors could do for her after she was born. We were worried about her, but I was also the most optimistic out of any stage in the pregnancy. And she was Kat. It had been confirmed from the amnio that we were having a girl. She wasn't "the baby" anymore. She was Kat. She was real.
As we sat outside in a beautiful spot in the Warrumbungles, all of us together eating a picnic dinner and listening to music, a mass of orange butterflies appeared right in front of me. Rory and I were sitting together and the two of us were captivated by them. As I watched they started to gather around my feet. I still have no explanation for why, but I looked at those butterflies fluttering around my feet and it felt like it was connected to Kat. Of course, the next (and only other) time I would see a mass of orange butterflies was in our backyard after her funeral. A single one came into our house and I just KNEW it was her. Thus began the butterfly connection.
When we got home on the Sunday night I finally got out the book we had bought for her a couple of weeks earlier and read to her. It was the book of cat poems that Cats is based on. I read to her and she kicked and kicked and kicked. It was the most she had kicked in weeks and weeks and I thought that everything was going to be OK. Later that night I got my Cats DVD out and watched it. The next morning I woke up from dreaming of Kat as a grown woman standing on a dark stage singing Memory. I was positive for one moment that she had died. I immediately pushed the thought out of my mind and continued to feel the happy optimism that had built over the weekend. In hindsight I never felt her move again. Very occasionally I would feel... something... that I thought was a small kick. I continued to feel them for a few weeks after she was born, so I don't know what it was.
I've always believed that Kat had something to do with my mind that last week. The last ultrasound we went into was the only one we had that I expected to see her heart beating. All the others, even the three in the first trimester, I went into absolutely convinced that there would be no heart beat. Before that last one though I spent the day getting more and more nervous, thinking that I was imagining the worst. I was imagining that she wouldn't have grown a full two weeks' worth since the last one. That there was even less amniotic fluid. That there were more pockets of fluid on her body. But underlying all of it, I was looking forward to seeing her heart beat. I was expecting to see it. We sat in the waiting room at the hospital seeing people carry their babies into the paediatric clinic and saying "that will be us soon". I have always believed that Kat wouldn't let me entertain the idea that she was lying dead inside me.
Since Kat died I've struggled, more so in the beginning than now but still now to some extent, with the hope that we held for our girl. I've resented it knowing that as soon as I contracted that virus her fate was sealed and we had no way of knowing it. I had no way of knowing that something inside me had attacked my precious baby girl. But today I find myself remembering that last weekend that she was alive, remembering the hope and cherishing it. I cherish that so close to the end and all that came afterwards we had that one happy weekend.
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