Bumps and tears

wpid-20130323_175203.jpg

After I dropped Celeste at school yesterday, I took my usual route home round the fields with the dogs and met a heavily pregnant lady walking the other way. We chatted about overdue prenancies then parted, at which point I burst into tears. I couldn’t make sense of it until I realised that sixteen years ago, that was me. Juliette had been due the same day.

It still seems to happen to me, even after all this time. In the run up to birthdays and anniversaries something innocuous will trigger an uprush of emotion, and yet I’m not actually focussing on what time of year it is. It’s a funny thing, the subconscious.

There were tears again this morning. Steph’s been away in Germany for three days, and I was just so happy to wake up beside him. I know it’s soppy, and not the way I usually am, but I guess the self-protective layers are just a little thinner sometimes.

I have other reasons to be emotional at the moment. On Tuesday, Juliette’s birthday, I will be going to meet people connected with the new job I start properly after Easter. On the 26th March last year I spent the day cover teaching at our local prison for the first time. I had an exhilerating twelve months but sadly, the prison is now closing. This new job is the work I’ve dreamed of doing and I feel incredibly lucky, but a little scared too.

I’m trying to find it symbolic that these exciting first steps seem to happen on Juliette’s birthday. Juliette wasn’t afraid of anything. Lots of things frighten me, but I think of Juliette and her fearlessness, and have no more excuses.

How I live now

You're alive

I’ve been giving more thought than usual to how losing Juliette has changed the way I live. Writing Watching Petals Fall has made me examine the far-reaching effects her life and death have had on me , and I’ve started to wonder whether other bereaved parents feel like I do.

Juliette , more than any of my five children lived her life intensely. Every day she was well, she wanted to ‘do something exciting’ and sometimes, frankly, it was hard to keep up with her. Of course, I can say this with hindsight, but I think there was a part of her that knew she had to experience everything, and quickly. She went for it.

In our last week together, we took the children crabbing. Scary little beasts, crabs, and both Steph and I kept them at arm’s length – from line, to net, to bucket and then back into the sea. Juliette spotted some teenage boys handling their crabs and asked if we would help her do the same. We dismissed it as ‘a bad idea’ but the next thing we knew, Juliette had carefully picked up a nipping monster from her bucket and stood, grinning for a photograph.

That she picked up a crab when her parents were too scared, really sums Juliette up. She was brave, while we were afraid. Since she died, I often think of her crab as well as the other ways Juliette was fearless.  She would hold out her hand for the big, fat needle to be inserted into her beautiful skin without ever flinching, even without anaesthetic – she did not like the sensation of the numbing cream. The first time she asked for it to be done this way, she was just three.

The reason I’m saying all this is that Juliette died. I’m her mother, and I’m alive. Every parent knows how I wish I could swap, but as no one gave me a choice I owe it to Juliette to be different, be more like she was, to live fully because she no longer can.

I think more about the golden times in each day. They are fleeting and easily missed. Without meaning to sound like a total buddhist, I try to remember to live in the moment, be aware and be grateful for sunshine, birds singing, hearing the children’s laughter, and for how close I feel to Steph as we chat and walk the dogs. These things aren’t ‘exciting’ by Juliette’s definition, but being aware of the pleasure small things bring and the value they add to my day is new, and thanks to the little daughter who is no longer phsyically with me, but who is more present in my life than ever.

What am I doing here?

If you’ve found your way here, perhaps you’ve been affected by the loss of a child.  If this is true, I’m really sorry.  We know and are told over and over again that the world is on its head when our children die before us.  Natural order has been mucked up.  It seems wrong and cruel that we are still walking and breathing when they no longer can.

I’ve had eight and a half years to think about life and how fragile it is since my daughter died.  I suppose what I write here is my attempt to make sense of some of the glorious rainbows and deep, dark pits of despair that have been my experience in that time.