“No-one ever told me that grief felt so like fear” – CS Lewis.

This quote was shared with me three years ago.  I’ve never forgotten it because it is so awfully true.  Nothing can prepare you for the fear that comes with grief.  It is a terror beyond anything I have ever known.    The moments after finding Ava, the knowing instantly that we would lose her, the waiting for 48 hours at the hospital until we did… and then facing a lifetime without her.   If I think of those early months, I think of being very, very afraid.   I hear myself saying “I’m just so scared that this is real“.   I simply couldn’t bare to imagine that this could not be fixed.   That we were actually living our worst nightmare.  The fear comes first, the missing comes later.

“You never recover from the loss of a child“.  It was said often, back at the start.  To my newly grieving, terrified self, those words were unbearable.  I couldn’t fathom never recovering.   But I also couldn’t fathom life ever being any different.  Since then, I’ve  often pondered the notion of “recovered”.  What does that even mean?  That you should return to the griefless, untouched self you once were?  Well of course you don’t.  How can you hold your lifeless, adored, child and openly weep and beg God to give them back and not walk away changed?   You face overwhelming sadness throughout your every day and have to learn to incorporate it into a life that doesn’t like to pause for your grief.  Of course you are different.   But from a place of total devastation, you do somehow find a way to open your eyes and draw breath and face another day without your beautiful baby.   You even go on to work and socialize and plan a future.   Recovered?  I don’t know.   Altered?  Without doubt.

It’s clear I’ve learned a lot in three years.  I know that the suffocating grief does not stay forever, that it changes and the sadness becomes familiar.  I have found  peace with the un-happy parts of my life and my self.  If I had the choice to erase my grief, I wouldn’t.  If not for the sadness, then what?  It isn’t enough to just remember Ava with smiles and fond memories.   I need the tears.

On the harder days, I spend time with my missing.   I write.  I mourn.  I recall.  And if I pick up my camera,  how I feel becomes how I see.

I am no longer scared.

S x

I am waking up to your footsteps on my floor.     Making toast for four.      Finding spotty socks for kindy.     Prettying your hair.     Making strawberry milk.      Buying things that sparkle.      Taking you to ballet.      Showing you off.      Watching you swim.     Hearing you sing.    Taking your photos.     Holding out my hand for your frangipanis.        Laughing at your laugh.     Reading Pat The Bunny.      Kissing you goodnight.      Breathing you in.      Marveling.       Adoring.       Expecting a tomorrow.

Somewhere, over the rainbow, I am with you.

If it were the me of three years ago writing this, I’d be complaining today.  I’d be annoyed that our new flooring install didn’t begin on schedule.  Or that the doors aren’t ready.  I’d feel stressed that Mason missed swimming and  I’d probably be pretty miffed that Crayton’s hire car got itself scratched and dented this morning.

Writing from the New Universe though, my only real reason to complain today would rightfully be about today marking the start of February.  The month of missing and wishing and life-a-changing.  It’s the month that plunged us from carefree happiness to the darkest of  voids.  Where nothing was ever the same.

It seems though,  my new is changing too.  As I approach a third February without Ava, the new includes so many lessons and so much beauty I just don’t feel I have a right to complain.   Of course I miss.  I wish.  I yearn.  Every single day.  I forget a life that didn’t include those things.  But I can also look back on thirty six months and see how far I’ve traveled.  Or, at times,  been carried.   I prefer the new me, I like the life I’ve created out of ruin.   I know less fear, I filter out the unimportant and I know what it is to truly, deeply love.  So many beautiful things to be glad of.

I don’t write these words lightly.  It has taken a lot to get to here. I had three choices after February two thousand and seven.   I could cease to exist.  (Shocking?  Not really.  Ask anyone deep in grief how viable that option might seem at times.)  I could continue on breathing whilst moving nowhere.  Barely enduring grief filled days that would undoubtedly project onto my other children.   Or, I could do something even harder.  I could make a promise that Ava would not leave un-noticed.  That I would do better. As a mother, a wife, as my self.  That our new family would survive and be strong and embrace what remained.   That I would live life.  For Ava.

I consciously chose the latter.  There were many, many days where the grief smothered my hopes.  There will be more to come.   But three years on,   I see our family as happy again.  We’re mending.  We cherish one another, and our memories of Ava.  Our Superprincess shines as brightly as she ever did.  I look forward to including her in so many beautiful ways going forward and know that we will never let her light go out.  While I know there will always be moments where The Missing sneaks up and steals the air from my lungs,  today the bigger picture fills my heart.

Happy February.

Love, Sheye xxx

In the still and the dark of night.   I thought she was sleeping.  Her little voice startled me.

Mummy?
Yes honey?
Why did Ava leave her bike here?
Because she couldn’t take it with her.
Why did my sister not take all of her things?
Because she doesn’t need them in Heaven.  She has everything she needs.
Does she have a kitchen?
I think she probably does.
Does she have a bed?
I’m sure she does.
And does she have a tutu?
Oh yes, she has a tutu.
Does she have two or five?
I think she has as many as she wants.

Mum, how does Ava get back here?
Honey, Ava can’t get back here.
Why? I am waiting for her to come back.
Because, because when babies are made, they wait in Heaven and ..
Mum, do you have tears?
Yes darling I do.
Why?
Because we miss Ava very much.
I miss her too.
I know darling.  When babies are made they wait in Heaven and then they are given to their Mummies like you and Luca and Mason were given to me too but Ava had to go back to Heaven when she was three and we miss her very much.  But we will all get to see her again in Heaven one day.
When you and Daddy and me and Luca and Mason see Ava again I’m going to tell her I’m four.  Will she be little or big?
She will be little, I think.
Can I pick her up?  Because I am four?
Yes, you probably could.  But you will be much older than four when you see her.  We will live a long time together here first and then we will get to see her.
But what will happen to our house?
We won’t need it in Heaven.
Is she like a small baby or a little bit bigger?
A little bit bigger, like when you were three just before.
Oh.  Will we be very old?
We probably will be old.
Will we have moles?  Because I don’t want moles.
No, we won’t.
Will Ava have moles?
No darling, she won’t.

Her questions make my heart race.  Never ready.  I’m still trying to work out the answers myself.  I still stare at her bike at our back door and I still don’t understand.

This
is
all
so
much
bigger
than
me.

Tonight, I put Ivy to bed, and she was three.   Come tomorrow, she will wake four.

I don’t quite know how to feel.    We’re entering the unfamiliar.   I’ve known all about one year old girls.   And I know about girls aged two.   (They’re just delightful..most of the time).   And little girls aged three?  They’ve mattered most.     For the past year, I’ve had two of them.  All those days of Ivy sharing Ava’s age.  A strange thing, her older sister being older, until she no longer was.  Is she younger now?  I don’t even know.

As I tucked Ivy in, excitedly talking of birthday cakes and wishes, I felt afraid.  I’m not ready to give up three.  It seems we’re leaving a little more behind.   I want to be able to hold this moment and know that our days will always center around princesses and sparkly shoes and Dora.  What happens at four?  A part of me is excited to find out, and so very grateful that I even can but a part of me can’t help but wish and yearn and fear the unknown.

Tomorrow will be all about our birthday girl, we’ll laugh and love and be thankful.   I’ll wish for different but I’ve become used to mixed blessings and the birthday celebrations tinged with missing.

Today though, I just miss simple, happy anticipation.

Sheye x