Clumsy Remembrance

My daughter was stillborn at 25 weeks of pregnancy, over the Christmas period, eight years ago. I find it so hard to commemorate her adequately, each year, amidst the bustle and chaos of the festive season.

When I began to see a counsellor, two years ago, he suggested commemorating her at other times in the year, to help relieve the pressure to remember her well at Christmas - not  a season commensurate with stillness and reflection. Her 'due date', the 8th of April, seemed like a good time to do this.

We all know that very few babies put in an appearance on their due date (one of mine hung on in for a full fourteen days extra, one was coaxed out at three days overdue), so this date can feel arbitrary, but gives me something to focus on, somewhere to hang my thoughts and my grief. 

So today was the third time I purchased a balloon, the second attempt at releasing it (more on that in a minute).  In three years of trying this out, I've noticed some frustrating patterns of thoughts and emotions each time I have chosen to remember her in this way.

First, I deliberate about whether I should be doing it at all: is it self-indulgent, weak, a sure confirmation that I haven't 'moved on' as far as I should have? 

Then, I reason it out with my husband or a friend, articulating each time that 'it feels a bit much…she might not have been born today anyway.' Why do we feel that need to minimise, apologise, dumb down, explain away?

Eventually, I approach a balloon counter in a card store, somewhere, heart pounding, praying for a surly assistant who won't ask me who it's for, how old she is. No one has asked yet, and I'm still unsure which of three or four rehearsed lines I might deliver in the heat of that imagined awkward moment, if it ever happens.

The first year, I had her named inked onto a purple helium balloon in scrawled letters. It felt strange to walk through our town with such a real, concrete reminder of her existence bobbing in the breeze beside me. I released it, alone, over the fields at the edge of our village, crying as it flew higher and higher, up out of reach, lost in the poignant symbolism.

Last year I decided to involve my two children, then 8 and 6.  I bought a pink, heart-shaped balloon this time, planning to release it in the same way.  My youngest, however, surprised me - under no circumstances did he want me to release that balloon. It reminded HIM of his sister and he wasn't sending it flying off to who-knows-where, thank you very much!

So it floated around my house for a few weeks and, although I didn't get to commemorate and remember as I had planned, it was a touching (and very pink and shiny!) reminder that she is not just mine to celebrate. That made my heart glad in a different way. She is all of ours. Her short life meant something. Her legacy is on-going. I celebrate that.

This year, after walking through some more major loss and heart break, I wasn't sure I could face it again.  Feeling deflated and flat, I gave into the tugs on my heart that told me I should do it still, and sneaked a balloon into the car boot with the Morrisons shop, not wanting to risk a repeat of last year. I slipped out alone to the same spot, enjoying the pathetic fallacy provided for the moment; the grey drizzle matched my mood.  I let the balloon dance in the wind, photographing it, before letting it go, speaking her name, telling her she is loved and remembered still.  I gave thanks for her short life and imagined her, curled up, smiling, on the lap of her heavenly father, reaching out to catch my gift as it floated by.

 The sadness remained, but I am glad I pushed through the awkwardness and 'too-hard-ness' and did it again. It's a challenge every year to rise above the shoulds and shouldn'ts and fears about what people think - what I think myself.  I would tell others to commemorate their loved ones as often as they liked, however they liked, so why is it so hard to allow myself to do the same? Perhaps one day, I will be comfortable with my own grief, let it out in whatever ways help. Until then I'll keep striving to remember, be kind to myself, keep talking, keep praying. They're the only ways forward to a sturdier place of healing and peace.