Unintentional Poet

If you follow my blog, you will know that we lost my sister seventeen months ago, when my nephew was just seven months old.  Today, he turns two and is a whirlwind of fun and love.  He has forced us all to keep going through some really tough times, as, too, has his big sister.  My sister would be so proud of them both.  I wanted to write a poem to celebrate him - and her continued presence in his life. Today, You Are Two Today, you are two.    I have watched you grow,    As babies do,  And marvelled,   At your perfect, quizzical face,  At your soft cheeks,  Dimpling,   As you smile   And run away,    Whenever I stoop To ask you For a hug. Every time, I catch you and you giggle. You place your head, On my shoulder, For the briefest of moments; I breathe you in - A privilege, a delight. In an instant, You are off again, Laughing and whirling; You sho...

Those among you kind enough to have stuck with reading my blog over the years, will know that I like to write something, every year, to commemorate the birthday of Grace, our tiny girl, who didn't make it into this world, as she should have done. You can read previous years' posts here , here , here  and here if you want to! This year, I've experimented with a different form of writing, not with the aim of eliciting sympathy from everyone who reads, but more to show the long term impact of this sort of loss. I think those of us who have lost babies can sometimes minimise our own pain, playing it down, because we never really 'met' our babies, or knew them. But the trauma is real and the pain long-lasting. Everything I've written is real and true, although I've framed it in the form of a story. I hope it provides a bit of an insight into the long journey to healing that baby loss involves.   Nine years on, it's different again. I'm grateful...

Today is Grace’s birthday again.     Many of you who read my blog (thank you for doing so!) will know that I write something, each year, to mark the date and celebrate her life.    For the last couple of years, I have written reflections and poems and thoughts, as a cathartic process, to help me to face this date and remember. The angel we hang on our tree, to remember Grace This year, remembering feels different again.    I mentioned, in last year’s post, the counselling I had been through and how much it had helped.    I am, by nature, sceptical of these things, until I see real ‘proof.'  I’m never entirely sure how to measure change and progress in matters of the heart and mind, but I know that, eight years on, the pain is less than it was at seven and six and five, so I keep going, trusting that healing does take time and energy and that it does get easier, in barely measurable increments. This year feels different for a coup...

It is almost 11 weeks now, since I sat with my brother-in-law, holding my sister’s hand, as she slipped away, after an intense and brave battle with a cancer that wouldn’t let go.   We have reached that point where life returns to normal for everyone else, while we wobble and teeter, trying our hardest to find a new ‘normal’ that feels nothing like normality at all.  Walking through treacle and wading in waste-high mud are the only clichéd analogies that can half-represent how some days feel, how even the ordinary things – the school run, a pile of washing up, a social occasion – can feel like it takes every ounce of strength to face. What does grief really look like?  How should it look?  In the times we live in, a lot is understood about grief.  Psychologists have researched it, books have been written about it, counsellors are trained to help people talk about it and move through it well.  We recognise the truth that no two people experienc...

Today was probably the hardest day in all our lives. Bec passed away two and a half weeks ago now, after a brave and tumultuous six months, since her cancer re-diagnosis.  We have already begun to grieve and say goodbye, but a funeral always feels like the real end. It has felt a long time coming. It has been a tough six months for us all, as a family, and we want to thank anyone who has done or said any small thing to ease our burden on this difficult journey. Below is a photo I love and a poem I wrote for the funeral. I love this photo. There is so much more I could say, and I probably will, as time goes on, but this is all I can manage for now. The photo was taken on an evening in a week when it was all getting on top of Bec. It was a Sunday night.   While Martin bathed the children, we talked and talked and cried and cried. We talked about heaven and dying, her fears of being forgotten, my promise never to ever let that happen.  I told her I would still be hoping...