Here you are everyone.  The video of my speech.  Have the tissues handy.

Every single time, it is like train wreck.  I sit there, blinking, looking over and over.

I cannot turn away, no matter how much I think I should.

I play the words forwards and backwards in my head.  No matter which way I read them, they still stab me, deep in the heart.

Blessings and horrors at once.

Birth videos and announcements.

One after the other.  Fresh newborn photos.  Vernix covered babies.  Screaming wails and elated tears.

And then there are my own tears… torrential and fierce in their descent.  Loud and guttural.

I keep staring, while at the same time, averting my eyes.

Flashbacks.  Disinfectant.  Blue sheets.  Face masks.  Silence.

It rushes at me and I want to tear the world apart.  Blessing flags first.  Birthing necklace.  Candles.  Cards.  They are all in my target but I am strong enough not to rip at them.  I know that will break me in the morning, if I did carry out such fury.

The bitter taste of jealously nips across my tongue, shudders in my heart.  Hate.  Misery.  Pain.

The only word that echos is “Unfair”  Simple.  Yet not powerful enough.

Nightmares remembered. Rather forgotten.

Memories worse still.

And I keep staring at the words of congratulations and cheers of celebration and feel the scarlet letter burning deep within my chest.

A big glowing red letter.

F for failure.

I cannot help but look again and again and again.  Each time more painful and brutal than the last.  I thought it would get easier, but the reality is, it’s worse.

My own personal train wreck.

I thought I should join in the last Flog Your Blog with Glowless today.  In doing so, I figured I might as well reach out to the masses.

I have a project in my head.  I spoke about it recently.  Well, I am now starting to source all the elements needed for it to go ahead.  It is daunting.  It is scary.  It is bloody exciting!

I am going to create a Viral Marketing Campaign centered around Stillbirth and Perinatal Child Loss. 

I hope to promote this and get it linked with a major charity.  But first I want to create it so that I can present the finished product.

So.  To get this happening.  To make it come true.. I need the following.  Please let me know if you can help.

*musician/singer/songwriter able to take my words and set them to music. In a folkie rock kind of way. Sing it. And record it.

*a dslr with video capabilities to loan for a week (or a month).  HD video please. This is the most important technical part.  This is CRUCIAL to making this work.  It is possible I may even require some coaching.  But I must be the one to do the filming and photos.

*a place to film for a day or so.  Maybe one weekday and weekend. Studio, sunlit room, somewhere easy to get to. Preferably with a kitchen.

*a polystyrene cutter and polystyrene to cut – or wood cutting tools and wood to cut (to create words)

*participants!

That is the most special part.  I need people to participate, to be filmed and photographed. And be prepared for their face and their voice to go viral. Afterall, that is the aim.  A viral marketing campaign.  You will be required to sign releases.

Participants need to have been affected by Stillbirth or Child loss.

Mother, Father, Sister, Brother, Aunt, Uncle, Grandparent, Friend. Your whole family may wish to be involved. Or just you.  Your loss could have happened a month ago, or 50 years ago.  Ideally I need about 10-15 people.

You also need to be in SYDNEY.

Unfortunately, zooming all around Australia is just not possible.

If you think you might like to be involved, please EMAIL me.  Please tell me a little bit about you and the one(s) missing from your life.

If you think you can help in any way, please let me know.  I want to get this done in the next 6 weeks if possible.  Please help it come true.

Some days it is easy.  As soon as I see their bright eyes and dimple cheeks, I rush to scoop them up into my arms and squeeze them until their body is imprinted into mine. Some days it is as simple as holding a friend’s baby.

But some days it is hard.  Some days I look at their faces – yesterday it was Abbie’s – and my heart lurches and stops beating for a brief moment.  I see him in her face.  I stare at her and no longer see her in focus.  I am trapped in that moment of un-reality. He would be her age.  He would be cruising my couch, giggling at the keys he waves in his hand, learning how to wave.

But he is not.

HE IS NOT!

And in that moment, I cannot stop the tears.  I struggle, but I know it is safe for them to fall right now.

Hurting and gasping, silently and with a smile on my face.  I hug her and her mama, loving on them both.  Kisses and see-you-soons.  I wave goodbye with that floppy teach-a-baby-to-wave motion, then watch them drive away.

Walking into my house, it is quiet.  No cooing.  No giggling.  No crying.

Silence.

I sit on the couch so afraid to let the tears fall.

I know, in this moment, I may never get them to stop.

I sit in the waiting room.  The water fountain on the counter has some sort of fault. It clicks with an uneven beat, like a faulty clock. Tick Tick Tock… Tock.  Tick Tick Tock… Tock.

The headache is back.  Has it left? I do not know

My hands are trembling as I tap across my iPhone. I keep looking at the clock on the wall.  Perhaps I am late.  Perhaps she forgot.  Perhaps I’ve got the wrong day.  The self doubt is loud in my head, echoing in my ears.  I stare at my thumbs as they quiver.  Don’t be silly.  The voice inside chastises my inner thoughts.

Her head pokes around the corner of her door.  She apologises profusely for being late.  Leaky roof. Maintenance. I feel O.K.  Still jittery.  My hands are still shaking. The water feature is still clicking.

I sit down on the brown leather couch, take a tissue, cross my legs.  It is all ritual.  The same same.  Fold the corner of the tissue, make a diamond shape, fold it again to a kite, fold it again to a row.  Then twist.  Over, over, over.  Repetitive.  Calming.  Soothing.

We start talking.  How have I been going? Up and down. All around.  But the last two weeks I have been on edge.  Heart rate, anxiety, unable to calm my mind. I try to explain, clumsily, about where my head is at.  It is not working.

I feel like I am drowning.  I look her in the eyes and tell her I am afraid to confront my thoughts about Avery.  I explain how I can think about him, but I cannot let myself FEEL those thoughts.  I can’t. I gasp and sob.  The room shrinks.  She leans forward on her chair, re-adjusting her cushion, showing empathy.

Drowning under my own tears.  Gasping for breath.  Twist the tissue.  What’s left.  Nothing left.  Get a new one, fold it, twist it.  Start again.

We talk more about before conference, after conference, plans.  Avery’s first birthday. More plans.

I feel myself spilling thoughts at a million miles per hour.  I need to get everything out.  Need to say it all.  Need to round the sharp edges.  Am I proving I am more crazy, or less?  I don’t know.  Keep talking.

She goes on maternity leave next week, and this is our exit review.  She looks at me and says that I will confront my feelings about Avery when I feel it is safe.  At the moment, nothing feels safe.  The car accident has triggered anxiety.  And the soreness in my body is probably not letting me relax.

But when I do, I will feel stronger, braver, and will sit with my emotions. She tells me this with conviction.

Assures me I will open my heart to my son, in a way I cannot right now.

Our 50 minute hour is up.  Finished.

I don’t know if I feel better or worse.  I fill out the exit survey.  My answers, I think, are worse than when I started.  But she says it is all taken in context. My report will be sent to my GP in the next two weeks. I know basically what she will write.  Will be like a school report card:

“Kristie is a conciencious student but lacks stability in her thoughts.  She has extraoirdinary vision and drive, however can be unpredictable and unstable.  We think she will benefit from further visits.  Please refer to detailed report below” Says a whole lot of nothing,  Perhaps that is correct.

And just like that, I walk out of her office.  It is over.  It is finished. 6 sessions.

I think of this as I close the door and walk away… Last visit.  I realise just how thankful I am, to have my other counsellors on hand, who I do not have to start from scratch with.

I lay down to relax, to watch T.V. or to just chill out.  My mind goes blank, to that world of no thoughts and fuzzy nothingness.  Relaxation starts to descend like a silk cloth dancing over skin.  This should be perfect.  This should be wonderful.  But it is not.  The moment my body relaxes and my cells release the memory of the day, my body is overwhelmed.

My heart rapidly starts to beat. Faster and faster and faster.  I can feel it deep within my chest.  The vibrations can be felt with my vision.  Thumping in and out of focus.  Nothing has triggered me. Nothing has struck me unawares.  My body has been in hyperdrive for so long, that when it slows down and relaxes, it freaks itself out and things “What the fuck?! Why is she not panicking? Why is she not hyper aware? QUICK!”

It is disconcerting. The “feeling of impending doom” hovers above my head and threatens my every move.  My neck is throbbing, the pulse within it beating violently. Fast and unpredictable.

No, that is not true. It is predictable. 47 beats normal. Instantly jumps to 110.  No reason. No issue. No cause for concern*.

The car accident 10 days ago did not help.  In fact, was probably a catalyst.  Added to no plans and just winging it a lot, I think I just need to get back to a little routine and control.

The vertigo from conference has dissipated, thank goodness. But everything is just… odd.

Counselor for me on Monday, and then for Tara Monday afternoon. A chance for us to debrief lots I think.  Anything to release the pressure from this cooking pot.

*Cardiologist checked me out.

She looks at me with sadness in her eyes.  Hollow eyes.  So much missing.  Empty.

Gently I suggest we go and talk.  She leads the way and throws herself down on the quilted bed-spread.  An exaggerated sigh escapes as she curls herself into the fetal position. I lay down next to her gently, kissing her on the cheek and placing my head at the same level, looking her deep into those grey smokey eyes.

“What is wrong?” I probe.

“Ugh, nothing!” she retorts.

“Tell me, Possum.”

“I am sad,”  She pouts. “I’m just sad.”

Such a loaded statement from a 6 year old.

“I know my sweet, but what is making you sad today?”

“Well,” she starts “It’s just… well… It is not fair.”

“What is not fair?”

“That Avery died.”

“You are right.  It is not fair.”  Such an understatement.  It is bloody unfair.  My mind is swimming at her saying his name.

She is sobbing, and she rubs the tears violently from her eyes and cheeks.  She does not like crying about him, no matter how often I tell her it is O.K. to let the tears fall.  She hides her face into the fresh white linen of that vintage quilt, the tears spreading through the fibres.  I am about to talk, but she starts on a verbal rampage without prompting.

“Why does Genevieve have a baby brother and not me?!  She gets Matthew and I just get Avery and he is dead!  I am sick of being the only kid! All the time, just me and grown ups!”  The tears are flowing freely as she claws her fingers around my neck. I can’t breathe, the pain in her heart is pulsing through my own.  A magnifying glass enlarging my own pain.  I hold her tight and whisper secrets of love and blessings and how special she is.  I tell her she is amazing and it is ok to feel this way.  That it is natural.

“I wish he was alive too.  I wish Avery was alive so you could be a big sister to him.”  I consider telling her that she is still a big sister, but I know this won’t help in this moment. She wants to actively be a big sister – to cuddle, and dress, and feed her baby brother… not to just cuddle a photo frame under her pillow.

She starts breathing softer, more regularly and I release my iron grip from her.  I kiss away her tears and tell her again that I love her.  And I love her for talking to me and telling me how she feels.

We go back to the room of Just Adults, of wine and roasts and silver spoons, and she holds my hand.

And I whisper to the universe, that I wish she had her baby brother too.

Tara and Paddington, Royal Easter Show 2011.
Source – News.com.au

I was reminded by Mrs Woogs wonderful post about the Easter Show (go visit! there is a Sony Galaxy up for grabs!) that I have not shared the Easter Show Experience with any of you.

We are Show Veterans. Not 20 years in the saddle veterans, rather almost a decade of being a part of the Sydney Royal.  In the Animal showing section.  Domestic Animals.  You know – Cats and Dogs?  Yes! But with something a little bit more left of field.  We are involved in Rats and Mice.  Go on, do your double take!  You read it correctly the first time.  Rats and Mice.  Complete with gnashing teeth and long tails.

Get your chuckles out of the way now.  And your eeewwwwws.  I have heard it all before!  And more.   But the rat and mouse show is serious business!

After the year we had with Avery and with Tara being a little anxious, it was decided instead of me doing Mouse Judging this year I would do data entry of the results.  However, often I am out the front stewarding or judging the little fury creatures.

What goes into judging a rat or a mouse I hear you cry? Oh lots! You judge their Eyes, Ears, Head and Tail.  Then you judge their colour and markings, their condition, their coat, their temperament and their overall conformation.  Points out of 100.

All the points are added together and then the rat and mouse with the highest total number of points take home massive Crystalware and the title of “Sydney Royal Easter Show Grand Champion 2012″. Yes. Really.

This year we had superstar Dr Harry visiting and talking with the exhibitors and judges which was super exciting.  I got to give him a cup of tea and got called wonderful and lovely. WOOT.  Look out for the feature on Better Homes and Gardens in the future.

Last year Tara had her photo taken (shown above) and was in big Sydney newspapers.  She had her photo taken again this year too. Something about being a super cute kid and not afraid to hold big scary rats. However, the wonderful people at news.com.au used the wonderful photo of Paddington getting smooched to warn of the dangers of Rat Bite Fever (due to kissing rodents). Do I get my medal for mother of the year now?

It might be a little tongue in cheek, but it is a wonderful experience and we love it.  Even if I am allergic to rats and mice. Yes. Really.  I am a judge, and I am allergic.

So, next year come and visit me at the Royal with my nice shiny badge and a rat in my hand! Even better, let your little Johnny or Susie enter Fluffy the mouse or George the Rat in the competition!  They will have an absolute ball!

There is a dream, loitering in the back of my mind.  I see it when I close my eyes.  So vivid I could touch it.  I can see it in snippets from the bare bones of the idea in its infancy, to the fruition and unveiling of something finished.  I can see the people visiting, of sharing, of being involved, of breathing LIFE into this little dream.

But it is going to require a lot from me.

It is going to require a lot from others.

It is going to do so much.

It HAS to get off the ground.

I have run it by a few people and the response has been so overwhelmingly positive.

So stay tuned folks. Wish me luck and send me some good fortunes.  This Pipe Dream needs make its way out of my mind, and into your hearts.  Yes, so much vague sugar propping going on but I need to start psyching.  I need to start finding some help for it… need to start sending the wishes out into the universe and hoping for some Avery Magic to come tap me on the shoulder.

Social Media for Social Good… *wink*

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I’ve been nominated in the Sydney Writers’ Centre Best Blogs 2012 competition.  I am so honoured and humbled by the fact that people think my blog is worthy enough to be voted upon.  There are SO many blogs worthy of being voted for, so when you go to *cough* vote for me *cough* you can vote for as MANY blogs as you like!  But you can only vote once, so please remember to check all that you love!  (me included!).  So click on the button below and vote up a storm.  And I cannot recall if I posted about this already, so if I have, I apologise for the blatant spamming…

Hello my lovely boy.

9 whole months have gone by since life changed.  9 months since I kissed you on your purple lips, welcoming you with salty tears and a heavy heart.

I am now at one of those milestones – you have be out, just as long as you were in.  Give or take.  How can 9 months affect the rest of my life the way you have?  In for 9 months, in my arms for 7 days, out of my arms for eternity.  Fuck.  Reality is a bitch.

It is beyond unfair – it is unthinkable. That life just keeps moving steadfast and sure.

My friend and I were in a car accident on Thursday.  It was, by all accounts, a nothing accident.  No one was hurt seriously.  It could have been sooooo much worse.  The car we were in was written off, but we walked away.  Walked away from a T collision.  My friend was so good with her driving to save us from what was possibly a much more serious situation.  But I cannot say that it was completely without issue.  The car started smoking and so we got out of the car. I was fine until I closed the car door – and then panic hit, and I started to hyperventilate.  I got dizzy and fell to the road, as cars decided to pass on the inside (where I was sitting). I kept thinking, I need to get off the road, but I could not stand… I wanted your daddy, and your sister… to see them.   To make sure I was alive and that I was not dreaming.

I am ok now.  My shoulder is in all sorts of pain, but I am sure it will pass.  I am just thankful that your daddy and Tara did not have to deal with any more trauma.  We have all had enough of that.

Oh Avery! I spoke at the conference.  I did it!  I whispered, and then shouted your name to a ballroom full of 250 people!  I told them part of our story, about you, about me, about Daddy, about Tara.  I told them about stillbirth and Heartfelt and the power of the blog.  But, do you know what? The best part was not ME talking, it was after conference, when everyone ELSE started talking about YOU! I was the drop in the ocean, and their whispers turned to ripples, and then into waves.  Even now, they are still talking about what I did…. they are still talking about YOU!  We started a conversation by sharing our heart!  It is amazing to see what is coming forward!

But more than anything? More than the accolades and the visits to the website, I would trade it all in to have you in my arms.  To smell you and kiss you and sing you to sleep nestled at my breast.

I got to meet some of the most wonderful people at conference.  People who have followed our whole journey. Since before you became you.  Kate and Kate and Shae. People have followed you since… Kelley and Daisy and Eden and Ms Woogs and oh so many more.  And then there is Lori.  Oh Lori.  Her heart is as battered as mine.  As fragile.  As strong.  Because of you, because of her Tony. Because of the internet, I got to hold her in my arms.  A magic moment.  Where the tears burned, and quenched in the same moment.

Because of you my sweet boy.

Some times you feel like a mirage.  A beautiful shimmering mirage full of promise and hope.  Of dreams made and crafted in my mind.  Then I reach out to you – in the haze of the morning light between night and dawn – and you slip through my fingers.   An impossible oasis surrounded by a desert of dry fruitless longings.

Is it wrong for me to long for another child my sweet?  To feel your brother or sister breathing in my arms?  I look at your big sister Tara, full of so much love, joy and pain.  She wants a sibling so much.  She wants you, we all want you, but that is not possible.  We all want another baby.  She asks me all the time whether it is time to have a new baby.  I tell her we cannot replace you, but when I see her with the younger siblings of friends, it is in her heart to be a big sister, running around after a toddler. It is in my heart to be a mama again.  I am scared to go down that path though – to subject my heart to infertility, to miscarriage, to risk. But it is impossible to not to want to face those fears!

Such turmoil and worry.  If only it were so simple.

If only we could just get you back.

If only you never had to leave.

Tara would be such an amazing big sister to you. To another.  I feel like I have robbed her.  Denied her the chance to be the person she could be.  Perhaps the universe just had other plans.

I am longing to have a tattoo etched into my skin, to mark my flesh with something permanent of you.  It is an insatiable ache that gets more powerful daily.  But I toss and turn over what I want, where i want it, what others will think.  Do I get it on my arms, my ribs, my back…. my heart?  I thought about getting your name and Tara’s name on my wrists – but I only have two – what if I have your sibling? where does their name go?  Do I just get the picture of my new website logo put on my lower back – the dragonfly and the fox? If I do that do I go for the line drawing or a realistic one or a combination?  I want to get it right.  I think about your hand – getting it tattooed.  But it would never be perfect I guess. There would always be a margin of error.  I wish the answer to this question would just come.  And that is before I even go anywhere near working out the tattoo artist.

Some days I feel just so exhausted getting out of bed and leaving the house.  Not often, but sometimes.  Sometimes I just want to absorb myself into the grief. I hear of some people who struggle every day and on one hand I wish I could.  On the other hand I am glad I don’t.  It’s impossible.  Because I can only do what I do.  And what I am doing is right for the moment.

We are hurtling towards your first birthday Avery.  A whole year gone.  I want to do something.  Something big.  Something special.  I want to do a party, but I am not sure what or how. How do you plan a birthday party for someone who is not here?  It is not like it is a celebration – a commemoration! A memorial. I want it to be thoughtful, beautiful, special… do I do it at day, or at night? Do I do what we did for Tara? “Surviving the First Year” party.  Seems fitting.  I have ideas.  Too many ideas.  You were born at 1.20.  Do I reserve that time for your Daddy and I?  And then do dinner? Candles or Balloons…  so many ideas, only one time to do it.  It might sound silly to some – perhaps to many – but I have so much joy in the planning and preparation of your sister’s birthday parties, I just wish I could give you all of that too.

So little time.

Never enough time.

Time is my enemy.  And yet, time is what makes it easier.

A mess.

A beautiful, scary, heart breaking never ending mess.

Miss you always. Every moment, without faulting.

Mama xx