I had a friend message me tonight and let me know she was thinking about Lily.
I welled up. That all too familiar gigantic lump lodged in my throat and hasn’t shifted for the half hour since. And now I’m sitting down again, staring at this old blog page, like I did a whole eleven years ago. I haven't posted since the day Lily would have turned seven. Because there is no post after that. That is it. That is the rawest part of my life, and I can give nothing more.
But here I am again. Because grief does not die with the last post. Or with the send off. Or with whatever you do every single day to keep going.
I last wrote about Lily on the day she would have turned 7. Today she would have turned 18.
I remember Every. Single. Moment of that damned day 11 years ago. I remember every conversation, every look, where I was standing, the moments of silence. The friends enjoying life at Bronte park, Bella looking up at me, the silent car rides, the talking to Rory in front of the mirror, the walking to the restaurant late in the night, the ordering of the triple Drambuie shot. The opening of the laptop.
And all my feelings of the day spilling out.
Because people like me like to contain our feelings. Stoic Serb. But it always spills. It always spills.
---
A few years ago, I shared that post again. On what would have been another birthday. Not all birthdays, not all anniversaries, feel the same. But that one felt the same. As does this one. I got a message in the middle of the night. I heard the beep beep and opened my phone. It was 4am. ‘I just read your post. Thank you for sharing it. I needed to read it’.
Someone who had suffered a greater loss than mine because there were more years for him in which to build memories. But he understood. He understood that grief is raw. It is human and it hurts. It hurts a lot. Even when you are stoic.
In the dead of night, we deal with our grief and our demons and our losses and our dreams for a better tomorrow.
---
My friend - the same one that texted me tonight - also texted me when I was in a meeting a couple of years ago. I saw the notification, looked down at my phone, as I do far too often, and saw the message. I swallowed. I swallowed so damn hard. Anything to push that lump back down to the recesses of my memories where they normally sit.
I wrote back a thanks that I truly meant, and looked around the room. I needed to leave. But I stayed put. Stoic Serb. I wondered how many of us live lives, fight demons, scratch at wounds while no-one is watching. They are there, but they aren’t. We don’t see them. But people around us are feeling and living through them.
Some memories sear in your soul. That moment, strangely, is one of them.
When I left the room I went for a walk and sat by myself. It was comforting that someone remembered. It's also wound-opening. I breathed and breathed and breathed.
---
It’s all strange with Liljana.
Lessons, but not lessons. Experiences, but you don’t know what to do with them. They live in you, as I assume most trauma does. It’s a wound. But it’s alive. In your psyche, it’s alive.
My son tells me I hold grudges. I do. I will forever remember the person I most resent of that time. I've never let it go. Maybe I should forgive them. After this post, I might.
---
I remember my friends rallying. Confused, shocked. I see their faces as I write this. I see the Drambuie bottles, I see them turning up at the door, at the hospital, I see their patience and their quiet. I see my rage as one friend dared tell me Liljana was beautiful. ‘HOW THE HELL WOULD YOU KNOW?!’.
I see my rage at neighbours, from the apartment underneath, who dared call to say they could hear my stomping in the night. ‘HOW THE HELL WOULD YOU KNOW?!’.
Rage spills where the doors open.
---
I was one of the first of my friends in Sydney to have children. A new life and death in a few short months is an impossible thing to comprehend whilst still believing the world is yours to take. We’d barely left the clubbing, the trekking in NZ, the parties, the baby shower. My friends rallied. And I wondered how many of their own mothers and fathers had wounds buried that were never spoken about.
I thought about my own mum who had also lost a young baby. We are everywhere.
I had one friend call me from work while Lily was in Intensive Care. One of his work mates had had a preemie. He said I might like to talk to her. I called her. She was so gracious, so wise, so giving of information. Finally there was someone who had lived a similar experience. I was grateful. He told me later she got off the call and went to the bathroom and cried and cried. And, I expect, heaved all her grief in to the bathroom bowl. She gave me her story for comfort, but there is no comfort in grief. Even when you just teeter on the edge of it.
---
I remember my boss at the time who had received an email from HR. ‘Di has been away a lot since the birth of her baby. Will she be taking that as annual leave?’.
The ferociousness of his reply is something I will never forget. Ever. ‘Don’t you ever ask me about her again. She can take all the time she wants. She’s worked here ten years. I never want to hear from you asking about her again’.
I had returned to work soon after the birth. I travelled to and from the hospital with my breastmilk during the day, before heading back to the hospital in the evenings. All so I could have my maternity leave start when she got home. But she never got home. And deep within his own heart, he knew that was a possibility. Times have changed since then. He was ahead of his time. And I thank him.
I remember the flowers that arrived from colleagues and friends at birth and the cards of condolences at her death. I will be eternally grateful for the celebration of life and the care and compassion in the after.
---
I remember turning up at a birthday while Lily was still in hospital. I was wearing new jeans and a sass and bide top that had been gifted to me. I had lost weight. I was pumping milk through the nights and was barely remembering to eat. I wasn’t supposed to look anything other than a mess. But that night, even I knew I had something. I was a fierce lioness. Devoted. With purpose. Unflappable. And in the very clothes that would mark 2004 for me - as an aside that lives in my memory. ’Di, you look so fantastic!’ was repeated over and over and over again. Most hadn't seen me for a while. I clinked glasses, I smiled. Inside I wondered who was looking after Lily tonight. I wondered over and over again. ‘Who the hell is looking after Lily tonight?’.
I walked in to the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror and a huge gush of fresh milk burst from my breast. I lifted my top, already saturated, and on and on it gushed. Over the mirrors, the sink, the walls of the whole bathroom, wherever I turned, like a ferocious hose no longer contained. A creamy milk. Everywhere. Lily was in hospital but I was here with her.
I was in shock but managed to wipe it down. My memory tells me there were numerous knocks at the door. It felt like such a long time. I dabbed at my top. I covered and uncovered the tell tale signs. How could I hide it. I couldn’t. I stuffed toilet paper down my bra to stop it from leaking further, picked up the untouched champagne glass, crossed my arms and went back inside. Rory, I need your jacket. He handed it to me.
Two hours later, back at home, I pumped and pumped and pumped and pumped until there was neigh a drop of milk left in me. Only to wake four hours later to do it all again.
---
I remember the donations to the neonatal ward in lieu of flowers that live on in life saving cribs today. I remember and I am grateful.
I remember the funeral. I remember my anger at the priest for the catastrophy of the proposed readings. I remember Rory’s forever deserved and life-long friends from Woollongong and beyond, driving up for the day. The nurses and doctors arriving and me wondering who was looking after the new babies being born. I remember execs from work walking in after an offsite, cut short so they could make it. Friends flying in from Melbourne. Friends that still hold me to this day.
I also remember so much explosive pain that day. The personal pain. The shared pain. I - we - remember it all.
---
I rock as I write that. Bella does this rocking thing at the moment. I watch her all the time and wonder if it's a self-soothing thing. I'm rocking now as I write. And I know it is.
---
I remember Lily’s wake. How do you deal with death but to celebrate life? Our friends understood. They stoicly stood by our sides for two whole months and they weren’t letting go now. Someone turned up, a friend of a friend. ‘This is weird, isn’t this supposed to be a wake for a baby’. I heard him, walked in to the bedroom and howled. Had I done my Lily a disservice by celebrating her? No I hadn’t. I know that as I write this. She, and her tenacious spirit were worth and will ALWAYS be worth celebrating. So, fuck you. But like the other person above, I think I finally forgive you. It's strange. This post is strange.
There is a catharticness that is happening as I write and it's mixed with feelings I can only describe as suppressed.
It’s strange.
I have been a raging ball of fire the last month or so. Not always, but I have a hairline trigger that feels undeniably, whole heartedly justified in every single moment and every single rage and hurt I have felt… but in the dead of night I wonder to what end. Am I lashing out, am I pushing away hard because it is an easier pain to deal with than the one I have hidden away? I wonder what is bubbling. Where is its starting point?
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I started reading a book today ‘The Body Keeps the Score’. It was recommended by a friend dealing with his own trauma and personal journey. I’ve had it on my list and downloaded for the better part of 6 months or more. Is the fact that I finally opened it today another sign?
Do we all wait for the right moments to try and understand our grief and how it spills and spills and spills?
It's not just me and my friend. It’s not the situations we deal with on the outside. The stories that we know. It’s all of us. It’s what we keep inside. It’s what we keep from others. We’re all hurting. At different times, in different ways. We’re all hurting.
And we’re all doing our best to love hard, too.
I know we are.
---
Thank you, M, for your text tonight. I’ve been thinking about Lily all week. The last few days in particular have felt completely out of control. I wonder about my month and how much is related. I'm grateful for the release of bashing this out.
You unlocked something deep. Something simmering.
It’s the randomness of timing, too.
Years pass and you move on. But your heart doesn't. The trauma doesn't. The anger at the universe is as ferocious as ever when you dig just a little. It simmers, simmers, simmers and then it bubbles over. We’re human volcanoes. And no-one knows when a quake will set it off.
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I know I’ve used 'ferocious' so many times today. It's telling. And it weaves itself in to everything.
It has been my month. It has been me. It is in the way in which I protect Bella and the expectations I place on the boys. It is the standard to which I hold others accountable, how much I want people to care. And it is an unfair expectation. It feels unfair because it's something I want mirrored. I so desperately want everything I feel mirrored.
I'm sorry. How do you ask someone else to mirror your pain.
---
Bella turned 17 yesterday.
‘Who’s birthday is it today, Bella?!’
‘It’s mine! And it was daddies yesterday. And it’s my sister’s tomorrow!’.
It is, Bella.
Happy 18th birthday, Lily. Wherever you may be, you are still here. And always will be.
28.01.22
