Today is exactly five and a half years since Cameron died. How time has passed us by. These photos were taken a year and a half ago, on his fourth anniversary. These moments were but fleeting ones, but because they were captured, they are now stamped forever in my memory. As time goes by, our story continues. And even though Cameron is no longer here, he continues to be a part of that story…
You can read all the posts from this mini series here.
As I was putting Jamie to bed tonight, he started playing with my locket. We opened it together, and immediately he pointed to me and said, “Mummy!” I asked him who the baby was, and he pointed at himself and exclaimed, “Me!”
Looking at his gorgeous smiling face, I started tearing up.
It was true: he really did look a lot like Cameron when he was a baby himself. I could see him watching me curiously as I wept.
“Sad?” he asked in his cute little voice.
“Yes,” I replied softly. “Mummy sad…”
Together, we looked at the photo inside the locket again. This time, I pointed to Cameron, and said, “This is Cameron. Your other brother.”
“Bro…ther,” he repeated hesitantly.
“Yes, your brother. His name is Cameron. Can you say Cameron?”
“Cam…ron.”
Hearing Jamie repeat Cameron’s name so beautifully made me weep all the more. I hugged him closer to me, and covered his plump face with kisses. “I love you so much, little boy.”
These days, I’ve been listening to The Studio Gibili piano soundtrack and it keeps taking me four years back to the spring when I first started listening to the music.
It was the spring of Cameron’s first anniversary. It was the spring when we finally interred his ashes. It was the spring when we anxiously awaited Angus’ arrival. It was the spring when we finally welcomed a healthy baby into our arms. It was the spring when it came crashing down on us once more all that we had lost…
Truly, it is the most beautiful music.
It is music that fills me with love. Music that makes my heart ache. Music that causes me to weep.
It is music that slows me down. It causes me to be still, and actually feel the love that I carry for each of my four boys. It is music that makes me remember how blessed I am to be their mum.
It is music that makes me cry. And music that makes me feel alive.
It is music that reminds me of Cameron’s absence, and of the tragedy it was to lose him. It reminds me of all those dark days. All that grief. All that pain.
And at the same time, all that hope. And all that love.
But most of all, it is music that tells me to never stop mothering.
To never stop remembering.
To never stop crying.
To never stop feeling.
And to never stop loving.
…flowers for Cameron / a jumping boy / a moment with Grandpa / comfort food
Yes, today is an incredibly sad day. It was exactly five years ago tonight that we found out that Cameron had died. In a dark hospital room, we were told he had no heartbeat. In that one moment, our lives were forever changed. Yet despite the painful memories of that day, and all the tears that have flowed this week, somehow by God’s grace, there were still things that made me smile today.
Thank you to everyone for your love and prayers.
It is that time of the year again.
This entire week, I have been re-living that last week of Cameron’s life. A memory here. A memory there. Enveloping me when I least expect it.
Tears. They have come. And they have gone. And they have come again.
I have stayed at home all week. Trying to take it easy. Looking after the boys. Resting whenever I can. Soaking in the boys at every opportunity.
It does not escape me how blessed I am. To have these three gorgeous boys in my life. They are such a blessing. Such a blessing.
They have seen their mummy cry this week, and they have all been so sweet. Even little Jamie who is only one and a half knows how to smile his precious smile to help ease mummy’s pain. Pete, in particular, has been so caring – putting his forehead on mine whenever he sees me in tears. “Mummy sad?” he would ask me. “Yes, mummy sad.”
This week I’ve realised that a mother’s guilt never goes away. Even five years on, I still fear that I caused Cameron’s death. That had I been less pre-occupied that week with the design job I had on, he would’ve arrived earlier. And lived.
Those last five days of Cameron’s life haunt me. Monday was his due date. Tuesday we went to see our doctor. Wednesday and Thursday I was still working on the client’s magazine. Friday night we went out to a friend’s farewell…
Saturday, he died.
It haunts me that no matter how many times that week replays itself in my head, I cannot change the outcome.
All I have are my ‘if onlys’.
If only we’d induced him that Tuesday.
If only I hadn’t been working up till that week.
If only I’d slowed down.
If only I’d paid more attention to his movements that Friday.
If only we hadn’t gone out that night.
If only we’d booked an earlier induction date than the following Monday.
If only.
If only.
I have been so short on words this week. Too tired to actually verbalise what I am feeling inside.
But it comes down to this: Cameron is gone. And it hurts.
I love him. I miss him. And it hurts.
I wish he hadn’t died. I wish he were alive.
It hurts.
Photo above: Rick and our other three boys at Akuna Bay.
Winter has indeed bade us farewell here in Sydney.
Sunshine and warmth are everywhere.
Even the air smells different.
Yes, spring is here.
Despite my love for this season, I know there will be tears this spring.
There will always be tears in spring, because Cameron died in spring.
Our firstborn. Our son.
His birthday is two weeks from today. The 16th of September. A date that makes my heart ache.
Had he lived, Cameron would be five this year.
But that shall never come to pass.
Because five years ago, he died.
Inside of me.
In spring.
Photo above: The last of the winter leaves…
One of our parishioners gave me this lovely bunch of basil at church on Sunday. I popped it in a glass of water when I got home, and placed it onto our kitchen windowsill. I’ve been looking at it all day today, every time I pop in and out of the kitchen. It’s such a lovely, vibrant green. I love the freshness it adds to the room. One of these days, just maybe, we might start a herb garden of our own.
Last night, Angus pointed out to Rick during bedtime that there were a lot of photos of Cameron at our old house. For someone who is only three and a half, he understands a lot, notices everything and has an amazing memory. He knows that Cameron is a part of our family, even though he’s never met him. During bedtimes with Rick, he’ll tell Rick that he loves Cameron too, along with the rest of the family. He’s a beautiful boy, our Angus.
His comment about the photos of Cameron at our old place got me thinking: why haven’t I put up photos of Cam in our new home? After all, I can count on one hand how many framed photos we have: there’s one of the three boys in our family room; there’s one of Rick and me on our wedding day in the lounge; and there’s one of Angus and Pete with Rick in their room. Why didn’t I include Cameron’s photo somewhere? To think I didn’t even notice till Angus mentioned it. Such a contrast to when he first died, and I was desperate to fill our home with photos of him to help ease the pain.
Still, some things don’t change.
I experience the same stab of sadness when Angus is labelled our “first,” or Pete our “second,” or Jamie our “third.” I notice the empty seat at our dinner table every night. I weep when I read stories of other women whose babies were born sleeping. I continue to wonder what might have been if I’d been induced earlier. I still wish we had all four boys here with us instead of just three.
Tonight, I shall put up a photo of Cameron in our family room.
And I have no doubt Angus will be the first to notice in the morning.
I read on a blog recently a quote by Robert Mapplethorpe: “If I am at a party, I want to be at the party. Too many photographers use the camera to avoid participating in things. They become professional observers.”
Somehow, these words really struck a chord with me. I know that I’m often guilty of hiding from people behind the camera. Especially at weddings, where you tend to bump into people from the past. I guess I still find it hard to answer the question that often pops up: ‘How many children do you have?’ Not that I have any problem with talking about Cameron, but I’m increasingly aware of how difficult it can be for the other person to have a bombshell dropped like that. Especially when they know me from the past and probably just expect some stock standard answer about how great life is.
Sometimes I can’t help but wish that my path to motherhood was a ‘normal’ one. In the words of my friend Sally: “The one where my firstborn didn’t die, and I headed down the more traditional route to parenthood where you get pregnant, stay pregnant, then bring baby home nine months later.”
If only Cameron hadn’t died, then I could just rattle off “four boys” without a second thought when asked about our family. If only Cameron hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have to brace myself in conversations whenever the topic of my children came up. If only Cameron hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have to worry about the other person referring to Angus as our first or Pete as our second or James as our third. If only Cameron hadn’t died, I would be able to tell others how much we loved watching him grow up and how he turned four in September. If only Cameron hadn’t died, I would be able to show photos of him to other people when they asked to see our boys. If only Cameron hadn’t died, there would be videos of him too. If only he hadn’t died, our family would be complete. Our family would be ‘normal.’ If only he hadn’t died, he would be here.
But he did die. And because of that, talking to people can never be the same. It can never be like it was four years ago.
So if I become a bit of a ‘professional observer,’ then so be it. Because the truth is, I much prefer that to being hurt.
And sometimes, yes sometimes, you’ve just got to protect yourself.
Have you ever distanced yourself at parties or hidden behind the camera like me?
Spring is once again upon us, and with it, warmer air and bluer skies.
The tree outside the boys’ bedroom is awash with tiny yellow flowers: every time I pull up the blinds, it’s the first thing I see. It reminds me of the cherry blossom tree outside the room that was meant to be Cameron’s – it too had been in full bloom back then, during the last days of my pregnancy.
I guess the truth is that I have been avoiding spring.
I have not allowed myself to revel in its beauty and its warmth.
To accept that spring is here means accepting that four years has now past since we lost our Cameron. Four years. Four years.
Four years ago yesterday was the last time we heard his heartbeat.
Four years ago today I was frantically preparing for his birth and arrival.
Four years ago tomorrow was the last whole day we had with him.
Four years ago Thursday was the day that we lost him.
Four years ago Friday was the day we finally met him.
And the last time we ever saw him.
Spring is here.
But Cameron is not.
And though I know it cannot be, I wish with all my heart it was the other way around.
(This post was originally written for Life Without Cameron.)
My friends call me Ronnie, and you can too. I'm a graphic designer who secretly aspires to be a writer. I live in Sydney with my man, Rick, and four of our five little boys. I love memory keeping, and I'm bit of a neat freak. This year, I'm learning to live more simply. I've been blogging for ten years now, and love how it keeps me sane. Grab a cup of tea, and have a browse. It's lovely to have you here.
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