Cameron

Something he said

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.

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Hiding

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?

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A heartfelt message

Happy fourth birthday Cam.

Wish you were here.

Love always,
Mum xoxo

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Today…

There are no words.

We miss him. We love him. We are remembering him.

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The other way around

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.)

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The colour red

Red is the colour of strawberries, which I love to blend with milk and honey to make thick and tasty smoothies.

Red is the colour of my two favourite Japanese restaurants – Mitzu in North Ryde and Jugemu in Neutral Bay. One serves the freshest salmon sushi and the other does an utterly delectable spinach salad.

Red is the colour of Rick’s old schoolbag when he was in kindergarten. It is actually a small suitcase, and inscribed on the inside is the word “Junk” in Rick’s youthful handwriting. We still have it in our home today – we use it to store Angus’ wooden train set.

Red is the colour of Peter and Mary’s Range Rover. They lent it to us when we needed to drive down to a wedding in Wagga Wagga with our friends Mike and Nikki. I remember clearly Rick’s excitement at finally being able to drive his dad’s Land Rover. Nowadays, Angus calls it “Pa’s big red car.”

Red is also the colour of Angus’ toy motorbike – a present from my friends to him on his first birthday. To me, the red motorbike is a novel reminder of the motorbike that Rick used to ride when we first started dating…

Red was the colour of my roses bouquet the day Rick and I got married. They were a rich, wine red and they stood out starkly against the ivory white of my wedding dress.

Red was the colour of my ‘qi pao’ which I wore to our Chinese banquet the next day. I remember how the ‘qi pao’ fitted me like a second skin and how I never wore it again after that night.

Red was the colour of the twelve roses Rick gave me on our first Valentines Day together as husband and wife. It was the first time he’d ever bought me flowers.

Red was the colour of Cameron’s lips. They were a dark, crimson red. For the rest of my life, I will never forget those beautiful, precious lips…

Red is the colour of the dress I wore on Christmas day, three months after Cameron’s death. The colour and vibrance of the dress masked the heavy grief that weighed down my heart.

Red is the colour of the spare chair in my studio. When Rick comes home on Friday and Sunday nights, he often finds me working at my desk. He sits down on the red chair, I swivel around in mine and then we talk and share and catch up on how each of our evenings went. I looked forward to those chats a lot. They are the rare moments of the week when it’s just the two of us.

Red.

One of the many colours of life.

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What made my Christmas

How was your Christmas? I hope it was a good one. I hope you got to spend it with loved ones. I hope you managed to eat lots of roast pork with hot gravy and crunchy potatoes followed by a delicious trifle that your mother-in-law made. Wait, that was my Christmas. Well, I hope you didn’t end up collapsing at home in a heap of tears as I did on Christmas afternoon from sheer exhaustion. I don’t even know what I was tired from – after all, it wasn’t like I did any cooking. Or cleaning. Or even table setting. Nope, lazy me did not lift a finger whilst my parents-in-law rushed around doing literally everything – including looking after our kids. Gosh I have the most amazing in-laws.

One of the things that truly made my Christmas was the fact that the Sunday Telegraph published our story about Cameron in their Sunday Magazine on 12th December. I can’t begin to tell you how encouraging it is that mainstream media is increasingly willing to break the silence surrounding stillbirth, which seems to be one of the last remaining taboos in our society.

You can read the article here and the original, unedited version that I wrote here.

Anyway, the team who came and did the photo shoot for us in our home were so easy to work with, and I reckon that they did an amazing job. The hair and make-up artist, Felicia, was an absolute delight to work with, and I was very impressed with how she was not at all deterred by the seriously big bags under my eyes or the abysmal condition of my skin.

The talented photographer was Kristian Taylor-Wood, and he was kind enough to send me some of the photos that he took which didn’t make the final cut. I thought I would share them a few of them here since I’m quite certain this will be my one and only ever magazine photo shoot. (Unless I win Miss Universe 2011. Stay tuned.)

But in all seriousness, I really love these photos and I know I will cherish them forever.

(When I showed these photos to my parents, they very typically ‘suggested’ that I should’ve worn shoes because, according to them, my feet look too tanned – or “too dark” as they would say. So please, if you are able, imagine that I have shoes on as you look at these photos. My parents would be ever so thankful.)

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Four in a row

Connect Four was one of my favourite travel games as a kid. Travel Guess Who was always over too soon, and sadly I never quite mastered the art of playing Chess or Backgammon (instead, I sang Karaoke and learnt my maths timetables).

Last Friday I felt like we won majorly in a biological game of Connect Four. Against all odds, we found out at our week 19 ultrasound that we are having another little boy. Four boys in a row – who would’ve thought!?

Naturally, Rick is stoked. There is just something about fathers and their boys that is inexplicably special, sweet and unique. In fact, a lady who works at the office with Rick later told me that he actually skipped into work that day, with the cheekiest looking grin on his face.

So daddy’s clearly happy. But what about mummy?

I’m ecstatic!

Seriously, if there was a cow around, I would jump over the moon with it (strange as that would be).

It’s slightly amusing that most people immediately assume I wanted this new baby to be a girl. A few have even appeared visibly disappointed for me. In fact, one (older) lady responded to our news of a fourth boy with, “Oh no!” (I think I was speechless for a fraction of a second before politely rushing to reassure her that it was actually okay.)

Don’t get me wrong – I would love to have a girl at some stage. I mean, a little ‘mini me’ running around – how cool would that be (especially as I can already picture dressing my ‘mini me’ up in mini jeggings)?

But for now, I am simply loving my little boys. They are the best! After all, Cameron was a boy, Angus is a boy and Pete is a boy – why wouldn’t I want another boy like them? Especially as Angus is like the gentlest and sweetest little man and Pete just sits around all day grinning, laughing and looking all content and chubby. Boys are all I’ve known and I’ve loved every minute of loving each one of them.

Plus, I really can’t help but smile at the image of a small line of boys trooping after their awesome dad, following him everywhere and copying everything he does. Perhaps it’s because we lost Cameron, but the thought of Rick with lots of boys just touches my heart in a way that I know I can never fully explain.

So to all the boys (the big – I’m looking at you, hubby – and the small) in my life: Gosh I love you guys.

And to our newest and latest: Stay safe in there, don’t hurt me (too much) on the way out and know that we already love you and can’t wait to meet you, James Edward Mason.

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