Felix...

This past week has been very traumatic and difficult. Our beautiful 14 year old cat Felix became very ill and he was suffering.

On Friday he passed away by euthanasia with Kirby and me by his side.

We're still in shock.

I'll write more about him in the next couple of entries.

Today is Mother's Day...I miss our boy.

Ari...

Well – this past fortnight has been extremely sad and Kirby and I are still in shock.

Our nine year old German Short-haired Pointer, Ari, was absolutely fine a few weeks’ ago. He played, ate, and was the silly larrikin he always was.

Then about a fortnight ago he refused his dinner, which he had never done before. Breakfast and dinner time were the best times of day for him!

I took him to the vet and it seemed he had a bit of a stomach bug. I offered him chicken and rice (as per the vet’s instructions) when we got back home and he ate that down quite happily. Over the next few days he returned to his normal self.

Then early last week he wouldn’t eat again and I took him back to the vet. The vet took blood and tested it, and everything was fine. He did have a yeast infection in his ears and it seemed he also got something in his eye – so we started treating both of those things.

Ari ate the next day and we planned to take him to the vet for a check-up later in the week.

Then on Thursday night Ari started breathing really heavily (using his entire body to try and breathe), he was having trouble walking, and looked terrible. We rushed him to the emergency vet and they admitted him as he was clearly in pain, and they told us they would do scans on Friday and then call us with the results.

The results were not what we what we ever thought we would hear. Ari had lung cancer.

Kirby and I went to see him. He could barely walk, and just wanted to lie down. He knew we were there, but didn’t wag his tail – he just didn’t have the energy. He couldn’t lift his head, and so I sat down on the floor and lifted his head onto my lap and patted him. Kirby sat down on the other side of Ari and stroked his head.

The vet came in and Kirby went to stand up, but the vet sat down on the floor with us – which was lovely for her to do. She explained it all. He had a large amount of tumours in his lungs, which was why he couldn’t breathe properly, and there was no treatment because of the stage of the cancer. We could have had him go for more scans (more invasive) to make sure it was cancer – but the vet said she was 99% sure it was. The tumours were the shape of cancerous tumours.

We were given time alone with Ari to talk about what we would do, but really there was only one thing we could do. He was in so much pain – it wasn’t fair to keep him going any longer.

The vet came back in and Kirby and I held Ari and patted him as the vet gave him the injection to put him to sleep. He stopped breathing and slipped away from us.

Just as I wrote that last paragraph I felt that tightening in my chest that happens when somebody tells you bad news.

This is just a bad dream…surely? 

New fish babies…

The sadness continued after my last entry as on the following weekend the last of the four babies I bought in recent months, Clancy, died. This left little Angel alone and quite despondent. I know that fish used to be thought of as quite brainless – but research is showing that they do have emotions and form types of friendships with other fish.

So, poor little Angel (who is normally quite outgoing) was hiding behind the rock in the pond, barely eating, and not coming out to see me when I called to him.

I couldn’t leave him all on his own and so I cleaned the pond thoroughly to make sure there were no remnants of whatever it was that made Clancy, Dickon, Ned, and Loki so sick – this even included wiping over the water snails so that there was as little algae as possible on them. Kirby and I then went to a pet shop (NOT the one I went to before!) to get three new babies.

I couldn’t decide between three different types, so I got one of each – an orange comet, a yellow comet, and a calico fantail.  After the staff member put the three fish into a bag for me to take them home I asked her if the fish all spoke the same language – you know, because they are different types. It took a moment for her to realise I was joking!

The babies have settled into the pond nicely. As soon as I put the bag in the pond Angel was out from hiding, doing crazy swims around the pond, coming up and looking through the plastic bag at the newcomers, doing another crazy swim, then peeking into the bag again, and so forth. Needless to say he is a happy little fish now with his new friends.

I named the yellow fish Uthai (which is Thai for rising sun), the calico fish Dana (which is Irish Gaelic for cheeky – which suits her well), and the orange fish Jupiter – just because it’s a cool name.

I won’t forget the other fish I had – and these new fish don’t replace them in my heart – I still love Clancy, Ned, Dickon, and Loki. But, there isn’t a quota on the love we can feel and so I can easily love my new babies as well as, and not instead of.

Beautiful Clancy

From top to bottom - Dana, Uthai, Angel, and Jupiter

Aunty Bev...

This post isn’t technically about not have children, but it is about life.

It’s strange that I wrote about all the small things in life last week and posted a collage of some of those small things that are important parts of my life, for this week has made me realise even more how important those seemingly small things are.

Last Wednesday night, the 6^th of May, my Aunty Bev had a massive stroke and collapsed at her home. She never regained consciousness and within a few days the doctors determined that she was brain dead. Life support was removed on Sunday night and she died about fifteen minutes later. She was only 65 years old which is far too young.

Aunty Bev lived in Sydney, New South Wales (which is over 1100 kilometres (or 700 miles) away) with my Uncle Trev. We didn’t get to see her as much I would have liked, but distance and time apart didn’t affect how much she meant (and means) to me.

I’m finding it hard to write at the moment…so instead I will share what I wrote about Aunty Bev on Facebook…

“Aunty Bev always believed in me. She told me she was proud of me and loved my writing. She had a way of making me feel that I was just right just as I am, because she loved me just as I am. It's unbelievable, it's not fair, and it is so hard to think about. But, already I know that her legacy will live on - because she had a way of getting me to see the preciousness of family, friends, and life. And I hope I can pass this on to my nieces and nephews. I love you and miss you Aunty Bev xxx”

It’s the little things that matter – a smile, a voice, a laugh, a hug, and memories that will never fade away.

Uncle Trev and Aunty Bev with my nieces Ella and Hannah

Realization and my weasel…

The subconscious mind is powerful. It can bring up old feelings and pain without actually letting you know that this is what it is doing. You feel anxious, sad, unsure, and sometimes angry, but you don’t know why.

That is how I was feeling last week. All I wanted to do was run to get away from the feelings of inadequacy and pain that I was experiencing. I couldn’t picture how I could be happy.  And I didn’t know why. Life is good – I have a wonderful husband, I have the opportunity to follow my dreams of being a full-time writer, I have amazing friends and family, and I have just been to Thailand and fulfilled a dream.

Last week I felt quite pathetic. I had intended to experience life with more gratitude and simplicity, to remain inspired by what I experienced in Thailand, but last week I felt far from where I hoped I would be when I came home in May.

One of the dogs from BLES died in the last month, but I only just heard about his death this week. The news that the dog had died opened the way for the realization that my subconscious had been pushing something important up and I just wasn’t receptive to it. July is a wonderful month as it is the month in which Hugo was born. But, it is also the month of anniversaries of some losses. It is the month in which my beautiful Nan died three years ago and it is the month, six years ago, that we started IVF with the expectation that we would become parents. It’s true that no embryos were created from the first round of IVF, but with the cancellation of that cycle came the beginning of the death of hope that came more real with each cycle.

Anniversaries of deaths, in particular, bring with them memories and feelings about other losses that have happened as well. One of the most obvious is the loss of my cat, Minerva, just this past May. There is also the memory of my cousin who died in a motorcycle crash when I was eighteen and he was twenty one. 

There are other losses throughout my life, just like there are in everyone’s lives.

And, so, onto the weasel…

I have a weasel that turns mutant sometimes. Okay, not really, but I do have a part of me that when I am feeling melancholy and unsure seems to sense my weakness and rushes over to me to make sure I know just how useless and horrible I am. That is what was happening last week.

I felt fragile and with it came the thoughts of “you are stupid”, “you can’t do anything so why try?”, “anything you do will fail”, and the big one – “you can’t even have a child.” There was also one that relates to my concern that some treasured friendships seem to be falling away and I have no idea why.  Communication from their side has stopped. So, there were also the thoughts of “people don’t really like you”, and “you are not likeable – people just pretend to like you.”

I used to fight these feelings. I put all my effort into trying to overcome them, but all that happened was that the thoughts got stronger. There was no way I could defeat these kinds of torments and when I failed it just gave more ammunition for the thoughts that I am useless and no good.

I now have a strategy that I use where I imagine that there is a weasel in my mind. Normally it is well behaved and even useful, but every now and then it goes crazy and becomes a mutant that pours forth negative and unfounded judgments about me. If I try to make it go away completely it just gets more out of control. I have now given it an imaginary place where it gets a “time out” until it calms down. I imagine it as kind of a dog bed in the corner of the room.

This really does work for me. It’s like dealing with a child that is having a tantrum. I give it space, I don’t engage in its attempt to bring me down even though it keeps trying, and I ignore it until it calms down. Sometimes I even thank it after my thoughts return to being healthier.

Why would I thank this mutant weasel? Because sometimes it can be helpful. Telling me I am no good at anything is not a good thing, but helping me to recognize when I need to let go of something that I have tried and really have little talent for (and am even not enjoying) is beneficial. Saying people don’t really like me is something I don’t like, but helping me to think about whether I have done something that hurt someone can be a positive step in rescuing a friendship that is important to me.

Sometimes there is nothing positive that I can find in what the mutant weasel is saying. “You can’t even have a child” is one in particular. All I can say to the weasel then is “yep – that’s true…so what?”, or, even better, I ignore the weasel as it plays up in the corner.

While the weasel has its tantrum I get on with life.

With time the weasel calms down and stops the negative attacks. Then it returns to being a helpful and quite cuddly little creature.

I forgot about all of this last week. Life isn’t all rainbows and unicorns now that I have remembered, but it is certainly better…and I am free to think of the people and animals that have come and gone in my life with love and tears and laughter, and sometimes anger, without feeling that I am no good.

And I am free to think through the concerns of last week without being overwhelmed by them, and I can move forward instead of being stuck.

Me and Nan on the last day I saw her

Turning 40...

Here’s a very important tip when making a curry. If you are using a hand held blender to make the sauce make sure that the blender is turned off before you try to take one blade off to replace it with the one you need. Otherwise, like me last night, you’ll end up with an interesting cut on your finger which will really, really, really hurt and make you wonder if you are going to spend the night in the emergency department!

Fortunately my finger stopped bleeding quickly and I didn’t need stitches. 

And a positive I can take out of the incident was that Kirby had to finish making dinner!

I think it’s fair to blame my lack of attention to on turning 40 in the past week.  I’m officially over the hill now…so it’s only to be expected…

Of course I’m joking. At times I am just clumsy – I was clumsy in my teens, my twenties, and my thirties.

Turning 40, for me, is a milestone – it is not the end of anything, but is the beginning of something new. I told people before my birthday that it was just a number, but I don’t feel like that anymore. It is more than that – it is a time for changing the basis of my life.

My life was very different to now when I turned thirty. I was living in my lovely one bedroom apartment with my darling girl, Minerva. I was single and wondering whether staying single was a path I should actively pursue. I was in the fifth year of a job as a student advocate – which was a job I adored and I still miss (much of this is to do with the people I worked with). I had my friends and family and I was enjoying life.

But, even though I could see myself staying single I still had that deep desire to meet my life partner and have children of my own. Many of my friends were committing to their partners or getting married and/or having children. The reminder of what I really wanted was all around me.

I had no idea of the mountainous adventure that lay before me in the coming decade. What a ride!

Here’s a quick summary. Ready?

I met Kirby and moved in with him and then we bought an old bungalow together which we planned to renovate. I sold my lovely little apartment. I gained a whole new set of family and friends that came with Kirby. Kirby and I were married. We were blessed with new nieces and nephews (through both family and friends). I lost touch with friends I thought would be life-long and made new friends who I believe will really be life-long. My beloved Nan died. We brought home our gorgeous little Ari (not so little now!) and adopted our funny little Odi. We gave a home to one of my colleague’s cats (Felix). We looked after my sister-in-law’s cat, Frankie, for what was to be a few months, but seven years later she is still living with us. I was made redundant from my advocacy job due to the organization I was working at being closed down. My Dad was seriously ill and nearly died. I tried to run a dog training franchise without much success. I’ve had two or three bouts of serious depression which lasted a couple of months each. I’ve had three or four other jobs all in administrative roles. Kirby and I realized we were having trouble conceiving a child. We lost two babies to very early miscarriage. We tried IVF but the two embryos that were transferred into me died which devastated us. I started working for myself as an editor. We went on a dream holiday to New York. I completed a Masters in Creative Writing. Through some kind of unconscious unfolding we realized we wouldn’t be trying IVF again. I’ve lost touch with family members who I was close to and miss terribly. We moved house to be closer to our nephew, and because we realized our old house and the constant need to repair it wasn’t for us. Our Minerva died after a short illness. I went on a holiday all by myself to Thailand to Boon Lott’s Elephant Sanctuary.

Throughout all of this I have been constantly trying to define my identity and my spiritually. I’ve tried to pick one type of spirituality (or religion) from Buddhism, Hinduism, Yoga, various forms of Paganism, and Christianity. I’ve read numerous books on being happy and on positive thinking. I’ve sat down with pen and paper and tried to draw a path to a life where I would be content and where I would have a constant link to something higher than myself. I tried to get to a place where I would finally have everything about my life sorted out. I thought about myself a lot. I was completely immersed in the self-help movement.

I think much of this trying to define everything has partially been because of being unable to have children. Something so huge that I was sure would be part of Kirby and my lives just didn’t happen and in response I tried to grab hold of the other aspects of my life so they wouldn’t slip away and so that I could find some kind of identity when I realized I wouldn’t  be a mother. I needed a new meaning for my life.

Something has changed recently. I think it started before I went to Thailand but it became clearer while I was in that amazing country. I’ve been spending so much time on myself that I am missing the real life that is all around me. I am missing the people, the experiences, the just being, the emotions, the failures, the success, the chance encounters…it’s true I have seen all of these things but I haven’t been fully immersed in them because I have been afraid that I will be wrong.

It’s utter rubbish really. The whole thing is just crazy. I spent most of my time trying so hard to fit into a mold of what I thought I should be and what I thought my life should be that I ended up twisted and tormented.

When I was in Thailand, especially when I was at the elephant sanctuary, I saw people who had very little but they were happy. Sure they strived to have the necessities of life and they had goals, but they were happy while they were waiting to see what their lives would bring. They didn’t need some book telling them how to work themselves out. They didn’t need some self-help guru harping on about how positive thinking and intent would ensure everything they wanted would come to them. They just got on with it. They worked, they smiled, they wept, they helped each other out, they shared with each other and with me what little they had, and they spent time with their families and friends just being in the open spaces under their home-made homes.

It’s opened my eyes to just how self-centered I was being. I was constantly thinking about what would be in it for me if I did something or shared something. I kept my stuff to myself and worried about whether the curtains we had were okay and whether the house was clean enough to meet other people’s standards (which were imagined standards by me). It just doesn’t make sense to me, anymore, to live like this.

While I’m not going to let our house become a dirty mess, and from time to time I will reflect on what is going on in my life, I won’t be letting these things get in the way of living.

It’s okay to reflect and to read books on improving life, and it is definitely okay to have a connection to that something greater than me, but at some point I have to get on with living. I have to take risks in reaching out to people, I have to let things go, I have to love the people in my life, I have to let people go when they need to, I have to weep and laugh, be angry and be at peace, and let my emotions have a healthy reign on me sometimes. All I have to do is be and love people and animals and life – just the way it all is. I have to let go of controlling everything in my life and taking responsibility for things that are just not in my control, while having passion for those things I choose that I can perhaps do something about.

I have tried hard, in my thirties, to sort myself out.  But, I realize now that nothing in life is ever irrevocably sorted out. And I mean absolutely nothing. At the beginning of my thirties, and especially when I met Kirby, I thought I knew where my life was going.

At the beginning of my forties I have no idea what life has in store for me.  So it’s time to let it go and just see what happens and not be so serious about myself. It really is liberating.

Sweet dreams...

Over the last week Minerva’s health deteriorated rapidly. Her breathing became more labored, she wasn’t eating much at all, and when I picked her up she would be struggling to breathe and seemed to be in pain. I was lost as to what to do and Kirby was away from Monday to Friday. On Friday afternoon I made an appointment with the vet for yesterday (Saturday) morning. I had a fading hope that something more could be done for her, but I knew that this was unlikely.

On Friday night I lay down on the floor beside Minerva’s little bed (she had taken to sleeping in the wardrobe since she became ill) and I patted her and talked to her. I asked her to let me know when she was ready to go.

In the early hours of yesterday Minerva woke me up by pulling at the covers to get in under them with me for a cuddle. She hadn’t done that since she became ill. She curled up next to me, purring, and looking at me with those beautiful green-yellow eyes. Somehow I knew she was telling me she was ready.

Kirby woke me up in the morning and Minerva was under the quilt in between us. We gave her cuddles and told her we loved her for near on twenty minutes. Kirby said that Minerva had eaten some tuna (one of her favorite foods) for breakfast.

When I got up yesterday morning I was amazed to see the sun shining. Friday’s weather was stormy and cold and yesterday was supposed to be the same. I had said to Kirby on Friday that it wasn’t fair that Minerva wouldn’t get to sit in the sun again. But, the storms and clouds held off long enough for Minerva to sit in her favorite chair by the window, taking in the garden and the warmth of the sun, one more time, while we got ready to take her to the vet.

We told the vet, at the clinic, that we thought it was Minerva’s time to go because she was getting worse. He was surprised by what we said – until he examined her. Her lung capacity was 10% and her heart was under so much pressure that she was in pain. I asked if anything more could be done even though I already knew the answer. The vet said that we could double one of her medicines, but that this would affect her kidneys, and the best we could expect was for her to live a few more weeks – if the medicine worked at all.

We knew it was time to let her go. We didn’t want her to suffer anymore and I couldn’t bear the thought of her dying during a seizure, or from a heart attack, and I especially didn’t want her to die alone.

Minerva died in our arms at 10.30 yesterday morning – 15 years, 4 months, and 7 days from when I first saw her in the pet shop and knew that she was mine and that I was hers.

My love is with you always my little angel.

My Minerva...

I haven’t written a blog entry for almost two weeks. My heart, soul, and mind have been inundated with sorrow and confusion.

Helping in the garden...

Just a month ago my cat, Minerva, would chase me down the hall, carry her blue mouse toy to me so that I would play with her, had an excellent appetite, followed me everywhere, helped me with the gardening, and loved to play hide and seek.

Just on two weeks ago I noticed a difference in her. She was vomiting up some funny clear foamy liquid. She seemed more tired than usual, and she wasn’t eating much. I took her to the vet who did tests which showed that her kidneys are not working very well at all. I was given tablets to lower her blood pressure so that her kidneys would be able to work better and I have changed her diet to include less protein and more wet food than dry.

About a week ago her breathing seemed to be more of an effort for her. It was labored and when she took in a breath her head actually wobbled. Kirby and I took her back to the vet and he did more tests and found that her heart wasn’t working as well as it should and fluid had built up around her heart and lungs. We were given another lot of medication to remove the fluid from around her lungs and help her to breathe easier.

She can have the new medication mixed with food that she likes which makes it easier, except her appetite is very low. She isn’t even interested in her once favorite food – yoghurt. So, we have to wrap her in a towel and administer it to her using a syringe into mouth. She hates it and cries and scratches. It breaks my heart and I can’t help but cry every time I do it – which is two times a day. We have to keep going though, because she may improve and her appetite may come back – we just don’t know at this stage and all we have is hope.

She had to be in our wedding photos too...

The weirdest part of all of this is that last year I had a premonition that Minerva was going to die while I was on my trip to Thailand. I leave for Thailand in a few weeks. At first, when Minerva became sick and I thought about the premonition, I believed she would definitely die while I was away, but I think about it differently now. Perhaps the premonition put me on alert, more than I might have been, to changes in her health, and now that we have her on medications she might improve and live longer.

I hope so.

Kirby and I have talked about what he will do if Minerva gets very sick while I am away and needs to be euthanized. One of the things we have agreed on is that he will not tell me should Minerva be euthanized until I return home from Thailand. The other thing is that we don’t want her to suffer. I have read of people whose cats have renal conditions and they need to have injections every day to prevent dehydration. I couldn’t do that to Minerva as she would be too stressed every time. If it came to that point then it would be time to let her go. It would also be time to let her go if she became very underweight, couldn’t control her bowels and bladder, couldn’t walk properly, or was in pain. Our vet is wonderful and we would discuss all of this with him and/or his staff as well.

I am so confused – one minute I have so much hope and the next minute I am full of fear and despair. I guess I am in a bit of shock as she has never had any health issues before and she has become sick so quickly.

I feel angry that she is sick now, when I am not going to be with her for a fortnight. I even feel angry at her sometimes. That seems cruel I guess, to be angry at her, but I’ve realized that this is part of grief. I am grieving even though she is still here. I am grieving the loss of her playing, her constant companionship, and her bundles of energy. I have tried to bargain that if she is to die that she doesn’t die while I am away, but when I am back and that she dies in her sleep lying next to me at night.

At nine weeks of age...

She might not die while I am away, but the chances of her dying in her sleep next to me, I know, are not great. Being a cat, she is hiding herself away – which they usually do when they are ill and when they are close to dying.

Minerva is fifteen years old and she has been my companion through the end of a five year relationship fourteen years ago, episodes of depression, meeting Kirby, our wedding, moving house four times, going through IVF, and grieving for our children. For two years it was Minerva and me against the world when I had my apartment before meeting Kirby.

My gorgeous girl...

She is my friend, my gorgeous girl, my Minerva Mouse. She is my fur baby. I am going to miss her more than I can put into words. 

How long have we got?

A realisation...

Last night, after writing the blog entry yesterday “The darker side of me…” I had a startling realisation which I wanted to share with you.

When Kirby and I did our second round of IVF (the first where fertilisation of my eggs was actually successful) only two of the eggs survived to become embryos (well, technically zygotes – but I hate that term). On the day of transfer the doctor said that due to my age they would only put one of the embryos into my womb, and freeze the other. I was under 35 years of age and they only transfer two embryos after 35.

I didn’t fall pregnant, and sadly the other embryo died the night after the transplant.

While this is very different to the decision Mary and George had to make, are there not some similarities?

The doctor didn’t want to transfer both embryos because of the potential complications with twins. I wasn’t happy about this, but neither Kirby nor I argued for the chance of life for both embryos. Perhaps the one that wasn’t transplanted might have survived? Did we not choose one embryo over another because of the potential risks of having twins, even though we knew there was a risk we would lose the embryo that was not transplanted?

While Mary and George’s decision was much later on and Mary was pregnant, we still were in the position where we made a choice between our two embryos, and this could well have led to the death of both. We trusted what the doctor said, and we lost both.

We could have potentially sought other opinions, although time was a factor, but we didn’t. We could have demanded that both embryos were implanted, but we didn’t.

We were devastated to lose both and I felt much guilt and sorrow afterward.

I cannot comprehend what Mary and George went through, but the similarities, small as they are, with regard to choices has increased my compassion for them even more.

My Legacy

I can’t believe it is already six days into March. It really doesn’t feel like two months of 2013 have passed already.

This year, in July, it will be two years since my beloved Nan passed away from leukaemia. I miss her every day, and when I drive past where she used to live, I catch myself thinking I will call in on her. Then I remember that she is gone.

Every day there is something that I wish I could tell her – that I’m going to Thailand, that last week my two year old nephew told me it was nice to meet me, that my dog, Ari, fell into the lake and was embarrassed. Often I tell her anyway. I don’t know how it all works when we die, but I like to think our loved ones are around at least some of the time – that they check in on us. I can almost hear Nan’s laughter when I tell her that my cat, Minerva, was chasing her tale or feel her arms around me when I tell her about the waterhen I found who was sick and that I took to a bird sanctuary, but then it died.

I won’t have any children or grandchildren to remember me when I am gone. At times I feel sad about it. In centuries to come, if any of my brother’s descendants are researching family history I will be the name on the side – Paul’s sister, not the direct ancestor. I am not sure how interesting I will be – unless, of course, I am one of the first people to colonise Mars.

I am not certain what my legacy will be, but I know it won’t be from my body – at least not directly.

In some ways I feel like this makes me try harder to find a way to do something that matters, to leave the world a better place even if it’s just in a small way. Whether I’m remembered or not, I want to leave something that might be passed on not only through my nieces and nephews, but through other people that I meet and even just because I helped plant trees that have grown into centuries old beauties.

It might be the case that I am forgotten as the years, decades and centuries pass by, but in reality, how many of us will be remembered whether we have had children or not?

All I can do is do what I can do. And I intend to. I want to give something back for this amazing life I have been given and leave a legacy – even if my name is never spoken again.

Wear a Star Day

I’ve often thought about ways that I could honour the memory of our babies – the two I lost in early miscarriage and the two that didn’t stay during IVF. There was nothing I could think of that seemed right. I thought about having a ceremony somewhere and inviting family and friends, but I’ve never got around to organising it and the more time that passes the less appealing that idea has become.
I even thought about getting a tattoo of two little hands holding one another, but again it just didn’t feel right. I don’t need something like a tattoo to remember them.

Still – the yearning for some way I could remember them remained.
One of my friends invited me to check out a Facebook page called “Wear a Star Day.” I had no idea what it was about and wasn’t that fussed about going to the page (I get a lot of suggestions for pages I should look at!), but I did and I was blown away.

The creators of this page have set aside the 12th April as “Wear a Star Day”, where people who have been affected by the loss of a child can wear a star to remember them. This means the loss of any child, from miscarriage to stillbirth to losing a child any time during their lives. The creators of the page were hoping for 10,000 people to sign up, but there are already 22,000 – this, to me, just shows how many people are affected by the loss of a child.

For me it is a way that I can remember and celebrate our babies once a year.
People can wear any type of star (necklace, earrings, brooch, sticker…) and I’ve chosen to wear a brooch that I’ve bought off of a website called Etsy.

I’ll finish with the comment I put on the “Wear a Start Day” page:

“Thank you for giving us a day where we can say they were here and they were loved.”

My Funeral

This week Kirby and I attended the funeral of my Aunty’s father. He was a lovely man – very kind and patient and full of good humour. The funeral was beautiful. Two of my cousins spoke and it brought tears to many an eye. I was really proud of them – they are strong and intelligent men and very much take after their Grandfather.

The chapel was full of people who loved my Aunty’s father – children, grandchildren, friends and extended family. It made me think – who will be at my funeral? I won’t have children and grandchildren to talk about me and how my life has influenced them. It made me feel sad. Will there be anyone to see me off? Will there be anyone to say I’ve been a positive influence on their lives and that they will miss me?

It was easy to sit back and do a bit of self-pitying, but then when I thought about it seriously I realised that there are children in my life and that they might very well be the ones who care about me and attend my funeral. What I need to do is to continue to care for them and to be an important part of their lives. My nieces and nephews are as close to my own children as I will get, but they will only care enough to be at my funeral if I give them all I can of me.

So, enough self-pitying for me and I need to get my butt into gear and show my babies how much I care for them. And I do. I love Hannah, Ella and Hugo. I also love Jessica, Amelia, Oscar, Oliver and all the other children who may not be related to me, but I would give anything to protect.

Perhaps this sounds like a bit of dreary post – talking about my own funeral – but really it makes me think about truly living. And I plan to be living for a long, long time yet. I want to be the crazy old cat lady at 70 or 80 dancing at my babies’ fiftieth birthdays…