by Rhonda Mason on November 17, 2007
We are at Bicentennial Park at Homebush Bay. It is indeed a beautiful day. Blue sky, green grass, warm sunlight and a delightful breeze. Rick and I are resting on our rug. He’s wearing his new Kathmandu blue t-shirt and his khaki cargo pants. I’m in my mustard-coloured halter neck sundress. He’s reading ‘Winged Escort’ by Douglas Reeman. I’m writing in my journal.
There are families all around us. Some have chosen spots under the shade; others are in the sun. They’re all doing the same thing: resting, relaxing, having fun and spending quality time together. Making the most of this special day when the whole family gets to be together.
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by Rhonda Mason on November 13, 2007
I miss Cameron so, so much.
It’s still so hard to believe he’s not with us anymore. I hate this reality, I really do. I wish that I could somehow change it. But I can’t. I hate that.
I’m looking at a photo of Cameron that Rick and I both love. He’s lying in the bed/tub that the hospital provided. He’s wearing the blue bodysuit with the excavator that we had bought for him and he has Eleanor’s blanket loosely wrapped around him. You can see his perfectly formed hands, arms, thighs and feet. He is just so beautiful. Our boy, our baby. I wish I could just lift him out from within the photo and hold him in my arms. I want to kiss him and cuddle him. I want to tell him how much I love him.
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by Rhonda Mason on November 10, 2007
Saturday 10 November 2007
One and a half years ago at an engagement party, one of my good friends shared with me the exciting news that she was pregnant again.
I congratulated her, of course, and indeed, I was truly happy for her. Although I cannot recall the exact details of our conversation, I do remember clearly one particular thing that she said.
“Children are a true blessing from God,” she reflected.
Naturally, I agreed with her, but in retrospect, I did not and could not have fully appreciated the truth of her statement.
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by Rhonda Mason on November 7, 2007
I was reflecting with Rick yesterday that much of what I am feeling seems to be beyond my control, especially in the way that I’ve been responding to people.
I can change my thinking but I cannot change my feelings: I know that Cameron is in a better place, yet I cannot help but want him back. I know that we cannot go back in time, yet I cannot help but desperately wish that we could go back to those days before Cameron died. I know that I shouldn’t blame myself for Cameron’s death and yet I cannot help but feel guilty about it still. I know that others love and care for us, yet I cannot help but feel that no-one understands. I know that we are not alone but yet I can’t help but feel lonely and isolated in my mourning.
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by Rhonda Mason on November 6, 2007
Really, really miss Cameron. It’s so hard.
I remember all those times when I’ve missed Rick these last few years whenever he’s been away at camps.
I always hated it. They were my least favourite times of the year.
But he always came back. I always knew that I wold only have to get through the next ten, five, three or two days and Rick would be home.
But with Cameron, he’s not coming home.
He’s never coming back.
This painful feeling that I have of missing him will never go away.
It’s not ten days that I have to get through but an entire lifetime.
60 years. 720 months. 21,900 days. 525,600 hours. 31,536,000 minutes.
That’s a very long time.