I have such vivid memories of those early months after Cameron’s death at our home on Brickfield Street. I will forever associate our home there with Cameron. The two can never be separated in my mind.
I remember the constant sunshine that poured into our living room. Every day was so beautiful – so inconsistent with the darkness that had come upon our lives.
I remember sitting on the armchair in our bedroom, crying my eyes out as I poured my grief out into my journal. I remember looking at the trees outside our bedroom when I needed a moment’s break to sit and not think. To see and not perceive. To exist but not feel.
I remember my mum and Aunty Mabel coming over to cook for us.
I remember mum sitting on our stool in the kitchen, trying to blend into the background and not get into anybody’s way when visitors came by.
I remember Rick’s family – Peter, Mary, Jess and Sue – often dropping by with snacks and flowers they’d been given by people to pass onto us.
I remember soaking in the bath with Rick every night. It was our time alone, when we could just be sad together without having to think about anyone else. It was just us and our immense pain and grief.
I remember pre-occupying myself with photos and scrap-booking so that I didn’t have to think.
I remember every single visit that we had from people.
I remember showing others the album of Cameron’s photos. I remember being touched by their tears and their compassion.
I remember the frustration I had with my parents when they told me not to cry so much and to try and not feel so sad. I remember them comparing my pain to others who had it worse off. I was incredibly hurt by that. I couldn’t understand why they couldn’t just acknowledge my pain and comfort me by listening to me instead of trying to tell me what to do.
I remember the fear I had of the darkness that fell every night. Somehow, it made me feel anxious and insecure on top of the terrible grief that consumed me. I remember asking Rick to lock all the windows and doors and to keep the blinds closed.
I remember waking up every morning to emptiness. To nothing but hollowness and pain. I felt so alone, with Rick fast asleep beside me. Every morning was a cruel shock as I had to adjust to reality and accept all over again what had happened to our precious Cameron.
I remember Rick looking after me, never letting me out of his sight. Every day, he clothed me, he fed me, he bathed me and he held me.
I remember when we would be alone together in our bedroom at night, and Rick would lead us through the Lord’s prayer together. It was our one buoy. There was nothing else but God to keep us afloat, to sustain us in our shock and pain.
I remember not wanting to see other people, and I remember desperately needing to see other people.
I remember Ben coming over to spend time with Rick and me. It was so comforting, just to see him and to have him in our home with us. He was so comforting, so sympathetic and so compassionate. Rick and I were both so thankful for his friendship, his companionship and his understanding.
I remember how empty our home felt, even when there people around. Everywhere, all the time, I felt the emptiness of it all. The emptiness and the hollowness.
I remember Cameron’s room: the cherry blossom tree outside, the white desk that we’d put in there as a change table, the white floor lamp that I often had turned on at night, the nappy changing toiletries that I’d prepared, the lego truck that sat on the desk, the toys that we had in his cot. Toys that he would never get to play with.
I remember not wanting to pack up Cameron’s room.
I remember the pain of seeing his empty cot.
I remember putting up photos of Cameron all around our home at Brickfield Street. I remember my parents’ discomfort with this, but I didn’t care. He was a part of our family and I wanted this to be reflected in our home. I remember the sense of peace and comfort I gained from seeing his beautiful face as I walked around.
I remember the evening I decided to unpack the hospital bags that I’d packed for both Cameron and myself. I couldn’t stop crying the entire time. Jess and Sue had been there at the time. I remember how appreciative I was of their presence. Later, we all fell asleep in the lounge together, so exhausted we were from our tears and grief.
I remember that it was spring, the signal of new life.
Yet, there at Brickfield Street, we spent the entire season mourning and grieving the end of a precious life.
The life of Cameron.