…but wishing there were three walking around.

Thinking of our friends from college who lost their four month old baby boy this week. Praying that God might sustain their every step as they walk through that dark and lonely valley.

Cameron’s fourth anniversary this year was truly special. For four days, we remembered him, we mourned his death and we celebrated his life.

The day before the fifteenth was our day off. We took the boys to Bicentennial Park where we ate watermelon and enjoyed the warmth and sunshine. I watched Rick play with Angus and Pete while Jamie watched me from his pram. It was the perfect way to prepare our hearts for the following day.

On the fifteenth, we met up with my parents at the Memorial Gardens where we spent an hour or more just hanging out together near Cameron’s spot in the gardens. The sun was out and the sky was blue. Mum had brought along a beautiful bunch of flowers from her garden, which touched me immensely. As I bustled about taking photos and attending to the needs of little ones, I could hardly believe that we had two boys running around and another one sitting up in the pram. We were so blessed. This year, Rick explained to Angus that Cameron’s remains were buried next to his plaque. Angus’ response was both swift and curious: “Can we dig?”

On the sixteenth, Rick’s parents joined us at home where we celebrated Cameron’s birthday with a cake, complete with a number 4 candle. Mary had bought three books – one for each of the boys, all of them given in memory of their oldest brother. Angus seemed to actually understand it was Cameron’s birthday, while Pete just happily munched on the cake…

On the seventeenth, Rick and I attended the annual fundraising ball for the Stillbirth Foundation of Australia at the Sydney Hilton. A few of my dearest and oldest friends came along as well, in support of us and to honour Cameron’s memory with us. It was an amazing night, and for me, the most wonderful way of finishing Cameron’s week.

To my little guy: you may not be here, but you are here. Every day. In my mind. In my thoughts. In my heart. In our family.

Four years have only served to strengthen and deepen my love for you.

I love you, Cam.

Happy fourth birthday.

Some snapshots from yesterday…

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.

It’s always strange when I manage to take a photo of Rick and the three boys. I feel a small sense of triumph, but then I look at the photo and remember that there’s one missing.

There’s always one missing.

This photo was taken down at Kiama last week, during our first family holiday with Jamie.

We miss you Cam. It’s been almost four years now, but every day, we continue to miss you.

Even though you weren’t there on my birthday last week, I thought of you.

The daisies from your funeral – they continue to hang on our kitchen wall.

And on my birthday, I looked at them and thought of you.

Yesterday Rick and I attended the funeral of a close family friend – someone very precious and very dear to my parents and their circle of friends.

Apart from the fact that I’d grown up with her as one of my ‘aunties,’ Susana was particularly special to me because she was the one who’d sat next to me after Cameron died and had said the words, “The pain will lessen in time.”

If anyone else had said such a thing, I would probably have responded in anger. But Aunty Susana – well, she’d lost one of her own sons just four years prior. Which meant she knew. And understood. And so her words meant the world to me. And those words have stayed with me to this day.

Tears were shed yesterday. Many tears.

In many ways I still can’t believe she is gone. Her death was so sudden, so uncompletely unexpected. My heart goes out to her husband and her other son – both of whom have now lost half their family. I cannot imagine their pain, and do not pretend to.

Before we left the Memorial Gardens, we visited Cameron very briefly. We saw immediately that the building of the centre behind Cameron’s spot had progressed substantially since our last visit.

“It might actually be quite nice,” Rick observed.

We also noticed that there was now no rose bush at all next to Cameron’s plaque, and so Rick made a trip to the office to inform them.

They reassured him that they would fix it – in time for Cameron’s anniversary in September.

While at my parent’s place today, I found out that friends from college lost their baby girl today at 3am in the morning. I read their story and looked at their photos on Facebook, and my heart simply broke for them.

It makes me sick in the stomach to think that someone we know is grieving and hurting so intensely right now.

The path ahead is a hard one for our friends.

Though no one can tread this path for them, nonetheless we can stand close, pray, weep with them and send them tiny messages that mean all the world at a time like this.

To dear little Abigail, I am remembering you today and always.

My dear little boy,

A dear friend of mine going through some hard times said to me last week that he felt he was stronger because of you – to know that even though we lost you, we somehow survived, and continue to survive. This gives him both hope and encouragement, he said.

Even though you are no longer here, you continue to make a difference, little boy.

I love you.

Mum xo

This evening while Rick’s parents were watching Pete and Jamie in the lounge, I took Angus into his room to deal with his dirty nappy. I had almost finished changing him when he suddenly said, “Cameron!”

“Cameron?” I asked.

“Cameron in the play room!” he replied.

“Cameron’s photo is in the playroom, yes.” I corrected him, sadly.

“Cameron in the play room!” he repeated.

“No, Cameron’s living with God darling, but his photo is in the playroom,” I said.

“No, Cameron in the play room!” By this time, he sounded almost a little upset with me.

So as not to disagree with him anymore, I suggested that we go into the playroom together and find Cameron’s photo. He was very happy to do this.

We went in and found the small frame that held Cameron’s photos. I handed it to him and suggested that he show it to Nan, and he rushed over immediately to do this.

At that very same moment, Rick arrived home.