If you know me in real life and have found this blog, please honour my wishes and don't read on. I need this place to freely write my feelings to help me to heal and if you're reading, I'll censor myself. I have no way of knowing who is reading so all I can do is trust you to honour my wishes. Thank you.

(this doesn't apply to any of my fellow mums of angels I've been lucky enough to meet in real life)

Thursday, November 11, 2010

A year and one week of grief

It's been a year and one week of waking up everyday as a mother who can't look at her perfect firstborn daughter, can't hold her against my chest, can't kiss her cheeks, and can't stroke her head. We've passed through all the firsts - first Christmas, first Easter, first birthday, and first anniversary. I wish I could say it's bought some sort of peace upon me but it hasn't. She's still dead. We still have the memories of choosing a pink casket for her and getting a phone call saying 'we think she'd be more comfortable in a white one, is that OK with you?' and after saying yes and getting off the phone turning to my husband crying and asking him 'they mean she's too little for the pink one, don't they'.

The above makes it sound like I'm sad all the time but I'm not. I think about Matilda every day and I cry often. But for large periods of the day I'm happy, I'm looking after Max, kissing his cheeks, hugging to my chest, making bad jokes and reminding my husband he's meant to laugh at them, and wondering what to have for dinner.

But then it hits me once more out of the blue - I had a baby girl, she should be one, I should be watching her learn to walk, and dressing her in pink dresses. And I wonder how this happened - how it is that I'm 29 and I have a child that died.

And everyday I look at Max and I'm grateful beyond words that he is here. That I know how incrediably lucky that makes me.


  1. Bittersweet. That's just it. That's how it will always now be for us.
    Caring for one, missing the other. I hate it though and desperately wish I could have them both.
    I have the same wish for you.

  2. Oh Maddie, sending lots of love.

    Yes, bittersweet -Hope's Mama, that's the right word.

    much love to you,

  3. Huge hugs Maddie. I havent yet got to the stage of caring for one missing the other. But hearing how things are going with you has given me preparations and also hope for what is to come. It must be so difficult, and as Hope's mama has said it is bittersweet.
    Wishing you much love and peace x

  4. thinking of you honey, the missing never stops does it, even after our rainbows?

  5. I too am missing one and caring for another, it is indeed bittersweet. The year mark is a tough one we have also just passed. Sending you much love strength and gentleness. xxx

  6. Maddie, i feel your pain, i often wonder how it is i am here too, 29, a mother of two - a perfect daughter that i miss every single day and a beautiful newborn son who reminds me of his sister most days even though i have no living memories of Matilda. All i can hope is that these things happen for a reason - i dont know what that reason is and i doubt i ever will but i just cant stand the thought of thinking Matilda died for no apparent reason. i am thinking of you and Matilda and Max