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Remembering Matilda Mae

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Much of the parent blogging world turned their eyes to the funeral of Matilda Mae today, determined to do their bit to support Jennie and David as they said goodbye to their precious baby daughter. Some bloggers went to the service, to support and bear witness for the huge numbers of bloggers who care so much. Watching Tilda trend on Twitter and the outpouring of love was amazing indeed.

I’ve been in touch with Jennie lots over the last month but, although invited, I didn’t go today. Truly I didn’t think my heart would be strong enough and a piece of me was afraid that I would see all the effort and love and sense of occasion and planning the Jennie had poured into the day and be ashamed of Freddie’s quiet, private service. We were in such shock after his death and the preceding two weeks had been so traumatic; my heart and head just shut down at the thought of anything more than the quietest of occasions. It’s not like me to be that way but looking back, it was the beginning of the change that occurred in me after his life. I needn’t have worried though; I followed Matilda’s day today and was so proud and uplifted and pleased to see it go as they wished-  but also knew then that I couldn’t have done what Jennie achieved today. Matilda Mae had her send off in that way because she was who she was, lively, smiling and so at the centre of our online world – and Freddie was who he was, born quietly, lived quietly, died quietly. We both did right for our children and I gained some peace from seeing that today.

Jennie did me two enormous honours this week. She allowed me to write about the importance of writing through grief for me as a guest post on her blog and she asked me to write for Matilda’s service today. Heather and Susanne read out my words (how much of them I don’t know) and I’m profoundly grateful to all of them for letting me be part of a day that mattered to me but I was not quite brave enough to attend.

So here is what I wrote for Matilda Mae. Beautiful girl. Beautiful mother. I will always be here for you.

***

I was at work when I heard that Baby Tilda had died. Stood at my desk, I put my head in my hands and sobbed for a baby and a mother I had never actually met, for a bewildered family, for a lost little girl, for siblings who would grow up learning the careful answers to questions about family size that my children also speak. I wept for the path they had to walk, the horror of loss that was waiting for them and the endless twists and turns that the loss of a child pushes a family through.

A few minutes later someone, stood beside me at the coffee machine, asked me if I was okay.

“My friend’s baby died”, I answered, still stunned and, answering the question of how well I knew Jennie, I said “She’s an online friend. I read her blog. I knew her baby through our blogs. We were bringing up our babies together.” And immediately, the person who had been sad for my friend and her baby, could not understand my sorrow. And online friend. A blog. Not like real life. Not a ‘real’ friend.

Bloggers are connected through words more often than in person and so people – who once understood that life long, close personal friendships, family relationships and love affairs could be connected through just a written letter – do not understand the depth of feeling that can grow up among people connected by words and by pictures. But Shakespeare, Pope and Hardy are testimony to the power of words, the artists of the world stand witness to the strength of an image. Around the world, mothers are connected by the worries and funnies they share in short sentences, online diaries, a joke and a giggle about a child, a devastating turn of events that leads to illness or death. It’s a virtual school gate, a midnight coffee morning, counseling, friendship.

Most importantly of all, blogging is about memories – preserving memories – and so if there is one thing a group of bloggers can provide, it is help to preserve and cherish a memory. We are connected by our love of our children, by the joy of remembering everything wonderful about them and by sharing our journeys together. It’s a 24/7 multi-layered friendship, sometime more deeply personal and intimate than many every day ones. There are things I write and are read by strangers which I would never be able to speak aloud.

What the online community did for Tilda and her family was amazing; from nowhere photos and snippets of thoughts about Baby Tilda appeared, from people who had read about her on the blog to people they had met at events. Reading Jennie’s tweets and thoughts, people pulled together to try to create the legacy that Jennie wanted. They wrote Tilda’s name in every corner of the country and across the world in Lego, toy cars and sand, they lit candles, remembered her and sent love to her as she started her journey onward. They donated money to buy a star in Matilda’s name, hoping it would breathe a crumb of comfort into the aching hearts of her parents. We might be all over the country but we can provide that old standby community spirit of a crock pot left on the doorstep; we sent food from Waitrose to take away the stress of shopping and provide nourishment, flowers for colour and to try to raise a smile, wrote our love and care every day. We tried to find ways to keep her present in the heart of her family and let Jennie know that is was right for them to do so. Every hour, someone was remembering and honouring Tilda, checking on her family, speaking Matilda Mae’s name to the winds and the world and her mother.

Like true friends, which is what we are, we took Jennie’s wishes and made Matilda Mae a name we spoke aloud to our children, remembered when we saw pink and purple, prepared to honour her on her day. People wrote poems and songs, found music, gave some purpose to her death by making her story something that would live on and do good. Money donated to Bliss to save lives, awareness raised in walks to try to stop this terrible thing happening to another baby, another mother, another father, another family. Jennie asked us to hold our children tighter and we did. People checked on sleeping babies a little more often thanks to the open honesty of a mother and father in terrible pain. Someone somewhere will be a life saved because of Matilda Mae. It is not enough, but it is something. Matilda Mae will be written across the internet, a smiling, loving, oh so loved baby in pink and purple, reminding us to be watchful and thoughtful and loving and enjoy every moment we have.

I know, because it happened to me, that the real world hurries us past grief. I know that people sometimes cross the road, fear to speak of a lost child for fear of seeing or causing pain. I know there is nothing worse than hearing my child’s name go unspoken. I know that the world keeps spinning and people move on, leaving the devastated parents behind lost and confused and aching. I know that a mothers greatest fear is that her child will be lost in the dusty corners of half forgotten memory, unsung, unremembered, unspoken, without their mark upon the world.

This will not be true of Matilda Mae. We will always remember. We will always speak her name. Because of Matilda Mae – her smile, her legacy – someone, somewhere will see light and be comforted. Somewhere good will be done. Someone will be saved. Someone will be thankful. Someone will be loved. As she is loved.

Comments

  1. Merry, your words were- and are- beautiful. We read every single one of them to a silent church. Afterwards, many people made the effort to come and find us and to tell us they were so thankful we had spoken. And to tell us that they understood, and we had explained it all so well. Your words will stay with me forever.
    xxxxxx

    • Thank you for writing this beautiful and THANK YOU for reading it all out at the church because it is all beautiful, needs to be said. It means so much to us who love and grieve with the family from afar that people understand why. Thank you xx

  2. Oh what an amazing post Merry and you real capture the spirit of our fabulous community and the importance of being able to speak our grief. Well aid love and a big hug for you today too. Bx

  7. Merry, you could not have written it more beautifully. I could not stop the tears. My heart goes out to every parent who lost a child and had to endure this unspeakable pain and sorrow. Thank you for giving them the voice through your wonderful words. x

  8. Beaurifullt written merry, you explain things in a way few could. Today was a day that will stay with many of us for a long time, remembering how Matilda lit up our screens xxx

  9. Merry, wonderful words. Said by you so well and felt by so many of us. Thank you for writing the words and yet again so sorry you knew what needed to be said. RIP both Freddie and Matilda Mae. xxx

  11. This is such a beautiful and heartfelt post. I have been amazed and humbled as I watched my Facebook and Twitter friends avatars change. All these stars. So much support, although never enough. I am glad you have been able to gain some peace too.

  12. The blogging community and internet friends were my salvation in those early days, and sometimes now. I know they will never forget my Florence.
    Matilda Mae and her family will be thought of sincerely by many.
    x

  13. Although I knew of your blog I’ve not really read before. I subscribed after your place in the finals as an outstanding blogger and see from this one post how well deserved it is. How eloquently you describe the relationship between online mothers and the way our hearts broke as one to think of Jennie and family living our greatest fear.
    Freddie has given you this amazing gift to comfort another xxx

  14. I’m just popping on here to say thank you again for writing these words that we read out last week. They truly are amazing and the love and support you have offered Jennie is incredible. I’ve got a post going up today and I’ve linked back to your words x

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