The heads of the daffodils in the garden are already turning yellow; they’ll bloom in a matter of weeks, they’ll be over before March has ended. Daffodils are Freddie’s flower. I don’t want to do April without daffodils. Seeing them nodding and bobbing on the 2nd April is one of the things that keeps me sane, reminds me that for everything I lost, I also gained that Spring. I gained the ability to keep a little perspective, learned to be a little kinder, found something in me that I didn’t know I had. But I’m grasping at straws on that day, because the air is sliced very thin then and the quiet room and the once in a life time cuddle in a bed and the silence of no breathing at all is all too close. And who wouldn’t look for something bright and cheerful and full of hope on a day like that? There is precious little else.
I don’t want the daffodils to be fading. He is fading enough as it is. He’s so far away, almost four years, just a catch in my breath when a question is asked, hidden in “and then we had a long space before our last one”, tucked away in the folds of a blog and the shelves of a cupboard. Not enough to hold on to. Not enough to remember. Not enough to smile about, no beautiful photos, no lasting legacy. I’ve not done anything – yet – to make him last a lifetime and make a difference.
The other day I drove home, looked up and saw the first star of the evening. And I thought of the wrong lost baby. I saw a star and I thought of someone else’s baby. Not mine.
I nearly tore my heart out.
I thought of the wrong baby.
But honestly? I can’t bear to remember. I have never been able to bear to remember. It’s not the same as it not mattering. I’d love to sit people down and tell them about each day, each photo, each cuddle. I’d love him to be known and understood and present but I can’t do it. I’ve never gone back and looked at hospital notes to see what we did on which day. I’ve never told anyone about his life. I’ve never written his days or explained what happened when and how and why. I can’t bear to. I tucked it all in my heart, thinking that I would keep it safe and private and special to me, so I could take one memory out at a time, one this year, one next year. I thought that way he would last me. But because I didn’t write them down, because Max and I have never spoken about them, because we haven’t savoured them and tried to find the good, I’ve lost them. I can’t remember. He’ll never be a boy that people knew, because he was just ours – and I’ve forgotten. My brain won’t let me remember.
People told me to be grateful it wasn’t one of the girls. People have been tight lipped about my grief because at least he wasn’t part of my life for years, because the hole was not a gaping, yawing space in our house, our family. Sometimes I agree. Sometimes I’d give a world, a universe for an album of photos and a head full of memories to remember with a wistful smile, one by one.
I can’t have what I can’t have. And there will be tears this April, when he should be four, just as there have been for the four April’s before. Daffodils in the garden or not, we’ll go on, as we always do, with a day out and candles at dusk and our arms around each other at bedtime.
I thought I could make something beautiful about it this year. I can spend the next 6 weeks dreading those days with thudding heart as the daffodils wilt and add drama to the days as they do-or-don’t-die, or I can shake some joy, reflective joy, and colour into them. SO I’m going to make daffodils this year. For me. For Freddie. In everything I love and for every part of my house.
You could join me if you like. I’d be grateful.
Anya from Older Single Mum and The Healer says
Those are beautiful daffodils for a beautiful boy – ( as I could see on your About Page) – and it’s a lovely idea – I will think of him every time I see some now x
Kate says
My heart breaks for you and every other mother who has and will always have this fight for the rest of their lives.
The memories are there just hidden in your heart and he will always be remembered especially with daffs and with your beautiful family.
I will get my thinking hat on to create something special.
Thanks you for sharing your journey x
Hannah says
“…no lasting legacy. I’ve not done anything – yet – to make him last a lifetime and make a difference.” Merry this is not true. For me, everything you have written about him in the last four years has done that – made him last a lifetime, and made a big difference, to my life at least. I need to tell you more, but a blog comment is probably not the right place. Maybe I’ll write it properly somewhere else, but what I really really want is to sit and talk with you, preferably for hours. Can we make that happen some time this year?
Sending you so much love xxxxxx And yes, obviously I’ll join you 🙂
Francisca says
I know 🙁
I am so sorry. For you lost baby, for my lost baby. It is just so hard to believe we lost them. They should be here, running around with their siblings, but they are not and it doesn’t make any sense. Yet, so few people miss them.
Hugs
June says
I agree with Hannah, you have done so much to make Freddie last a lifetime and make a difference. Every single time I see daffodils I think of your Freddie. Every time. He’s not lost, he’s not gone, because he’s in the memories of everyone who reads your blog as well as your family *hugs* I will definitely join you in making some daffodils this April 🙂
jennie says
Dearest Merry, I am always thinking of you but especially so as Spring arrives x We will make daffodils for you, for Freddie. Lots and lots and lots of love to you x
Caz says
I agree with Hannah too. Whenever I hear the name Freddie I think of your Freddie. And he has made a difference to me – all that you have written about him made me a much better friend than I would otherwise have been to two of my friends who each lost a baby in the last couple of years. We will make daffodils and think of you all.