Wave of Light

Anyone who's been following a while probably knew what this post was going to be the instant they saw I updated today, but for those of you who don't know what the Wave of Light is, let me explain.

Approximately 25% of all pregnancies ends in miscarriage, which when combined with rates for stillbirth & deaths that occur shortly after birth, means that 1 in every 3 pregnancies ends in loss. One out of every three families that are beginning to prepare to welcome a new life into the world and their family will instead find themselves saying goodbye far too soon. In honour and remembrance of all the babies lost to pregnancy loss or shortly after birth, people all around the world light a candle at 7pm local time, and leave it burning for at least an hour.

At the beginning of this post, you can see my candles, rose quartz crystals and a simple 'ornament' I made in grieving the loss of my daughter. This year I have four candles -- the butterfly shaded candle is for my daughter, my son has the simple (undecorated) holder until I find one more suited to him, and the pink & blue butterfly holders are for the female and male children/babies lost around the world.

For many years this has been a day of heartbreak for me. Such a pointed reminder of the children I've lost has, in the past, left me a little bit broken as I grieve all over again. This year, I'm pleased to say that although the sadness is there (leading me to be perhaps a little more irritable than usual), I am not broken. I grieve but there is peace and hope there.

And for those of you with Facebook, you're welcome to use this last one as a cover photo if you'd like.

In love and memory of Elyssami Faith and Mykelti Noah, and all the little children taken too soon.

Have you or someone in your life suffered a pregnancy or or early infant loss? Please feel free to share your child's name and their story in the comments and know that my heart goes out to you.

Five Years Ago (Lyssi's Anniversary)

Tomorrow marks the fifth anniversary of the loss of my daughter. I was 22 years old and after a year of trying to conceive, we'd finally managed it.

Her father was less than impressed, but I was over the moon. I had so many hopes and plans for this baby, but because her father wasn't so keen, we hadn't discussed names yet. I lost her at about 8 weeks gestation, and some time much later I chose her name based on some of the few discussions we had had.

I'd always wanted my children to have unique names - my birth name was so common that I actually knew another girl at the same school as me whose name was *exactly* the same... right down to middle name! It bothered me a lot, and I vowed that my children wouldn't be in that situation. My husband, unfortunately, had a rather common surname as well, and wanted to name our first daughter after our grandmothers.

That wouldn't have been a problem, except his grandmother was Emily Elizabeth and mine was Amy Rose! I had always loved Rose, but my brother's wife had used that in my niece's name a few years before, so it was automatically disincluded from my list of possibles, leaving Emily, Elizabeth and Amy.. all far too popular to go with a common surname!

By this stage, my husband and I had separated (in fact, we separated about a week after I miscarried the baby), so I wasn't in a position to get his input, but I still wanted to honour him somehow within our daughter's name. Playing with the names one day, I came up with the perfect mesh of his grandmother and mine. That left her middle name, and that one was easy.

Without ceremony, on a day I don't even remember, I announced her name. Elyssami Faith.

Always, when it comes to November, my heart breaks with the ache of not having her. Spending time with my nephew, whose mother joyfully announced her pregnancy at the same event I tearfully whispered of my miscarriage and my marriage breakdown, becomes almost impossible and yet is craved beyond all things. I find myself thinking of all the things I wanted to have with her, for her, and wondering who she might have been. I know I need to let her go, but I'm still not sure if I'm ready yet.

'Lyssi, I love you, my little butterfly, my beautiful girl. I will always love you. I will never forget the little life I carried - your little life. I will do my best to honour you, today, tomorrow, and every day, until I can hold you again.



Cheer-leading / Challenge Statements:
It's okay to grieve for her. It's okay to be sad about the things I wanted for her.
It's okay to spend time doing things other than focusing on her for the entire day, too.
Falling in a heap and being an emotional wreck doesn't honour her. Living well, finding happiness, overcoming, THAT honours her.
Fighting my feelings will only make them stronger and lead to them lasting longer.
Letting go and forgetting are two very different things. (Thanks Ghost Whisperer!)



Tomorrow Erica and I are going to do something together to honour my little girl. Ideally, I want to spend some time doing something that I would have done with four year old 'Lyssi, were she here, and I'd love your suggestions! Even if it's too late to do them this year, we could always try for next year.


Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.

Mother's Day

Here in Australia, we celebrated Mother's Day today. I organised with my brothers to take our mother out to breakfast, at the end of which they brought out the mints. Two little cards with a chocolate heart on each. I reached for one and my brother said to me, "that's not for you. You aren't a mother."

Right up until that moment, we'd done okay; I'd put aside my anger, put aside all the things that hurt about the day and pretended we were like other families out celebrating mothers day, but my brother saying that pulled everything apart at the seams. I'm not a mother...

My brother is wrong. I have two children. I never had the chance to hold them, either of them, in my arms, but I will forever hold them in my heart. My family may not want to acknowledge them, for whatever reason, but their lack of acknowledgement doesn't change the facts. I am a mother.

So, call me crazy if you like, but instead of heading home after my day, I walked to the park. Maybe it was a nutty idea, but I thought if I could just pretend for a moment that I still had the family I fought for, if I could just fake it, I'd find solace there.

So I took myself to the park and I played their song (thank you, Gerrit Hofsink, for the most beautiful song I've ever heard). I knew she wasn't there, but I pretended I was watching her climb up on the swing and fumble with the seatbelt. I reached forward and I hooked the seatbelt up, and then I pushed the swing. Gently at first, and then higher. It wasn't long before my imagination took over. Soon, I had gone from pretending I could see her to actually 'seeing' and 'hearing' her. And yet... I knew it wasn't real.

Call me crazy, but I stood pushing that swing with tears pouring down my face for at least half an hour. I sang to the music, I imagined my daughter laughing and begging for me to push her higher, and I imagined my son on the swing beside us. I saw him as I imagine he would be today; 14 and all adolescent awkwardness and "mum, can we go home yet"s. I saw her as I have always imagined she'd be by now; almost four years old, blue eyes and blonde hair, all innocence and bossiness and "mummy, I want to touch the sky"s.

I wish I could say that doing it had brought me peace. I wish I could say that I took solace in this imagining, this pretence... but the truth is, it still hurts just as much as it did before. My son and daughter still aren't here with me, and I'm not sure anything will ever take that pain away.

Elyssami Faith and Mykelti Noah, this one's for you. Wherever you are, I miss you. I love you. I think of you every day.

Being a mother is more than having a child you can hold in your arms. Being a mother is one heart, two arms and all the love in the world, all for that little person in your life. So, to all of the mothers out there, whether or not you had the chance to hold your child in your arms, happy Mother's Day.