Holidays As A Family, Minus One.

Before we left for Vanuatu, I felt the usual chaos of preparing for a holiday. My list of things to do was growing faster than I could cross them off. In the whirlwind of holiday preparation, of which I guiltily did not even feel the usual excitement for, I accessed our storage space to get down our nappy bag, which is really just a big leather backpack. We'd decided to use it as a carry-on bag and I did not even consider how it had been left in the aftermath of Charlie's death.

When I saw it full, sitting there waiting for me, I sat down and prepared myself. My tummy tightened and I felt nervous. Whilst I knew I could back out of this and just leave the nappy bag forever prepared for Charlie, I also knew it was important to take my time unpacking it.

I very clearly remember organising his things at about 37 weeks pregnant. Gracie and I had bought the baby, not knowing if it was a boy or girl, a little kookaburra outfit and had washed and neatly folded all of his clothes into a chest of drawers. I'd prepared the nappy bag and a car pack, with the intention of trying to control the chaos of postpartum life.

When Charlie died and we arrived home without our baby, some beautiful friends had packed away the big items such as the bassinet and the bouncer before we got home, so that we could choose when we wanted to do this process. His dresser is currently still packed full of his clothes, with all our little reminders of him on top. It didn't seem fair to put the kookaburra outfit with the other baby clothes, to be worn by potentially another baby one day and so it now lives in his memory box. His nappy bag though and extra clothes, boxes of nappies etc. were put up the top in storage for a day when we were stronger. I intuitively knew that I wasn't ready yet.

So I found myself the other day, six months postpartum, alone, slowly pulling out the nappy rash cream, the spare nappies, the little outfit from the nappy bag. It suddenly struck me that I should be packing his things into the bag, preparing to go away together as a family and here I was, the quiet around me achingly empty. I missed him so hard that all the little thoughts of acceptance, of being somewhat content loving him from a distance disappeared and all I wanted was him and that feeling of deep sadness, of resentment, of injustice bubbled up.

Travelling as a family without Charlie, to me, is a reminder of what we could have had. When we went to Queensland in May for a wedding, I thought often of how we were telling Gracie almost a year earlier that we would be going on a plane when the baby was four months old. We'd said so many times, 'we'll be going on a plane, after baby comes,' that after Charlie came and went and we still were going on the plane, it felt wrong. I missed him so much that week. I thought often of his ashes left alone at home on the top of the dresser and it felt cruel leaving him home alone, although I tried to reassure myself he wasn't actually in there.

Being in the sky was bizarre. Whilst it's not my belief that he's in the sky, when your loved one disappears from earth, even if you don't believe in a heaven, it seems the only alternative. I felt so close to him up there and yet felt his presence lacking even more doing something that I had so clearly imagined him doing too. The last time I had been in a plane, was when I was transferred via air ambulance to the city hospital and I'd either cried or slept nearly the entire way. It seemed so surreal, that here I was again, just this time, without the hope of seeing my boy on landing. Then to really add to the ache, there was a couple with a baby right behind us and when the plane came into the city, there was a helicopter on the same hospital roof that Charlie had landed on, which was especially hard for Bradley, having been on that very roof not really that long ago.

Vanuatu was more of a rest for my nervous system. Of course, like at home, I was constantly thinking about him. More so, when we were at a really beautiful place where I could imagine him bobbing about in a little floaty or trying tropical fruits for the first time. Vanuatu though, was never part of the plan when we were pregnant with Charlie so being there didn't accentuate his absence other than the fact it was a family holiday without our whole family.

This second time being away from home, I was more prepared for the anguish I'd felt when we went to Queensland of leaving his ashes on the dresser alone. So I asked his Nanny Bev to mind them (him) whilst we were away. His little urn got pride of place on their dresser and she sent me a picture whilst we were away of a candle on next to his urn and it made me feel so at peace. Infact, knowing he was with a loved one, brought me so much comfort that this time around I barely thought of his ashes.

Flying home, I had an acute moment of sadness. Exhausted, Gracie had curled up on my lap and gone to sleep, her little head against my chest and her mouth slighty open. It doesn't happen very often anymore and so I was soaking it up as I watched the sun dip below the horizon from above the clouds. As I peered down at her little mouth, that reminds me so much of Charlie and kissed her forehead, as I did with him, it hit me again, that not only did I miss out on bringing him home, or his first time rolling over, or hearing his first cry or giggle, I missed out on moments like that, with him. Moments three years from now. I realised that I'll miss moments like that for the rest of my lifetime. And if you have living children, or have had them for a short time, you know those moments where you are filled with profound love and amazement for the little being you created, where your whole world stills and you peer down at their little sleeping form and realise you are the luckiest person in the world. I missed out on a lifetime of that with Charlie. The only time I could hold him close and soak him in and kiss his forehead was when he'd died. I knew in that moment and many others, how blessed I was to have Gracie. I can look in her little face and see her baby brother’s if I allow myself to see it.

At times lately, I've been moving towards notes of acceptance and I think I realise now very clearly that I'll never fully arrive at acceptance. Perhaps I move towards it more often but it's not linear and perhaps never will be. How can you fully and completely accept that your baby is gone and never coming back?

I think though, our most recent trip to Vanuatu, gave me perspective into a different environment. One, where nature more often than not takes its course. I saw the people, that live simple lives, with very little (in a Westernised perspective) and yet are content, living amongst nature. I was in nature most of the time and felt its soothing effects. I was able to sit there, looking out to the ocean as the sun set, with a warm breeze blowing and sing, 'You Are My Sunshine,' to Gracie curled up on my lap after a swim, and to Charlie in the sky. And I felt a warmth rather than a terror. I was able to feel like I was someone other than a grieving mother whilst still holding him close in my heart and thoughts.

The late poet, Andrea Gibson, who wrote beautifully of death in coming to terms with their terminal prognosis, said 'Dying is the opposite of leaving. I want to echo it through the corridor of your temples, I am more with you than I ever was before.' And being away from home, from the environment where Charlie was born, where I spent my pregnancy imbued with joy and love for the little being growing within me, was initially scary. But Andrea's poetry really resonated with me (and millions around the world) because that's what I felt in Vanuatu. It brought me comfort as I began to realise that I can travel to a different part of the world altogether and I didn't feel further from him. I felt, in a way, closer. I realised that when someone dies, the barrier of being in a separate body leaves and you are left with an infinite ability to be with that person if you listen and if you open your heart and stop looking for them in flesh.

Today marks six months since Charlie's death. I sat in his garden at 2:20pm, the time of extubation, and allowed myself to feel the sun on my skin. I allowed myself to buy the baby blue knitted cardigan I spied in the opshop that I straight away thought, 'Charlie would have looked so handsome in that.' We brought it out to his plaque and Gracie sat with me out there, playing in 'his' space so that he could be included. We drank warm drinks in the sun and shared our love for him.

How wild this life is. Love and grief and sadness and joy weep and grow and swirl amongst each other. Not many people got to physically bear witness to Charlie's life. If this is the next best thing I can offer, thank you for coming along with me for the ride. And I hope, that in all of it, it brings you comfort too, in whatever form that is.