I didn’t know five years ago that a broken heart could be folded up and tucked into your back pocket. But it can.
Five years ago this week my daughter died.
And after the storm passed and the wind stopped howling and the ten-foot waves stopped violently slamming my brain, my heart, my feelings, my mind, my beliefs, my faith into rocks before slowly trying to drag me under, I had to find a way to function. I had to find a way to, you know, do the groceries and ring the electrician about the broken garage door and order a coffee and a muffin at the coffee shop up the road without tears streaming down my face.
So once the storm passed, I learned to smooth out my grief and fold it up like one of my dad’s worn out maps of the Sunshine Coast he keeps in the glove box of his Commodore. I tuck my sadness into my back pocket so I can function like someone who isn’t living every parent’s worst nightmare. I think about my daughter Georgie without thinking about her – if that makes any sense.
And on the days when I feel like marinating myself in my loss and my sadness I get out my grief from my back pocket and I play Georgie’s song and look through her photos and see her hand prints – I take my broken heart out for a spin. And I think about the fact that once upon a time a long, long time ago I held my own beautiful but lifeless baby in my arms in a maternity ward full of newborn cries.
I think about my Georgia Grace who was robust (3.47kg) and healthy and beautiful and had her big sister’s nose but darker hair.
This week as part of Never Forgotten: Mamamia’s Pregnancy Loss Awareness Week we’re remembering the babies we’ve lost. Post continues below.
And I think about how I sang to her a made-up song and begged her to come back to me. Please come back to me.