A lil’ glimmer of hope…

My horoscope asks if I’m feeling lucky…says 2017 will be my year, apparently. Something about Jupiter aligning for the first time in 10 years or some bullcrap…but by Jesus, I’ll take it thank you, please.

Twenny sixteen can go kiss my ass quite frankly. It’s been a collection of shitty shitful and a little more shitness so I’ll be quite glad to leave it behind tomorrow and look forward to a new year not just for me, but for the 13 y o braving teenhood with major trepidation, for The Vet juggling the most ridick workload while trying to wedge in family time, and the odd visit to the black couch which he likens to a seedy low grade porn flick, and even for the mutt whose had surgeries on both his hind legs and even given a blood transfusion to a poor sick dog, bless his fluffy self.

Twenny sixteen was the year I finally turned my back on infertility and said fuck no, you will not win. After umpteen gazillion attempts, virtually no eggs to speak of, exposing my family to an unnecessary amount of hormonal unkind and almost completely losing my head…maybe I can start to breathe a little easier.

There are things, acts of kindness humans can do for each other, that compel us to believe there is good in the world. That even though there’s so much horror, war, terror, suicides, terminal illness, abuse and general unkind there are still good things to be grateful for and at the top of the Christmas tree will always be the shining star that is my family, my lifeblood but there among the closest branches are my friends. Without them my days would be empty. My feelings would be kept inside. Β My strength would waiver.

Which is why, when about a month ago my every faith in humankind, in friendship and in sistahood was completely restored. I had a call from a very special friend that left me speechless (which doesn’t happen, like ever). It sent me into floods of tears. It made my heart stop. I had to pull over and, head hunched over the steering wheel, tell her I’d have to call her back.

There are acts of kindness and then there is this. Throughout my life, I’ve had many moments where my friends have literally lifted me up from the ashes like a Phoenix but quite possibly none ever as much as this.

‘We’ve been thinking and we’ve talked about this a lot,’ she said before pausing. ‘But I never quite knew how to approach it…I want to give you my eggs. No one deserves to have kids more than you guys and I want to help, I’ll do whatever it takes.’

That’s it. Those words. Our beacon of hope floating in our drowning ocean of loss. Even now I can’t type them without my eyes fogging up.

The most selfless utterly beautiful, kind and generous thing a sista could ever do for another.

Not only is she a beautiful person and friend for even offering but she ticks all the boxes, including having an off-the-charts egg count. She’s kind, caring, loving, intelligent, an incredible mother, and most of all she’s compassionate, kind and generous. And what are the chances, we even look alike too? I honestly couldn’t have picked better if she were straight out of a catalogue. She comes from a beautiful family and has a wonderful loving and kind husband who is fully in on the deal too (which sure helps).

I don’t think there are words I can even write to say how much that call changed my life, our life. How the generosity of what’s she’s doing can never ever be truly measured there just isn’t enough gratitude in the whole stratosphere.

They call them Donor Angels and she Β most certainly is, the kindest most darling Angel girl who has given me hope when I thought I’d never find it. Who has helped expose a tiny slither of light at the end of the tunnel.

Yes, this is just the start and I know there are a shitload many more mountains for us to climb but I’m ready…I got this bitch, I’m a comin’ atcha with everything I got…

Maybe the horoscope has some insider info, maybe this will be our year of hope, of stars aligning of the loss to end for this Scorpio Girl. And if it is, Jupiter, I sure be counting on you.

The staff at the cafe I’m sitting are looking at me a little strangely most likely wondering why some chick is crying into her phone so I’ll sign out till the new year. Happy happiest twenty seventeen to all and every people. I hope yours is as good as I’m counting on mine being. Love and light, Lady Mama Gxoxo

Right before my eyes…

Thirteen years ago today…at 9.30 in the morning I knew life would never be the same. As long as I breathed air into my lungs, I’d walk to the ends of the earth for you. The day you came into my life lil Peanut, was the day I stopped just being a person…and became a mum. I looked into your teeny sleepy eyes and knew you were the best thing that ever happened to me. 

Your entry into this world was as you always live, in a hurry to get someplace. It started with small contractions at midnight, your daddy was so excited every time I moved, he thought you were on your way, and by morning you were here. We’d waited so long to meet your gorgeous tiny and our love for you was more than we ever knew possible.  

The happiest lil Vegemite I ever did see, you giggled and smiled your way into the hearts of everyone who met you. A charmer with your whispy hair of spun gold and twinkling blue peepers, every day with you in our lives is even better than the one before. 

By the time you’d grown big enough for me to send off to school I did it choking back the tears and hiding behind stupid big sunnies. My tiny boy outweighed by this huge navy backpack and hat that came down so far over your noggin your eyes barely peeked out beneath it. 

Now you’re a teenager and these years my boy, they’ve gone by in a blink. I can’t hardly believe that teeny Bub I heard take his first word, did a happy dance as you took your first wobbly step, never wanted to let you go as you said a final goodbye to your daddy, held my breath and watched on as you wheeled along on two wheels all by yourself, roared at the sidelines like a proud lioness as you scored your first goal…and as you took my arm and lovingly gave me away to the man who is your idol, your hero…

It’s hard for a mum to watch her boy grow bigger by the day, go from a boy to a lad, see him falling from her clutches as he inches ever so much closer to manhood but know we are so damn proud of what you’ve become kid. Of your kindness and compassion for others, of your everlasting strong love for everyone in your life, of your determination and devotion to be something great, of your ability to see all that’s great in the world, of the way you remind us to laugh every day and live as though we had none left. 


You are the greatest…and will always be 

With all my love from galaxies near and far far away, happy happy day no-longer-12-y-o. Love, Mama G & The Vet xxo

One, two…nothing…hope lost

For those who know me, you’d be well aware this girl right here don’t raise her eyelids for nothing before the hours of 7am…there really is no need.

Except last week, I was awake at five every morning. I knew the lab would be calling each morning – obviously not at 5am, but that’s what time my body clock seemed to think would be a good enough warning to prepare me – with the update on our only two embryos that had managed to fertilise. Day one, we have two embryos. Day two they are growing. Day three, still growing. Day four, they’re still looking good. By day five, the lab says, if you don’t hear from us, expect your transfer to go ahead tomorrow morning. We’ll call you if there’s bad news. My body must have had some sixth sense the news wasn’t going to be good, hence the bolt upright Saturday morning to check my phone. It’s 5.03am, go back to sleep. But there’ll be nothing of the sort.

By 9am, I’m happy enough we haven’t heard from the lab, so it must be great news. I drag the 12 y o along in place of The Vet who’s tied up at work but once we get to the clinic it’s not as good as I thought. ‘The doctor will have a word,’ the nurse tells me. Oh shitsticks that can’t be good. He says while the embryo’s haven’t completely disintegrated, they also haven’t reached blastocyst stage which is required for a viable transfer. ‘We will wait till tomorrow and see if they can’t grow overnight,’ he says. ‘If you don’t get a call, we’ll see you at 9’. The 12 y o grabs my hand in a firm grip.

Another night of waiting. Torture. Except that isn’t a descriptive enough word. Every single ounce of our hope is pinned on this working. Four years of my body not belonging to myself. My sex life revolving around stupid fucking cervical mucus and ovulatory preparation. Being one step away from batshit-motherfucking-crazy-hanging-on-the-edge day in day out. My family having to put up with said mood swings for a large part of that four years. The bloating, the pain, the injections, the anesthetics, the hair loss, the weight gain, the depression, the disappointment, the unwelcome changes in every part of my body…the want to tell The Vet he’d be quite within his rights to ask for a refund on his utterly defective wife who can’t fulfill the one hope they all dream of, who could easily pick himself up a much younger, working model with pipes that are not just there for decoration…

Sunday morning. Five am again. Fuck me, who even needs to be up at this hour, apart from the birds? By seven, I think it’s looking positive. Seven thirty comes and hope is filling up to my ears. Yes, yes, yesssss little Hugo and Evie are ready and waiting to be planted into mama’s uterus and grow into beautiful teeny foetuses! Not ten minutes later and the number I really don’t want to see appears on the screen. I exchange my vitals with the scientist to ensure she’s not talking to some random woman answering my phone pretending to be me and about to get the worst news in the world. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘The embryos have not developed further, in fact they’ve gone backwards.’ One, two…nothing. Bye bye little Hugo & Evie, it wasn’t meant to be…

This was meant to be the one. The one we’d waited for. The one that would work. Everything was hanging on this. I’ve been a very good girl for six months. Weekly needles, swigging every herbal remedy known to womankind, quit drinking, eating too much gluten and flung my legs in the air in the name of Pilates for six fucking months…and all for what…? Blown close to the cost of a small house, tested my stress levels and heartache to breaking point over 1460 days…to end up here. Nothing. Nudda. Your eggs are shit. You’re defective. Infertile Barbie, the one noone wants to take home.

Tears shed. Hearts shattered into a million pieces. Everything we’ve been trying for, all that’s consumed our lives…gone up in a puff of shitassing smoke. It has engulfed me for the best part of four years. Every day I wake up thinking about it. Every night I close my eyes hoping for a miracle. But no, not today, not tomorrow and unless I happen to fall in the five percent of women aged 41 who can conceive naturally, there will never be.

johnggflynnxmas11It was never my intention to stay this long in firm clutches of IVF but like a gambling addiction…you can’t help but think ‘the next one could be the ONE…’ Call it stubbornness, optimism or plain stupidity I’ve never let the numbers dictate when we stop but when you’re only plucking three measily shitful eggs from a possible nine follicles that left your insides feeling as though they’d been through a mincing machine, it’s probably time to give up. And we said we would. This was our last round trying to use my eggies, trying to have a little me and him. A sibling for the 12 y o with some of his own genetics. Now it’s time to hand it over to someone else. To ask the universe if there’s someone kind enough, generous enough, young enough (under 32) and willing enough to put her body through a shitful round of injections, hospitalisation and a few days of internal pain to help our dream come true…to add to what is already the most loving, kind and beautiful two blokes to ever set foot on this earth.

I sure hope she’s out there…and she can make this happy little family even more perfect…lov’n’hugs, Lady MamaGxox

 

 

 

One last bit of hope…

In recovery theatre this morning I woke up to the sound of crying. I wasn’t sure if it was me or not. I’m so dosed up on all kinds of shit to make me stop spewing my ring piece out that it’s very difficult to decipher. It’s like a really shitful trip. You hear voices, sounds and are very uncertain where they’re coming from. 

Turns out that no. The tears are not mine. Though when I look at my hand and see the number 3 they might as well be. Three fucking shitful measly little eggs. What the fuck? There were nine follicles. Anyway, in this our last round ever, we only ended up with three. Could be triplets. Could be nothing. I’d gone into this round with trepidation because after this I’m giving up. It has beat me and we can’t fight this shitassing battle anymore. INFertility has won. 

  So back to the tears. They weren’t mine but there was only two of us out of theatre this morning. I can hear the nurse consoling her, the girl on the gurney next to me. Her tears keep coming. Hormones will do that to a girl.

Once we’re up and dressed they move us into a communal recovery room and sit us down in particularly ugly orange vinyl chairs. I wait for the lady to finish having her heart pressure measured and ask if she’s okay. She’s still choking back the tears. Yes she’s been in for egg collection. But she only got 11 eggs. She’s 33. Wow, I tell her that’s fucking fantastic, superb numbers. No, she says. Last time she had 15 and still got only one embryo. Oh honey, I tell her as non condescendingly as I can. I’m pretty sure 11 is a really lucky number I say, astrology or something. The last (and only) time I got 11 we had 4 embryos to chuck in the fridge. ‘But this is my last time,’ she says. ‘My husband is dead’. My heart sinks. Here is a woman who is braving this fuckstick battle all on her own. She hadn’t even told her family she was doing it. It was her choice. And her husband’s. He had died in April of an illness only diagnosed in September. And left behind this poor girl and her four-year-old boy. 

Oh darling girl. Life is so damn cruel, I tell her, knowing full well her pain will never ever subside. A few minutes later her friend arrives to take her home. I wish her the best and send her all my own strength. Her battle far worse than mine right now. 

See that’s the thing. There’s always someone worse off in the world, or even in the hospital, than you. Someone whose pain is far greater. Whose battle great chasms wider and longer. And I tell that to the 12 y o all the time. It’s what keeps us grounded. No matter how shit we feel, we are lucky. 

Except that’s hard when it feels like life is a battle of shitsticks at 12 years old. I’d really hate to be a teen right now. Even though I’m sure our own parents had their fears, today’s obsession with social media means our kids are exposed to so much more than their mental capacity can handle. 

Last week the 12 y o got tackled from behind and took a big hit to his jaw. The game had already been over but this kid decided he’d go in and get him anyway. Attacking from behind is cowardly no matter what. First I hear is a call from the school. He’s been in an incident and has retaliated by throwing a punch. Something we’ve told him to do because every other option has thus far failed. You’d think it would end there. No. 

It seems one of his mates didn’t agree with the punishment and decided to mercilessly meter out his own battle on him – both in person and via social media the entire week.

Mid week he calls me from school where he’s locked himself in the toilets at lunchtime in floods of tears. ‘Please come and get me, mummy I don’t want to be here’. He’s been teased about being gay for idolising his favourite supercar driver on the anniversary of his daddy’s death. Jealousy I suspect. He’s been told everyone hates him (untrue of course he has plenty of mates). He’s been told he’s ugly, called sperm head (apparently because of his blonde hair). Told he’s useless and excluded. All at the hands of a kid he adores and thought was his mate but we’ve long suspected otherwise. Boys can banter about, give each other shit but this goes far deeper. 

Next comes a text no mother ever wants to receive. ‘Sometimes I don’t want to be alive’

What’s the highest rate of young deaths in this nation…? Is it car accidents? Drugs perhaps? Accidental death?  No it’s suicide. And the most at risk group? Male youths aged 15-24. 

We are doing all we can to make him feel better. I’ve been to the school – whose policy on bullying seems to be rather non existent being as its the third time this year I’ve picked up my son from school either with a black eye, a bruised jaw or a damaged self. We remind him there are so many people who adore him and he has a list of incredible male mentors in his life who’ve got his back. Especially The Vet. 

This week is a new week, I tell him. Life can be a giant bucket of shit sometimes and you have to learn to kick it over and jump the puddle to get out of it. All it takes is strength. There is always someone far worse off than you and at least you are loved. So very loved. 

He’s one of the most caring, beautiful natured kids in the world. And I’m proud to call him my son. For those sad little buggers who want to bring him down I just feel sorry for them. Like I tell him, in ten years time he will be amazingly successful and this school shit and the people in it will be not thing but a blur. 

The only way we make it through life’s shitful battles is with strength and love. I’ve no idea how this week will unfold. Maybe we’ll have an embie to transfer on Saturday…maybe we won’t. The outcome is not mine to choose but the recovery is. 

To the men in my life who make every day on this earth a blessing, the 12 y o and The Vet, I hope beyond my wildest dreams this is our time. I love you to the moon, a hundred times around it and back again, lov’n hugs Lady MamaG xox

Let Me Go…

This has to be one of the shittiest birth weeks I’ve had in a good while. With tomorrow’s turnover of year peeking its way around the corner, it’ll take more than a gentle tug to pull a smile over this birthday girl’s face by the morning. It’s that bad I haven’t even deliberately left a trail of new handbag selections open on my ipad’s search history. Yes, that bad. As a true Scorpian, I usually like nothing more than to bask in all my day of birth glory for at least a week but the good folk of Gore (if you’ve no idea where that is, you’re not alone but it happens to be the place this bouncing 8 pd 5oz big fat bald ugly bub made her debut) will be somewhat displeased to know I have not spent this week celebrating my birth in usual fashion. I have not celebrated a single fucking thing.

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I so wasn’t kidding when I said I was big, fat, bald and ugly…(and wore blue more than a baby girl ever should)

In fact I’ve spent most of it in tears. Angry, deflated and generally like a big steaming pile of layered shit cake. Last month’s OI cycle, the one where I thought it would work, the one where I’ve argued with myself that ‘oh it’s so worked, I think it might even be twins’ only to be beaten back with the counter argument coming from the other side of my head ‘don’t be so fucking stupid your womb feels emptier than Hillary Clinton’s ballot box and you know it.’ Argue, argue argue…it’s all my petulant brain seems capable of these days.

But no, despite the pig fat (intralipid) delivered via one gigantic mother of a catheter through my vein last week, and despite the steroids, the pilates, the weight loss, the lack of drinking, the healthy eating, the weekly acupuncture, the naturopath and all handfuls of Chinese herbs I knock back like a crack whore…Yet. Another. Shitballing. Failure.

We had teeny slither of hope if you could call it that. All the herbs I’ve been insisting The Vet gulp back have made a difference. A huge one. But still our odds stack against us faster than we can say Jenga.

This one I took super hard. I really thought because it was my birth week, we’d get a surprise pressie from the Universe. A positive after so many fucking assing years of negatives. I liked the idea of a July baby. Given the 12 y o is a Sagitarian and has to wait the entire year then gets all his loot in one hit, a winter bub would be just perfect. But any month will do. January to December, I’m up for whatever it’ll give us.

Because every month for four years has been nothing but a shitful battle. Even when I don’t want to think about it, I still do. The hopes go up, the signals are there and then they’re wiped with the click of your fingers. Or the piss on a stick.

To give up, believe it or not has actually been a world harder than keeping on fighting but now I’ve finally reached breaking point. I’m tired. So tired. Tired of arguing with my body, of continually looking for answers we’ll never get. It’s time to say the end is the end. Having tested every bit of my courage, my strength and my tenacity as a person, Fertility it’s time to let me go.

I want this more than the air in my lungs. I want the final piece in our family puzzle. I want it for me, for the 12 y o who told me just this week with a gentle pat on my shoulder,Β  ‘I’m so sorry mummy. I really wanted a baby brother or sister to look after…’ Because children are the best teachers, the best healers and the greatest gift. I want it for all our beautiful friends and family who prop me up week in week out with their support. And of course…most of all I want it for him, The Vet who deserves and wants this as much as any Dad walking the earth. Who has loved me, encouraged me and picked me up these past four years of motherfucking pain. We all want it.

So, even though we pinky swore and poked needles into our eyes that we never ever would again like everrrrrrr…but because Dr Babies said so, we are giving IVF one last Blaze of Glory. By fuck it had better work. Tomorrow the only thing I’ll be unwrapping is the end of a needle before it gets stabbed into my belly. You’d better hope like fuck it does. Love, hugs n’ birthday wishes to any other Scorps, Lady MamaG xoxo

 

 

Always and forever…

Today I’m allowed to feel like shit. I can scream and cry and laugh all at once. And so can he. 

Last week when the 12 y o came home from his wonderweek of being spoilt, loved and generally worshipped in our homeland he was different. The usual casualness was gone. His carefree nonchalance normally visible when he gets off the plane was replaced with a teary-eyed hug. ‘I miss him. I really do,’ he choked through tears. ‘I wish I could have known him.’ 

  Earlier that morning he’d been out to visit his daddy at the cemetery which he’s done countless times before. But he’s older now. Wiser. More aware of his loss. 

He’d spent the week immersed in memories and laddish stories of his dad without any filter. Felt like he was there. He was finally getting to know the man he never will. 

It’s okay to be angry, sad and helpless whenever you feel it, I tell him. All those feelings will always be there for the rest of your life. But we are so lucky your daddy found us the perfect guy to fill his shoes, take care of his wife and his boy exactly like he would have. It isn’t fair his only memories are the ones garnered by me and all his friends and family, nothing of his own to laugh over and reminisce. 

  Tomorrow he’ll crest the hill sitting in the back of a car with one his favourite drivers, the spirit of his daddy proudly watching on. It will be another step closer to the man he so wishes he did…but never got the chance to know. 

  To the memory of our Didley, who 3650 days ago, was taken from our lives but who will always always be in our hearts…lov’n’hugs Lady MamagG xox

A decade of Love, Loss, Pain & Healing…

It’s a muggy October afternoon in 2006. My phone rings and the voice on the other end is quiet, anxious even, as if the words themselves will cut like knives. Time will stand still. Words will come out. Words that will burn deep into my soul. Fear starts to flood through my body in gigantic waves, stripping away the ability to be rational…I’m lost in a blur of screams, of bewilderment, of disbelief…this can’t be happening.

Five hours later we’re in a room outside the doors of the ICU unit in Sydney…scared as all fuck of what lies behind them. We decide it’s better for him if our toddler is left behind with a friend nine hours away in an entirely different state from where I now stand. But I want to hug him. He should have come too. My head starts to question the choice to leave him. No. It’s too much, he’s too little.

More words fill the still air…cardiac arrest, spinal injury, critical care

Even 10 years later I can still see the woman in the RPA Hospital, the one on TV with critical care patients being rushed out of an ambulance on a gurney down the corridors to intensive care. She’s hunched over, the heavy fear for what lies behind those doors dragging down on her shoulders. Fifteen years. That’s how long we’d been together before that long October day. Half our lives. Jesus Christ, we were only kids when we met. I don’t even recognise my own voice it’s filled with so much desperation pleading with them to please do all you can to save his life. I want the doctors to understand. I have a son, I tell them, he needs his daddy. You have to do everything you can, everything.

It’s three more hours before we’re let in to see him. Hours of twisting my hands inside out of fear painting all kinds of fucked up visuals in my head. Doctors say something about stabilising him…they’re doing all they can. You just need to wait…we’re sorry.

Each word spoken in quiet hushed tones.

Critical care. Nothing about those words is comforting. I’m aware there is very little possibility of a positive outcome and it becomes a one-sided waiting game and we’re stuck staring down the barrel of all the ammunition facing us at once. It’s a time suspension, the outcome in the hands of the doctors doing every fucking thing they can, they put tubes into him, monitors are hooked up, a tiny patch is shaved into the side of his head, some of the nation’s best specialists gathered shoulder-to-shoulder in that unit fighting for him…we’re all fighting for him but only fate will decide what happens next.

Seventy-two hours in ICU will pass like mother fucking weeks.

Sitting beside his hospital bed, my own needs pale into insignificance. I won’t eat. I don’t want to sleep, I can’t leave him alone in that ward, my hands tightly wrapped around his reminding him of everything we’d been through and all we had ahead of us. Hoping beyond hope his eyelids would flicker and beautiful blue eyes would open and look at me. Please don’t go. Don’t leave us.

For three days doctors will come and go from the room, mostly looking down when they exit as if making eye contact will make it all the more real. A group of our closest friends and family have flown in and we’re all holding each other helplessly in a room just outside the ward. I’m not sure I knew the true purpose of friendship before that day when each of them dropped everything in their own lives and flew to be by his side, by my side, trying to hold me together as the seams began to split. They did it then and for all the years after. The very same friends who, to this day, keep true to their promise made to his dad as he lay silent on a gurney to keep watch over his boy. No gesture can ever repay them for our survival.

How can life be so fucking cruel…? One minute he’s there laughing with your son, standing right in front of you living, laughing, breathing…the next they’re telling you he can no longer breathe on his own, his heart no longer beats by itself. There is nothing more they can do.

It’s Sunday, 5.45pm…the last time I’ll ever see his face, touch his skin. We’re sorry. We’ve done all we can…

 

Before then October 8 was like any other day. It was a Monday, a Tuesday, a sunny day, a cloudy day, a shitty day, a fucking fantastic day…a normal day. Now it’s a reminder of loss and grief and just how fragile life is. The day my life and that of all our family, friends and so very devastatingly my boy, changed forever. Grief doesn’t let go when you lose someone you love so tragically, you’ll carry it around with you in a pocket inside your heart and even though you want to so bad, you can’t seem to let it go. A stray dog that keeps coming back scrounging around for a little bit more of you, your heart, your head always hiding in the shadows.

There will never be normal again. Before I could control my fear, with no more fear than a mum would for her son, or any person would have for their partner. Now it’s impossible to let go of the cloud of fear over my heart when The Vet is late home from a ride, or work. When the 12 y o travels on his own. When he tells me he wants to do exactly what his dad did. Fear’s a constant companion all because of that day. The day that not only took my husband, his daddy, but the day that took my normal.

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things get better, so much better…

If I could go back to the doors of the Intensive Care Unit and talk to the broken woman standing before the greatest fear of her life, gently slip my hand inside hers and tell her it’s all beyond her control, nothing she can do will change what’s about to happen. The decisions she’s about to make will rock her to the core and haunt her until her own very last breath, that everything she’s about to do, every choice she makes will shape the lives of everyone she holds close…but they will all be the right one. It’s out of your control.

The weeks and months after that day were the loneliest of my life. A shitload of firsts were about to hit us. TellingΒ  your son his dad has gone forever. Burying the person you were meant to grow old with. Keeping all his clothes in the wardrobe just so you can remind yourself of what he smelled like. Sneaking your sleeping toddler into bed with you because the cold side of the bed is too much loneliness to cope with. Saving his voicemail message just so you can pretend he’s still there. Rebuilding your life. Selling your house and letting go of dreams. Opening mail that’s still addressed to him two years later.

Time has given way to pain and hurt leaving space to learn from loss. Keeping the people I love close and thanking them every day for being the blood pumping through my veins. It’s shown me everything eventually does get better and we all can heal with time…but mostly, with love. That someone can come and pick your life up and put it back together, show you it’s possible to heal, to love again. Who has the biggest heart of anyone you’ve ever met but who has an incredible humility to still let you honour someone who had been in your heart before him. A man who not just loves you but loves your baby like his own, who will make your heart burst when he tells him he loves him and never differentiates between blood and heart.

A decade on and the same tiny whispy-haired boy who climbed up and lovingly placed a hand on his daddy’s casket as it was loaded into the hearse is two just months away from being a teenager. He never got the chance to know his daddy who adored his tiny boy in every way possible, who said nothing would ever take him away from the best thing that ever happened to us. Next weekend the 12 y o will travel to the place I never can. He’ll visit the mountain, smell the octane, feel the throat of engines reverberate through his little frame. He’ll watch as the cars crest the hill where tragedy struck but without the fear in the pit of his stomach I have. It will be about tracing his steps, loving what he loved and living what he lived.

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An immortal hero in our eyes…

I can’t change this past decade but it has taught me about love, completely emptied my life with loss but it’s reminded me about the importance of living too. In a few days, his closest mates will come together to celebrate a man who left our lives too soon. The same group of guys who sank beers at his 21st, our wedding and his 30th. Who were there by his side as he took his last breath. Who have kept the memories alive for me and for the 12 y o. Who will honour a mate, a brother, uncle, son and husband…a man who still leaves a gaping hole in our lives, on October 8, and every other day after it too, I Will Remember You…forever and always. God Speed, good man, god speed. #10yearsinmyheart Lov n’hugs, Lady MamaG xox