3 Years

Sunday is 3 years since our brave and beautiful Angel, Polly, was born forever sleeping. 

We always try to celebrate her special day (known in our house as Polly Day) with the twins, and of course now with little M too.  Nothing spectacular; usually a little day trip and a birthday party tea involving chocolate cake!  Much the same as we would’ve done with Polly, had she been here with us. 

For the children, Polly Day is a special treat and it is, I hope, an opportunity to think about and associate Polly with fun and happiness, as opposed the reality, which is the death of their sister.  For us, it is a chance to surround our pain with happiness and laughter and a reminder of why and how we can carry on despite our broken hearts.

  

The urge and the need to cuddle her feels painful and I cannot believe it is 3 years since my last cuddle with her.  It feels like many, many years ago…. it also feels just like it was yesterday.  I miss all that she was to us in the short time we knew her; I miss all that she would, could and should  have been.

Fly high and play lots, our beautiful baby Polly. X

Season Of Goodwill; Our Experience Of Goodwill

I've heard it said a number of times during the last few days that the "Season Of Goodwill" is nearly here.  It prompted me, tonight, to ask a couple of well-known internet search engines when exactly this season is.  Not coming up with a definitive answer, I have concluded that ultimately, this just refers to Christmas.

It's a shame, in a way, this title.  Does it mean that goodwill and human kindness does not exist for the rest of the year, then?  I have been a fortunate recipient of "goodwill" many times throughout my life... from smaller random acts of kindness (a stranger picking up a dropped unnoticed toy, for example), that occur often, to some more specific huge, unprompted and incredible acts of goodwill.

It's our main experience of goodwill, an overwhelming and unexpected experience, that I am writing about today.  One which goes to prove, I think, that there is no such thing as a "season" of kindness,  but proves beyond any shadow of doubt that human kindness exists at all times of the year...and for which I, and my family were, and still remain, very, very grateful.

I'm going to write this post in parts.  The first, is I suppose, to give a bit of background behind this particular story.

In February 2010, our beautiful little girl, Polly, was stillborn.  The days which followed her birth were a haze of immense and all-consuming grief.  A week to the day later, I decided to follow brave Andy's lead, and step outside our front door for the first time, to go with him to collect the twins from their morning at nursery.

As we made the short journey to nursery, we had a brief conversation of how we should try to focus on the positives and the good things around us, which obviously mainly involved the twins.  We decided we would spend the summer with my Dad, who we all enjoyed spending time with, and who had been a huge and very vital support to us during the last few weeks of our pregnancy with Polly in particular. He had looked after the twins overnight for their first ever night away from us, when Polly had been born.

Fate/life, as it happens, had other ideas.  As we arrived back home with the twins, our 'phone was ringing.  My Dad had been taken to hospital & was seriously unwell.  We needed to go there immediately.  Andy's amazing Sister and Niece arrived, along with my wonderful best friend, and we were reassured that they'd look after the twins.

We were sent, with many hugs and kisses, on our 20 mile journey to Hereford, with sandwiches they'd prepared and a bottle of wine and a couple of plastic beakers.  We ate the sandwiches en route, somehow, and drank the wine later on that evening...after we'd been to the hospital where a heavily pregnant doctor (the irony was not lost) confirmed what I'd known the moment we'd received the phonecall - my Dad could not be saved.  He died, shortly after we arrived at the hospital.

It's difficult to put into words how heartbroken we were.  At the best of times, Dad's death would've been devastating.  But just a week after losing our little girl, and his death being completely unexpected, was beyond anything I could comprehend.   Their funerals were held in our village Church 2 days apart - same time, same grave.

It took a while, after that, to gain the courage once again to face the "real world".  We stayed at my Dad's house, with my brother, and huddled together, focusing only on getting through each day; each hour at times.

I started to think, a couple of weeks later, about sorting through some of my parents' things (my Dad had kept most of Mum's possessions from when she died, right down to her shoes, which remained by the back door, as though he had always been waiting, expecting her to come home.) It become a project, a new focus; I would bring boxes over from our home to Dad's, and sort through a few of his & Mum's things at the same time.  We'd planned to move in properly over the course of several weeks, but finding a much-needed purpose, I started making the round-trips, bringing over our possessions, as often as possible, sometimes a couple of times a day.  We were living and basing ourselves at my Dad's house, and with the exception of larger items which wouldn't fit in my car, things we didn't use at all, and the baby things which were purposefully left in our house as I couldn't face them, we had pretty much moved in.

Some 6 weeks or so later, Andy went away for the weekend.  He'd been nervous to go, anxious to leave us, but I reassured him that we'd be fine.  And we were.... to start off with.  The weather was hot and sunny, and I took photo's of the twins playing in the garden.  I felt, for the first time since Polly and Dad had died, some genuine optimism about the future.

What I didn't realise, but that two forensic teams later concurred, was that as I took the photo below of the twins eating their tea in the garden that night,  a fire had started at the side of the house.

It wasn't a small fire; it would've started that way, but very quickly became a huge one.  My Dad's home - our new home - was turned from this:

To this:

                                          Downstairs

                                         Upstairs

To be continued in a couple of days.....(please, don't be disheartened; this is, I promise, an incredibly positive story, and what followed next, in terms of the response from family and friends around us, completely blew us away - still does to this day).

Why I Blog

I'm joining the Monday Club again today, creation of Sarah at Hello Wall - do pop on over to her blog and have a read of her posts.  Given the title of my post today, I should also add that she's been one of the many lovely bloggers who've given me support and advice during these early weeks of getting my blog going - thank you.

Why I Blog

I wrote in my Introduction post about how my blog first came about, and it's later change of name and purpose.  There's a story too, behind why I returned properly to my blog, and started writing regularly....

Over the summer, I entered a short story competition run by Barrington Green.  Let's just call it a late night whim, an urge to write about Polly.  I hadn't entered a short story competition before, or any writing competition for that matter, but a couple of glasses of wine (for inspiration, naturally!) later, I sat and wrote about our beautiful daughter.

I was totally blown away, when a short time later, I was contacted by the competition organisers to say I'd been chosen as a Runner Up in their competition.  I was... terrified. This position in the competition meant that my story about Polly would be displayed on their website.  For other people to read.  Naively, (yes, yes, it was a competition so there was always a chance this might happen, but anyway....) I hadn't for one moment contemplated part of my soul, my story, becoming "public property", and I just didn't know how to feel about that.

I'm pleased to say that I needn't have worried.  The comments I received in response to my story, from friends, family members and strangers alike, were overwhelming.  And hugely supportive.

It took a little time for me to digest these events, and work out what to "do" with them.  I realised that not only did I find it an unexpectedly therapeutic release to write about Polly, but that I also loved being able to share her too.

It was at that point that I finally turned back to my blog.

I may "talk" about Polly a lot in here; equally I may not "talk" about her much at all.  But if this makes any sense, knowing that I can talk about her in this way, and that when I write about her I am, each time, sharing a little bit of my beautiful girl, is all I need.

If you wish, you can read my competition entry HERE. (It's the one called "Polly").


 

I Dreamed A Dream

We played the song “Precious Child” by Karen Taylor Goode at Polly’s funeral:

“In my dreams, you are alive and well, precious child, precious child.

And in my mind, I see you clear as a bell, precious child, precious child.”

 

 

I had the strangest dream last night.

I dreamt I was on a car journey with my husband, our twins H&L, baby M and also our daughter Polly, and my Dad. We were travelling uphill, through some kind of forest.  As we drove over a bump, little Polly and my Dad fell out of the car.  We carried on the journey regardless.

A long while later, when we were much further down the road, we turned around and went back to see Polly and Dad.  They were, by now, in a hospital.

On arriving at the door to the hospital I informed the nurse who was holding a huge syringe and clipboard, that I was there to see my daughter.  I didn’t tell the nurse my daughter’s name, but she looked at me knowingly. Her reply was instant “Yes, they’re here.  We’ve been waiting for you”.  It was said as though the nurse had been waiting for a long, long time. Not with impatience, but with the confidence and expectation, somehow, that I was always going to arrive at the hospital, at some point.

I walked into the hospital room with my husband, the twins and baby M. The room was white, brilliant white.  My Dad was sat on a hospital bed.  He looked well, and happy.  Little Polly looked different to how I remembered her; she was probably about 2 (which she would be now, had she lived), and although she was an incredible mixture facially of the twins and baby M, she was very clearly Polly.  She too, looked well and happy.

As I watched my husband and children chatter and laugh with my Dad and Polly, I witnessed my Dad smile at Polly amidst the chaos and noise.  Polly caught his smile, and smiled back.  That look, that smile, that love and that bond between them, completely took my breath away.

And then I woke up.

My daughter Polly and my Dad were buried just 2 days apart - at the same time, in the same place, with my Mum who was already waiting for them.

In the way that a rainbow ebbs away slowly from the sky leaving the memory of it's beauty but no trace of its start or finish, my dream’s clarity has faded from my mind during the day today.  And in the same way that I would never try to chase a rainbow, I won’t be attempting to chase or return to my dream.

But it leaves, in it’s wake, an indescribable feeling of reassurance and peace.