It's my party and I'll cry if I want to

Today is the 19th of October. That's five months since our full-term, healthy baby boy was stillborn. And 39 years since I made an earthly debut.

Instead of celebrating 39-and-holding with a five-month-old babe in my arms, I'm remembering holding his lifeless body and left longing for what won't ever be. I look at the photos from my pregnancy and can't imagine ever feeling that calm happiness again in this lifetime.





Such expectation dashed in that one moment of learning the midwife couldn't find a heartbeat. I have faith I'll hold this child to me again eventually, but it's small consolation right now. I want his wriggly little five-month-old self, not memories of such a short time with this much-loved child. Our George. Who should have been Tim for my father - but since my Dad has been widowed twice (and in-between those deep sorrows married to and divorced from my mean-as-spit mother) we decided to name his deceased grandchild instead for the saints of England, Ireland, and Scotland. So he's not our Timbit (for non-Canadians, this is a pun on Canadian favourite Tim Hortons doughnut holes called Timbits) after all. He's George Patrick Andrew.



It's a weird thing to celebrate my birth when I'm mourning the death at birth of our youngest son. If only blowing out candles on a cake really did grant wishes.