Letters and Lily's

You turned 5, and I have still partially forgotten the moment you came into the world. 5 years too late to meet the precious woman you were named after. You see, you were given your time to greet the world on the same day that we lost her. Your great grandmother. I can only think she was watching over us that day.

Nobody ever tells you the gore, the grim, the horror stories. They fill you with the tales of 'the moment you see the soft baby skin touching yours you forget everything'. They don't mention fear. They don't mention your body, the way you can liken yourself to somewhat of a piece of cattle on a bed, or an operating table just waiting to provide milk. Stagnant and nature at its purest. Or not in my case.

Sat in birthing classes for weeks and not once was it mentioned. I felt short changed, but prepared. Prepared to make tough choices and battle for the 'all natural vision' that was pushed on me. That I wanted. Or that I thought I wanted. Without complication, because you can if your mind can. The guilt that comes when your plan unfolds like a crumpled piece of thrown out paper, rather than a smoothly printed sheet.

You're 5, but I wasn't there. Your first breath, I was somewhere else. I was in body, but not in spirit. I don't remember and that still haunts me. How can I not remember your beautiful face? Your skin so pink and puffy, I was your place to rest. But I couldn't.

I remember being trapped. Unable to move. Is this normal? Nobody could tell me, I couldn't speak. I couldn't tell them, I couldn't tell you. Almost like when you're in a nightmare with the dark figure in the corner. The paralysis, only there was no dark figure. A bright white light and people, and you. Someone I wanted to hold so badly, but my arms wouldn't move. I hear the scream, but I don't see you. They put you on me and I couldn't hold you. My dominant thought of meeting you is I was going to hurt you. My baby, I thought you would die. You would roll away never to be seen again. I remember my tears salty and cold and the sickness in my throat. I was meant to protect you but I couldn't. Aching for an inch of my body to work. I couldn't speak. No power. no words. Words I now have in abundance.

You're 5 and you don't remember. You don't know. You don't know how terrified you made me. Your first moments were taken from me. Part of me now begs to have been unconscious for a justification. I feel guilt like no other. Why couldn't I have been normal? Like the ones you see on TV. 3 years later, when having your sister, I got told that numbing my whole body was a complication, but the only thing they could do to save us both. We were in that together. I fell asleep, and the rest is a blur. In a haze I remember the fear on daddy's face. He took care of you when I couldn't. Time has flashed by, and some I’ve forgotten, some I don't know at all. But I know you.

You're 5, and sometimes I get flashes in your smile. A smile that's so bright it can burn away any terror. The flashes are dark, mostly alone in the shower where they creep in the same way the hot water succumbs to encompass your whole being. Overpowering, swallowing, burning and throat clenching. I can't breathe, I can't feel you, I can't be with you and I'm stuck once again. My heart beat is real. It beats for you and I claw back. Clinging to the reality, you're here, you keep me longing for life. The strength that one look at you has to pick me up when I fall. Like the daisy's you pick gone with the wind. You saved me. Together I now believe we can take it on.

You're 5, and seeing you on your bike looking unsteady doesn't scare me anywhere near as much as you did that day. Your innocence, love for life and the way you see the beauty in the mundane. You're spontaneous and take risks. I want to be like you.

I ask myself, did you know that you needed to be this way to heal me? To test me? For me learn to make the tough choices and to accept the past? Finally seeking therapy to overcome the suppressed trauma. To work through things and to show me how to face life. To be strong. I'm so thankful for you. Your brave little face, no longer red and puffy. Calm, confident and cool; yet headstrong. Still figuring it out.

A girl. A beautiful girl. With long blonde hair and fountain blue eyes. Brave and kind. I think, 'I want to be just like her'. You inspire me, and you will never know how proud I am. You and your little sister, you make me better. You both saved me.

Everyday I spend with you is a fairytale because forever and always, you teach me to be fearless.

Written by Catherine Cheadle
Writer

Hi, I'm Catherine!

Whilst I wrote this piece, writing is not something that comes naturally to me, so I'd say I'm a newbie. I was 22 before I was diagnosed with dyslexia, which is about the only thing that made sense. However, with struggles also comes a positive creative outlet to tough experiences which I'm happy I found. 

I'm a 31-year -old mum of two beautiful little girls; battling the everyday chaos of sticky fingers, never drinking a hot cup of tea, and trying to talk myself out of becoming a recluse and moving to the middle of nowhere. We're lovers of camp outs, movie nights and giant cookies. 

When I'm not with my 'pickles', I work for the ambulance service alongside running my small business Lil Pickles Cakes, which is also my creative saviour. It's taken a long time to delve through my own need for perfection and I'm still striving to just accept the things I can't control.

I’m a firm advocate of talking about mental health and if there's one thing I’ve learned is it's okay to not fit the mould and have it all figured out. I'm far from where I thought I'd be, and if your happiness is having eggs in multiple baskets and not one concrete path, then that's fine too. Nobody's journeys are the same, but they all have beauty, so it's important to embrace it.