My parents had their first child, a daughter, more than 40 years ago. A seriously mismanaged birth lead to brain damage and she died two days later. They still miss her everyday.
18 months later they had my brother. And two years after that they had me. My dad doesn’t talk about her much. I only know he went alone to my sister’s funeral (that the hospital advised them not to have) because my mum told me. My mum talked about her, though. Not a lot, but truthfully. I have always known I had a sister. When we were children and drawing family trees we would draw her in, and Mum would explain that she was born, and then she died, and they were very sad. But also happy, to have my brother and me. If people asked if I had siblings, I would reply ‘yes, a brother, and a sister, but she died’. Sometimes they would be taken aback, but it was, and is, the truth. As I got older she told us a bit more, how people would cross the street to avoid her, how once my brother was born many people expected her to ‘shut up about the dead baby’ as she had her baby now. She had brutal post natal depression.
I know all this has made me comfortable with tough events, not afraid to approach those in intense grieving. I also know I learned the power of forgiveness from my parents, who chose not to sue the hospital for the mistakes made. In my Mum’s words ‘the doctor was young, and he made mistakes. But ruining his career and all the money in the world wouldn’t bring her back, and that’s all I wanted.’
My daughter was born in 2013, she is a bit younger than your Slyvie. Thankfully, everything went ok. In the emotional rollercoaster after her birth, I had some small insight into how uniquely painful the loss of a baby must be. But more, as I had to make my own parenting choices, I suddenly saw that the shock and the loss of my sister changed both my parents in a profound way. In different ways, her death showed my parents what was truly mattered. And it freed them both to love us, profoundly and deeply, for who we really were, and not who they wanted us to be, or what other people thought we should be.
And if that is the gift my sister gave to me, then truly I am blessed.
And it is the gift that keeps on giving. I have thought of my sister every day since my daughter was born. Her life and death holds up a mirror to all my parenting choices. When I am tired, when I a struggling, I remember my sister and dig deep for my daughter. I go to her when she cries, always. I know it is an enormous privilege to be able to. I sing my daughter to sleep, often, and think of her. I thought of my sister, and your Slyvie this morning when my daughter woke at 5am, as I brought her into bed our, to warm her up, to cuddle her back to sleep. But more than that, my sister frees me to see my daughter clearly. To love her for who she is, to find the courage to hear what she has to say to me.
When I was growing up, my mum would grow sweet peas, and I would help her plant them, water them, pick them, arrange them. It was only after my daughter was born that my mum told me, when my sister died, she sent sweet peas from the garden for her coffin. It was the only thing she could do for her. I grow sweet peas too, and when she is older I will do that with my daughter, and tell her about her Auntie.
I miss my sister. I wish I had known her. But even though I didn’t, and even though she lived and died a long time ago, she is the best thing that ever happened to me.
Happy birthday Slyvie 