I’m not going to share Olive’s passing with you. Except to say she passed away in my arms while I sang to her. They weren’t going to let me sit up. I screamed. They let me. It’s a very precious memory and one that belongs to Daniel our beautiful Olive and myself. I like that. I like that it is just our memory. It’s sacred.
I will say that the pain of a death of a child is like nothing else I have ever felt. Its like I have a huge scar running from my face down the entire length of my body. But you can’t see it. That scar can crack open at any time and all the sadness and love I have for her comes gushing out. I could be in the supermarket passing crappy children’s lunch box items and crack I am a mess. I see a tiny female toddler with hair similar to how mine was and crack I am a mess. An AD on TV crack. Someone mentions my boys are twins crack. The colour pink crack. Coming across Beautiful baby girl’s clothes. Crack. Every day for no reason. Crack crack crack crack CRACK.
When it was all over. When the boys were born and I was allowed up to the postnatal ward with a balcony and fresh air. I remember the first time I woke up in that room. I was alone. There was a construction sight out my window and people were busy working and I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe that people were still working. I couldn’t believe that the world didn’t stop. My daughter had just died and you just go about your day as if nothing has happened? I could NOT believe that the world did not stop for my Olive. She deserved the entire universe to stop. I was so angry so sad. This poem I learnt in acting school came to mind in that exact moment, and I finally understood it. Like really understood it. So I give you that poem. It says it all. And Olive Louise my love for you knows no bounds, I hope you feel it.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.