Two years on from a death
Reflections on toddler Neve, to mark the day
Two years.
So much to say and yet also so little. It turns out I said much of it last year. Rather than repeating myself, I will let last year’s words speak for themselves, in the link below.
I am unsure how I feel about this consistency and whether I expected to feel better, worse or just different, another year later. Somehow, I am enfolding my grief into daily life, as this same grief continues to grow, in mostly unexpected ways. Neve’s death is both embedding itself into a new normality and yet, daily, I stop in shock and disbelief, as it hits me. My child died. In odd ways, this again reminds me of birth. Simultaneously momentous but equally unremarkable. Thousands of babies and children are born and die, each and every day, the world over. Some of these will be babies born and dying or dying and born, all in one day - I was privileged to have a decade of Neve. I wonder at birth and death’s capacity to be both normal, everyday events and yet, also, earth shattering and life-changing moments.
Being two years down the line has made me think a lot about two year old Neve. She was so firmly there and part of my life. There was no part of me that felt like she didn’t belong - her presence was embedded into my identity. At that point in my life, I was lucky enough to be unable to picture the absence of a child of mine.
I pondered how one marks two years of death. Two years since a birth would gift me with a toddler, possibly more interested in the boxes and wrapping paper than the presents. They might be scared of the candles and attention but overjoyed by the cake. I am feeling my way, though my direction is clear; it is toddler Neve who I will paint. I will paint her soft, gently rounded face, before it thins and stretches.
Photos and videos bring me back. Reality tells me that she can’t possibly have been smiling all the time, despite what the photographs proclaim. However, that is what I have for today. A smooth skinned toddler, wild curls framing her face. Deeply blue eyes in which to lose myself. She is full of smiles and grins. I spot her lying on her back, on a small trampoline, playing a recorder, lost in her own toddler world. She zips by on her hand-me-down yellow scooter, with her butterfly helmet cradling her precious head. I suppose I thought that I could protect her, that a helmet could keep a child’s head safe.
Her love of food is evident already, as evidenced by the many images of a chocolate covered face. Ice cream, cake batter, and pudding, they all featured, often interspersed by carrots sticks poking out of her mouth. Porridge, so much porridge. Always with brown sugar. I hear her politely ask for peanut butter and butter on toast, clearly explaining her needs. “Peanut butter first and then butter.” She repeats this again, polite but firm.
I watch Neve sitting in cardboard boxes with big sisters, up trees and in trees, her infectious giggle a painful comfort. Each time she laughs, her nose folds up just a bit, crinkling sweetly. Swings were a big feature of this time in her life. Sometimes it was just Neve, other times she squishes in with a sister or a friend. Higher, she shouts, More. Her little legs kick wildly, overjoyed by the movement and height.
None of this was unique to Neve; she was a child like so many others. A lucky one, surrounded by sisters and a community. As a baby, she smiled often and easily. This continued as she grew. I wonder sometimes whether all of us mirrored and reflected her smiles back to her. Back and forth the smiles went, building connections and security. It’s difficult to remember the hard times from back then. I know with certainty that she was a determined, headstrong toddler and that there were frustrations, challenges, and tears. Hers and certainly mine. For now though, it is her cheeky grin, her bouncing curls and irresistible laugh that capture my memories.
And so here we are. The two year old Neve is long gone, perhaps in the way that it is for all children, as they grow up. Somehow though, being dead feels different. Does it obliterate what came before?
I see now how fast and firmly the dead can disappear, so often alive only in the minds of those closest to them. Each time a friend messages to tell me that they thought of Neve, that they visited her grave, that they ate a Freddo or smoked salmon, I rejoice. Somehow, a bit of Neve lives on. As time ticks on and the gap between her death and the present expands, I realise that her decade of life is shrinking. This feels too overwhelming to ponder for today so I bring myself back, back to the affectionate, delighted and delightful toddler Neve.
To mark this day, I am sharing a list of articles, stories, videos and more, in honour of Neve.
A list to mark two years
Today, to mark the second anniversary of Neve’s death, I am sharing a selection of Neve’s ripples plus some coming events, websites, books, podcasts, videos and a variety of articles and papers. The links I am sharing here are to writing, speaking, and art that I have found thought provoking or resonant. Including them here is not an endorsement of the …
Sending you and your family heartfelt love Emily
Beautiful piece and paintings, thank you Emily. Neve is so very alive in your words. My stillborn loss is so painful, I often wonder how on Earth mothers who have lost older children can survive at all. I'm so sorry for your loss and so grateful for your grace. Xx