What's your grief

This is the last ever picture I shared of Daisy before she died.  It's the day before she died, she was deteriorating but had not reached crisis and the point of no return.  I had asked for a visit from one of the hospital's Pets as Therapy dogs as Daisy was so sad and missing home and really missing her dog. 

This visit was a stop gap, I had plans in place to bring her beloved dog Pluto to the hospital to meet her, by hook or by crook, at the hospital entrance so that they could be together and he could hopefully cheer her up, she was asking for him constantly.....

The visit from Pluto never happened....24 hours after this picture was taken, Daisy had taken her last breath...

And this picture makes me sad, because it's a reminder of that last promise that I was not able to keep. All she wanted was to go home, and most of all to see her dog who she loved so much.

I know I did everything possible during Daisy's life to make her happy.  I fought to ensure that she was seen as a little girl and spent as much time as possible doing the things she loved.  I advocated for her to get her the support she needed, I trained to administer the most complex of regimens to keep her out of hospital....I know I did everything for her....

....but grief can cloud your rational brain.....

Tonight it's three years since that picture was taken, it's the night before the third anniversary of Daisy's death and seeing that picture made me sad. Sad that despite everything else I had done, I didn't do that one last thing for her, even though I know events took over, even though my rational brain is screaming that I'm wrong, I still feel sad.

Grief is a bitch.....it really is.  Those five stages of grief that we are supposed to move through: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance , I can confirm that grief isn't like that.

Grief makes you think in an irrational way, it makes you lose logic and reasoning.  And then when you think you've got the better of it, it comes back, through a smell, a sound, a taste, a touch, a photograph....and you are right back in the moment.

I have learned a lot about grief over the years. It affects us all so differently.  It isn't always the keening women at a wake, or the tears and widows weeds.  For me it's been channelled into doing,  into making meaning of all of the things that have happened to me.  Keeping memories alive and using my experience to help others.

Grief doesn't have a pattern or a predictability, it isn't a stereotype.  It's something I carry with me, always.  And it doesn't make me a sad person.  Well sometimes it does, when something unexpected hits me , out of the blue, like this photograph.  And then, very privately I allow my tears to fall.

Despite my decision to share so much of my life with Daisy through this blog I am actually very private, my grief is mine.  It's my burden to carry. And I will always carry it, tucked away inside me, it's a part of me that will always be there.  It waxes and wanes....

The anniversaries are the hard times and time, while it lessens the intensity, doesn't heal. Three years since that last time I held Daisy, I live every moment leading up to it, like it was yesterday, I allow my grief to surface and to take me back to that place....I need to do it, I need to connect with my daughter, I need to remember....I'm scared to forget.

I am scared that if I don't feel it that she will slip away and the umbilical connection I have with her will be finally severed...and I'm not ready for that yet.

I'll tgo back to the hospital tomorrow, to the chapel where we held her wonderful memorial service.  I'll go to the place where the big book is kept, every day the page is turned and tomorrow it will be January 31st , and I will see her name inscribed in the book....the day she died.

I'll have a cry and a moment of reflection. Then I'll tuck my grief back deep inside me, living with me always. My life, my grief.

Please don't tell me they passed away

I live next door to the local church and often take in parcel deliveries if there is no-one available at the presbytery to sign for them.  The other day I called over to drop off a box that had been left at our house.  A new priest answered the door, there has been quite a turn over of priests in the past few years so he didn't know me, that I was a neighbour , and I think he assumed I was the Amazon delivery person!

We told Daisy that "Daddy died" so that she knew that he would not be coming back.

"Hi, I'm Steph" I said "I'm your neighbour, I'm also part of your parish" This is technically true.  I was until a few years ago still a practising catholic so I explained to him that I no longer go to church and he asked me why that was.

"Well, you see father" I explained "my husband died of cancer and my daughter died the following year. They both experienced a lot of pain and I have to question why a benign god would allow particularly my daughter to endure so much pain and hardship in her little life. I can't fathom it"

I know, I could have just handed over the parcel and not said anything but I was feeling quite bolshy that day and I thought it might be an opportunity for a good theological debate and maybe he might have had an argument that could have challenged me.

"They are both in a better place" was his response.....

Needless to say I didn't hang around to chat further (in fact he told me it was his day off and if I came back when it wasn't we could have a conversation about my faith, or lack thereof).

This blog post isn't about faith however. I have huge respect for people of all faiths and none, anyone who knows me, knows that and I would not seek to challenge someones beliefs, we all come to our belief system via our own path. No, what really set my teeth on edge was that phrase "they have gone to a better place"....does that mean that I'm in a rubbish place then? Does it mean that life on earth is really that bad for my family left behind?

I like direct language and communication, living with two boys on the autistic spectrum has taught me that nuance can lead to confusion.  Until Andy died I always avoided the words "passed away". I was brought up in a family where we referred to people dying, we did not use metaphors or euphemisms.  But increasingly I found myself saying that he had passed away, I even used it in blog posts and I began to question why someone who was so direct in their speech was using this indirect term to describe what had happened.

I realised that what I was doing was mirroring other people's language in order to protect them, to soften the blow.  People continue to be so taken aback and shocked when I tell them that my husband and daughter died, using words like passed away seemed to take the edge off it.

But it's wrong.  Well for me it's wrong.  Andy and Daisy died, they did not pass away, I choose to use the language of death and dying and so I'm not being honest with myself when I don't use that language in describing what has happened to me .

It's a symptom of our attitude to death and dying, to the taboo that surrounds it, by refusing to name what has happened, by speaking in code are we almost in denial?

I try and lead by example, I speak very openly about my story, I share many (but not all) of the details because I want to re frame the narrative around death and dying.  As I always say, it is the only guarantee we have in life.  I want people to know that it's alright to talk to me about Andy and Daisy and to do that I need to be open and give them the language to use.

Andy and Daisy did not lose their fight, they did not put up a battle...this implies they failed in some way.  They succeeded in my eyes by really living, that's what I want people to focus on.  Yes it's absolutely rubbish that they died young but they did not fail some sort of test and lose, they just died. And sad as it is, sometimes people die when we don't expect them to, sometimes they die before they have had time to do all the things they wanted in life, and that sadly is the reality.  We really need to stop hiding behind euphemism to soften the blow and maybe just face it head on.  Because in accepting that sometimes people die young we can focus on making sure we get on with life and wring every precious drop we can out of it.

You may use the term passed away, but if you do, own it, don't say it to make the other person feel better, that's the difference.  And please don't refer to people losing a battle, especially when they have cancer or an incurable disease, this is not a competition, it's just a sad truth that sometimes people get better and sometimes they don't .

Life sucks like that, it can throw you off course in the most unimaginable way so all the more reason to grab it and make the most of that finite time we have on this tiny speck of a planet in the infinite universe.


(Quick plug for my book Goodbye Daisy, a unique resource to support children, their parents and professionals through their grief when a friend or loved one dies, I even refer to Daisy dying in the children's story section of the book, children with learning disabilities need clear language otherwise it can open up doubt and confusion)

These are the difficult days

These are the difficult days.  The winter days. The onslaught of anniversaries and reminders is ceaseless.

It seems never-ending and the season is so appropriate but always the optimists we really do try and find joy and remind ourselves how lucky we are to be alive and to have so much in our  lives. But on the dark, cold, wintery evenings....evenings like this, it can be difficult.

It seems so unfair that everything has conspired to hit at once.  It starts at the end of October, the anniversary of when my own father died of the same cancer that killed Andy.  He would have been 80 now, I was 32 when he died, and the mother of a 3 year old and a 1 year old.

Speaking at the launch party for Goodbye Daisy last week

Goodbye Daisy - a book to help children talk about death

"if you want something you will make it happen...if you dont. you'll find an excuse". A colleague shared these words with me many years ago and it's the mantra by which I live my life.

I really wanted to write a book to support learning disabled children through their grief when someone close to them died.  It could have been so easy for me to come up with an excuse; after all I have a lot on my plate already.

But I really wanted to get this book out there, to help the children like Daisy's friends who don't have the words or voices to articulate their feelings of loss.

So I did it. Earlier this year I launched a Kickstarter because I figured my proposition was so niche it would take far too long to persuade a mainstream publisher to take it on.  I achieved target within weeks and today Goodbye Daisy was officially published.

I am so proud of it. It's a book in three parts; a beautifully illustrated social story featuring a little girl called Elsie.  There is also a section of advice for parents and I worked with psychotherapists to develop a section for professionals supporting children, families and staff in schools.

You can buy Goodbye Daisy from all online book retailers or order a copy via your favourite bookshop.  You can also order a copy direct via my publisher using this link.

I've put a holding website up at www.GoodbyeDaisy.com and in the spring I hope to launch it as a full resource site with links and information for parents, carers and schools as they support children in coming to terms with the death of a school friend.  I am also planning on offering a half day training course to schools (please email me via this blog if you are interested).

Next January it will be two years since Daisy died.  So much has happened in that time and that little girl's impact has been spread far and wide.  I'm so proud of this book, I hope it will help lots of children and help grown ups engage in the difficult conversations about death and dying and remembering happy times that are so much an inevitable part of a special needs community.

Thank you to everyone who pledged and who has already pre-ordered the book.  Please tell people about it, share the links and review it so it can get to the people who need it, when they need it.

This one's for you Daisy, always dancing in the stars!

#GoodbyeDaisy

Remember when....

#RememberWhen is the hashtag for Children's Grief Awareness week in the UK.

The week starts with the global day for remembering children who are grieving the loss of a parent or sibling.  It always takes place in the run up to Christmas/the holiday season, after all it's this  time of the year that the sense of loss can be most poignant.

For children the run up to Christmas is about anticipation, fun...for our family it is a constant reminder of the two huge, gaping holes that are in our lives.

Now we are four

"a third of our family has gone..."

My eldest son has aspergers.  His directness and honesty can be bluntly refreshing.  It's true, we are now a third smaller, four instead of six.

The past year, since Daisy died, has been spent trying to adjust yet again to our new family dynamic.  This summer it really came together, we have reformed as a unit of four, all of us intent on our paths, strongly looking forward, resolute to keep going.

I feel that we have turned a corner over the past few months, accepting where we are now, starting to look forward, beginning to make our way again.

Video: How to deal with bereavement as a parent

I recently made a short film with Nurture Channel for You Tube on my own experiences as a parent coping with the death of my husband and my child and how I supported my children (and took care of myself) during our loss and ongoing grief

Goodbye Daisy – A very special children's book

Daisy loved school.  Nothing made her happier after a hospital stay to put on her school jumper and know that it was a school day.  Always the bounce-back child she could be gravely ill with sepsis one day, then desperate to get off to school to see her friends and do some "busy work" the next day.

Daisy was the life and soul of her school, everyone knew Daisy and she knew everyone.  She had been going to the same school from the age of 3 and despite her deteriorating medical needs over the years we always found a way to make sure she got some school time.  In her later years school time was limited as her stamina decreased, days were shorter and then she attended for less and less days but she still got to school when she could.

Daisy had her special circle of friends, she had her favourites, she had fallings out with friends, she had best friends, she had favourite teachers, she was just like any other school girl.  In fact she also preferred the social side of school rather than learning and as she got older her teachers had to find lots of different strategies to get her to stay on task as there were so many more interesting things to get up to in the classroom!

Daisy went to a special school, there were lots of children with complex needs at her school, it also seemed that not a term went by without a letter coming home to tell us that one of the children within the school community had died.

Children with additional needs are statistically more likely experience the death of a friend during their school days.  Daisy's death affected the whole school.  Daisy's ability to bounce back from the brink had become a given, everyone was shocked when this time she did not bounce back.  The school got together and talked about Daisy, they played her favourite song from Frozen and released pink balloons and a social story was developed to help the teachers talk to the children about their grief.

Much of this work was thanks to Ella, Daisy's movement therapist, she understood that the children needed to express their grief and feelings even though many of them were non-verbal and communicated mainly via signing.

Angel Daisy ready for the Nativity play

It struck me how lucky we were to have Ella, she had worked with Daisy for many years, helping her articulate her feelings about what was going on in her life through play, movement and stories.  Andy and I had fought hard to have mental health support included in Daisy's EHCP plan and we were fortunate that Daisy's teachers were able to find a solution.  When Daisy died the school responded and helped Daisy's friends with their grief but I found that there were limited off the shelf resources for just this scenario.

 I had looked for books to help Daisy when Andy died, many of the ones targeted for children were just not appropriate for Daisy.  Daisy had a learning disability, she liked direct language, many of the stories were around animals dying and used metaphors or the books were just too complicated for Daisy.  She needed a social story to help articulate her feelings, feelings which in children with a learning disability can often by quite literal.  After Daisy died one of her friends was really concerned that she had not taken her wheelchair with her.  These were the sort of issues which were important to the children in Daisy's class. 

So I have decided to plug a gap in the market and I have written a children's book which is aimed at helping children with learning disabilities communicate their feelings when one of their friend dies.  It's written from the point of view of one of Daisy's friends.  I was really struck by the direct questions many of them asked.  Children are great, there are no metaphors, it's very much black and white, "she's not coming back". This doesn't mean they don't feel sad or have lots of unanswered questions.  When I visited a friend not long after Daisy died I was aware that her little girl Evie who has profound learning disabilities was aware that I was Daisy's mum but was confused because Daisy was not with me.  I wanted to write about Evies feelings and the questions she would have asked and the things she would feel if she had been able to speak.

I have also written a section on what I learned about tackling the subject of death with children with learning disabilities , from talking to Daisy about Andy's illness and death, ensuring  she felt involved in saying goodbye,  to how Daisy's friends felt when she died and how I wanted to help them feel included in mourning for her.

I have also asked the wonderful Ella to write from a professional's point of view, including some information and guidelines for schools, parents and carers to help them when a child from their community dies.  Lastly I hope to include a selection of relevant makaton signs to use when discussing grief, sadness and loss with children with learning disabilities.

This is clearly a very niche book but so essential, it could also be relevant for younger children and children on the autistic spectrum.  I could spend ages pitching the idea to publishers and agents but all that time I'm doing that the book could be out there and be available to support grieving children.  So I have decided to bit the bullet and I've launched a (very scary) Kickstarter campaign.

I need to fundraise the money to get the book published which includes the costs of our fabulous illustrator to bring it to life (once again I will use Helen Braid, she has designed my blog header and my first book cover, she knows my story, she will make the words come to life with her pictures!), books also need publicity and distribution, none of this is free so I have a pretty hefty stretch target to hit!

Already within 24 hours of launching the kickstarter I have raised 8% of the targeted £5K, but I need to keep the momentum going.  I am looking for the big investors, maybe a small company who would like to sponsor some of the book in return for publicity?  An individual who would like to pledge £500 and in return have their child illustrated in the book?  Maybe a philanthropist who would be willing to donate £750 for a training course for their local special school?

Please take a look at the kickstarter page and please share, share, share it.  Even if you only pledge £10 I will send you a signed copy of the book.  Please help Daisy's legacy live on and help other children who are grieving the loss of a special school friend.

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/goodbyedaisy/goodbye-daisy-a-very-special-childrens-book

Please feel free to contact me on the blog contact form if you want to chat further about ways you could help.

How did I do it?

A year ago I woke up and gathered every last shred of strength I could muster to get out of bed.  I did my hair and makeup and put on a bright cerise dress, pinning a large pink daisy corsage to the front.

I was going to have to do it all over again, a year after I had delivered a eulogy at my husband's funeral, I was preparing to speak at my daughter's funeral. 

I released a dove at Daisy's funeral

My poor children were once again going through a public mourning. I look back on the footage of Prince William and Prince Harry walking behind their mother's coffin and I can feel their pain.  My children did that twice, in the space of a year they faced the funeral of their father and then their sister.

Set adrift

I'm in a no-man's land at the moment.  Set adrift from a place I once knew.  It wasn't perfect, but I was easy in it's familiarity.

For years and years it was Andy and I , together, a team.  We weathered the storms and adversity brought us closer.  He was my best friend as well as my husband, he was the first one I would turn to when I wanted advice, to share good news, to vent, to gossip.  I would joke that I could never have an affair because I would want to tell him all about it.  We were a couple, a team. Our circle of friends was other couples.  We dreamed about the day when we would have our time again.  It was never to be.  Now I am no longer in the category called "part of a couple", now I'm an outsider, an intruder. 

When I walk home across Waterloo bridge there is no-one to meet for a sneaky drink before going home, there's no-one waiting at home to take my coat and ask me how my day was.  I'm in an alien world, I'm having to negotiate a new normal.  I can't remember the last time I went out for lunch or dinner.  We used to try and do that as much as our life with Daisy allowed.  It was our time, a date over lunch, a quick visit to the pub during a hospital stay, a cinema trip when we had a respite stay booked.  It was less time together than most other couples our age, but it was precious time together.

Now I sleep in an empty bed and remember how nice it was to have someone to cuddle up to.  Someone to chat about the day's events to.  Someone to notice if I am down or ill.  To share my happiness, to celebrate my successes.  They seem hollow and empty without someone who really cares.

I'm set adrift in an alien world and just when I thought I knew where I was the world became even more alien.

When Daisy died I lost my purpose.  I lost my job.  I lost my routine. I lost my tribe.

I am no longer a TPN Mum, a Costello Syndrome Mum, an epilepsy mum.  I can now only share my knowledge of what I knew for us.  I feel a fraud in the groups and forums I was once an active member of.  I feel I should leave them, my knowledge is in the past now.

I'm set adrift from the world that sustained me after Andy died.  The world of hospitals, of TPN, Catheters and IVs, of continuing care plans and respite stays and endless battles to sort out all the stuff that was part and parcel of Daisy's life.  It gave me focus and distraction after he died, I needed to keep going for Daisy, it was my familiar world and caring for Daisy, for all my children, was my priority.

Now Daisy is gone, leaving an unbearable void. 

Her death has blown me off course. 

I've been trying to find a new place to settle.  I miss my old world so much.  I miss being a wife.  I miss being a warrior for Daisy.  I miss the people who were part of that world.

I'm hoping that 2018 brings us some stability.  Some respite from the storms.  I need to find my new normal, I need to find who I am now that my old world is no longer there for me.

Definitely not in the plan

We survived Christmas, just.  It was as anticipated, fraught.  It was Daisy's excitement that made Christmas special.  Like any family with small children it was all about the carrot for Rudolph, the drink for Santa, hanging up stockings, coming downstairs early to tear off wrapping paper.

You all know how much Daisy loved Christmas.  So her absence left a huge void.  Suddenly we were being forced to transition to a grown up Christmas, acutely aware of who was missing.

Deck the halls

It was always our rule to wait until 12th December to put our Christmas decorations up in our family.  That's my dad's birthday.  Even though my dad died seventeen years ago we stuck to that tradition for a long time.

Until of course Daisy came along.  Like many people with a learning disability, Daisy was obsessed by Christmas.  The Singing Hands Christmas DVDs were played all year in our house and lists to "ho ho ho" were scribbled whenever Daisy had access to paper and pens.

As soon as Christmas decorations appeared in the shops her excitement would mount to fever pitch with a constant demand of "where tree?".  Most years I was able to hang on until the earliest days in December but last year Daisy wore me down.

Last year our tree went up at the end of November.  Last year had been so tough for us all, trying to come to terms with life without Andy.  The Christmas after Andy died it was such a blur that required superhuman effort to get through, we hadn't even had his funeral at that point.  The Christmas Andy died was something just to be negotiated.

So last year I wanted to make up for things, I wanted to make it doubly special.  Just as I had all those Christmases after Daisy was born, so aware that her first Christmas was spent in hospital and our family was apart on Christmas morning.

Snakes and Ladders

I haven't updated for ages, once again the poor blog has been neglected.  My life has been taken up with lots of writing projects, some freelance commissions as I try to earn some money and lots of opportunities to speak and share my story.

Sharing my story - that's the common theme in everything I've been doing recently, not just to simply share my own story but in doing so hopefully encourage others to share theirs or even be a voice for those who cannot share theirs.  I want to share our story because talking about Daisy and Andy keeps them alive, it helps people to know them as people, not the pieces of an awful tragedy.

I find it therapeutic but it is also emotionally draining, I watch the faces of the people in the audience and I see their reactions as I speak.  Some people inevitably cry.  But the more I share the more people open up with their stories and that must be a good thing.


I've been involved in a couple of "Was this in the plan?" versions of Death Cafes over the past few weeks.  Amending the traditional "Death Cafe" format to include conversation starters and an opportunity to share my story to demonstrate to the attendees that it's OK to talk about death, it's actually quite liberating.  There was a lot of laughter at both events and there will be more, I promise.

Be careful what you wish for

Christmas.  For Daisy this was the most important time of the year (closely followed by her birthday, and then everyone else's birthdays).

 The build up started in the summer.  With the demands for me to write lists for "Ho Ho Ho".  She loved to send letters folding up the pieces of paper she had scribbled on and demanding a stamp so that they could be sent (quickly please mummy)

The Singing Hands Christmas DVD would be on constant loop and gradually over the months excitement would build as decorations appeared in the shops and the rest of the world caught up with Daisy's festive enthusiasm.  Last year I even broke my absolute rule and put the tree up in November, it had been getting earlier and earlier each year and last year was the first Christmas since Andy's funeral and I was prepared to do anything to make it special, including giving in to Daisy's demands and putting the tree up before December.

I'm so glad I did.  I'm so glad I trawled the internet trying to get hold of the Baby Alive doll she kept watching You Tube videos of.  I'm so glad she dressed up in her Christmas hat and visited friends,  delivering cards and presents.

visiting the GP surgery to deliver cards to our friends there

Long hot summer just passed me by

The long summer holiday.  Obviously I use the word "summer' in the loosest sense of the word as I have resorted to firing up the woodburner and digging out my winter boots on more than one occasion this summer as we enjoy the ups and downs of the British weather.

Thanks to the "on this day" function on Facebook I receive daily reminders of previous summers.  Last sumer when Daisy developed shingles just before I was about to go away for a much anticipated school reunion and how she bounced back as only Daisy could so that at the eleventh hour I could make it.  The week's  break Andy, Jules and I took in Southwold when Andy was recovering form his SIRT treatment - sitting together on windswept beaches, plenty of shots of all the lovely food we consumed that week.

These foolish things remind me of you

It catches you unawares, when you least expect it.  Those little things.  I'll be  in a shop and see a something that I know Daisy would like, would have liked, and remember that I'm never going shop for her again.  No more trinkets from festivals, tshirts of her latest favourite character, no more over the top accessories or endless craft supplies.

Happy Father's Day (especially to those of us pulling the double shift)

Every year on Father's day I send a message to other mums I know who are single parents, acknowledging that they are pulling the double shift .

An empty wheelchair

One of the first things I did the day after Andy died was to bag up all his meds, injections and creams and take them back to the hospital.  They were a visible sign of his cancer, they were not Andy, they were things that had become part of our lives after his cancer diagnosis and I didn't want them in the house any more.

I wanted to remember a time when life with Andy wasn't medicalised.  When it didn't revolve around hospitals and chemo and drug regimens.

In only a short time we had collected quite a pharmacy for Andy

Coming to terms with it all

It's so hard to believe that Daisy has gone, that we will not see her any more, that I won't hear her call out "mummyyyyy!!!!!!!".  She was the centre of our home.  Everything revolved around Daisy, because she insisted it should.  Her siblings were at her beck and call, in and out of her room, sorting out her ipad, responding to her demands, cuddling her, just being there.  That's what Daisy liked more than anything, to know that we were there.  She just needed to have us around.

Over the past couple of months she had been spending more and more time in bed or lying on the sofa, with her ever present ipad, she liked to observe the domestic chaos of our home.

And now this focal point has gone.  And we wander in and out of her room like lost sheep.

How can it be that in the space of less than fourteen months we have gone from a family of six to a family of four?  The house is too quiet.  The washing basket a testament to the reduced numbers.

Daisy passed away on the intensive care ward at Great Ormond Street hospital.  The team did everything they could but in the end it was Daisy's time and she was tired.  She had been tired for a while.  I knew it was coming.  But even when the end came it was such a shock.

We moved her to a lovely room the hospital has on it's intensive care wards.  It's the room for the children who have passed away.  There is no medical equipment, they have made it as homely as possible.  In this room we shed our tears for our girl and kissed her goodbye away from the beeps and alarms in the main ward outside.  The nurses washed her and thanks to our hospice team we then brought her home for one last time.  She just wanted to come home.

Our hospice at home nurse met the boys at home and got her room ready, setting up a cold blanket on her bed.  Xanthe and I followed behind, bringing an empty wheelchair and a bag full of memories.  The funeral directors who had dealt with Andy's funeral the previous January brought our girl home and she spent the night in her bed, surrounded  by all of her favourite toys as we drifted in and out, each spending quiet time with her, stroking her face, hardly able to process the reality of what had just happened.

The next day she was taken to her beloved hospice, ShootingStar-Chase, as we always knew she would.  She stayed on her cold blanket and rested in one of the bedrooms as the special chilled bedroom was already occupied.  This was a better option for us as we could sit in Daisy's room with her and in time allow some close friends to come and say their goodbyes.  Xanthe and I chose her Princess Anna from Frozen dress to wear and my friend Sam brought a beautiful flower crown of fresh roses and eucalyptus.  We sat with her smiling and laughing and remembering so many happy times.

When a child dies and is resting at the hospice the team hang a butterfly outside the front door.  For many years I visited and saw the butterfly, and then it was Daisy's turn.

The hospice seemed so quiet without Daisy, without her pumps beeping or her constant presence checking what everyone else was up to.  I stayed in one of the parent flats and being there cocooned me from the outside world and allowed me time to process what had happened.

But I knew we had to face the reality so last Friday Daisy was moved to the funeral directors and tomorrow I will visit and tuck her in for the last time,  surrounded by toys.  On Wednesday we will take her to school for a final journey and hold her funeral there, it's only fitting that Daisy should do things differently after all.  Her cremation will be held privately with just myself and the three children on a separate date.

We had twelve wonderful years with Daisy, she taught us so much, it's time to let her go and say goodbye.  We will do her proud.

This is the link to the page for donations in Daisy's memory to our hospice

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/DaisyRoseNimmo

All the firsts

It's been nearly a year now.  It's been a tough year.  So many firsts; first father's day, first mother's day, first wedding anniversary, the children's birthdays, first new school year, first football season.... the list is endless, every day of this year is the first one since Andy left us.

But the big ones are coming now.  The first time we celebrate his birthday and he's not here anymore.  And we will celebrate it.  Celebrate that he was here, that he was born, that he lived.

The older children and I are going away for the weekend.  We'll raise a glass on Saturday as we remember how much Andy insisted on making such a huge deal of his birthday; "I can't load the dishwasher, it's my birthday", "I have to watch my film/netflix series/sports programme (insert preference here!) - it's my birthday".  So we will make it special and wish him happy birthday, the first without him, now that time has stood still, he will always be the same age.