'If' - Sandy 1999 ©
'I need to tell you that you will survive' - Rosi (Gemma's Mum) 2000 ©
'Dear Gemma' - Gemma's Dad 2000 ©
If
If you don't mention my baby's name
If you don't acknowledge her existence
If you don't say that you miss her too
If you don't mention her in conversation or
change the subject when I do.
If you don't love and acknowledge my precious baby who is a part of me
Who I love
Who I acknowledge
Who I miss
Whose absence I cope with every day and will never accept
Then you must understand that I will come to the conclusion that
you don't love me
because you see it is not possible for you to love me and not to love my baby.
Written by Sandy
© 1999
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I need to tell you that you will survive
Gemma Rose was born on the 30th May 1999.
She did not have a heart beat and she was not breathing, all due to her thin cord being crushed and the placenta coming away during my last few minutes of labour. The doctors got her heart going very quickly but her resuscitation took 20 minutes. That was too long. My little girl had received no oxygen for too long a time.
It has been a very long, sad, draining journey for the last 12 months, and I know that this journey will never end - it will continue to change 'til the day I meet my little Gemma again.
I have had to learn to give myself permission to take time out, to slow down and feel the feelings, and let my emotions take me where I've need to get to. I've read lots, taken lots of long walks on the beach with Andrew, and sometimes just sat and watched the trees rustle and the birds fly past. For the last 11 months I have craved calm days.
I have faced every "first" front on - I was not going to let grief take me into a depression I did not want. I have confronted seeing my first newborn and survived, confronted the baby shops and survived, confronted the Christmas pageant that I took part in and survived. I have confronted many more "firsts" and survived, and I know that I can continue to confront many more and I will survive them. I am proud of me.
On several occasions friends or family have said "you are so brave", and for a while I could not understand what they meant. Then a friend of mine put it all into place. She said "you are brave because you chose to continue and not give up, you chose to talk about Gemma and your feelings to others straight away. You have made many people feel comfortable when they have cried for Gemma in front of you and you are very open about her loss."
I miss my little girl some days so much that I just cry and cry. I am learning to put Gemma aside at times so that I may have some of my time back and it feels OK. I look at it as her being "baby sat".
As Gemma's birthday gets closer I'm getting sadder and sadder - the tears come more frequently again, the shock of it all returns. I find myself looking at her photo's more and more, and I feel that I'm losing what little control I had regained. On my really bad days I feel like just hiding from all the world and rocking myself to and fro. But I also know that I will survive her 1st birthday, and have both sad and fond memories of my little Gemma.
I just needed to tell you that, although there are going to be many times when you think you wont, you too will survive.
Rosi (Gemma's Mum) 
©2000
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Dear Gemma
It's not getting any easier. I still feel the numbness, the hollowness inside. Sometimes it seems that you never entered our lives. You were with us such a short time, that it seems to be almost a dream. The eight days we had with you all blur together. And then I see one of your photo's, or I walk past what would have been your room, or someone mentions you - or I just concentrate on my current emptiness - and then I remember.
I remember holding you on my bare chest, and feeling your breaths. And wrapping your little fingers around one of mine in your tight grip.
I remember stroking you and massaging you and kissing you as you lay asleep in front of us.
I remember staring at you for hours, not wanting to leave your side. I remember the proud feeling when we named you in the delivery room, when we were told we had a little girl.
I remember the fear and feeling of helplessness I had when you were born, when I knew something was wrong, but not what, and I couldn't share my worries with your mummy because she was still drugged and didn't comprehend what was happening. I remember the hope I had for you, when we were told that you were breathing by yourself, and when we saw your little feet or hands twitch.
I remember the pessimism I still held deep down, while I tried to be positive on the outside for you and your mummy.
I remember praying at night for you, and crying myself to sleep. I remember the crushing blow when your doctor told us that you weren't getting any better, and that we needed a miracle for you to live. I knew there wouldn't be one.
I remember the tears - I've shed more in the last year than in the rest of my thirty.
I remember your room at the hospital, filled with flowers, toys, and music. And love. I remember hugging family and friends and sobbing.
I remember holding your Uncle Peter when we came home to pick up some things, and I cried heavily and screamed and yelled. And Peter cried too.
I remember your last day. I remember our father/daughter dance.
You are gone now. I will never get to dance with you again. I'll never get to watch you take your first steps, or run in the park with you. I'll never listen eagerly for your first words, or make you laugh. I'll never get any smiles, nor hugs and kisses.
I'll never watch you grow to a toddler, a girl, a teenager, a woman. I'll never get to help you with your homework. I'll never teach you to drive.
And I'll never have the honour of walking you down the aisle, and dancing with you at your wedding.
I hope you are at peace Gemma Rose. I miss you with all of my heart. I would have been a wonderful, loving and caring father to you, and I'm sorry I'll never get to show you that. I hope you felt it.
I love you, Daddy. 
©2000
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