Ten years since our eldest daughter died

It is 10 years today since the death of our eldest daughter, Emily Maud, aged just eight days' old. I blogged about what happened that same afternoon, which seems a bit extraordinary now.

Me and the Dr are fine. Well, not fine - we're both suffering physical ailments at the moment. But yesterday we took a day off together and drove up to Haworth, home of the Brontes (including Emily). We met up with one of my old school friends, had lunch in the pub where Branwell Bronte went boozing, and I bought some stocking-filler bits and bobs for Lady Vader - the beloved daughter who wouldn't even exist but for the loss of her elder sister.

That loss still hurts and haunts us. This time of year is always difficult. Last week, I thought I was okay and then wasn't. But I've found that the best way to think of the anniversary is as a place: a fixed position in Earth's orbit round the Sun every 365 and a bit days. The Earth is constantly moving, so for all we come back to the same place each year, we're always passing through and will soon be somewhere else... 

The more time passes, too, the more that what lingers is the extraordinary kindness we were shown. I remain in awe of the staff at the neonatal ward at St George's Hospital in Tooting - whose brilliant work you can support with donations. There's the woman I never even met but think of all the time. I asked the medical staff where the knitted caps came from that so perfectly fitted our Emily. They told me they were knitted by a woman patient, up on the terminal ward. I wasn't allowed to go see her but sent her a note in which I could not nearly begin to express our gratitude. 

Then there were the family and friends who helped us through it all, at the time we were in hospital and in the weeks and months that followed. There was nothing anyone could do to help and yet so many people did. 

They're who I wrote that post for on the day she died. And what I didn't say then but will say now is: thank you.