Smells and other memories...

This morning I was running with my dog on our usual route through the neighbourhood. As we turned one corner, the wonderful smells of someone cooking bacon and eggs wafted up the street. I could not help but inhale and immediately I was back visiting my maternal grandparents as a little girl.

The images that filled my mind where those of Nana standing in the stove alcove of their Queenslander home, egg flip in hand, calling out to one and all that "breakfast is ready!". Pop was sitting in his usual place at the head of the table, a cheeky grin from ear to ear, waiting for his grandchildren to join him at the table so he could play tricks, tease us, and create squeals of both horror and delight. Inevitably Nana would scold him, "Oh, Keith!".

When I was about six years old, Dad had what we fondly call his mid-life crisis. This meant selling his rural property of grain production, pigs and cattle, and turning his hand to bee-keeping amongst other things, such as building a house, learning vegetarian cooking, permaculture and so on. You could say that Mum and Dad were late hippies or early slow-food-movement converts. This meant that we didn't fry up bacon in the morning, and ate very little meat (something which I continue to do). Hence, my childhood experiences of bacon and eggs are synonymous with our visits to Nana and Pop's place; as are so many other things like playing hide and seek in the mountain of hay bales stacked at least six levels high in the shed, looking for mice and taking turns sitting on the ancient tractor, putting it's rusty gearstick through the pretense of driving.

So as I continued to run down that street, flooded by all these memories, the familiar scent of bacon and eggs still hovering around my nose and deep within my mind, I thought about the importance of smell in our lives. 

One of the strongest memories I have of my baby daughter, who died 11 days after birth, is of the smell of the anti-bacterial hand wash we had to use each time we entered her room in the Special Care Nursery. It is a very distinct smell, belonging to only one particular brand, hospital strength. I remember a few years ago when anti-bacterial hand wash became the 'in thing' and was available to buy at the grocery store or pharmacy. One afternoon I came across these products in our local store. There were several different brands on the shelf. I was drawn to them; little bottles of clear liquid. I felt a flutter of excitement. I began to smell each one, taking in a deep breath as I prised open the lid. But with each sniff came sadness and disappointment. None of them took me back to Lillienne. I remember standing there in the aisle, tears rolling down my cheeks and thinking to myself how silly this scene would appear to anyone else. A woman crying over anti-bacterial hand wash. But it felt like I had lost her again. I so desperately wanted to smell that smell, to be transported back to her, to holding her in my arms, and all the other memories that sometimes felt locked out, inaccessible in my mind.

I am also constantly reminded of the importance of smell by my five year old son. One day we were talking about organising someone to babysit him over night while his father and I attended an event. One option was for him to visit my sister's place. But for my son, this was not something he was happy to do. When I asked him what was on his mind, what troubled him about this prospect, he responded that his Aunty didn't 'smell right...doesn't smell like you Mummy'. And when he thought about the possibility of being upset and needing comfort, he couldn't imagine that a hug from his Aunty, without the right smells, would be enough. Now, when I go away, he will take one of my scarves or shirts to bed with him; one that is unwashed and still has my smell within it.

Smells, and the associations that are triggered by them, are a powerful force in our psyche. They can elicit a whole range of emotions; fear, sadness, joy, comfort and everything in between. From the triggering of one memory can come a long string of memories, linked by smell, time, place, or person. We can be transported back in time in a split second without notice. All we have to do is notice the smells around us.

Parenting the Dead

Eight years and eleven days ago, my first child was born. A beautiful girl, Lillienne Grace, weighing 5 lbs 12 ounces, arrived in this world at 7 o'clock on a Friday evening.

Eight years ago, my first child died.

How do you squeeze a lifetime of parenting into eleven days? A lifetime of love, care, fear and joy.

The simple answer is: you don't. Instead, you begin a journey of learning how to parent the dead.

In the past eight years, I have parented Lillienne by:

Loving her (does she know my love?)
Singing to her (can she hear me?)
Celebrating her - with birthday cakes and picnics, flowers on her grave for special occasions, acquiring meaningful things to signify her place in our family and in my heart (like a painting of lily flowers) (does she bear witness to these events?)
Missing her (does she miss me too?)
Dreaming of her (does she dream of me too?)
Feeling her in my empty arms (does she feel my arms around her?)
Telling her story and publicly acknowledging her (does she know how proud I am of her?)
Imagining her future, wondering how my little girl would (will) grow into a woman (is she still a baby, or a little girl of eight years now?)
Protecting her from a harsh world, protecting her memory, and never allowing my anger to tarnish my love for her (does she feel safe? is she cold, wet, hot or parched lying in her earthly bed?)

And I continue to long for any opportunity to do these things, and to grow as her mother, to find more and better ways of letting her know that she is forever a part of me, always loved, never regretted.