Nicole: Right Where I Am 2016: 4 years, 11months, and 4 days

It seems like I am being caught up by grief again.  Not the gentle, ever-present lapping of sadness that has been with me since your death and birth nearly 5 years ago.  Nor the huge, crashing, might-just-swallow-you-up waves that nearly drowned me when we first lost you.  But a constant pulling feeling; like I’m always in danger of going under.  I’m swimming, just coping, just managing to get from one place to another.  But the threat is always there – one false move and that’ll be it.  It scares me.  I think it scares me because, in true ‘me’ style, I feel like it shouldn’t be happening.  I should be okay.  This bit of grieving should be over.  I remember when we lost you, after the first few terrible weeks, grief settled around me, making it hard to move through life.  I felt slow, heavy; the waters were thick like sludge, and it was hard to walk forward.  But over months and years, that started to change.  The waters became gentle, and it was easier to walk again. 

But lately, I don’t know why, but I feel it again.  Everything is taking effort.  I think of your birthday coming up, and I can hardly say the words, ‘he would have been five’.  Why does five feel so significant?  As an August baby, you would have gone to school last year, so it’s not that.  Maybe five seems like you would have been a child, not a toddler, not a pre-schooler. Perhaps it’s simply because it’s half a decade without you.   

When we talk about baby loss, we often talk about how you don’t just lose the baby – you lose all the stages your child would have gone through.  I have talked about that in such a matter of fact way, to so many people, but I can really feel it at the moment.  I have lost you the baby, you the toddler learning to walk and talk, you the big boy going off to school, you the teenager with your own angst and worries.  You the university student, you the worker- proud and possibly miserable at your first job.  You the young man, falling in love.  You the husband, you the father.  I have lost your children. 

I’ve lost your voice, your laugh.  I’ve lost holding your hand, kissing your face.  I’ve lost comforting you when you’re sad, and looking after you when you’re ill.  I’ve lost being frustrated at you because of your tantrums, and I’ve lost you telling me you hate me and refusing to speak to me.  I’ve lost you telling me you’re sorry and that you love me.  I’ve lost feeling useless because I can’t make everything wonderful for you and I’ve lost the guilt of feeling I’m not doing enough for you.  I’ve lost the pride in you when you get a sticker at nursery, a certificate at school, an award for sport or art or drama.  I’ve lost knowing what you’re good at, and what taxes you.  I’ve lost wiping away your tears.  I’ve lost knowing the colour of your eyes, stroking your hair.  I’ve lost knowing what it feels like to hold you, to feel the weight of you in my arms changing as you grow. I’ve lost having to tell you to set an example for your younger brothers and breaking up your fights.  I’ve lost the chance to photograph my three boys, all together.

I thought that these losses became easier to bear as time went on.  I thought I could compartmentalise my grief; that grief was a small but significant part of who I am.  That the waters would remain light and easy to wade through.  But I realise that sometimes it’s more than that.  Sometimes - for an hour, a week, a month  – the grief over losing you is almost everything to me.  And maybe that’s okay.  Maybe it’s one of the ways I can ensure you are as present a part of my life as your brothers are.  I just need to work on coming to terms with that.  Accepting, if I can, that the loss of you – of everything you were and could have been – is simply too great a loss to ever have it feel manageable for long. Maybe the pull of the water is the pull of not just my grief, but also of my love for you. Maybe I need the space and time to sometimes, just for a little while, close my eyes and go under.

~~~~~

You can read Nicole's previous posts here:

Right Where I Am 2015: 4 years exactly
Right Where I Am 2014: 2 years 10 months 25 days
Right Where I Am 2013: 1 year 10 months 25 days
Right Where I Am 2012: 9 months and 4 weeks

James: Good Grief?

When a child dies, you will always be in grief. This grief will follow you to your own grave.

This society measures grief by negative emotions associated with loss and by the volume of tears shed, but this is not the only measurement of grief; sometimes grief is good, providing a constructive outlet for its relentless energy.

Personal walls make it difficult to gauge whether or not someone is grieving. Only those who know what loss is can measure grief; only those who have lost can see through the cracks of the thin veneer of normality that grievers put up in public.

It is easy to label the bereaved, to think that one person suffers more than another. Assumptions that one person's loss is more painful than another's are always flawed; each instance of grief is unique to the individual bond between parent and child. Simply because a griever isn't demonstrating classic signs of grief, such as crying or lethargy, doesn't mean they are not in grief.

Apparently, grief is never uniform, preferring instead to constantly fluctuate. While most days are unbearable, particularly immediately after a loss, some days offer respite. We might even feel happy, imagining our child singing in the clouds around heaven. Alternatively, we might fleetingly forget them, while embroiled in the here and now of our day to day existence. Even on days like this, Grief is energy is always there, thrumming in the background.

Grief can be masked through denial or personal coping mechanisms. It is no surprise that, on average,  parents of the dead tend to endure shorter lives than those who die before their children. Such coping mechanisms could easily take their toll on the living cells that trap our yearning souls; this is destructive grief. In many ways, such denial is a waste of grief.

The energy of grief can be harnessed and channelled into something worthwhile. When this happens, society often doesn't recognise this as being grief, perhaps incorrectly construing it as a signal of the griever's recovery; but there is no recovery to be found in grief, only change.

There are many examples of courageous individuals who have used their grief to make a difference to the world around them, often helping others come to terms with the same tragedy that they endure.

I suggest that an individual's grief remains constant after their child dies; whether this grief is negative or constructive is the variable. You will always be in grief when your child dies, but it does not have to be destructive. There is good grief and bad grief.

You can read more about James and his journey following the stillbirth of his son Ethan on his blog www.fathersgrief.com

Nicole: Happy 2nd Birthday to my beautiful boy

I can't believe two years have passed since we lost you, since you were born.  The moment when we were told you had died remains the worst moment of my life.  Nothing that happened afterwards: not the induction and your silent birth the following day, not leaving you at the hospital, not the funeral - nothing is as bad as that moment.  I've been trying not to think about that moment today.  I'm sorry for that, my sweetheart, but I needed to get through the day.  I've busied myself with tasks, with going out and doing things, and with looking after your little brother. 

I wish you were here to see him.  I'm sure you'd switch between being helpful, and fighting with him, as brothers often do.  But then, he might not be here if you were.  That thought bothers me - as I wouldn't be without him for a moment, but then, I hate being without you.  I am greedy, and I want you both. 

Tomorrow should have been celebrating, and balloons, and trying to stop your brother grabbing a handful of cake.  It should have been you playing with your friends, Arthur and Matthew amongst them of course.  I love seeing them.  It was hard at first, but now I have your brother they allow me to imagine what you might have been like, just a little. 

So instead tomorrow we will celebrate for you.  No cake, no party, no balloons.    Instead we will wear robot t shirts, all three of us, as we think of that as your symbol.  We will do another New Thing in your honour, as we have been doing all week.  We are going to visit Northumberlandia.  We will be outdoors, on that sculpture in the earth, and I will imagine you running around, about how you might have been.  I will think of you as you were until that last day- safe and warm in my tummy, moving about, kicking your dad in the face. Giving us both such joy.       

We will visit your plaque in the cemetery, and see your name in the book of remembrance.  We'll take sunflowers for you, my beautiful first boy who lit up our lives. We will give thanks, to you, and to the universe, for the gift that was you and the love you brought us.  Happy birthday, my wonderful boy.  And thank you. xxx

Nicole: Right Where I Am 2013: 1 year, 10 months and 25 days

Xander’s  death and silent birth are the worst moments of my life.  Those two days, in August 2011, and the weeks and months that followed, were pure hell.  Writing about him, about my feelings and my grief, became so important to me, and a year ago I wrote one of these posts as we launched this blog.  A year on, some things are still the same, and others are very, very different. 

So what hasn’t changed? My son is still dead.  That looks bald, harsh on the page.  But my grief is harsh, it’s bald fact that never changes.  He’ll always have died, I’ll always have lost him.  I said in my first post that life goes on, but so does death, and this still rings true for me.  Although I can now think of him and smile, and reflect how blessed I was to have him at all, sometimes my grief is so deep, so all-encompassing that I feel like I’m drowning in it. The missing him, the longing for my boy  can never be satisfied, can never stop.   

But what has changed?  I am so grateful to be able to say that I sit typing this with my beautiful rainbow baby Barney sitting next to me, on his dad’s knee.  He was born, safely, on the 6^th March this year.  He is beautiful, and crazy, and hard work, and just the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.  Sometimes I look at him and can’t believe we created something so amazing.

But of course my love for Barney doesn’t stop my grief for Xander – in many ways, having him makes me realise even more what I missed with my first boy.  And people really don’t get it.  Like the woman who said ‘yes, but you’ve got Barney now, so everything’s okay, isn’t it?’ or the card we got that said ‘congratulations, now your family is complete!’.  I don’t know whether this is ignorance, or innocence, or both.  It’s certainly a lack of understanding - brushing our loss under the carpet, like my son never existed. And as wonderful as having my lovely second boy is, lots of things still trouble me.

Like I think: Barney will never know his older brother.  But is Xander his older brother? Barney was older than Xander will ever be from the moment he was born.  Xander was my first, but he isn’t the elder, is he?

Then: How do I show my love for my boys equally?   Putting photos up of Barney was wonderful but tough – how could I do it when I didn’t have pictures of Xander to go up?

Also: Barney was born by caesarean section.  This was planned – I couldn’t face the thought of a lengthy induction, and the medical team agreed that it wasn’t wise to let me go past my due date.  When he was born, it was discovered that he had a true knot in his cord, as well as the cord wrapped round his neck.  A vaginal delivery could have meant a very different outcome.  I found this really hard to handle, and very few people understand why, saying I should forget it.  But why did Xander (perfectly healthy with no reason for him to die) leave us, but Barney (with two complications that could have killed him) survive? 

And: If Xander had been alive, would we have still had Barney?  Is wishing Xander was here like wishing Barney wasn’t (a thought I can’t even contemplate).

So, where am I right now?  I am unlucky, and lucky.  I am a bereaved mother, and a mother to a living boy.  I am the saddest I could possibly be, and the happiest I’ve ever been.  Part of me died the day we lost Xander,  and I am learning to live again.      

Carla G: Heart Bombs

Carla started her blog Luca D'Oro Grossini-Concha after her firstborn son Luca D'Oro sadly passed away in March 2013, just a day after he was born. Carla has kindly given permission to publish this post, something which we think many bereaved families will relate to.

~~~

They are everywhere, these heart bombs. Sometimes they appear with a memory, sometimes they show up when I look in the backseat where there is an empty space that once held a car seat.

Sometimes they  sit on my chest and stop my throat when I see a newborn in a wrap, or most specifically a baby boy in a Tula.

Other times it happens when I step out of the shower and see this great big scar under my belly, a scar I would take 100 times over if I could get more time with him.

Today at the market, we saw a women from our birth class and her baby boy. She was due just a week after me. We passed her pushing her sweet pup in his stroller, looking so proud of her child, so proud to be a mother.

I wish I could be her. To be so proud and loving, the fierce mama that I want to be, to a living child, a living Luca.

All these milestones, these events, these sights. The pictures of friends and their newborns, those who were going to be a part of Luca’s life. The silence from people around me who won’t speak his name.

They set off these explosions in my heart. They crack me open, leaving me exposed, raw. Lonely.

I’ve been told this contraction that my heart is feeling, is going to one day allow for this magnificent expansion. Think about it…….. our muscles contract and then expand, tighten and then loosen. From this hurt and loss, will come so much love and compassion, because our hearts will be so much bigger that we got to love him and be his mamas.

And yet, I can’t wrap my head around this, because at just three months out I get caught up in the why? Why did this have to happen? Why him? Why us?

Still, with all the sorrow and pain, I feel such immense love and gratitude for having had the opportunity to be Luca’s mother at all.

Lindsey: Transformed by Grief

©Priya Saihgal

I have evolved.

My grief has transformed me.

Like a caterpillar I have become a butterfly.

I anticipated this transformation.

But transformation into the joys of motherhood,

Not by the death of my child.

Nora’s birthday was her death day,

And my rebirth.

I live my life for my daughter now.

Not in the way I had planned in attending to her every need,

Resulting in sleepless nights and dirty diapers.

But by embracing the beauty of the little things.

The complexity of the snowflake.

The power of the written word.

The fragility of the butterfly wings.

The comfort of a cup of tea and warm blanket.

The kiss of the sunlight against my face.

By embracing the beauty of the little things,

I have broadened the horizon of my understanding of this world

And thus have been transformed.

I realize that my daughter will never be able to experience this world’s splendor

And I have pledged to take it in for her.

To live the life she will not be privileged to.

My eyes see more clearly now

The magnificence of the earth.

It’s as if my eyes are hers

Taking in the world for the first time,

As only a new soul can do.

My grief at times still clouds my vision,

But then something inside reminds me to appreciate this life.

Maybe it’s Nora showing me the world through her baby eyes,

Through her pure soul.

So I will accept my transformation.

I will embrace the new light that shines from within

And burns with a passion to live life to the fullest.

Like the caterpillar who turns into a butterfly,

I will embrace my new form

In order to spread my wings and fly.

~Still Breathing…Lindsey

To read more of Lindsey's story visit - www.stillbornandstillbreathing.com

To see more of Lindsey's friend Priya Saihgal’s photography please visit http://www.flickr.com/photos/30247062@N03/

James: Grief, The Bully

James writes on his own blog www.fathersgrief.com following the stillbirth of his son Ethan on New Year's Day 2012. Father's Grief is a beautiful, poignant blog that documents the journey of a bereaved parent following the death of a much-wanted child.

Not being content with taking your child, Death leaves behind grief to bully the bereaved. He continually marvels at the crown of sorrow and despair that he fashioned and exchanged for your child; this crown is grief.

Like all bullies, grief has a weakness. Death arrogantly assumes that bereaved parents will continue to wear his crown and suffer grief for the rest of their days. Bullies hate it when their victim doesn't react to provocation and they eventually give up.

Personally, I lost patience with grief some months ago whilst struggling through its stages. I gradually recognised which triggers I found particularly upsetting; many events that once triggered sorrowful regret no longer upset me.

New born baby boys will always remind me that Ethan died. We continue to hoard the baby clothes that our two eldest sons wore. The sight of these clothes that should have been Ethan's remind me that the only clothes he wore became his shroud.  I continue to recognise and acknowledge such triggers, though they now spark acceptance rather than despair.

I remain continually surprised at grief’s inventiveness as it attempts to embrace in the most unlikely of places, in a bid to reopen the wounds which he inflicted. One of grief’s sporadic appearances came on a Glasgow bus that I take daily, without incident; perhaps that is why grief decided to use this vehicle to creep up. A woman entered the bus. She was holding an empty baby car seat.

There was a time that I couldn't have coped with the sight of a vacant baby car seat, let alone have one placed beside me. I would have regarded this as a personal assault on my fragile emotions. I would have thought the woman was using the car seat to a remind me that Ethan did not leave the hospital in the family car; he only ever rode around the streets of Glasgow in a hearse.

However, on this day, I recognised the situation for what it was. A woman simply got on the bus with a car seat; it was not my business to know why.

Despite this personal victory, the war against grief is never truly won. Several victories can be recorded, but the inventiveness of grief is immeasurable. Like most bullies who have been vanquished, the fear of its return to reopen healed wounds can continue to haunt the bereaved.

Moving through the various stages of grief, triggers that instil sorrow can be recognised and conquered.  Eventually the bereaved begin to recognise grief’s continual mocking and choose their own path. When this happens, grief eventually fades to a scar that is bearable and can be worn with a quiet determination - a determination that a life can be rebuilt after the loss of a child. You never forget your child, you never stop loving them, but you learn to accept that they are no longer with you until you meet again.