Stacey: A Second Chance at a First Birthday

Birthdays: they should be full of cake, balloons, presents, laughter and nostalgia as to how another year has passed by so quickly.

What happens if you are invited to two birthdays and both are very different?

One is full of all these beautiful things. Friends, family, gifts, cards, a new party dress and a time that so many happy memories are created.

The other; gifts were a headstone and flowers. The birthday party is only attended by 2 people, the mother and father, who are desperately trying to make sense of how it could have been an entire year since they last held their baby who died.

What if the mother or father was you? What if there was no option to choose which party you go to, which birthday you want to be involved in? Both events must happen, for one child cannot live if the other survives.

However hard you may try, you desperately want to wish it wasn’t true, it is. One of your children would always have failed to live.  If your first child was alive and well you would never have had your second child. You only have your second child because your first child died. You cannot ever have both of your children.

But the latest party was a happy one, our rainbow turned One. An entire year of happiness and joy because she lived. Regardless of the circumstances, what we had to endure for her to exist and how different things could have been, we are forever thankful to have her in our lives.

To those who are currently travelling the lonely road in search of their rainbow, keep going. It’s hard, but they are worth every moment of pain.

Fiona: Right Where I Am 2013: 1 year 2 months 3 days

Right where I am is in the scariest place I have been for a long time.  Tomorrow I will be induced with my rainbow baby boy and the nearer that hour gets the more I miss Max.  Max was my firstborn and always will be and somehow it feels like going through birth again will be another step away from that great and terrible day when he was born, it makes me acknowledge that time doesn’t move on for him, the photograph of him in our living room will never change, we will never have to choose his school or buy him shoes.

Marking Max’s first anniversary felt like a momentous event, we let a sky lantern go at the time he was born, bought a new memory box and had a slap up meal (including a glass of champagne despite being pregnant.)  It felt so good to have a day that was all about Max and we both felt that it was a good opportunity to release our feelings about him.  It also felt like a huge milestone, we had survived a year, we had had birthdays, Christmas, our first wedding anniversary and survived.  But my grief is never far from the surface.  A couple of days ago I was taken unawares by a song that we had at his funeral, fortunately being at home by myself I could let the tears flood out and take some time to remember him.

Max he taught me so much that I am already a different parent to this little boy.  In this pregnancy I have found out everything I can about this person, his gender and had a 4D scan to see his face.  He has a name that we use all the time when we talk to him – which I do non-stop, including telling him about his big brother.  I used to think that if you didn’t know those things it wouldn’t be as bad if something went wrong, but now I regret that Max died before I knew he was a boy, before he’d heard his name and I know now that nothing could make losing a child worse so I’m enjoying all the kicks and wiggles and the way he gets cross when he has hiccups and the strange positions he always seems to be in at a scan!

I am scared about tomorrow, about today...  that something will go wrong and this baby will stop moving, I suspect that I will be scared for his whole life however long it is, but I will also be grateful, so, so grateful for every minute that he lives, and I’ll be happy, and hopeful..... hopeful that he will plan my funeral and not the other way around.  I’m determined that Max’s memory will live on and be part of family life and story, he was my firstborn and nothing will ever change that.

Helen: Hold On

We walked today, my girl and I. Holding hands and but a little at a time. From one sofa to another and around the room.

Small steps. In purple leather shoes. Stripey tights and a shaky walk.

And the five year old watched. Wanting to know when his sister would run. Shout and chase and catch and fall.

By the look of things not long at all.

And I remembered a day, with this boy. 2010  - had I a time machine the last place I would go. A house with a window full of sun - some friends, their children and us. And a babe, I no longer recall which mother or name. But my son held my knees and whispered then, 'One day Mummy we shall buy a baby and he will be my friend'.

And it happened then. When blood rushes and goes to the head. When you lose your way and cry instead. And those around you stop - assuming in an instant it was something that they said.

And I wished - in that moment - that babies were trade. That someone would name me a price to pay. That I'd move on and we'd be whole again.

I can't remember now if we'd lost 4 or 5 babes then.

It worked out - in the end. In our girl. Who for a time I believed was not to come. And in a room with a consultant - a day or so from hitting the wall - I begged that something else be done.

Low dose aspirin. Increase the flow and thin the blood. Proof or placebo I frankly care not. Where others failed my daughter walks.

And lives and breathes and talks.

I grew stronger as those months went by. That which warms your heart and that which makes you cry.

'What's for you, won't go by'.

I believe not - one word of that. But rather, 'what we yearn for may yet be in our grasp'. Through perseverance - and sometimes - the questions we ask.

There is always tomorrow and there is always another door. Today my daughter held my hand and walked across the floor.

Life finds a way - when all has gone wrong.

When you can't hold on? Hold on... x

You can read more about Helen on her own blog All At Sea.

Mark: Christmas 2012

Another Christmas, eh? Where does the time go? Last year, it was very obvious how we were going to feel. It should have been our first Christmas with our son, and instead there we were, huddled by his grave letting go of a balloon and hoping that somewhere, somehow he'd grab it and raise a giggle.

How are we going to feel this year? How are we supposed to feel? It's a lot tougher question to answer.

We're thrilled to have young Iris with us, delighted our families will have the chance to spoil and cherish her as is only right and proper. She's been and will continue to be exactly what it said on the tin - a precious Rainbow baby who has given us a reason to live and laugh again.

And yet how can Christmas not be bittersweet? I was putting together a stocking for her earlier today, smiling at the glorious stupidity of wrapping presents that I myself will be opening come Christmas morning. And then I wondered whether, had things gone differently, the wee man would have been able to make sense of it all this year. What would we have given him? What would he have said? Maybe nothing, probably nothing, but still you can't help but wonder, imagine, fill in the eternal blanks.

That's kind of how it is for us now. You feel guilty for enjoying your living child, for even momentarily "forgetting" the dead one. Then you feel guilty for obsessing about the one that's not there when you've an equally precious gift sitting there smiling up at you.

Perhaps that's just how it's going be. I read a blog the other day. It said that when a child dies, it's not instantaneous; a little bit of them, and you, dies every day for ever more. It's a loss that reveals itself in everything that they, and you, miss out on.

But then there's Iris. Surprising us every day with stuff we never knew was there to be enjoyed. We don't want her to live her life for him. She's her own person with her own story. It's not her fault that she's a reminder as well as an inspiration.

Maybe there's no such thing as complete happiness in life. Maybe you're only aware of having had it, or at least an approximation, when it's ripped from you and gone forever.

It's hard to envisage ever again describing ourselves as "happy" at least in the bland, generic sense. That would feel like a betrayal. But after the storm, even if your house has been washed away and you're standing there soaked to the bone, can you still look up and enjoy the rainbow? Of course you can. They go together, like brother and sister.

Happy Christmas, kids. Your daddy loves you both, up to the moon and back.

Nicole: To Carry a Rainbow

As I write this I'm currently just over 21 weeks pregnant.  I can feel my baby moving about inside my tummy.  It's magical, and amazing, but it's also the most terrified I've ever been in my life.  Since losing my son I've discovered these miraculous babies who are conceived after loss are often referred to as 'rainbow babies'.  I have read that they are called this because 'the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of the storm. When a rainbow appears, it doesn't mean the storm never happened or that the family is not still dealing with its aftermath. What it means is that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds. Storm clouds may still hover but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of colour, energy and hope'. 

This is the perfect description in my view.  This baby does not negate the loss of our son.  We still miss him, every single day.  Sometimes the joy I feel about this baby is immediately followed by sadness for the loss of my son.  This doesn't mean I don't love this baby as much, or want it as much, just that my sadness about the loss of Xander remains, and always will.  I think this might be difficult for some people to understand, but it won't seem strange to other bereaved mums at all.  I can feel extreme grief and sadness about the loss of my son, as well as my love for him, whilst still feeling joy, excitement and yes, even hope, for this baby.  Just like parents who are lucky enough to never lose a child don't love their second or third children less than the first.  There's no limit to how much you can love - your heart expands to include them all.

I don't know what will happen with this baby - will he/she be safe? Will I bring him/her home this time?  Will they grow up to be happy, healthy adults? The trouble is, we just don't know.  I know - no one ever knows.  But with a rainbow baby the fear is always there.  Xander died despite being healthy, and so much could go wrong with this one too.  I get bursts of positivity, but I also live with anxiety every day.  Of course it's worth the anxiety, worth the risk.  The chance for me to have a living child, though it seems remote and hard for me to believe at the moment, is worth the fear.

I love this baby already.  I love them like I loved their brother.  And if the fear, and worry, is what I have to go through then I will.  When I feel hope and excitement, I'll embrace it, and appreciate it.  But the fear will always be there.  As I keep saying to my rainbow - stay safe, baby, stay safe xxx