Clara's wonderful post and pictures got me thinking about how important it is to see and hear our children's names. When my son Xander died, it wasn't long before I started to want to get his name out there into the world. A plaque and rose at the cemetery, his name in the baby memorial book, a plaque at a woodland that my mum arranged, his name is even included in the notes of a friend's PhD, as she focused on stillbirth in literature - I was greatly moved by this gesture from someone I hadn't seen for years. So few people mention him by name now that when they do I could weep with gratitude.
So why is it so important to me? I think it's because that without us writing and saying his name, he has no way of existing in the world. His short life had such a massive impact on me and his dad, but like ripples on a pond, that impact lessens as it spreads out. We have to say his name, because he can't say it himself. He'll never learn to write it. He'll never have his name read out on the school register. He'll never have it written on a certificate for something he's achieved. He'll never have someone write it on a school textbook, encased by a love heart. He'll never have me shout it to call him in for tea. He'll never tell me that he hates it, and wants to be known as Alex from now on. He'll never have it read out at his graduation. He'll never have a lover whisper it softly, or scream it at him when he's upset them. He'll never give his middle name to his eldest son, as his dad and grandad did. He'll never have someone say 'that Xander, he's a good bloke', or 'that Xander, he's a complete shit' (for I'm realistic that either would have been possible).
A mother who has a living child eventually lets them make their own way in the world - they will make their own mark, their name will ring out in whatever way they make happen. But for Xander that isn't an option. His continued presence in the world lies in my hands. It's a show of my love for him to keep his memory alive, to have his name heard. I do it willingly and lovingly. My service for my son. Alexander Marshall Kirby.
Monday, 30 July 2012
Sunday, 29 July 2012
Fliss: Right Where I Am 2012: 4 months 2 weeks
Fliss and her husband found out following the 20 week scan that their daughter had Edwards syndrome and was destined not to stay with them. The rest of the pregnancy was hard to say the least but they don't regret it. Ayla Hope was born 40+6 on 1st February 2012 and took her last breath in her mummy’s arms on 4th February at 9:10pm.
Where am I now? I don’t know, to be honest. A state of confusion, loneliness and fear, occasionally hope and positivism. Desperately trying to maintain the positive persona that I often feel I am. The person who has energy, wants to make a difference in the world because of our beautiful daughter, who can play with my son without a wedge of unhappiness stopping me from connecting with him completely. Does he know I’m not completely there when we play? Can he sense that Mummy’s heart is not completely in it? I don’t know, I hope not. I feel like I’m a worse mother because of my loss, not a better one. A more grateful, less naïve mother but my patience isn’t what it was, my energy levels shocking and my ability to cry at the drop of a hat quite immense. My boy wipes my tears away for me now and fetches a tissue, he’s so used to Mummy crying he knows what to do, normally a little dance or something that will make me smile or laugh again. My heart bursts with love when I think of him and screams in agony when I think of my girl. She should be here with us.
People have told me how ‘brave’ I am, what an ‘inspiration’, so ‘strong’. Like I’ve chosen to walk this path, suffer this pain and forever have a hole in our family where Ayla should be. I’m not any of these things, I have no intention of inspiring others, I often hide from the world; that’s not brave or strong. I am simply a Mummy. A Mummy who loves her children more than words can ever describe. I remember when I was pregnant and we knew our daughter was destined to leave us I had to go into hospital with a suspected blood clot (I knew it wasn’t, funny how carrying a baby destined to die but not knowing when can leave you a little breathless at times) a paediatrician saying to me what a brave thing I was doing, I simply looked at her and said ‘I don’t really have a choice do I?’ and she replied ‘There’s always a choice’. How was there? A choice on how soon she leaves us or how she leaves us, maybe, but the outcome would be the same. For me, giving her a chance was all I could do; we have memories, photographs and videos of her, mementoes that have to last us forever now, they are all we have.
I feel like a kite, attached to the world by a string. I float above everyone, watching them carrying on with their lives, moving forward and I’m there, watching, I’ll sometimes swoop forward, looking like I’m going somewhere and then a gust of wind grabs me and pushes me back, sometimes I let it, sometimes I try and fight it and I can push against it for so long and it may ease or it can slam me down so hard, so fast I can barely catch my breath. Then I have to get back up again but I’m not allowed to find my feet, I’m back up into the air to watch and continue my slow, painful, spiralling journey. What of the people on the ground? Some are desperately clinging to my string so I don’t go too far, keeping me as lifted as they can, calling messages of love and support, but not truly understanding. Others scuttle by, their heads bowed low so they can’t see me, they don’t want to look up, face the pain, it’s too much for them. There are other kites too. Some just bob past, on their own journeys, others become entangled with me and we are bonded through our tragedy, our heartache, our children. All of them bring comfort for just being there, as much as I hate that any of us are here it is always a comfort knowing we are not alone. The strength, understanding and support gained from baby loss Mummies is a force so truly immense I often find myself in awe of it all. How can so much love, friendship, understanding and support come from such pain? How? Our children, that’s how. Their love for us is all consuming, just as much as if they were in our arms like they should be. As is our love for them. That love has to continue somehow and we humans have to do something practical, so we extend our love for our babies, our children into other baby loss parents, to reassure they are not alone, what they are feeling is ok and that we are there to support each other whenever that wind of grief slams us so hard we struggle to get back up. My daughter has taught me so much and brought so many wonderful people into my life, it is an honour to be her Mummy, I just wish she were here with me.
Where am I now? I don’t know, to be honest. A state of confusion, loneliness and fear, occasionally hope and positivism. Desperately trying to maintain the positive persona that I often feel I am. The person who has energy, wants to make a difference in the world because of our beautiful daughter, who can play with my son without a wedge of unhappiness stopping me from connecting with him completely. Does he know I’m not completely there when we play? Can he sense that Mummy’s heart is not completely in it? I don’t know, I hope not. I feel like I’m a worse mother because of my loss, not a better one. A more grateful, less naïve mother but my patience isn’t what it was, my energy levels shocking and my ability to cry at the drop of a hat quite immense. My boy wipes my tears away for me now and fetches a tissue, he’s so used to Mummy crying he knows what to do, normally a little dance or something that will make me smile or laugh again. My heart bursts with love when I think of him and screams in agony when I think of my girl. She should be here with us.
People have told me how ‘brave’ I am, what an ‘inspiration’, so ‘strong’. Like I’ve chosen to walk this path, suffer this pain and forever have a hole in our family where Ayla should be. I’m not any of these things, I have no intention of inspiring others, I often hide from the world; that’s not brave or strong. I am simply a Mummy. A Mummy who loves her children more than words can ever describe. I remember when I was pregnant and we knew our daughter was destined to leave us I had to go into hospital with a suspected blood clot (I knew it wasn’t, funny how carrying a baby destined to die but not knowing when can leave you a little breathless at times) a paediatrician saying to me what a brave thing I was doing, I simply looked at her and said ‘I don’t really have a choice do I?’ and she replied ‘There’s always a choice’. How was there? A choice on how soon she leaves us or how she leaves us, maybe, but the outcome would be the same. For me, giving her a chance was all I could do; we have memories, photographs and videos of her, mementoes that have to last us forever now, they are all we have.
I feel like a kite, attached to the world by a string. I float above everyone, watching them carrying on with their lives, moving forward and I’m there, watching, I’ll sometimes swoop forward, looking like I’m going somewhere and then a gust of wind grabs me and pushes me back, sometimes I let it, sometimes I try and fight it and I can push against it for so long and it may ease or it can slam me down so hard, so fast I can barely catch my breath. Then I have to get back up again but I’m not allowed to find my feet, I’m back up into the air to watch and continue my slow, painful, spiralling journey. What of the people on the ground? Some are desperately clinging to my string so I don’t go too far, keeping me as lifted as they can, calling messages of love and support, but not truly understanding. Others scuttle by, their heads bowed low so they can’t see me, they don’t want to look up, face the pain, it’s too much for them. There are other kites too. Some just bob past, on their own journeys, others become entangled with me and we are bonded through our tragedy, our heartache, our children. All of them bring comfort for just being there, as much as I hate that any of us are here it is always a comfort knowing we are not alone. The strength, understanding and support gained from baby loss Mummies is a force so truly immense I often find myself in awe of it all. How can so much love, friendship, understanding and support come from such pain? How? Our children, that’s how. Their love for us is all consuming, just as much as if they were in our arms like they should be. As is our love for them. That love has to continue somehow and we humans have to do something practical, so we extend our love for our babies, our children into other baby loss parents, to reassure they are not alone, what they are feeling is ok and that we are there to support each other whenever that wind of grief slams us so hard we struggle to get back up. My daughter has taught me so much and brought so many wonderful people into my life, it is an honour to be her Mummy, I just wish she were here with me.
Tuesday, 24 July 2012
Nicole: When's the right time to drop the bomb?
One of the things that I struggle with is knowing when it’s appropriate
to tell people my son is dead, or what I refer to as ‘dropping the dead baby
bomb’. When people ask if I’ve got
children, or want me to laugh with them about the indignities of pregnancy, or discuss
the pain of childbirth, I tell them, and
the bomb explodes. It kills the
conversation, they look shell-shocked, sometimes they even run for cover.
Last week I bumped into someone who I last
saw a year ago, when I was going on maternity leave. She remembered me and asked how old my baby was
now. I was unprepared, I stumbled over my
words, but replied ‘he would have been nearly a year old, but he died.’ The bomb went off. Her face fell. I explained, probably in too much detail. She said she was sorry, she grasped my hand. It doesn’t always go like that. Sometimes people back away, not knowing what
to say to me, like they think it might be catching. Sometimes they rush to say something,
anything - ‘it obviously wasn’t meant to be’, I’ve heard, which is one of the
worst things someone can say to me, or ‘will you have other children’, like
that would negate the loss of my boy.
At
times, dealing with other people’s reactions is harder than living with my own
grief. I don’t like to make people feel
uncomfortable, or sad, or scared. I don’t
want to upset them or make them feel unsure of what to say. I don’t want to get cross with them for their
often inadequate responses. But I can’t
deny my son. I can’t pretend he doesn’t
exist, that he didn’t live, that he isn’t relevant. He did, he is. He’s imprinted on my heart forever and I need
to be able to talk about him. So I go on
dropping that bomb, placing it down as gently as I can, and preparing myself
for the fallout.
Gemma: Writing to you...
I still like to write to you Isaac as I have done since we set you up an email account when I found out that I was pregnant; I emailed stories of my excitement and of feeling ill; I remember emailing you after you started to make me ill after I had eaten cheese and cordially informed you that cheese was off limits to the sickness and would be eaten regardless; I no longer email you with a view to one day opening the account with you and reading through all the trials and tribulations which we may have forgotten years later; I have forgotten the address now and wouldn't like to bother Daddy with it right now.
So now I write to and save the letters on my computer and sometimes I write and write and delete them once they are written in a moment of despair; I like to imagine you sitting on your great grandparents knees as they read my letters to you; I have written many letters to you over the year that I have been without you; some pleading for a greater understanding of why you left me and a sign that you are still there somewhere and not lost to me forever, others angry that you didn't fight harder to stay with me and some simply telling you that you are still loved and still very much treasured; I don't know if you can hear me little one but I love you and I miss you every day.
Today is your first birthday Isaac; you should have been one whole year old; full of sleepless nights and mischief and giggles that made us laugh along with you, the day would have started early for you and I no doubt and we would have had to coax Daddy out of his slumber with big kisses and noise; we would have gathered together in our bed that would have been covered with presents from mommy and daddy; I of course would have stuck some horse themed gifts in and daddy would have bought far far too much; gifts that weren't exactly age appropriate but that he would have had as much fun playing with as you would when you were finally old enough to use them. We would have helped you to open your presents and I can imagine you sitting having more fun with the wrapping paper than with any of the gifts that you had received. I can hear your squeals of laughter as daddy grabs you and throws you up in the air and I tut and tell him to please be careful, while unable to hide a smile to watch the two of you play.
You would have had your first birthday party today and the house would have been decorated and filled with streamers and balloons; if I stop and close my eyes I can see just how it would have been, and the atmosphere would have been that of outright joy as I, along with my family delighted in watching you grow. You would have had silly football themed gifts from Pop and your uncles, and designer outfits of your Auntie Laura.
This time a year ago you were born sleeping and the final hope that I had slipped through my fingers; the labour was quick but not at all what I had hoped. I promised you Isaac, that I would be brave and try to stay positive but the last few weeks have been hard and I have relived the loss of you over and over again and Daddy and I have talked and cried and opened up to each other in ways we have been reluctant to do until now. I finally understand that he feels guilty to and I have tried to put his mind at rest about his fears, I don't want him to feel he was to blame, who can be blamed? Me? God? Mother Nature? You? There is no one to blame, you were a star than shone so brightly you didn’t need to burn for long.
Today I am sad; I feel the absence of you so strongly that it makes me want to fall down weeping; however I also still feel you with me and I feel I can celebrate all that you were to me; because above all else I am happy that you were part of us. If the option was to have never had you at all then I will take all this sadness gladly; for it shows that you were loved.
You were made out of such love; your Daddy and I - we had our bumpy rides over the years the loss of you the worst one of all but it is a love that has never given up; a love that knew how to fight to keep it strong and when the worse happened we were able to weather that storm together; to have been made out of such a love I can see meant that you will have only known that - for you there will never have been any worries or doubt or fear; you will have grown knowing that you are loved and perhaps that is all that you ever needed.
I want you to know little man that you are always with me; not a day goes by that I don’t think of you and know I needed you to have been even for a short time. I know that my longing for you is caught up in the need to have a healthy living child here with me, and my guilt at wanting another child makes me anxious that you do not feel you are to be replaced; you will never be replaced.
Today Daddy and I woke to the delivery of a balloon and flowers for your garden; you are still much loved and not just by me. We will go and select a new outfit for Isaac bear and loose a balloon where we walked together as a family and I will light a candle to show you the way home should you wish to look in on us.
Happy birthday Isaac and Thank You for having been part of our lives xx
So now I write to and save the letters on my computer and sometimes I write and write and delete them once they are written in a moment of despair; I like to imagine you sitting on your great grandparents knees as they read my letters to you; I have written many letters to you over the year that I have been without you; some pleading for a greater understanding of why you left me and a sign that you are still there somewhere and not lost to me forever, others angry that you didn't fight harder to stay with me and some simply telling you that you are still loved and still very much treasured; I don't know if you can hear me little one but I love you and I miss you every day.
Today is your first birthday Isaac; you should have been one whole year old; full of sleepless nights and mischief and giggles that made us laugh along with you, the day would have started early for you and I no doubt and we would have had to coax Daddy out of his slumber with big kisses and noise; we would have gathered together in our bed that would have been covered with presents from mommy and daddy; I of course would have stuck some horse themed gifts in and daddy would have bought far far too much; gifts that weren't exactly age appropriate but that he would have had as much fun playing with as you would when you were finally old enough to use them. We would have helped you to open your presents and I can imagine you sitting having more fun with the wrapping paper than with any of the gifts that you had received. I can hear your squeals of laughter as daddy grabs you and throws you up in the air and I tut and tell him to please be careful, while unable to hide a smile to watch the two of you play.
You would have had your first birthday party today and the house would have been decorated and filled with streamers and balloons; if I stop and close my eyes I can see just how it would have been, and the atmosphere would have been that of outright joy as I, along with my family delighted in watching you grow. You would have had silly football themed gifts from Pop and your uncles, and designer outfits of your Auntie Laura.
This time a year ago you were born sleeping and the final hope that I had slipped through my fingers; the labour was quick but not at all what I had hoped. I promised you Isaac, that I would be brave and try to stay positive but the last few weeks have been hard and I have relived the loss of you over and over again and Daddy and I have talked and cried and opened up to each other in ways we have been reluctant to do until now. I finally understand that he feels guilty to and I have tried to put his mind at rest about his fears, I don't want him to feel he was to blame, who can be blamed? Me? God? Mother Nature? You? There is no one to blame, you were a star than shone so brightly you didn’t need to burn for long.
Today I am sad; I feel the absence of you so strongly that it makes me want to fall down weeping; however I also still feel you with me and I feel I can celebrate all that you were to me; because above all else I am happy that you were part of us. If the option was to have never had you at all then I will take all this sadness gladly; for it shows that you were loved.
You were made out of such love; your Daddy and I - we had our bumpy rides over the years the loss of you the worst one of all but it is a love that has never given up; a love that knew how to fight to keep it strong and when the worse happened we were able to weather that storm together; to have been made out of such a love I can see meant that you will have only known that - for you there will never have been any worries or doubt or fear; you will have grown knowing that you are loved and perhaps that is all that you ever needed.
I want you to know little man that you are always with me; not a day goes by that I don’t think of you and know I needed you to have been even for a short time. I know that my longing for you is caught up in the need to have a healthy living child here with me, and my guilt at wanting another child makes me anxious that you do not feel you are to be replaced; you will never be replaced.
Today Daddy and I woke to the delivery of a balloon and flowers for your garden; you are still much loved and not just by me. We will go and select a new outfit for Isaac bear and loose a balloon where we walked together as a family and I will light a candle to show you the way home should you wish to look in on us.
Happy birthday Isaac and Thank You for having been part of our lives xx
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