Erin: No Expectations

This post comes from Erin's website and blog Will CarryOn. Erin started this site in 2011 following her 4th loss as a place to share miscarriage and loss resources and hope. You can find out more about Erin at the site and you can also access a wide variety of excellent support and resources. Thank you Erin for allowing us to share this post here.

The clock will soon hit midnight, and the calendar will flip to a new year. I’ve been trying to sum up my feelings about it and ironically, I’ve been all over the board. I saw this card and at first, I couldn’t agree more. Goodbye 2012 and good riddance. If I never had to think about you again, it’d be too soon. But then I realized that if we never spoke of this year again, then it would be as if Sarah Hana and Benjamin Samuel (and their triplet) never existed. But they did. And they do. So I can’t wipe out this year from my memory, no matter how awful it was. Not tonight. Not ever. Somehow, what I have to try to do is to reframe how I think about it. Somehow.

Right now when I think about 2012, some choice words come to mind. I’m sure I could string together a proliferation of profanity that would make a sailor blush (who am I kidding, I could do that on a good day), but what good would that do? Who would I be yelling at? No one can change what has happened. Life will continue moving, and who knows what’s ahead of us. I look back on this past year and am once again am amazed by Double A’s and my strength, courage and perseverance:

We didn’t think we could have a worse year. We did.

We didn’t think we could be faced with something even more horrific. We were.

We didn’t think we could survive more loss. We are.

I remember sitting here a year ago, counting down the seconds, thinking the worst year of our lives was behind us. There was so much hope in the air. So much promise. Last year, I talked about not knowing what 2012 would bring, but I had hoped it would be better. And yet here we are.

We have no expectations for 2013, but once again, we find ourselves hoping. And that in itself, says more than I can write.

Nicole: 2012

For some, 2012 will have been an amazing year.  We're told all the time, through the media, how it was an exceptional year for Britain.  The Olympics, the Jubilee - it felt like the whole nation spent the summer celebrating and the rest of the year basking in it's reflected glory.

My husband recently took part in a project for our local news.  Called '100 Faces' it asked people to write in saying why 2012 was memorable for them.  My husband chose to write about the adventures we've been having this year - our 'Marvellous Macho's Year of New Things' that's seen us doing new things in memory of our son and blogging about them.  He was chosen to take part and was included as one of 100 people with a line in a song created for the project.  Seeing him deliver the line 'We tried to keep the memory of our stillborn child alive' was a very proud moment for me.  The song as a whole made me really think about what this year has meant to different people.  How one year can be the worst, or best - or something in between - in someones life.

For me, 2012 will be the most difficult year of my life.  For those of you who know I lost my son the year before - in 2011 - this may come as a surprise.  But, you see, 2011 was wonderful for eight and a half months.  I was overjoyed to be pregnant, after 3 years of trying.  We had our 12 week scan in the January and after that the year flew by, full of joy and anticipation.  On 15th August it all changed when we were told that our son - nearly 2 weeks overdue by that point - had died.  What followed - his birth, his funeral, registering his death - all took place in a blur of disbelief and shock.  I honestly think shock is created to shield you from what's happening - even visiting him in the funeral home I felt detached, like it couldn't be my son in the coffin, and later, that it wasn't his ashes we collected.  After the shock started to wear off, those last few months of 2011 were so full of overwhelming, all-consuming, gut-wrenching grief.  Grief where you feel you might actually die from it.  Grief I can't really describe to people who haven't been through it.

So, why was 2012 the worst year of my life?  Because what's left, after the massive tidal wave of grief, is the devastation, the destruction.  It's the trying to rebuild your life, the repairs you need to make to your emotional and physical well-being.  It's the little waves that continue to knock you - things that you would have withstood without issue before - that now knock you down, you're so bruised and battered.  It's the getting back to work, the trying to fill your spare time.  It's the trying not to think about the silence of your house, about how things might have been.  It's the thought that others have moved on, that your baby might be forgotten, or that others might think you've forgotten him.  It's the trying to keep his memory alive; the new things in his memory, the lanterns, the candles, the names in the sand.  It's the crippling realisation, and later, acceptance, that no matter what happens - the good things, the happy times, the little wins and the big ones - are all done without your child.  Forever.  For as long as you live.

As I look to 2013 I am lucky enough to have a delicate but growing sense of hope.  Time, as well as the new little life that kicks away inside me, have given me that.  But 2012 will always be the year we had to come to terms with life without our son.  When we had to make room in our lives for long-term grief, and to find ways of keeping our son with us always.  I hope that those of you reading this have a gentle and peaceful new year. xx

Julz: First Heavenly Christmas

Dear Melody,

As mummy and daddy sit watching your big brother and sister be amazed by their delivery of new pjs from the elf, I wonder which pjs the elves would have brought you. Would they have been pink? Or the standard Christmas ones, ready to dress you in a snowman themed sleep-suit.

Imagining you trying to tear down all the baubles at the bottom of the tree, as the top of the tree became heavy with the decorations we would have moved out of your reach.

I wonder would you have been crawling yet, poking at the few presents under the tree, your big brother and sister getting irate because you can’t quite understand the word “NO!”

We would be trying to figure out how to keep you asleep so Father Christmas could deliver all 3 sets of parcels without you seeing him.

Then there is the day it self…. tomorrow, Christmas Day; trying to point you in the direction of your presents, so your brother and sister can open theirs without little fingers piercing holes in their presents. But being 10 months old on boxing day you wouldn’t understand the difference between the toy and the paper, the paper would be far more interesting.

Lunchtime you would be discovering your first taste of sprouts, do you eat it or play with this little green ball, sat staring at you next to the carrots which, I think, you would have loved.

You would have had a naughty mouthful of cream, but I can imagine you could have stamped your feet at not having more!! You feisty little thing!

You would have spent the rest of the day surrounded in cardboard boxes with the occasional “nos”, or “Mummy, Melody’s playing with my toys!!”

But instead you are resting your head in the clouds, making sure you’re watching your brother and sister having an amazing day. Making sure me and daddy have a glint of a smile on our faces, as I know you don’t like us sad.

I know you have company where ever you may be, but it truly isn’t the same, sending a balloon and lantern lighting a candle, is not the same.

I wish is a phrase I think I will use forever, a wish I know that will never come true.

I hope your beautiful eyes are healed and I’m sure they light up the skies.

We love you Melody Caitlyn. Merry first Christmas Sweetheart.

Lots of love and floaty kisses,

Mummy and Daddy

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

(one for every day you were here)

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.