Sam: Tiny Wings

Hi my name is Sam Barlow, I am 38 years old, a teacher living in the market town of Bungay in Suffolk.

The  4th August  2012 was to be the moment in time when my life changed completely. My longed for second child, a daughter Isabella, was stillborn at 41 weeks, taken so tragically by the cord wrapped around her neck three times. Words can’t really express what this event did to my husband, my 8 year old daughter and me but somehow we are here, a year on, still standing. Of course I don’t really need to say how ‘this’ feels, what it is to live with ‘this’ every day or how you just somehow get on with life, you know, you have been here too and you understand. My heart goes out to all of you who have had to know this other life, this other you, this emptiness and shockingly overwhelming force that is grief.

Not long after losing Isabella I became involved with an online support group called Angel Mummies (www.angelmummies.co.uk) and realised that this new community I belonged to was to be my life saver, my haven and my best friends in the whole world, albeit virtual. It is so true that through grief friends become strangers and strangers become friends and so it was that I wanted to give something back, I wanted to bring a smile to a face that had forgotten how to do this, I wanted to warm a heart that at times forgets to beat.

So I set up Tiny Wings (www.facebook.com/beachnames), a Facebook page that offers bereaved parents a chance to request their baby’s name written in sand or painted stones, to somehow validate their existence and give them a keepsake to cherish. I do this for free and all I ask is that if they have money to spare they donate to one of two chosen charities that have supported me in my heart breaking journey, Aching Arms and EACH – East Anglia Children’s Hospice.

Soon I hope to be able to offer a gift service of a framed A4 or A5 photo for a small fee but again to raise money for these charities that have been so invaluable to me.

Each time I do a baby's name, I think of these precious little ones who sadly cannot be here with their family, I send a little prayer and a floaty kiss and hope that wherever they are, they are looking down and seeing their name shining out for all to see, hoping a little smile appears for them too.

Gemma: Right Where I Am 2013: 2 years

I’ve found this post harder to write than I thought I would, 2 years has been both an eternity of minutes, hours, days, weeks and months and now I am into counting years and yet at the same time it seems like such a very short time ago that they took away my hope and told me my baby had died.

In truth I’m still in mourning, the loss of my first born child and my first chance at motherhood.  I have accepted the fact that I am a different person to the one I was before Isaac died but I still feel bad; I’ll never really get over the fact that my baby died while he was supposed to be safe in my belly – I have accepted this, but it is still with me.

Where am I now? I am struggling at the moment; I’m anxious, torn, hopeful, excited, guilt ridden.

I am anxious, torn, excited and guilt ridden because I am expecting my rainbow baby. I am 22 weeks pregnant and I’m delighted to be pregnant; it has taken me longer than I hoped it would to conceive again and I thought it would be easier than it is, but I am terrified that this baby will be born sleeping too, I simply don’t think that I could survive the loss of another baby – I don’t have it in me to pull myself through another loss and so I try to enjoy being pregnant and step away from the thoughts of what could go wrong that stream through my head; I try to find hope again and sometimes I succeed. When I hope though; this brings a new raft of emotions I wasn’t prepared for – the guilt that I am pregnant again when my son is gone, I feel guilty about having another baby in case people forget about Isaac; people seem to think this makes it better and it will never make it better.

I watch my husband and possibly for the first time I can really see how much the loss has affected him – its etched on his face and yet he has never faltered when I have needed him, even now he is my rock as we get through each day at a time without our little man. I am so grateful to him, and our marriage is stronger for our loss – I’ve allowed myself to depend on him so much that I have moments of panic where I worry about something happening to him.

To be honest I am tired too, I am so tired of being strong. Over the last year so many people have told me how strong I am, and I try to explain that I am not strong, there was no choice for me but to survive – to put one foot in front of the other and try to remember how to breathe in and out, try to wait out the painful initial throws of grief and get through to where I am now – the quiet grief that slips in and grabs me when I am least prepared.

I want to tell people it’s still hard, each day is still hard – I still don’t like to speak on the phone, I don’t like to go to parties and if I don’t consciously leave the house then I’d stay at home indefinitely.

I get through on the weight of other people’s expectations of this so called strength, this is how I cope. I get up every day and go to work even though some days like today my first thoughts were of Isaac and his approaching birthday and I wanted to pull the duvet over my head and cry; I pretend that I’m OK so that my husband doesn’t worry about me, and because I know that weeping and wailing won’t bring Isaac back though I can’t say how much I wish it would.

I am still sad, I am sad every day that he isn’t here with me – I should have sticky fingers on my walls and toys littering my floor and instead I still have emptiness; I still wish I had heard him cry – just once, or had the chance to feed him but I hope that he will watch over me as I have the chance to do all of that with his brother or sister.  I sometimes feel he is with me in those quiet moments when I am alone and thinking of what might have been.

On the 18^th July I will be 2 years from the day that they told me that my baby had died and I’m still here, I’m still standing.

Claire: Right Where I Am 2013: 1 year 2 months 2 weeks 2 days

The world has moved on a quite a pace since we lost Laura. I’ve grown a lot, as has my older daughter Georgia, who in 2 months time will be a teenager. A year ago I feared that the heartache we suffered as a family when we lost Laura would mould her and shape her, but a year on I accept that it has already done this but in a positive way. As a family, we are closer than ever, stronger than ever. The tragedies Georgia has witnessed in the last few years are shaping her into the most wonderful human being (kind, considerate, loving and thoughtful).

Laura touched the lives of family and friends in her short time with us. Yet, no matter what anyone says, nobody will love her as much as I do. From the moment I knew she was inside me, I willed her to be healthy and strong, to arrive safely. Now I know that as much as I want things to happen, that’s not always possible. What I would give, to have the time over again, to hold and kiss her more than I did in the precious few hours we shared. I guess I’m beginning to accept that I can’t control this crazy universe. No matter how much bargaining I do, it won’t bring her back. No matter how much guilt I load on myself, it won’t change what happened. I’m coming to terms with being the mum of a dead baby.

Each and every day, as accepting as I’ve had to become, I mourn for Laura. I miss that I wasn’t able to care for her. I am so aware of what developmental stage she should be at, and also aware that she may not have even reached it if she had lived because of her birth problem. Every night, when I sneak a kiss from Georgia on my way to bed, I think of Laura and whisper a goodnight, I love you to her too. I mourn that Georgia could not be the wonderful big sister I know she would be.

The mum of a lost baby - it’s not a club I wanted to join, but I’m here nevertheless. In some strange, twisted way, it actually has perks. I am thankful for the friendship of the other Mums I have met that are in the same club as me. They always know what to say, they never judge and only offer support. I savour every moment I spend with Georgia. I hear the news of every safe delivery of a baby with such relief. I see the smiles of the parents of newborns and will them to realise how lucky they actually are. 8 months after losing Laura we were delighted to become pregnant again, but this happiness was short-lived as I miscarried at 8 weeks. Had that baby survived, I would be 35 weeks pregnant at the moment, but life isn’t always simple and clear cut. I know how fragile life can be. I am grateful that I was given the privilege of becoming a mother to two beautiful girls, although in the bottom of my heart, I wish that things could have been different. That I could have been talking about my two girls and seeing them both flourish and grow. I’ll never forget my lovely little Laura ❤

Victoria: Right Where I Am 2013: 20 weeks 1 day

Today, I am stronger than I ever thought possible.

Today, I am weaker than I ever knew.

I am thankful and blessed for what was... almost.

I am broken and sad for what it now isn't.

In those first hours and days I felt numb.  It was hard to fully accept that going forward our lives would not include Joshua in the way that we had hoped.  Sure, we would always carry him with us in our hearts, but it was our arms that longed to hold him.  Those first few days were such a blur.  There were lots of tears, little sleep, and so much pain - physically, mentally, emotionally.  Everything thing hurt including my soul.  After everything we went through, for this to be how it ended just seemed so very wrong.  We were devastated in the worst possible way.  We were prepared for a baby not for this.

The numbness wore off and gave way to anger.  Anger that this was our life now.  Anger that we knew mistakes were made by the hospital, by doctors.  Anger that we couldn't stop it.  Anger that God let us down.  Anger that all the thousands of prayers that were spoken for Joshua just weren't enough.  Anger that we were being forced to plan a funeral instead of a baby shower.

Today, I still have moments and days where I feel nothing but anger.  Anger has been such a new emotion for me.  I've always been positive, encouraging, optimistic - never angry and bitter.  I'm still trying to navigate these new waters.  Anger is not my friend - that much I know for sure.  Anger is like a giant wave pulling me under, consuming me.  When it hits, it makes it hard to breathe.  It's hard to think.  It's hard to keep swimming forward.  It pulls me back into that darkness of those first minutes and days and I have to fight hard to keep my head above the water.

Right now, I'm still swimming.

Today, I am still often completely overcome with tears.  There doesn't have to be a trigger - the flood of tears can come at any moment. Sunday, I had a fairly good day.  To-do lists were tackled, creativity happened, games were played, and yet as soon as my head hit the pillow the tears flowed freely.  The painful memories of those days spent in the hospital all came roaring into my head and I could not silence them.  I could not stop them.  I let my husband hold me, his desperate attempt to calm my pain.  One of the worst parts of this grief is its unpredictability.  There really is no warning of when it is going to come and knock you off your feet.

This grief has settled in and made it's home among us.  It lives in our 3-bedroom house.  It fills the quiet room that was supposed to belong to him.   Grief is in the stacks of boxes in the basement containing carefully chosen onesies, diapers, stuffed bears, and toys that will never be his.  The crib he will never sleep in.  The swing where he will never play.  Grief is now a member of our family.

Today, my faith has been shaken to its very core, but it is still strong.  It is a weird place to be in when you feel like you've never been more let down by God in your life, and yet you feel like you have never been closer to Him, because you've never needed Him more.

Now, I look for signs from Joshua wherever we go.  The rainbow in the stormy sky, the butterfly fluttering around, the bird at my window - I will continue to believe that they are signs from him.  We have seen small miracles happen around us in these last few months - things that cannot be explained any other way.  He is with us.  We believe that.  We have to believe that.

Today, I am still lost.  I am still broken.  I am still very much in disbelief that this is what our life looks like now.  But I am also learning that I am stronger than I ever knew.  My love for my husband has grown more than I could have ever imagined.  His strength is what holds me together.  My hope that I will get to see our sweet boy again someday and that my husband and I will get to spend an eternity being Joshua's mom and dad is what keeps me pressing forward.

Joshua Patrick Denney

Born: February 20, 2013 at 7:09 p.m.

Weighed 2 pounds, 11 ounces, 15 inches long

Went into the arms of angels on February 22, 2013 shortly after 8:30 a.m.

My name is Victoria and I am head over heals in love with my husband (Patrick), deeply grieving the loss of our son (Joshua), and clinging to the Cross with all that I’ve got left.  I blog over at Rooted in Faith.  You can also find me on Twitter, Pinterest, Facebook, and Instagram.