I have been very lost for words this year, here goes…
I sit here with Melody's new little sister, a sister who this time last year was no where near in existence.
I say little, of course she's not, not really, the baby is now 6 weeks, a week OLDER than Melody will ever be.
She's having a growth spurt, the growth spurt that could well have helped Melody's recovery.
The growth spurt that she never had the chance to have.
Another sister who will only ever recognise Melody as a headstone or a photo in a frame.
"The girl in the photo, that's my sister" is how Melody will ever be introduced.
I sit here with the thoughts that our family is complete, but not quite; my brain still struggles to know how big our family is, who I tell the truth to.
New people look at me strangely because I have to count in my head how many children I have, not answer straight away.
I lie sometimes.
I have to, because sometimes it’s the feeling of normality I crave. I don't want to be a bereaved mum every day.
To moan about sleepless nights without guilt.
"But one of your babies died."
To say out loud I'd like a break.
"But you should be grateful."
"At least you have healthy children."
I sure do, they don't replace Melody though.
Normality at times is long forgotten.
I used to love The Twilight Saga (I know!), things like Supernatural; now I can barely stomach them.
Before it was easy going things to watch, the romanticism of Twilight, an old fashioned love I guess, even though it should have been impossible. They even had a baby, a baby that was meant to be a monster, that should never have existed, lived.
Our baby, real life baby, had 80% chance of survival, she died. Now I know it’s not real, but I used to enjoy it, now I can't see past it. I miss watching it, the fairy tale ending of eternity.
We used to watch Supernatural after our full days in NICU, we were fans before, but it was something we could take our minds off the fear of our tiny baby fighting, and fought she did.
Only now Supernatural with demon children, heaven and hell, I know it’s fiction but at the same time it’s our reality, children and babies die, we know this far too well, the Supernatural horrors are our reality.
I don't believe in heaven.
I don't believe in hell.
I wish I did, to want to believe, that maybe Melody is out there. I am hoping come next entry I'll have found a belief or a sign, that she is safe and still around us, not cold and alone.
Where am I?
I'm building my life again, to not feel so heavy.
To not let Melody's death continue to define me…
To ignore the judgement of those who don't understand.
That if I want to talk I will.
If I want to cry to remember it’s not a bad thing, it doesn't make me weak.
To feel normal, because I am just like any other mum.
"I have five children, yes I have my hands full with four pairs of loving arms and a heart with arms I can no longer touch."
I am a bereaved mother.
I am Melody's mummy.
And I miss her.
~~~~~
You can read Julz's previous posts for the blog here:
Tuesday, 28 July 2015
Monday, 27 July 2015
Miriam: Right Where I Am 2015: 1 year 9 months 3 weeks 2 days
So, I left my last blog on 27th July 2014 wondering if there might be a future rainbow. Turns out that there would be, and sooner than I thought with a bfp just three days after writing that.
We visited a local petting farm open day in September. It was a lovely day, though I was anxiously trying to avoid touching any animals and hand washing to OCD levels. While there, we saw a man making objects from weaving willow. Without knowing I was pregnant he made a baby's rattle and gave it to me. I also made a corn dolly - symbol of fertility. They became my good luck and were tucked up safely on Gabriel's shelf.
Of course it goes without saying that the rainbow journey is an emotional one. The inner turmoil of 'what if it all happens again?' is never far away. I just felt so detached I had to force myself to buy baby clothes and took 6 weeks to pack the hospital bag. Whilst I breathed a little easier after reaching certain milestones, I don't think I really felt certain that we'd be bring a baby home until he was in my arms.
Then there are the little digs made by others. The hints that of course, everything will be fine now, because a 'replacement child' will surely make everything right. And there are all the usual antenatal appointments that are now far from that. That innocence of pregnancy before loss now robbed. It's not usual to cry before going for an ultrasound scan, but when you've heard those awful words 'I can't find a heartbeat' each and every scan was met with trepidation and held breath until a heartbeat was found.
I really do think that across the board, maternity services need to be much more aware of and sympathetic to the struggles of a rainbow pregnancy. From the stupid small talk of 'is this your first?' Have you taken a moment to read my notes? Did you not see the large count the kicks loss sticker I put right beside my name? To being told that my concerns about things that had previously happened at the time of Gabriel's birth, that should have happened to no woman, being dismissed as 'irrational' as they 'just don't usually happen'! Err... hello? They happened to me! How do I say 'you'll never get a sensible bp reading off me in that room, because of what happened previously'? Being kept waiting in triage for a ctg bringing on the tears, and when asked to explain why, being told 'Well, it's best not to think about it'. Really? Are you for real?
However, in my case it was my loss of innocence I think that saved my rainbow baby this time. I kept the pressure on my consultant to not let me go over my due date. This resulted in several failed sweeps, which in turn led to a scan the day after my due date to check my fluid levels, placenta function and baby's head position.
As the sonographer placed her probe at the top of my bump, 'Well, there's the head!' she said. My previously supposedly head down baby was now footling breech. This triggered a whole new birth plan. I was kept in for monitoring of my raised bp and plus protein, while they tried to get me on an elcs list - no mean feat the week before the Easter weekend.
A sudden feeling of relief oddly as this meant a whole different birth form Gabriel's. No fighting to get past the mw on the phone, or the woman in the desk at the ward. No sitting in triage! Small things, but they'd been massive concerns.
After my baby, a gorgeous 8lb 13oz boy, was born, the mw told me when I was back in the recovery bay, that as well as being footling breech, there was a true knot in the cord. Gabriel, I truly feel that you were watching over your little brother, and I sincerely thank you.
Today, my little rainbow isn't so little. He's rapidly approaching 4 months already. His babyhood is passing by far too quickly and I'm fighting against accepting the reality that he probably will be my last baby. I'm not a young parent and I've had truly awful SPD with all three pregnancies. I just don't think I can put me or my family through it again. And yet, I'd really love another. I'd love another baby. I'd love a little girl. I'd love.... But there's also the feeling that it wouldn't matter how many children I had: there'll always be one missing and so our family will just never feel complete.
Where am I right now?
Once again I'm wrapping birthday presents and feeling blessed. How many children do I have? I have three - I have my Sunshine, my Angel and my Rainbow. I consider myself a very lucky mummy to have each of these three.
~~~~~
You can read Miriam's previous post here:
Right Where I Am 2014: 9 months 3 weeks 2 days
Of course it goes without saying that the rainbow journey is an emotional one. The inner turmoil of 'what if it all happens again?' is never far away. I just felt so detached I had to force myself to buy baby clothes and took 6 weeks to pack the hospital bag. Whilst I breathed a little easier after reaching certain milestones, I don't think I really felt certain that we'd be bring a baby home until he was in my arms.
Then there are the little digs made by others. The hints that of course, everything will be fine now, because a 'replacement child' will surely make everything right. And there are all the usual antenatal appointments that are now far from that. That innocence of pregnancy before loss now robbed. It's not usual to cry before going for an ultrasound scan, but when you've heard those awful words 'I can't find a heartbeat' each and every scan was met with trepidation and held breath until a heartbeat was found.
I really do think that across the board, maternity services need to be much more aware of and sympathetic to the struggles of a rainbow pregnancy. From the stupid small talk of 'is this your first?' Have you taken a moment to read my notes? Did you not see the large count the kicks loss sticker I put right beside my name? To being told that my concerns about things that had previously happened at the time of Gabriel's birth, that should have happened to no woman, being dismissed as 'irrational' as they 'just don't usually happen'! Err... hello? They happened to me! How do I say 'you'll never get a sensible bp reading off me in that room, because of what happened previously'? Being kept waiting in triage for a ctg bringing on the tears, and when asked to explain why, being told 'Well, it's best not to think about it'. Really? Are you for real?
However, in my case it was my loss of innocence I think that saved my rainbow baby this time. I kept the pressure on my consultant to not let me go over my due date. This resulted in several failed sweeps, which in turn led to a scan the day after my due date to check my fluid levels, placenta function and baby's head position.
As the sonographer placed her probe at the top of my bump, 'Well, there's the head!' she said. My previously supposedly head down baby was now footling breech. This triggered a whole new birth plan. I was kept in for monitoring of my raised bp and plus protein, while they tried to get me on an elcs list - no mean feat the week before the Easter weekend.
A sudden feeling of relief oddly as this meant a whole different birth form Gabriel's. No fighting to get past the mw on the phone, or the woman in the desk at the ward. No sitting in triage! Small things, but they'd been massive concerns.
After my baby, a gorgeous 8lb 13oz boy, was born, the mw told me when I was back in the recovery bay, that as well as being footling breech, there was a true knot in the cord. Gabriel, I truly feel that you were watching over your little brother, and I sincerely thank you.
Today, my little rainbow isn't so little. He's rapidly approaching 4 months already. His babyhood is passing by far too quickly and I'm fighting against accepting the reality that he probably will be my last baby. I'm not a young parent and I've had truly awful SPD with all three pregnancies. I just don't think I can put me or my family through it again. And yet, I'd really love another. I'd love another baby. I'd love a little girl. I'd love.... But there's also the feeling that it wouldn't matter how many children I had: there'll always be one missing and so our family will just never feel complete.
Where am I right now?
Once again I'm wrapping birthday presents and feeling blessed. How many children do I have? I have three - I have my Sunshine, my Angel and my Rainbow. I consider myself a very lucky mummy to have each of these three.
~~~~~
You can read Miriam's previous post here:
Right Where I Am 2014: 9 months 3 weeks 2 days
Thursday, 23 July 2015
Jennifer: Right Where I Am 2015: 6 weeks
Today I got out of bed just before midday, which isn't too bad for me at the moment. I don't feel any need to get up, whats the point? It's been 6 weeks since I gave birth to my precious, perfect sleeping beauty Beth at 39+3 weeks. She is my first born, my little lady I had been keeping comfortable and safe for 39 weeks. My little angel who liked bath times where I played her my cheesy music in exchange for her kung fu kicks, my little plum who I told stories to and whose nursery was filled to bursting with all the little dresses, baby grows and items I would need to keep her warm and happy, and bath stuff that would make her smell delicious enough to eat. I couldn't wait to meet her. I was scared though. I am 30 and work as a paediatric nurse, so I knew how sick and poorly babies could potentially be. Even if I had to stay awake for the first week or so I would make sure she was safe and watch her every breath. That was my plan. But all that changed.
I went in with reduced movements at exactly 39 weeks .. Beth was more of an evening wriggler, whilst I was watching TV she would let me know she was there. But that evening my partner and I tried all we could and she would not move, so we called and went to labour ward as advised. I thought my girl was quiet as it might be the start of labour or maybe she had turned or something. I had a scan and was told her heart had stopped beating.. I'm sure mine did too at that moment. I wanted my baby out there and then... Maybe they could resuscitate her, I could help. But no. She was gone. There was nothing, no pain no bleeding... Just reduced movements and it was already too late. The hospital was only 5 mins from us I couldn't have got there any quicker.
A few days later I did it, I gave birth to my baby, my daughter, my Beth. One of the many worse days of my life but also one of the happiest. I finally got to meet her. To see her. Her beauty was astounding. Family and friends came to see her and said how much she looked like her daddy and how stunning she was. We stayed with her for 2 days, it would never be enough.
Fast forward and here I am 6 weeks later. We have an album full of pictures, two picture frames hung in the living room, three picture frames on the sideboard and three canvasses above our bed. We have a memory box and Beth's ashes. Her body home at last. I take her ashes up to bed with me every night, I promised her I'd never leave her alone again at night. I had her for all of her life and she will have me for the rest of mine.
The crying continues everyday, the sadness, taking over my whole body at any given moment. I try and stop these tears but I can't. I can't control the endless grief that has consumed my life. The endless forums and groups I've joined are now my life. Like many bereaved mums have said… A part of me died with Beth. I want to tell all these expectant mums to be careful - they might not get to take their baby home - not to get too happy. I can't see anything positive ever happening. I want to scream and shout, I want people to ask if I have children so I can say yes and tell them about Beth. I want everyone to know she was here and she will always be my life and my baby but I will never hold her again. I will never hold my Beth, her body is gone. I still can't accept it. I still don't want to believe it I wish I could be with her. I would swap places anytime if it was possible.
I was always scared of death, but now if that means I'll be with my baby then I'm not scared. To hear Beth laugh or cry, to see her eyes open and to watch her grow is all I want. I just want to be normal again.
That's where I am...
I want to change the past. I want Beth alive and snuggled into me. I want to kiss her nose and her cheeks and never let her go. I want her body to be warm against mine and her cheeks rosy and pink. I want her so badly.
I went in with reduced movements at exactly 39 weeks .. Beth was more of an evening wriggler, whilst I was watching TV she would let me know she was there. But that evening my partner and I tried all we could and she would not move, so we called and went to labour ward as advised. I thought my girl was quiet as it might be the start of labour or maybe she had turned or something. I had a scan and was told her heart had stopped beating.. I'm sure mine did too at that moment. I wanted my baby out there and then... Maybe they could resuscitate her, I could help. But no. She was gone. There was nothing, no pain no bleeding... Just reduced movements and it was already too late. The hospital was only 5 mins from us I couldn't have got there any quicker.
A few days later I did it, I gave birth to my baby, my daughter, my Beth. One of the many worse days of my life but also one of the happiest. I finally got to meet her. To see her. Her beauty was astounding. Family and friends came to see her and said how much she looked like her daddy and how stunning she was. We stayed with her for 2 days, it would never be enough.
Fast forward and here I am 6 weeks later. We have an album full of pictures, two picture frames hung in the living room, three picture frames on the sideboard and three canvasses above our bed. We have a memory box and Beth's ashes. Her body home at last. I take her ashes up to bed with me every night, I promised her I'd never leave her alone again at night. I had her for all of her life and she will have me for the rest of mine.
The crying continues everyday, the sadness, taking over my whole body at any given moment. I try and stop these tears but I can't. I can't control the endless grief that has consumed my life. The endless forums and groups I've joined are now my life. Like many bereaved mums have said… A part of me died with Beth. I want to tell all these expectant mums to be careful - they might not get to take their baby home - not to get too happy. I can't see anything positive ever happening. I want to scream and shout, I want people to ask if I have children so I can say yes and tell them about Beth. I want everyone to know she was here and she will always be my life and my baby but I will never hold her again. I will never hold my Beth, her body is gone. I still can't accept it. I still don't want to believe it I wish I could be with her. I would swap places anytime if it was possible.
I was always scared of death, but now if that means I'll be with my baby then I'm not scared. To hear Beth laugh or cry, to see her eyes open and to watch her grow is all I want. I just want to be normal again.
That's where I am...
I want to change the past. I want Beth alive and snuggled into me. I want to kiss her nose and her cheeks and never let her go. I want her body to be warm against mine and her cheeks rosy and pink. I want her so badly.
Wednesday, 22 July 2015
Lindsay: Right Where I Am 2015: 1 year 11 months 18 days followed by 14 weeks 1 day
As I'm writing this it's been 14 weeks and 1 day since I lost my daughter, Esmae. I'm sure it's the same for everyone, but I shouldn't be here right now. I should be on maternity leave getting ready for my baby's arrival. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It's as if everyone else around us has moved on and has already forgotten about our little girl. Meanwhile those who were pregnant alongside us are still the centre of attention. But that's just life I suppose.
I seem to be moving forward through my grief much quicker than last time. You see it's been 1 year, 11 months and 18 days since I lost my son, Hunter. Three months on from losing Hunter we still didn't quite believe what had happened, we still don't believe what happened with Esmae, but it's different this time. Grief doesn't have a set path you can follow. You just take each day as it comes and you have to accept there will be some really dark days, when you feel as if everything has just hit you all over again. There will be good days too however, and you need to learn not to feel guilty about having a good day.
This time round my grief hasn't taken me on the same path, but it's a familiar one, it's easier to navigate. I'm not suggesting for a second losing my daughter has been easier than losing my son, in many ways I feel more cheated this time. What I mean is I generally do find it easier to get through each day, to find my way. I think this is true only because I know better how to cope. I've been learning how to cope each day for almost two years now, but at least this time around I already know how I'm feeling is 'normal'. The new 'normal'. In all honesty I don't remember what it feels like to be the old me. I'm not the person I was two years ago, I'm not the person I was fifteen weeks ago, before I found out my pregnancy would not go full term. I sometimes feel I'm just a shell of the person I used to be. I'm nearly always anxious about the most stupid of things, I've become extremely paranoid and I have lost nearly all my confidence.
I know my limits, I know what I can and cannot manage. There are times though when I think I'm being silly by not being able to lead a full and 'normal' life – going shopping in town on a whim, being around large groups of people I may not know well, going out for drinks to a busy bar. These are things I took for granted before and now the thought of putting myself through situations like those can bring me out in a cold sweat, sometimes it can even feel as if I'm paralysed with anxiety.
Surprisingly though things actually improved a bit whilst I was pregnant with Esmae. My husband even said he was beginning to see the old me again, but since losing her I feel like I'm back to square one – some days I don't even think I'm on the board! I sometimes feel as if I'll only fully get that confidence back when I'm proudly pushing a pram in front of me. Maybe that's because I'll finally feel like I have a purpose in life, something to live for.
I have spent all the time since losing Hunter building an emotional wall. Since Esmae I've had to build it a little higher, but it is helping me get through this all over again. I both love and hate my wall. It shelters me from most of the things in the world that I suddenly started noticing – baby adverts on TV, pregnant women, prams, toddlers, baby aisles in supermarkets, the list goes on...but it also blocks out a lot of the rest of my (old) world. I sometimes feel as if I'm only half living. My more recent memories all seem a little dull, they're all in the dark shadow of the wall. It's as if everything has lost it's colour since the wall went up. I don't dare take it down though.
My wall is not impenetrable however, there are some things such as seeing/hearing new born babies which it cannot protect me against – they filter their way through the cracks. At the same time it's not so high and solid that it doesn't let people in, or my emotions out.
I find it easy to talk to most people about my babies. I want to talk to anyone who asks and wants to listen about my babies. That there is the key point – I will talk to anyone who asks and is willing to listen. It's not a subject everyone is thankful you bring up and then there is the odd time when I don't want to talk.
I thought after losing Esmae that I might be able to open up more to my parents about how I feel, but up until now this hasn't been the case. This time I tried to tell them straight out that it helps me to talk about my babies, their grandchildren. At first this didn't seem to work, they were still looking for my lead all the time, but I had long since given up as my previous attempts to let them in had failed. I assumed they wanted to protect me, but by not mentioning my babies at all they left me doubting how they felt about their grandchildren. Hopefully since writing them a letter and sending them an earlier draft of this blog, which sparked a very tearful (on my part) conversation with my mum, things will become easier for all of us.
It had got to the point where my wall was always up around them, blocking them out, and I couldn't work out how to let them in. I didn't think they truly wanted to see what was the other side of my wall and although I thought I'd tried various ways to let them in, nothing worked, perhaps I was being too subtle. I was trying to find a way of letting them know I needed more from them without causing them unnecessary pain. (I say unnecessary pain, because there's no magic pill that will make this painless for any of us.) I think I still need to help them realise that pain is a natural part of the grieving process though and it can be cathartic. Exhausting, but cathartic. I don't see feeling pain/showing your emotions as a weakness, it just demonstrates you are strong enough to endure each day, strong enough to get out of bed and try to get on with what's left of your life. For the last couple of years I've really needed my parents to realise this. They've been trying so hard not to upset me, but they never fully understood that there is nothing they can do or say that will make me feel any worse. Saying nothing at all is the only thing (for me) which makes it worse.
I'm hopeful after talking openly with my mum that things will change. I still need to work on showing my true emotions in front of her and my dad, but I need them to not feel as if they are walking on eggshells around me and my husband all the time. Saying my babies names might bring tears to my eyes, but I love hearing people talk about them, it reminds me that they mattered. I still need to help my parents realise that it's ok for me to cry, it's ok for me to breakdown, to not be able to breathe because there's a pain in my chest which takes up all the space for air. These are all natural parts of grieving, it's not something I can suddenly switch off and get over. All those things are normal to me now.
Although they'll already know, from this blog, we've started trying again, I think it'll still take some time before my mum will feel comfortable discussing that with me. I want to be able to confide in my mum if I take a test and it shows up negative or tell her how depressing it feels when you don't even get as far as taking a test. I think she feels a bit useless though because she can't just wave a magic wand and fix everything. She has no frame of reference as she never experienced any problems during her pregnancies (although my birth was pretty traumatic, but she took that in her stride!) Sometimes I just need someone to listen, even if they can't tell me everything will work out fine in the end.
Trying to conceive again after a loss is so tough. It can consume your life. We felt last month that we were ready. I think we both sometimes feel the months ticking away and although I feel guilty saying this, I do feel as if we're another year down the line and many more months have been wasted. Unfortunately our first month of trying again didn't work and I thought I'd be ok with it, but during those few days last week I just felt in limbo and it brought back memories of how desperate I felt all those months after Hunter, trying without success. It just hits home again that I should be heavily pregnant right now with Esmae and getting her nursery together.
Perhaps some would say if I feel this way then maybe I'm not ready to start trying again, but it's hard to explain the overwhelming urge to keep on trying to someone who hasn't suffered the loss of a baby, the loss of three babies. We started trying again about three months after losing Hunter and to be honest I sometimes felt a little relieved when we didn't conceive (just for those first couple of months though). I realise now this was probably because we were still so deep in our grief that we weren't quite ready. When we eventually did get pregnant it unfortunately didn't last long. Finding no heartbeat at 7 weeks and then passing the baby three weeks later. The 'Little One', as we refer to her (we feel she would've been a girl), had given us the hope we needed, a definite sign not to give up. We were then lucky enough to conceive Esmae almost straight-away – it was like she was meant to be…
We are now two and a half years further down the line from where we began and although I don't know what the future has in store for us, I do know I'm ready to try again. I'm ready to let it consume me again, to become my life again. It's the only way I can keep getting out of bed each morning trying to move forward.
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