Despite another night of raving insomnia I'm actually amazed at the postive vibes today. Fred is never really out of my thoughts but it's a day of acceptance that occasionally comes along and tempers the storm a little. He is gone, it's unfair and tragic but I understand what happened and it can't be changed. Another day won't feel as rational. The oozy raw wound has got a temporary bandage.
We went to the eye hospital this morning and Tils was put through her paces. Whilst I'm obviously displeased she has a wonky eye, I do get amusement from watching her earnestly doing tasks to test her sight and squint, and be delighted with herself when she earns a sticker. She makes me feel so proud of her for her unrelenting lust for life. She takes it all on, with passion, I love her so much. I then get home to Sam and he's tidied the lounge and he's made me a cup of tea. Is it selfish to want more than this? Probably. If I'd never have mistakenly got pregnant with Freds I would be more retiscent. I desperately wanted a third child, but I could see life functioning as it was. It clunked along with a degree of longing but never gnawing into my core like a septic injury. Now, I see the beauty in my two but feel all of that pain, for me, for them. It ought to feel selfish to want more but it doesn't.
I'm crashing around like the proverbial bull in my head - stomping rather than mulling over the future. Do I leave my family here, 3 children but only 2 of them with us and be grateful but desperately sad and confused. Or do I take a gamble, do I follow what feels absolutely right but terrifying. I want my boy so much but I also want a happy ending and without gambling it may never feel like I have closure. There is no telling what will happen, lighting can strike twice but then this is no different to any time before, only this time I have figures, I have knowledge. And at least this knowledge means I have more weaponry to combat the dangers. I want some hope for us all, a little rainbow as it were (cringe) to dilute the sadness.
Monday 9 February 2015
Saturday 7 February 2015
6 weeks
So here we are, nearly 6 weeks from losing you. I'm still in shock, I can't believe I won't ever see you again. Why should a mother be deprived of seeing her baby live and flourish, why were you denied the chance to do that. I go over and over in my head our last hours of health together. Your tiny feet. God I miss your feet in my tummy. We were so nearly there. If I had gone to the hospital sooner I'd be snuggling with you right now. You'd be smiling at me. 6 weeks. Not even those who have walked this path can feel my pain. Nobody felt my love - I hope in some tiny way you did, because my love for you Fred is overwhelming. I don't know whether it would ever have been realised as it is right now. My love for your brother and sister is more realised these days, I'm just struggling to show it when I'm drowning in you. But darling boy if you knew my love as it is right now surely it would be enough to fix everything - to fix you. I would take all your pain and suffering and absorb it for you - make it all go away. To not be able to do that is to feel dead inside. I feel I am nothing without you. I am a clock with one of the hands missing - a car with only three wheels. At first glance, from certain angles perhaps I look the same, but I no longer function. How can a mother breathe without her lifeline, her bloodline.
Thursday 5 February 2015
Old Chinese Proverb Say
Today has been rough seas. I've fought back tears in company, sobbed on poor Sam and generally been made sea sick by the height of the ups and downs. So I felt I should cement in some positives from the day. A wise old friend taught me to try and look for the finer points wherever they may be - even if it's just appreciating the way the milk tastes on the cornflakes. So here we are in no particular order:
1. My son helped me peel the potatoes for tea without snorting at me and rolling his eyes.
2. My son gives good hugs.
3. I was offered a job which I get priority on because I'm on maternity leave and about to be made redundant. I don't have to be interviewed for it and I can go back whenever - they'll call me in June to see how I'm doing (this is probably amazing news but just doesn't feel important right now)
4. I saw my niece who is a total sweetheart.
5. I woke up this morning next to a snoring but very beautiful Tilda.
6. I had a nice breakfast with my parents.
7. I discovered a gorgeous photo of Freddie on my Dad's camera (double edged sword as it made me cry)
8. I'm back in my own bed tonight and it's comfier (I'm digging deep now to try and make it to 10)
9. I received a few gorgeous goodies in the post from the lovely Jono and Emma. Lovely surprise.
10. Fortitude is about to start.
1. My son helped me peel the potatoes for tea without snorting at me and rolling his eyes.
2. My son gives good hugs.
3. I was offered a job which I get priority on because I'm on maternity leave and about to be made redundant. I don't have to be interviewed for it and I can go back whenever - they'll call me in June to see how I'm doing (this is probably amazing news but just doesn't feel important right now)
4. I saw my niece who is a total sweetheart.
5. I woke up this morning next to a snoring but very beautiful Tilda.
6. I had a nice breakfast with my parents.
7. I discovered a gorgeous photo of Freddie on my Dad's camera (double edged sword as it made me cry)
8. I'm back in my own bed tonight and it's comfier (I'm digging deep now to try and make it to 10)
9. I received a few gorgeous goodies in the post from the lovely Jono and Emma. Lovely surprise.
10. Fortitude is about to start.
Wednesday 4 February 2015
Rollercoaster
There are far too many fragments and dimensions of today to know how to summarise but one minute I'm coping, the next I'm just clinging on by my finger nails wondering why my family and I are having to suffer this. I repeatedly have to ask myself ' but why anyone? ' nobody deserves such pain do they? But then has anyone had to endure some of the shit I have already had to endure? I had half an hour of feeling deeply aggrieved, then spent another half an hour feeling grateful for the things I have. And for meeting my son. I've also been feeling really sad hearing other people's stories, so much sadness, if only I could make it stop.
I am really bored of my own self pitying. I'm also bored of the being told I'll never get over this. I want to rewrite this ' honest ' approach to bereavement support. I don't need to be told that my pain will be the same in 20 years time. What I'm starting to hear in many other bereaved mothers is that we need to know there is light, that things aren't permanently painful and that laughing isn't something which disappears off the radar. We don't need telling that we'll never get over it, we inherently know this - but the meaning gets tangled. I think the pain can ease, I have to believe it will, and I think I will get over the shock and horror, the flashbacks and much of the guilt. However I'll never get over my son because I love him. That's much easier to deal with when broken down. My Aunt once said to me about raising children 'all you can do is love them '. That applies to the ones you can't raise too.
I am really bored of my own self pitying. I'm also bored of the being told I'll never get over this. I want to rewrite this ' honest ' approach to bereavement support. I don't need to be told that my pain will be the same in 20 years time. What I'm starting to hear in many other bereaved mothers is that we need to know there is light, that things aren't permanently painful and that laughing isn't something which disappears off the radar. We don't need telling that we'll never get over it, we inherently know this - but the meaning gets tangled. I think the pain can ease, I have to believe it will, and I think I will get over the shock and horror, the flashbacks and much of the guilt. However I'll never get over my son because I love him. That's much easier to deal with when broken down. My Aunt once said to me about raising children 'all you can do is love them '. That applies to the ones you can't raise too.
Tuesday 3 February 2015
The Portrait
They huddled together, soaking up bloodlines between them
Smelling the warmth of their bond
Quietly owning the moment of sweet sincerity
A force, a love, four hearts, forty toes
Peeping through the blanket tassles
Unaware of time, unfamiliar of face
Smelling the warmth of their bond
Quietly owning the moment of sweet sincerity
A force, a love, four hearts, forty toes
Peeping through the blanket tassles
Unaware of time, unfamiliar of face
Monday 2 February 2015
Another chapter begins I guess
Simon just went to work. I hadn't really thought of this moment too deeply, as I felt resigned to normality returning. This isn't normal anymore though is it? There is no ' day off' as I lie here alone with no work to get up for myself. There is no restful silence. He is not here. Wherever we go, whatever we do, he is not here. That is our new normal. I continue to stare into the corner of the room where his stuff was laid ready, I'm waiting to get used to its new state but I'm not sure I will because I fell so deeply in love with everything to do with him. I fell in love with putting his crib together and I fell in love with his cosy sleeping bag. I fell in love with the changing mat placed on the area Simon had so beautifully glossed. It was all for him because I love him. I love him so deeply at times I can't breathe.
In my head I place his image into the memory of his crib. I wrap him in his sleeping bag and kiss his nose. When he wakes up, angry and purple, I lift him on to his changing mat singing him a song. I'm careful to not get his poor little bum on the cold plastic and make him more cross and then when we're done and he smells of heavenly baby powder I sneak him into bed with me for a feed. I lie down and curl him into me, letting him graze as I close my eyes. I did this with his brother and sister, and now him - an age old tradition - I'm in love with it all.
In reality I'm in bed alone with his blanket that I never got to wrap around him. Tilda has briefly jumped into bed with me to brush my hair in terrifyingly brutal fashion. Hairdressing should never be a career choice for her! But she has disappeared again, she is independent, spirited and happy. I couldn't wait to be needed again, really physically needed. I am so grateful for Sam and Tilda. There is a real dichotomy here, when people say ' at least you have them '. I thank my lucky stars for them, but we have all lost something beyond precious. I am lucky for some of my children, Fred is one of them and he died. He doesn't cease to be my child, my loss is acute and endless. I do not feel it any less than the childless mother though the wave is eventually buffered at the edge of the sea by my other children. The wave hits them hard though. I grieve not just for Fred but on behalf of Sam and Tilda. I feel their pain. Tilda is trying to grasp her place now, she can't figure out if she is the youngest or not, she tries to understand why he died often, asking bright questions such as "why did he get poorly in your tummy - did he die in there?". I struggle with this one too, because he was dying in there, but did he actually die? He was resuscitated for a long time so had he died? What can you tell a four year old? And poor Sam, he just wants things to be normal and is beginning to realise they can't be. He is grappling with the idea of having a broken mummy, one which is slightly darker than before. I think he's angry. So I'm not sure that I can completely rejoice for them when they are suffering like no child ever should.
I've got my period today too. Nothing could be more symbolic of my loss. Not pregnant, not breast feeding. Fred should be here, either still in utero (I feel sad thinking about my alternate universe where I'm frustrated at that), or feeding at my breast but instead I'm menstruating. Life is a fucker.
So I'm trying to gather motivation to get up. Not having Simon here is a little like my spiritual leader falling down a manhole. I had strength and meaning around me and it's suddenly disappeared. I need to wrap my Dad's birthday present, I need to eat. Tilda needs to eat. Bloody hell my priorities need reordering there don't they?!
Give me strength.
In my head I place his image into the memory of his crib. I wrap him in his sleeping bag and kiss his nose. When he wakes up, angry and purple, I lift him on to his changing mat singing him a song. I'm careful to not get his poor little bum on the cold plastic and make him more cross and then when we're done and he smells of heavenly baby powder I sneak him into bed with me for a feed. I lie down and curl him into me, letting him graze as I close my eyes. I did this with his brother and sister, and now him - an age old tradition - I'm in love with it all.
In reality I'm in bed alone with his blanket that I never got to wrap around him. Tilda has briefly jumped into bed with me to brush my hair in terrifyingly brutal fashion. Hairdressing should never be a career choice for her! But she has disappeared again, she is independent, spirited and happy. I couldn't wait to be needed again, really physically needed. I am so grateful for Sam and Tilda. There is a real dichotomy here, when people say ' at least you have them '. I thank my lucky stars for them, but we have all lost something beyond precious. I am lucky for some of my children, Fred is one of them and he died. He doesn't cease to be my child, my loss is acute and endless. I do not feel it any less than the childless mother though the wave is eventually buffered at the edge of the sea by my other children. The wave hits them hard though. I grieve not just for Fred but on behalf of Sam and Tilda. I feel their pain. Tilda is trying to grasp her place now, she can't figure out if she is the youngest or not, she tries to understand why he died often, asking bright questions such as "why did he get poorly in your tummy - did he die in there?". I struggle with this one too, because he was dying in there, but did he actually die? He was resuscitated for a long time so had he died? What can you tell a four year old? And poor Sam, he just wants things to be normal and is beginning to realise they can't be. He is grappling with the idea of having a broken mummy, one which is slightly darker than before. I think he's angry. So I'm not sure that I can completely rejoice for them when they are suffering like no child ever should.
I've got my period today too. Nothing could be more symbolic of my loss. Not pregnant, not breast feeding. Fred should be here, either still in utero (I feel sad thinking about my alternate universe where I'm frustrated at that), or feeding at my breast but instead I'm menstruating. Life is a fucker.
So I'm trying to gather motivation to get up. Not having Simon here is a little like my spiritual leader falling down a manhole. I had strength and meaning around me and it's suddenly disappeared. I need to wrap my Dad's birthday present, I need to eat. Tilda needs to eat. Bloody hell my priorities need reordering there don't they?!
Give me strength.
Sunday 1 February 2015
At the end of the day
At the end of the day, you aren't here. It's been a strange day today - Dada was saying how grief saps your energy, we've all been so lethargic. It took us a while to do anything this morning. I watched the Australian Open final, I flitted in and out of my different lives.
Sometimes Fred I forget that you aren't in my tummy, other times I'm half shut down anyway and don't really acknowledge ' life ' as such, I guess like I'm on autopilot, and then the rest of the time I'm fighting the intense grief of losing you - and I'm haunted by the manner in which we all suffered, you most of all. Anyway, I watched the tennis in a schizophrenic fashion and then we decided to come and see you at Sun Rising. Only my poor addled brain had forgotten your Grandads birthday so we had to go to the shops first. Your big brother and I fell out a LOT today, I guess we're all trying to find our new places in our new world. It's not easy and your big brother is a teenager so we'll forgive him yeah? You would've forgiven him anything I'm sure. I imagine you as a toddler, with a mop of white blond hair scooting around following Sam and Tils with wide eyed admiration.
So, we got Grandad a present and then came to see you. I wanted to say sorry to you for not staying long, the weather was waiting for us. Snow! Was that you causing mischief? Silly Mama didn't have a scarf or gloves and it was bitter. I hope you heard me over the wind when I whispered to you to fly over the clouds to Northend if you are lonely. We are always here waiting. Dada felt upset it was cold, it's so hard for us to not be able to keep you warm and safe in our arms you see. I'm sorry the flowers weren't from the garden, I broke my own rule already. Tomorrow I'm coming back with a few more hyacinths that are growing in a tub in the kitchen. I need to share it all with you, what's here. Shop-bought flowers bear no history or meaning. I've just remembered you are lying in rosemary from the garden and it made me smile.
Then we came came home and Dada and I lay together for a while missing you and missing you some more. Then life and it's many chores take over and we're back on autopilot again. It's a double edged sword - it helps us to get through the days but it gets in the way of thinking about you - we will learn to balance this, to be able to think of you whilst functioning. At the moment we just can't accept the events of 5 weeks ago.
I need sleep again, missing you is exhausting. I'll come and see you tomorrow with Grandma, Grandad and Tils. Until then my sweet sweet boy xxx
Sometimes Fred I forget that you aren't in my tummy, other times I'm half shut down anyway and don't really acknowledge ' life ' as such, I guess like I'm on autopilot, and then the rest of the time I'm fighting the intense grief of losing you - and I'm haunted by the manner in which we all suffered, you most of all. Anyway, I watched the tennis in a schizophrenic fashion and then we decided to come and see you at Sun Rising. Only my poor addled brain had forgotten your Grandads birthday so we had to go to the shops first. Your big brother and I fell out a LOT today, I guess we're all trying to find our new places in our new world. It's not easy and your big brother is a teenager so we'll forgive him yeah? You would've forgiven him anything I'm sure. I imagine you as a toddler, with a mop of white blond hair scooting around following Sam and Tils with wide eyed admiration.
So, we got Grandad a present and then came to see you. I wanted to say sorry to you for not staying long, the weather was waiting for us. Snow! Was that you causing mischief? Silly Mama didn't have a scarf or gloves and it was bitter. I hope you heard me over the wind when I whispered to you to fly over the clouds to Northend if you are lonely. We are always here waiting. Dada felt upset it was cold, it's so hard for us to not be able to keep you warm and safe in our arms you see. I'm sorry the flowers weren't from the garden, I broke my own rule already. Tomorrow I'm coming back with a few more hyacinths that are growing in a tub in the kitchen. I need to share it all with you, what's here. Shop-bought flowers bear no history or meaning. I've just remembered you are lying in rosemary from the garden and it made me smile.
Then we came came home and Dada and I lay together for a while missing you and missing you some more. Then life and it's many chores take over and we're back on autopilot again. It's a double edged sword - it helps us to get through the days but it gets in the way of thinking about you - we will learn to balance this, to be able to think of you whilst functioning. At the moment we just can't accept the events of 5 weeks ago.
I need sleep again, missing you is exhausting. I'll come and see you tomorrow with Grandma, Grandad and Tils. Until then my sweet sweet boy xxx
Phoenix February
Another morning opening my eyes and having to adjust to a life without you. I feel as though there is very little my brain can think about without it latching onto the sadness of your absence. If we talk about last year's holiday, or Christmas, or my job, anything really, I am hit by a colossal shockwave reminder that we had a complete journey together only to fail at the end. I can't piece that together. When I look to the future and try to make plans to heal, once again I am choking on the silence of your departure. How can a day get filled with so much but yet be so empty.
I still sleep on my side. All those times you wriggled and kicked in my tummy and I swore that as soon as you were here I would relish being able to sleep on my front. But I find that impossible to do, my instinct won't allow it because if you aren't here being nursed and cuddled then you MUST be still enjoying the warmth of my body from inside. There is no other rational explanation. All those weeks and weeks of frustration and annoyance at how hard I was finding the physical act of carrying you, and now I find myself desperate to feel that again, because it doesn't compare to the pain of never placing kisses on your warm body.
I said to your Dada last night that so many grieving parents are owned by their sorrow. They are the product of the event of death and want to tell you their stories in detail over and over again. I don't want to be a prisoner to your passing, I want to fill my lungs with life and take what I have of you with me everywhere I go. I want to tell everyone about your life, not your death. When I am asked about my children, you are always my little bird, my youngest, you are part of it all. I will strive to turn this around for you, because I truly believe my darling Freddie, that you will be more at peace through our love and happiness than through morose confusion. I will try so hard for you, but for now we are taking fairy steps, we are creeping forward with gritted teeth. We long for recent history to be rewritten but we know your future is certain. It all converges in the end Fred, this bit in the middle may be of little consequence. A small speck, or blink of the eye before an eternity reunited in the same field. We have forever to play, perhaps for now it is I who sleeps. Mummy can't wait to open her eyes and see you.
Xxx
I still sleep on my side. All those times you wriggled and kicked in my tummy and I swore that as soon as you were here I would relish being able to sleep on my front. But I find that impossible to do, my instinct won't allow it because if you aren't here being nursed and cuddled then you MUST be still enjoying the warmth of my body from inside. There is no other rational explanation. All those weeks and weeks of frustration and annoyance at how hard I was finding the physical act of carrying you, and now I find myself desperate to feel that again, because it doesn't compare to the pain of never placing kisses on your warm body.
I said to your Dada last night that so many grieving parents are owned by their sorrow. They are the product of the event of death and want to tell you their stories in detail over and over again. I don't want to be a prisoner to your passing, I want to fill my lungs with life and take what I have of you with me everywhere I go. I want to tell everyone about your life, not your death. When I am asked about my children, you are always my little bird, my youngest, you are part of it all. I will strive to turn this around for you, because I truly believe my darling Freddie, that you will be more at peace through our love and happiness than through morose confusion. I will try so hard for you, but for now we are taking fairy steps, we are creeping forward with gritted teeth. We long for recent history to be rewritten but we know your future is certain. It all converges in the end Fred, this bit in the middle may be of little consequence. A small speck, or blink of the eye before an eternity reunited in the same field. We have forever to play, perhaps for now it is I who sleeps. Mummy can't wait to open her eyes and see you.
Xxx
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