Child loss is relatively unspeakable in our society isn't it. It goes against the grain. We don't like death generally, because it reminds us that this old world isn't permanent; and because we can't imagine being nothing, we tend to avoid deep conversations about it. None of us like endings particularly, aside from the moment a shit film finishes or we walk away from a terrible relationship. But add in the death of a baby and this uncomfortable theme takes on a whole new level of awkwardness. I have hypothesised many a time that baby loss is such a horrendous subject that most people try to minimise it, or shut it down, or try and draw parallels which just aren't really appropriate. People also don't like to imagine that there's an event which could happen of which there is no getting over. An eternal pain. I suspect human beings are generally, at the crux of it, optimistic beings, and so dealing with a person who may remain partially or wholly sad forever is uncomfortable to say the least. Humans also like to try and fix things, so it's doubly frustrating to realise there's no fixing this forever loss. We can only take so much gloominess before we start wondering if we are absorbing negativity, without realising that the negativity is actually just love with no real channel. It is those reasons why baby loss isolates us. Very few people are brave enough to take that journey with us; to gently hold our hands and say "I'm willing to listen to your words forever, I will talk about your child always".
It is so sad that a common theme in our journeys is a breakdown in friendships and relationships. We not only navigate the start of a new, unwanted life but also one which is often much lonelier. How troubling that society forces us to the sidelines at the very time when we need surrounding with love. We stumble across unfortunate comments and circumstances and find ourselves somehow needing to fit in, rather than the outside adapt to the shape of our loss. We, the square pegs are expected to become round, to be understanding of other people's discomfort and to be forgiving of their clumsiness and avoidance. Why shouldn't the hole (society) try and become more square? Why can't it take a minute and be understanding of our loss and forgive us our ongoing distress.
This January, two years after Freddie's death, I found myself suffering from more grief and anger than I ever had before. The curious and devastating truth of my loss, was that for two years I mostly contained my grief. I did it for my other children, for my rainbow child, but it was mainly shock and avoidance. I have struggled with the guilt of his absence, the loss of a child before, feelings of being punished.. the list is fairly long. But sadly by the time I had reached full acceptance and was hurting the most deeply, everyone else seemed to want to move on. They had dealt with what had happened as much as was comfortable, and by the time I was completely raw with the loss of my beautiful boy, they were fairly baffled by the strength of my feeling at this point in time. He was forgotten in conversations about how many grandchildren there were, in presents containing photos OF the grandchildren. I received two birth announcements - one the day of the anniversary of his funeral. Only one family member messaged me on Freddie's birthday... just one. My grief by that point was glossed over, minimised, or at best placated. I tried on a number of occasions to talk about how I was feeling, to release my pain for them to see, to tell them I felt alone and was hurting. I was told "people just don't know what to say, they just don't understand", I was also told "you have other children to focus on " (as if they weren't my reason for getting up each day), and I was also told "perhaps it's time to move on". Where do you go with grief when society bolts its doors?
Society needs to set itself free in its conversations about death. Nobody should have to be the uncomfortable silence. This week I'm getting involved with the Dying Matters Awareness Week (http://www.dyingmatters.org/AwarenessWeek) in the hopes that we can open up conversations and learn how to support bereaved people better, whoever they have lost and whatever the circumstances. Of course we'd rather ignore death until someone becomes so old or ill that it becomes a release (then we can insert comforting platitudes about "being at peace" or "having had a good innings" or "not suffering anymore"), but it can happen when we least expect it, and ultimately we are all just a phonecall away from something life changing. I can't ask you to imagine being without your loved ones, but I can ask you to imagine feeling like nobody wants to listen. Let's be prepared to support, to love, to be brave and accept someone's journey however bleak or scary it may seem. Isn't is what any of us would expect?
Tuesday 9 May 2017
Friday 27 January 2017
Rainbows
This blog has been many things to me. It has been a shelter, catharsis, therapy, the pillow to cry into and the screen to rant at. I set out for it to be a tribute to Freddie and to grief, and I hoped that someone, somewhere might read it and feel they weren't alone. Yesterday I wrote for the first time in a long time, briefly about Freddie's due date and why that date will always be so special and poignant. Since then I have been pondering on what life has become, given I've not really talked about much; and what I have blogged about is obviously what I had set out to discuss. But there is so much more and perhaps it's ok to talk about my rainbow without it detracting from Freddie.
When I was pregnant with my rainbow baby Sadie, it was literally the last thing I wanted to discuss. It felt like a betrayal to Freddie and I felt a reluctance to mention it because acknowledging was to invite in real fear, and potential for further heart ache. A pregnancy after loss is unimaginably hard for a myriad of reasons. The first clearly being the psychological shit storm of how to bring a live baby home. The weight of responsibility to get it right this time, for yourself, for your partner, for your other children. The conflict of emotions when you want to love the new baby (and you do of course), but you fight against connecting in case you have to say goodbye. The guilt for wanting more, or for moving on in any way. The constant distrust of your own body. The shielding of questions from people, the reassurances from people, basically just dealing with people. Ideally, all you want to do is race through 9 months and be as mentally and physically intact as possible, without having to talk to anyone at all. Looking back on the pregnancy now, I have no clue how I managed it; though I know that having a good clinical psychologist helped. I have learned (sometimes at least) how to stay in the moment. I feel that is one of Freddie's greatest gifts to me. My mantra for last year was "all I am doing is living", and it is. Whatever we do, whatever we cope with, whatever sadness we carry, the time it takes to carry it is just living and breathing; and we do it without even thinking for so much of our life.
On 17th March 2016, Sadie Wren Elizabeth Bean entered the world, crying. That sound heralded breathing for us all too, we'd held our breath for so long. I had tied myself up in so many knots of responsibility, for Sam who was on the cusp of his GCSE's and who I'd convinced myself would be ruined if I let another baby die. For Tilda, who had been so brave after such huge loss and huge questions at the then tender age of four. Biggest of all was the responsibility I felt to Simon, who had been so reluctant to go through another pregnancy, who was so fearful of another health emergency, losing another child, financial woes. He had warned me that another pregnancy and baby could be the undoing of us. So when she arrived, we collectively exhaled and prepared to get to know this tiny little daughter and sister, weighing a confusingly small 5lbs 8oz. Sadie from the start has been a magical gift. She has taught us to carry on with lighter love in our hearts and has given me an exceptionally unique opportunity to parent once more. She has taught me a patience and calm which I didn't know I had - not because she has tested my patience in any way but because I appreciate every single bit of it. She currently wakes up at 5am every morning and whereas my older children would've been hushed to go back to sleep, I am (mostly) delighted to have the opportunity to go downstairs and play with her. Her presence does not make Freddie's absence any less painful but it does contain the loss like it has been put in plaster cast, still broken but gently protected from the elements. When Freddie died, I often felt like I should join him. I'm often overwhelmed by the feeling that he's alone, and it's excruciating. I remember saying to Simon, on the first night I was moved from HDU onto the bereavement suite, that Sam would be old enough to cope, that Tils has such a strong bond with her Daddy and therefore would never be alone, but Freddie was without anyone and I felt I needed to remedy that. Sadie has quelled that storm, because she somehow binds us all together and sandwiches Freddie right into where he should or could be. The journey after loss is never over. I hoped in the early days when I hurt too much and understood too little that it would be. I imagined in some way that I would look back and think "bloody hell that was a horrid time, thank god it's over and I moved on", much as I do when looking back on my first, and very abusive, marriage. Now I understand better I can see that as awful as it is to live with, it is equally wonderful to think of your child(ren) with pride. How on earth could I forget or regret such a beautiful little boy? And the fact that all my children look so alike means that Freddie is never truly gone. Sadie has such a sparkle about her and a lust for life that sometimes, just sometimes, you could almost imagine Freddie sent her with a message to live every moment as well as you can .
When I was pregnant with my rainbow baby Sadie, it was literally the last thing I wanted to discuss. It felt like a betrayal to Freddie and I felt a reluctance to mention it because acknowledging was to invite in real fear, and potential for further heart ache. A pregnancy after loss is unimaginably hard for a myriad of reasons. The first clearly being the psychological shit storm of how to bring a live baby home. The weight of responsibility to get it right this time, for yourself, for your partner, for your other children. The conflict of emotions when you want to love the new baby (and you do of course), but you fight against connecting in case you have to say goodbye. The guilt for wanting more, or for moving on in any way. The constant distrust of your own body. The shielding of questions from people, the reassurances from people, basically just dealing with people. Ideally, all you want to do is race through 9 months and be as mentally and physically intact as possible, without having to talk to anyone at all. Looking back on the pregnancy now, I have no clue how I managed it; though I know that having a good clinical psychologist helped. I have learned (sometimes at least) how to stay in the moment. I feel that is one of Freddie's greatest gifts to me. My mantra for last year was "all I am doing is living", and it is. Whatever we do, whatever we cope with, whatever sadness we carry, the time it takes to carry it is just living and breathing; and we do it without even thinking for so much of our life.
On 17th March 2016, Sadie Wren Elizabeth Bean entered the world, crying. That sound heralded breathing for us all too, we'd held our breath for so long. I had tied myself up in so many knots of responsibility, for Sam who was on the cusp of his GCSE's and who I'd convinced myself would be ruined if I let another baby die. For Tilda, who had been so brave after such huge loss and huge questions at the then tender age of four. Biggest of all was the responsibility I felt to Simon, who had been so reluctant to go through another pregnancy, who was so fearful of another health emergency, losing another child, financial woes. He had warned me that another pregnancy and baby could be the undoing of us. So when she arrived, we collectively exhaled and prepared to get to know this tiny little daughter and sister, weighing a confusingly small 5lbs 8oz. Sadie from the start has been a magical gift. She has taught us to carry on with lighter love in our hearts and has given me an exceptionally unique opportunity to parent once more. She has taught me a patience and calm which I didn't know I had - not because she has tested my patience in any way but because I appreciate every single bit of it. She currently wakes up at 5am every morning and whereas my older children would've been hushed to go back to sleep, I am (mostly) delighted to have the opportunity to go downstairs and play with her. Her presence does not make Freddie's absence any less painful but it does contain the loss like it has been put in plaster cast, still broken but gently protected from the elements. When Freddie died, I often felt like I should join him. I'm often overwhelmed by the feeling that he's alone, and it's excruciating. I remember saying to Simon, on the first night I was moved from HDU onto the bereavement suite, that Sam would be old enough to cope, that Tils has such a strong bond with her Daddy and therefore would never be alone, but Freddie was without anyone and I felt I needed to remedy that. Sadie has quelled that storm, because she somehow binds us all together and sandwiches Freddie right into where he should or could be. The journey after loss is never over. I hoped in the early days when I hurt too much and understood too little that it would be. I imagined in some way that I would look back and think "bloody hell that was a horrid time, thank god it's over and I moved on", much as I do when looking back on my first, and very abusive, marriage. Now I understand better I can see that as awful as it is to live with, it is equally wonderful to think of your child(ren) with pride. How on earth could I forget or regret such a beautiful little boy? And the fact that all my children look so alike means that Freddie is never truly gone. Sadie has such a sparkle about her and a lust for life that sometimes, just sometimes, you could almost imagine Freddie sent her with a message to live every moment as well as you can .
Thursday 26 January 2017
What is in a (due) date?
At the very beginning of that journey, the moment where we stare down at that digital display or two blue lines. We sit, mesmerised, stomach turning over with excitement, fear, love and trepidation; right at the beginning where the calculations start and a countdown commences. This magical date becomes the centre of your new world. It signals the start of hopes and dreams, of altered sleep; of new relationships, new roles, new dynamics. It is anticipated to be the moment of meeting love itself. And however much we know that this date may not be fixed, this is the flag in the ground – the focus of our attentions for the next 8 months or more. How strange it is that this date has then become long since forgotten with the children who have come home with me. It has become replaced by a more meaningful birthday and those milestones like first teeth, first steps, first words. The memory of having future hopes and dreams is replaced by the daily peaks and troughs of real life.
Today is Freddie’s due date, and because his “firsts” never came to pass, this date is etched into forever as a marker for my hopes of meeting him, and my dreams of our life together. Today I remember the innocence of that pregnancy and the wonder of growing him. I remember those worries which accompanied our journey, from getting him here safely, to the fear that I might not have enough love to go around. I remember the joy I had in seeing his feet thump around my belly, and the huge impatience I had to meet him and tickle those feet properly. I remember counting down the days to 26th January 2015, desperate for him to be early because in my mind I had waited for him for years instead of months. How foolish that impatience seems now, to wish away what little I eventually had. The due date continues to harbour those precious few memories, in a way which isn’t necessary with children who live. It becomes a storage unit for that short but beautiful life of innocence that we shared with our child, and the heart-breaking reminder of a date which so cruelly dashed all expectations.
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