It has been a long time since I last wrote here. It's not for lack of thought, or feeling. It's certainly not for absence of material. There is a large part of me that finds talking about Freddie, my loss, my grief and the life which has followed, quite difficult. Vulnerability continues to be an unwelcome guest at my table. There is a huge back story to this and it's one which I find equally difficult to talk about, because I have a duty to protect those I love. In telling my story publicly, it informs them of things which may cause them anguish. The rest of my difficulties in talking about Freddie come from the work I have done for nearly twenty years - supporting other people, and my hesitance to trust and feel comfortable with how people choose to perceive me. I have great difficulty in confidence, in allowing people their judgements and in letting go of that worry myself. And so when I recently posted an Instagram photo, explaining what a wonderful time I had, one wild and independent weekend, I immediately felt unease. Unease at how jovial it felt, perhaps even flippant. Do I seem too happy? Do I seem smug? Have I just bought myself a stall to sell my (desired) lifestyle image on Instagram?.
Actually the post was more about finding joy in small things, whilst weathering more storms. There is a lot going on right now, some of it mighty unsettling. Alongside several family hiccups, the royal baby headlines floored me, and I was surprised by how much. I'm so sensitive to "it's a boy!" announcements but it ran deeper. There were debates online about how mothers look several hours after birth, women posting pictures of themselves in bloody gowns, cuddling puffy babies. They were the "keeping it real" posse, standing up for us average Joe's, showing the world that it's normal to look like shit after giving birth and that's ok. The debate touched me deeply because it reminded me that each day when I smile and carry on as normal, I mask that something fairly abnormal happened to me. My post partum photograph was nearly twelve hours after Freddie's birth; barely conscious and still receiving blood tranfusions, saying hello to him in an incubator transport trolley - knowing he was deeply unconscious and not knowing whether I would see him alive again. And yet, even with those awful set of circumstances, I'd go back and do it again, just to run my fingers over his soft tummy. The news then turned to Alfie Evans. I can't comment at all on the case, it's too difficult for me to untangle my own experiences of hospital advice, withdrawing life support and having a child that defied expectations and breathed unaided for so long. These reminders and triggers aren't wildly unique of course, they are all around most days or weeks in some form, but these ones do seem particularly poignant. The armoury that you build in the years post-loss can often fall off, very unexpectedly, leaving you feeling fairly bewildered and raw.
I find that dealing with such difficult reminders, and living without ones child often brings about really deep and existential questions, as you battle to regain control of grief's wildest storms. It can be difficult to find meaning (when there are no satisfactory answers). I do sometimes have a very bleak, fleeting worry that when I reach the end of my days, I'll look back and see my life as sad and perhaps even disappointing. That I failed, that bad things happened, and that I didn't make the best of it. Losing Freddie has made me resilient yet weak, compassionate yet impatient. It's so difficult to laugh in the same way, with so much trauma and loss and longing under the skin. So here I am once more, trying to readdress the balance. The trouble with containing feelings and worries within, is that after time they leak; through tears, through
words, through rage - like a wound oozing through muslin. I have learnt my own grief techniques over these last years, and I largely feel I understand it, but sometimes this process of writing is needed. For as much as we try and make lemonade from lemons, as the saying goes at least, we don't always want the fricking lemonade. My mantra for these last few years has been "all I am doing is living and breathing", and it's stood me in pretty good stead. Wallowing can't last long because breathing shouldn't be an opportunity wasted, similar to my Dad's fairly brilliant KBO motto (keep buggering on... ). Life can sometimes be a very lonely, dark room; devoid of those photos you longed for on the walls, cold and unrelenting. It is tempting to leave the door shut, because the world outside can hurt. But when all's said and done, if you don't try and craft some light out of the prevailing chaos, it would be too dark to see those many moments of outstanding beauty.
