"I will praise the one who's chosen me, to carry you"
-Selah: I will carry you

Wednesday 30 May 2012

Do I carry the grief? Or does it carry me?

"It feels like I am talking about someone else's life" Words my boss said to me the first time I saw her after losing her dad.  Oh boy can I relate to that one.  Eight months on, I am still struggling to comprehend the enormity of what has happened to me.  My baby died.  My much wanted and anticipated, loved and cherished baby boy died.  I was pregnant, then suddenly I wasn't.  He was here, then he was gone.  A little human life who I watched fight to stay then I had to watch lose his battle.  He mattered.  He still matters.  But I am a mother with nothing but a grave to show for it.

The grief no longer totally consumes me.  I am learning to carry it, it is part of me. I am able to put it to one side and do what I need to do. Every day I wear a mask- the mask of "ok", the professional mask, the mask that hides my grieving mothers' heart.  That doesn't mean the pain isn't there, just that my mask isn't cracking today.  Maybe it will tomorrow.  I wouldn't say I have mastered it yet. I am still overwhelmed by the grief wave when it catches me unawares.  I am prepered for anniversaries, special dates etc.  I know Monday's are hard because it's peads clinic at work and babies are everywhere.  So I'm fine, I can cope with it.  But on Tuesday I might see a mum-to-be rub her bump and crumble.

A few weeks in I wrote a poem about "the painted on smile" I didn't share it outside of my babylost community, and I won't now, becuase it was written in anger, I was in a different place to where I am now.  But the last verse I will share here, becuase it is still true:

It won't go away, this cross I must bear
Just please understand when I shout "it's unfair!"
There's just no escape from this tormenting maze
I will carry this pain for the rest of my days.

For the rest of my days.  Grief is a constant presence, no matter what else I am doing, with every beat of my heart: lub dub, lub dub, lub dub....I miss him, I miss him, I miss him.

Saturday 26 May 2012

Right where I am 2012: Eight months and six days

What an amazing project! An opportunity to take stock, and sit and really think about that. Where am I right now? So thank you, Angie (Stilllifewithcircles) for the opportunity, and here goes.

It is the end of May, and it is beautiful outside.  The parks and public spaces are full of families, laughing children, babies in buggies, sunbathing couples, picnics, prams, games.  And then there's me.  I feel separate to them, I am there, I am reading my book in the park, enjoying the sun, chatting to friends, just another 20-something woman who doesn't have kids yet. Only she does. Only she doesn't.  Only she should have.  So that's it, that's where I am right now- stuck in the "should have beens"

I no longer break down in tears, or shakes, or feel the need to run away at the sight of other little families. But I am jealous of them. I do look at them and think- that should be us too.  Why are they living the life we should be living, why are we not?

I spend a lot of time now thinking about this time last year- I was pregnant, and so looking forward to this time this year- being out in the sun with my baby, on maternity leave and going for walks with my buggy, visiting family and sitting in the garden, maybe this weekend would have been his christening?  I feel cheated, that is new.  I no longer just focus on his loss, it isn't all consuming any more, instead I think about what we would have been doing together,  I mourn the life he should have lived, the future we should have enjoyed together.  I wonder about the stage he would be at now.  Newborns are less of a problem to me as 8 month olds.  I suppose rather than staying a baby forever, I imagine him growing in Heaven.

I still have a lot of moments where I am back in the hospital holding him as he passes away, and it feels like yesterday.  But now I am able to think less of that moment, and more of the happy memories, all the things he achieved in his 51 precious hours.  Both make me cry, but in different ways.  I cry less now, no longer every day, and no longer for hours at a time.  It's a few gentle tears then they're gone.

I have reached a point where I am able to take enjoyment in life, but it is"happysad". This is a term I made up a couple of months ago, because I could not think of a better way to describe how I felt in that moment. I am able to enjoy life and feel "happy" as an emotion, but it isn't happy how happy used to be, it is mixed with sadness that Robert won't ever experience the thing that made me happy.   How can I ever feel truly, innocently, carefree happy.  Not happysad, or happy if only, or happy but....just happy.  I still can't see a time when I will.   I know the worst case scenario. I know acute, life changing grief.

I am trying again now, because I feel that the only thing that will bring enough happiness to balance the sadness is a sibling for Bertie.  I am aware that it won't make it all OK, that I will still grieve for my first born, and that it may make it worse in a lot of ways as I discover with each milestone the next baby reaches exactly what we, and he, have missed out on.  But, my arms are empty, and every ounce of my being aches to be a mum.  I feel like life is on hold, I am just going through the motions, waiting for life to begin again.  And I don't think it will until I see that positive pregnancy test.  What is interesting is that I don't feel guilty about trying again any more. I did, the first couple of months, it felt like I was trying to move on too soon, and that I would be leaving Bertie behind.  As time has moved on, so has my mindset, I no longer feel that guilt.  Maybe it is because we knew we always wanted our family close together, so if he were here, well maybe we'd be trying again now anyway.  Enough time has passed that I won't look at the next baby and think, if Bertie had lived, I wouldn't have you.  It is terrifying though.  So much so that in some ways it is a relief each time it doesn't happen.  But what else can I do?  To get my life back on the track it was supposed to be on, I have got to go through the scariest nine months I will ever face. And just hope I get the full nine months this time....


So, where am I?  I am here. 




Friday 25 May 2012

Footprints

Since I first read it, "footprints" by Mary Stevenson has been one of my favourite pieces of writing. In recent months, it has had more meaning to me than ever before.  Today, my new piece of art has arrived!  "Footprints" by Samantha Higgs.  It's a bit of a cliche I know, a photo of footprints in the sand, but I like it so I don't care.  I can look at it every day and remember that I am being carried.

Footprints in the Sand
 
 
        One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord.
             Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.
                  In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand.
                       Sometimes there were two sets of footprints,
                           other times there were one set of footprints.
 
                                  This bothered me because I noticed
                                that during the low periods of my life,
                             when I was suffering from
                         anguish, sorrow or defeat,
                     I could see only one set of footprints.
 
          So I said to the Lord,
      "You promised me Lord,
         that if I followed you,
             you would walk with me always.
                   But I have noticed that during
                          the most trying periods of my life
                                 there have only been one
                                       set of footprints in the sand.
                                           Why, when I needed you most,
                                          you have not been there for me?"
 
                                 The Lord replied,
                          "The times when you have
                  seen only one set of footprints,
          is when I carried you."
                                                   Mary Stevenson
 

Wednesday 23 May 2012

I feel lucky to be a Christian

Today my boss is burying her father. It's brought back a lot of awful feelings for me, memories of Robert's service and how I felt that day, it's hit me hard and unexpectedly.  I didn't atted this serivce, because I knew I would not handle being there well, and would be no support to her.  Just thinking about her and knowing how she feels right now is very difficult.

I was chatting to a colleague yesterday about it, and it came up that he is athiest, and does not believe in life after death. He thinks that when we are gone, we are gone. I find that very sad.  For me, I feel very lucky to have my faith, and to be certian that Robert is in a better place, and that I will be with him again one day.  It is what enables me to cope, to deal with it.  If I believed he were simply gone- I don't think I could handle that.  What is interesting is that my colleague feels the same, he said he wishes he could believe what I believe, but he just doesn't, and can't make himself believe it.  I think that is true, you can't convince yourself one way or the other, you have to feel it in your heart.  I realise some people reading this will not be religious people, and I consider myself one of the lucky ones because I am.

Becuase he doesn't think there is anything else after life on Earth, my colleague is very aware of his own mortality, and that of his parents.  Whereas I am not afraid of death, not any more. There's someone waiting for me.  The way I see life now, is that I have faced the worst thing it is possible for a human being to face, and survived.  So what do I have to fear? The only thing I am afraid of is going through this again one day.  The thought of starting this journey a second time is just unbearable to me.

Saturday 19 May 2012

At the beach

Thoughts from today.

The Beach


Silent tears fall unbidden from my eyes
As thoughts of you again enter my mind
This is where I come to feel close to you
Do you like the beach? I'm sure that you do.
There's no-one else here, it's just you and me
Is that you playing, in the breeze off the sea?
If I close my eyes, I can feel the sun
Warm on my face- "I love you mum"
As I kneel to write your name in the sand
I remember every detail of your prefect, tiny hand.
On my finger, I still feel the trace of your touch
Bittersweet memories to which I must clutch
I promise, I won't ever forget,
Bertie, my angel, the day that we met.

Friday 18 May 2012

Do you...?

I hope he does.

Do you see me standing there,
when I visit your forever bed?
Do you hear me when I say
I wish it were me instead?
Do you hate to see your mummy
So lost, so broken hearted?
Do you wish, like I do
That we had never parted?
Do you share my pillow at night
And wipe away my tears?
Do you feel the slow passage of time
How each day feels like a year?
Are you proud of your mum and dad
As we cope and carry on?
Do you look down on your nursery and say
That's where I belong?
Do you catch my kisses
Sent to you in the clouds above?
Most of all my angel babe
Do you feel my love?

The 18th of the month


Today Bertie would be 8 months old. The 18th is always a tricky day for me, thinking about how old he would be now. In the early weeks, every Sunday was hard, as he was born on a Sunday, so every week marked how old he should be, but more than that, every week felt a week further away from him. As time has gone on, the weeks are less important, now it is the months that I mark. I guess eventually it will be years, but for now, I light his candle on the 18th of every month.

He comes to play, whenever I light his candle. It flickers like mad, despite there being no breeze. You may think I am crazy, but I do believe it's him. I never used to be someone who believed in these "signs" from lost love ones, but I do now. I can just tell when it is him. For example, every time I visit his forever bed, the sun shines. Even on a grey and miserable Christmas day, the sun poked through the clouds just a little bit for us. He is my sunshine. That is not to say that every time the sun shines, I think it is him, because I don't. I can tell the differece. It is hard to explain, but I just feel an inner peace when it is him, like he is telling me he's ok and he loves me.

For me, it is very important to be outside, that's when I feel close to him, especially at the beach, which is weird because I never used to be a beach person. Ever since my first visit to the beach when I wrote his name in the sand, I feel close to him there. I can't get to the beach today, but we will be there tomorrow, just me and Bertie x x

Wednesday 16 May 2012

Music

"The only justification for pain is art" Danny O'Donoghue

One thing I have discovered is that I now listen to music. I mean really listen, to the lyrics, the meaning of the words. And I find I get so much more out of it that way. There are several songs that I find help me now. Some because they are comforting, others because they make me think of Robert.  So here are a few of my current favorites- beware, it's quite an eclectic mix!

Faith Hill- Somewhere down the road
Hymn- Be still my Soul (beautiful version sung by Selah on you tube)
Bob Dylan- Make you Feel my Love
Leo Sayer- You Make me Feel like Dancing
Karen Taylor-Good- Precious Child
Eric Clapton- Tears in Heaven
Faith Hill- There You'll be
Faith Hill- If my Heart Had Wings
Michael Buble- Lost
Pink- Beam me up
Selah- I will Carry You

Check them out, I think you'll understand why I like them :)

I let him down.

Guilt. Something every angel mum feels at some point I think.  There's a rational part of our brains that knows this was not our fault, but another part that feels, I was his mum, and I couldn't protect him.  I think it's worse when you have no reason, it is for me- I have nothing else to blame, so the "blame" falls on myself.  Something went wrong. I did everything I was supposed to, but still my body failed him. He was perfect, if only he wasn't born so early, he'd be here, a happy healthy 6 month old.  There was nothing I could have done....but I was his mum, and I let him down. 

Guilt.

Guilt, it lays heavy upon my heart

A crushing weight, I can't shake free
Some days it is so overwhelming
I wonder how I have the strength to breathe.
So, small, so fragile
my precious one
Born too soon, he wasn't done
My body failed him, it failed me too
The most important job I'll ever have
I didn't manage to do.
And now, I am here, and he is not
This is it, this is my lot
The life of an angel mummy is hard
Guilt, it lays heavy upon her heart.

Tuesday 15 May 2012

Staying Sane


In the very early days, I was desparate for someone to give me advice on how to get through it. I got lots and lots of reassuring "it gets better" comments, which was great to hear, but I needed something to help me there and then. "Time" is a never ending entity, and when you can barely see the end of the next hour, let alone the next week, month or beyond, it isn't all that helpful to hear "time heals"-which it doesn't, by the way. What is does do is help you learn to cope. Until you get there, here is my advice to newly bereaved mums and dads. I am so sorry you find yourself needing it.

Cry. Above all else, cry and cry and never try to stop yourself. Scream. Beg. Shout. Cry.

Lean on your support team, the people who will make you eat, and deal with stuff so you don't have to. Lock the rest of the world out for a while if you need to-that's OK, it's temporary. Nominate one person from each group you belong to (colleagues, friends, distant family, church, local groups etc) and tell that person. Ask them to spread the news to the rest of the group, so you don't have to keep telling the story.

Tell people what you need because trust me, they have no idea! When you are ready to see people, let them in, on your terms. Talk about your baby as much as you want. Show off their photo if you want to. Your baby is beautiful, why shouldn't you show him/her off? Expect that some people will not be comfortable with that. This will hurt. In time you will grow a thick skin.
Don't let anyone tell you how to grieve. You have to do this your way, and right now you probably don't know yourself what you need to do. You probably feel very lost. Don't be pushed into going out into the world until you feel able, and certainly not back to work until you feel ready. When you feel able, set yourself small targets for the day, give yourself a reason to get out of bed. Maybe coffee with a friend, maybe a trip to the library (I did this lots to get books on grief!), whatever you can manage. Being outside may make you feel closer to your angel. Look for little signs from them, they are there.

When you do go out, avoid busy family times like Saturday/Sunday afternoon. You will notice every buggy in town as it is, don't torture yourself. Stick to evenings for the weekly shop- or shop online!

Going back to work is really scary. Try going in at lunchtime to begin with, or just meet a close colleague for a coffee beforehand. If you are worried about going in, could someone meet you the first morning to walk in with you? Consider sending an email round first, telling the story, so that everyone knows and won't ask you questions. You can use this as a chance to tell people if you want to talk about it or not. My colleagues really appreciated this, it made it eaiser on everyone, me included. Expect people to avoid the topic for fear of upsetting you. Don't be afraid to bring it up yourself if you want to- they will follow your lead.

Cry some more. You soon get used to crying in public. It's OK. You are human and you are hurting. Always carry tissues in your handbag!


Lots of people may try to relate to you by telling you about the time they had a miscarriage, or lost a parent, or even a pet (yes, seriously!) Try to remember, they are just trying to help, but be gentle on yourself too and allow yourself to get angry at them privately!


Do things for your precious one. Fundraise (we did a skydive!!), make a video/slideshow from all your photos of them, make a "life album" with photos from the pregnancy, scan pictures, and their photos from after the birth. Put the birth certificate in there. Frame their hand and footprints if you have them, or have a piece of jewellery made with them. If you don't have them, have their name engraved on a ring, or their birthstone in a bracelet.

Write. Write letters to your baby, keep a journal- you will look back and be amazed how far you've come. Write poems, or read other peoples'.

Try counselling. I know- I didn't think it would work for me either. But it did. It was the best thing I could have done, it gave me a "safe" place to talk about Robert, where they wouldn't offer advice, or change the subject, or try to comfort me. They just helped me to process the grief, and reassured me it was all "normal"

Know that nothing is "normal" anymore, but that is OK

Cry.

This is just what worked for me. Feel free to comment with your own advice for others.

Monday 14 May 2012

Tesco: my nemisis

It's amazing how many little things became hard when you're an angel mum. It affects everything, absolutely everything you do. I mean, there are the obvious difficult things, like family days out, big events, birthdays, anniversaries, etc. but actually, the little stuff can be hard too.

Pretty much everyone who knows me knows I am not a fan of the weekly shop! I hate it, it's the worst chore on the list, but just lately, it's been more than that. When I go to Tesco, I feel anxious, sad, stressed, I usually want to cry. It's like a weekly torture for me. Why? I just noticed the pattern tonight, how I always feel anxious and uneasy at tesco, how my mood drops significantly when I step foot in the place. And I think I have realised why. It's humdrum. It's one of the things I should be doing with Robert in tow, probably crying and stressing me out for all the right reasons! Maybe the sight of all the other families doesn't help, nor the racks of baby clothes positioned so that I seem to notice them no matter how hard I try not to. Or the item I desperately need that means I have to pass the baby aisles. Or the big baby and toddler club sign at the back of the shop......

How does a seemingly competent, independent woman suddenly become afraid of the supermarket? And more importantly, how does she overcome it?

The Pit

When we first lost Bertie, someone described grief to us like a hole in the road, which we would eventually learn to walk around, but now and then we'd fall back in. For me, that hole has become not-so-affectionately known as "The Pit".


The Pit is a wide, deep hole, the sides get steeper the further in you go, and at the bottom is a black tarry substance. This is black despair. This is where it all begins. The loss pushes you into the pit, blindsides you and shocks you, you have no warning and cannot stop yourself from falling headlong into that tar. The tar is thick and sticky and stops you climbing out. It's more than swimming against the tide, it's like wading through thick treacle. It takes a lot of time to break even one foot out of the tar, but it is possible. It is made easier by a chain of people all holding hands to reach you and pull you out, your family, your friends, other angel mums, colleagues, clergymen, all sorts of people, anyone who reaches out can help as part of the chain.


Once out of the tar, so begins the long slow climb up the sides of The Pit. The steep sides at the bottom are slippery too, and it is all too easy to slip back into the tar at this stage, that chain of people are not off the hook yet! Eventually, you make it past the steep slippery walls and reach a little ledge to rest on, towards the top of the walls. Here is where you learn to cope. Congratulations, you see a sign that says "welcome to the new normal" you stay here for a long time, resting, recovering from the climb so far, trying to work out how to make it the rest of the way out, afraid to begin the upward climb again, for fear of slipping back down into the tar, you don't want to go back to that place. So, resting at the new normal, that seems safe for a while, from here, you can see the light peeping through the black clouds that hover over The Pit.

The ledge, the "new normal" is the place where the people outside see you doing very well. They see you getting on with life, managing maybe to make a few plans, to go to work, to function on a normal level.  From here it is easier to hide the hurt inside, becuase the people outside don't see through the black clouds above you to the despair that surrounds you.

The ledge can be a lonely place, you can hear the people outside the pit living, laughing, enjoying life, you want to get out and be with them, feel like them, carefree and happy. You can't.  You have to stay on the ledge for a long time whilst you process what has happened to you, and gather your strength to make it the rest of the way out.  You do try though, some days you climb almost out of the pit, poke your head above the clouds and see the sun.  You get to interact with the people outside for a while, but it doesn't last....after a while you feel weighed down, and, exhausted, you slide back down the edges of The Pit back to the ledge beneath the clouds. But, at least you are not back in the tar. From the ledge, you know you will eventually make it out......

Sunday 13 May 2012

God


People try very hard to help us make sense of the "why".  I have heard so many variations of "things happen for a reason", "it was God's will", "He needed him more", "it's all for a higher purpose".......None of these things make me feel better.  Infact they make me feel worse.  They make me feel that, as well as losing my son, and a huge part of myself, I have lost my God too. How can I believe in a God who could take my baby away? What "higher purpose" could ever make this OK?

My faith, my belief system, has been shaken up, torn apart, and put back together with jagged edges.  It is still there, just differently to how it was.

As children we are taught to believe that God is all powerful, and that he is Just and fair.  Well, to continue to believe those two things, I must also believe that I deserved this to happen.  If I didn't deserve it, well, either He is not all powerful, or He is not just and fair.  I believe we live in an imperfect world, and He cannot "fix" everything.  I believe He is as angered by Robert's death as I am.  Maybe I believe that because it "fits" better for me that way, but I cannot find a better way to make sense of it all right now.

I used to believe things happen for a reason, and I have examples from my life where at the time, it felt like the end of the world, but later I would look back and see that actually, it was for the best. Not this. Tell me, how could losing my son ever be for the best?Could you believe that if you lost your child?  What I think now is, terrible things happen because the world is imperfect.  God's hand in our lives shows through the way we continue on, we help and support each other and we continue to believe there must be something to live for when it seems all is lost.

This piece is untitled so far, as I cannot find an appropriate title.  It is me questioning God, something I expect I will continue to do for the rest of my life.

Did you intend for this to happen?
Was it always part of your plan?
Did you know I was to lose my son
Before his life ever really began?
Is this a lesson that I needed to learn?
Had my life been too easy, was it just my turn,
For sorrow, for heartbreak, for confusion, for doubt?
Did you want me to question you,  do you want me to shout?
Because I will, I do, because I don’t understand
Why this had to happen to my little man!
I try to see the good things that may be yet to come
But I can’t see what they could be, I’ve been struck dumb.
I know that I must trust that in time I will see
Your footprints in the sand, that you’re carrying me
Ever forward on my journey, the reason I’m still here
Despite the madness, despite all the fear
I am grateful for that, that you love me enough,
To keep me believing, though the journey has been rough
I will continue on with faithfulness, and wait for hope to restart
But my hallelujah is broken, just like my heart.

The Beginning....


Since losing my son Robert almost 8 months ago, I have found writing has helped me a lot, to get feelings out, process my tumbling emotions, help people understand my grief, and hopefully, to help other angel parents. And so, the time feels right to start a blog.

Here goes, bear with me, I'm new to this! I guess I should start with a little about me. My name is Sarah, I am 29 years old. I am a bereaved mother, wife, friend, daughter, professional, Christian, and now, blogger! You'll notice I put bereaved mother first. That is because that is the thing that sadly defines me right now. Oh how I wish I could drop the "bereaved" and just be "mother". Every day I wish I could turn back time and hold my baby again.

Losing a child changes you fundamentally. It rocks you to the core and challenges everything you believe to be true about the world, yourself, your future, your faith. There is no going back from the moment you hold your dying baby in your arms, from the moment the doctors tell you that nothing more can be done. All us angels parents can do from that moment on is strive to survive, to reach the new normal. 

I am not who I was. I wish I were, but I am not, I cannot ever be.  I am me after Robert.



Me after You


A carefree laugh touches my lips,
But it’s tempered with sadness, because I’ll never hear that sound from you
Beginning to live, spring is coming at last, after the long hard winter,
I can see a future.  I have hope, I have faith
But I have a heavy heart, always.

Every day brings fresh tears
For you, and your future lost
I know that you’re in a better place, but you should have lived here first
Everything I do, every new experience
I feel a little sadness because
 You’ll never do the same.

A hard lesson to learn, at 29
That I can never have all I want from this life
That a piece will always be missing, a hole in my heart
Where nothing can fit, no matter what I do.
Starting to make plans, to organise
A little of the old me returning....but I can’t be her
Not completely.

She is me before you, she’s gone for good
Now, I am sadder, and I always will be
Nothing can take away this pain, not even time
I will learn to carry it, to continue on, but
I have a heavy heart.


The bereaved mother is a fragile being. Outside she may appear to be very strong, and to cope amazingly well, but inside, she is hurting more than you can imagine. She doesn't feel strong every time her heart breaks when she sees another baby, she doesn't feel strong when she lays awake at night crying until her insides hurt. She doesn't feel strong when she wants to fall asleep and never wake up again, just so she can be with her child, nor when the world around her seems to be going so fast and she cannot keep up. Some days it is all she can do just to get out of bed, others she manages to smile. It's always there though, despite the mask she wears, bubbling just beneath the surface is the sadness, the hurt, the confusion, the unanswerable question. Why my baby?