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

Friday 28 September 2012

A safe place (CBT 3)

I've been wondering whether to tell you all about my CBT safe place, but in the end decided why not? I tell them everything else! And since I spent a fair bit of time there yesterday evening, and I'm feeling better today for it, now seems a good time.

My safe place is a mountain top (beaches and meadows never did it for me). I like to think of it as my grief mountain..... it's tall and rugged, a difficult climb, and at the bottom of the mountain is The Pit.....I picture myself taking the last few steps up to the top and standing admiring the view.  It's safe here, because I've "made it",  I feel calm, happy, content, resolved. I feel closer to Bertie here too, it's just me and him.  For some reason I am always dressed as a warrior woman, in skins and furs, and I have war paint on my face.  I guess that is to represent the battle to get to the top. I am carrying a flag, Robert's flag, which I stick in the ground at the summit. It's blue, with a yellow lion on to represent Bertie (I often think of him dressing up as a lion), and a capital R with a halo over it, in red embroidery. The flag is trimmed with gold and red. 

When I get to the top, and place his flag in the ground, I just stand and look out. The view is over a whole mountain range...perhaps those are other people's grief mountains....but nobody else is there.  What is strange is I see it two different ways. Sometimes I am myself, and I see the view. Other times, I am outside, watching myself. Those times, I only ever see myself from behind, I never see my face. I wonder if that is because I don't really believe I've made it there yet.

The CBT course invites me to meet my compassionate self in my safe place. My compassionate self is an older, wiser me, who doesn't harbor  any ill feeling or negativity.  She understands my grief and my depression, my anxiety and my fear. She doesn't try to advise me or make it all ok, she just listens.  But she also reassures me that I am going to be OK, because she's been here and now she has "got there", like everyone told her she would.  Wherever "there" is.  She is all the best of me and none of the bad bits.  I don't want to meet her on my mountain top though, not yet.  I like the idea of being there myself, without her help. I like the peace it brings to be there alone.  It doesn't seem right that she should be there with me.  Perhaps the me that is there is actually her, maybe that is why I don't see my face...... Interesting.

I am starting to think I should do a psychology course, just so I can begin to understand myself.........

Wednesday 26 September 2012

Still just as missing....still just as missed

So, I'm past the first year "the worst is over" and yet I don't feel any better. In fact I'm struggling more than I have in a while.  It's a mix of things......I am dealing with a lot of internal battles at the moment.  trying to stay positive and live life to the fullest I can...but knowing that deep down, no matter what I tell myself, no matter what mask I wear, I am still so sad.

My son is still missing...he is still missed. A year on, it isn't any better.  The anniversary has just renewed the feelings of what should have been.  How different my life should be now.  I think about what my one year old would be like....what I would be like as a mum....what my husband would be like as a dad....how our life would be....how tiny our flat would seem with three of us.  I feel so robbed.

I have talked about guilt and shame before, well I'm feeling those feelings again...still..I don't know, I guess they never went.  But last week I got a diagnosis that is a little hurdle in our path to becoming parents. It's not a big deal...but then it is, to me.  I feel like such a failure.  I couldn't keep Bertie safe, now I'm facing problems getting pregnant again.  I watch my husband play with our friends' children, and it breaks my heart that I couldn't give him our son.  I can't give him another child yet.  My parents are as desparate to be grandparents as I am to be a mum.  My sister never met her nephew.  I feel like I'm letting everyone down, not least myself.  I just want my chance to be a mum.  I think I'd be good at it.

The rational part of my brain knows none of it is my fault, that I am not a failure or letting anyone down. Doesn't change a thing. I've said before, so many times, grief is not rational.

The vicar prayed with me a while after we lost Bertie. He asked for another pregnancy, when the time is right, and that that would bring redemption. At the time I thought that was a strange choice of words, but now I think actually yes, I think I do need it partly for redemption, to prove to myself and the world I can do this. Not to make up for what we have lost, that's impossible, but to bring some joy to a broken and stricken family.

I can predict what the responses to this post will be-take your pick from the following

You are not a failure
You are an amazing mum
None of this is your fault
You will have another one
It will be your turn soon
It will happen when the time is right
You still have your husband, you have to be glad for what you do have
You can't put so much pressure on yourself, it won't help
You must try to relax

Do you think I don't tell myself these things every day? It doesn't change the fact I have to go to sleep every night with a broken heart.  That I have to battle with myself to try to stay positive every day. That I hate myself for feeling resentful and jealous towards my pregnant colleagues. That I shut myself in the office at lunchtime so I don't have to eat lunch with one of them.  That the fact I do that makes me feel so pathetic.  That I feel so alone despite being surrounded by so much love.  That my son is gone.
That I just want my turn to come, so I can feel better.
That I just want to be happy again.
That I just want my life back
That I just want my world back
That I just want my son back




Thursday 20 September 2012

Angelversary

I wasn't sure what I was going to write about today.  I thought perhaps I would talk about how I have survived the first year....but I don't feel like a survivor.  Being a survivor suggests it is over.  I don't believe I am going to wake up tomorrow and suddenly feel so much better because the first year is the worst and I've done it.   Maybe I could tell you that I am trying to take the very good advice of a friend who tells me that after the first year, you've lived all the dates before, and it will never be that bad again....or maybe I could make some quip about deciding to embrace being 30 because it sure can't be any worse than being 29 was......I could say I am one year older, and 50 years wiser.

What I think I need to do is tell you about 20th September 2011.

I have never written this out before, but since I find writing so cathartic, perhaps I need to do this.  Be warned, this is not an easy story to read, so please stop now if you think this will upset you too much.

My first memory of the day is watching the clock.  We'd been told that the first 48 hours were critical, and I remember counting down the minutes to 48 hours....willing him to make it.  I did a little internal cheer when he did, and I felt myself relax. He was going to be ok, it was looking good, he was doing so well, so strong.  It was so cruel.  I don't remember the exact time I got the call, but it wasn't long after the 48 hour point a midwife came in to me and said "they need you down in SCBU. NOW." I knew then, but I didn't want to believe it.

On shaky, not long off the operating table, terrified what I was going to find legs, I made my way down to the unit.  I was by myself, having sent Mark home to get things organised for me to be discharged.  I was allowed into the unit, but not his room, so I sat on a plastic chair outside and waited for news.  One of his nurses, the pretty one, came out and told me he'd had a big bleed in his lungs and they were dong what they could, but he was poorly.  Did I need anything? "no, leave me, go and help him" and she hurried back in. The other nurse ran out, and back in again with a little red box. I knew what that box was for. That little red box was bigger than my baby. I started shaking, I think.  From somewhere the lady that gives out the bounty packs appeared and sat with me, I shouldn't be on my own, did I want a cup of tea?  "No, no thanks" thinking please go away.

The sister came along and asked a lady in uniform, a cleaner I think, to take me somewhere. I am led to a little kitchen area,  fabric seats, do I want a cup of tea? NO I feel sick.  Mark arrives, with his dad "have they told you??" I cry, then mum arrives.  Time passes, I don't know how long.  One of the junior doctors keeps coming in to update us.....preparing us, I know, for what they know is coming. "we are doing all we can but your baby is very sick"

My father in law says "there is still hope" but I know there isn't.  My prayer changes from "please save him" to. "If he can't be saved, please give me the strength to say yes when they come to ask me the question" we know which prayer was answered.

Sister appears again, if it is important to us to have Robert christened, we should do it now.  Yes, please call the chaplain.  Then the consultant, the question, the autopilot.....yes.  My husband asks for more time, but I want his suffering to end.  They go with my decision, I think they had decided anyway.

The chaplain is here, we file through into his room, my dad has arrived with my mother in law, I'm glad they made it in time.  He looks so tiny, the incubator gone, he is so still laying there all alone, his tubes are removed and I hear him cry for the one and only time, a tiny squeak.....it breaks my heart as I fear it is a squeak of pain, but he looks so calm I don't think he is hurting.  We gather round, he is baptised, a simple service, we don't promise to raise him in the church and renounce evil. We all know that isn't to be.  Then I sit and he is brought to me, placed in my arms, I say "mummy's got you sweetheart" and he is so calm, he looks at me, he knows I've got him.  I tell him to go to sleep, just go to sleep Bertie, his daddy holds his hand.  I pass him to Mark for a cuddle, then back to me.  Everyone fades away, gives us space, and I realise this is the first time we've been together as a family, just the three of us.  I am so calm, so is Bertie, we are together at last, how we should be. It is so bittersweet.

I know the moment he leaves us, I say "I think he's gone". Mark disappears, he comes back with the consultant. Two fingers on his chest, a stethoscope, "yes, he is at peace".  I stand and carry him back to the little table his incubator had been on, lay him down, he weighs nothing at all. Would we like to bathe him? Yes please. Cotton wool, a bowl of water. "I'd better wash behind your ears Bertie" It's the first time I've noticed them, they were under his hat before.  They are so tiny and so perfect, like the rest of him.  I wonder vaguely where his hat has gone.  All done, they are not sure if they have an outfit small enough for him.  I decide I want to go and buy him one. Shocked faces, are you sure?? Yes, please let me.

Outside, it is raining hard. Mark says "see, even the Heavens are crying" Mum drives us to town, she forgets to put her glasses on.  In the car park, a lady asks us for change to park. I ignore her, Mark is polite, how can he manage this now? In the lift, two teenage boys. Don't look at me, yes I am crying, what about it?

We find Boots, baby clothes, I almost collapse. Mum one side of me, Mark the other. I find the tiny baby outfits. Two choices. We choose the white one with tiny blue stars and elephants. He'd like that one.  They only have term sized hats, never mind, he must be warm, I pick up a blue one.  Mum pays, asks the lady to remove the tags. I hadn't thought of that, and back to the hospital.  In the car, we hold the outfit between us so it will smell like us.

Back at SCBU, Mark reminds me I still need to wash my hands, there are other babies here. He is so level headed.  We go through to Bertie, he looks so tiny, we dress him, he is already cold.  The pretty nurse gives me a yellow box, a white knitted blanket.  Perhaps you would like him to have this? In the box are two tiny teddies, one for him and one for us.  It's a memory box, for all his things, she's put in his name tags and cot card already, with some photos.  We wrap him in the blanket and give him his teddy. It is about 2 inches tall, and fills his entire chest. His fingers are curled from holding daddy's hand, now he's cuddling his teddy. He looks so peaceful. His hat is too big, never mind, he must be warm.  "They won't let it fall off him will they?" No, they will keep him exactly as he is now.

One final kiss on his forehead, and there's nothing more to do. We make to leave, leaflets now, call SANDS, they will help you. What? How can anybody help me with this?

Hearts shattered, we leave the unit.  I'm in a daze, like a zombie, I don't know how I am moving forwards.  Outside, another mum squeezes my arm. This happened to her first baby, she knows. How can anybody in the world know? I have never felt so alone.




Tuesday 18 September 2012

Happy 1st Birthday Bertie


A year ago today our son gave us the surprise of our lives by arriving 14 weeks early, after just 3 hours of labour and an emergency section due to being footling breech.  He weighed just 2lb 3oz but was perfect.  He put up such a brave fight and gave us two wonderful days of memories.

This is not how I envisaged wishing happy birthday to you my gorgeous boy. Know that we love you very much and miss you today and every day.


1st Birthday in Heaven

Birthday celebrations today have begun
For you, I am sure, because you’ve turned one
I guess that a year, in eternity, is no time at all
That amongst forever, a year seems so small
But down here it’s significant, a long time you see
To be living each day without you here with me.
I wonder at how your face would have changed,
By what sort of hair would your features be framed?
One thing I know, your daddy’s eyes
I can picture them still, as I gaze at the skies
A year has passed, sweetheart, I miss you still,
Nothing could ever replace you, no one ever will
No longer my baby, but always my son,
Growing up fast, yet not growing at all, 
as in Heaven you turn one.
















Tuesday 4 September 2012

Isn't time supposed to be a healer?

That's what everyone told me, at the start. I didn't believe them, how could enough time ever pass to heal this wound? I still don't agree with that trite statement, the thing everyone says when there's nothing else to say, the thing that comforts the comforter, not the sufferer.

Well, it's been a year, almost. Two weeks today Robert will be (should be) one.  And I'm having a major meltdown at work.  After a few tears last night I thought today was going to be better...no.  I am so angry, and sad, and I just want to scream at the injustice of this life, again.  I'm supposed to be planning a party, joint for my 30th and Robert's 1st maybe, all the family together, making happy memories, photos, cake, candles.....instead, I am running away to Italy to hide from my birthday and distract me from his.  Bertie will get his candles, at his grave, not on his cake.

So, that's the "healing" time has given me.  I no longer feel the raw, uncomprehending, can't get out of bed today pain that I did then.  But I still feel empty, lost, confused, sad, angry, bitter, resentful, tired of life. Tired of this life.  My arms are still empty, my heart is still shattered, my son is still gone.  Time.   How much time will fix that?  How many sticking plasters in the form of positive thinking, or counselling, or tablets, or whatever I decide to try next are ever going to take this pain away? None is the answer.  They might distract me for a bit, cheer me up for a bit, but it never lasts, it just buries the pain a bit deeper for a while.  How can I fix the unfixable?



Monday 3 September 2012

Dreams

I find it really interesting how our dreams often reflect the thoughts and feelings our subconscious mind is processing.  I have had three baby dreams since Robert died, well, three that I could remember when I woke up anyway.

The first was more of a nightmare, I had a baby boy (not Robert) in a car seat in the back of the car, I stopped at some lights and he was taken from me, someone opened the car door and stole my baby.  I was helpless as they ran to another car and drove away with him.  It was terrible, so real, but not surprising really, I did feel like my baby had been stolen from me, so I guess it was a mix of processing what had happened, and a deep fear that it would happen to me agan.

A few weeks later, I dreamt that we brought Robert home.  It was around Christmas I think, when he was due, and around the time he would have been coming home had he lived.   That was lovely, and again, clearly what was on my mind at the time, a little glimpse into how it should have been.  The horrible thing about that dream was that I had to wake up and remember that he wasn't here, that we'd had to say goodbye.

Then nothing more for months, which felt like a shame, but also a relief.  Lots of mums say they want their children to visit them in their dreams, so they can see them, for a while at least.....but the pain of waking up and remembering.....I'm not so sure.

Last night, I had my thrird baby dream, and maybe now I am ready for them, because it was just lovely, I dreamt I had twin baby girls, I was holding one, Mark the other, we were arguing abut how to put nappies on for the first time, me getting short tempered with his fumbling man sized hands as he struggled to do it........so lovely.   But why two babies? Clearly I want to be a mum so badly that my subconscious interpreted that as wanting twins.  Well, maybe in a dream......