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

Sunday 29 December 2013

Gratitude.

Another Christmas over, another new year approaching, another chance to reflect on another year gone by. We are about to enter into our third year of trying again. We never imagined it would take this long, never imagined what we would have to go through to get our rainbow. It's been tough, really tough, on top of the indescribable grief of losing a child. And yet, I am reminding myself, once again, of all the things I have to be grateful for. I guess doing so prevents me from falling back in The Pit. Back into despair.  It would be so easy to let go and fall back in, to wallow in the tar, but I won't let that happen. I will think, briefly, of my friends' rainbows growing up, of other friends, and family who didn't have to try, of all the people I know who, for one reason or another, had the most amazing 2012, 2013...whilst I, well, didn't. And then I will stop, take stock, and reflect on what I do have. What I am grateful for, and I surprise myself, that actually, there's quite a lot...

I am grateful for my husband.  I have lost count of the times he has held my heaving body as I sob at yet another failure.  Another dissappointment. How many times has he told me he doesn't want another woman, one who would have given him a baby by now? How many times has he told me I am not broken, that I am perfect as I am, that he loves me. How many times has he sat in silence. Out of words. Broken by grief and disappointment himself but unwilling to show it as he knows I will just blame myself all the more. I am so grateful.

I am grateful for my marriage. Same thing in a way, but not.  How many couples have split over the stress of either child loss, or infertility? How many would survive both? I know we will never face anything worse than we already have. We buried our boy. If we can do that we can do anything.  We are solid.  How many people do I know who long for that? Trust me when I tell you that I do not take it for granted.

I am grateful for my family, especially my mum and my sister, who show their love for my son nearly as much as I do.  They understand what I need and they do it.  Others support in their own way too, and again, I know many people who do not have the support network that I have.

I have a roof over my head, and what's more, I own it. (well, a few bricks of it at least).  Many of you know I've been complaining a lot over the past year about not being able to sell this place, and now, thank God, we have. And I am so grateful, to even have it, let alone to have sold it. We get to have a fresh start, in a new home, leaving behind the sadness these walls contain.  I know how lucky I am in this respect.

I love my job. I do! How may people get to say that? Yes, since my world fell apart, there are aspects of it which I find hard...but on the whole, it is challenging, engaging, interesting, well respected and well paid.  Plus I get a great pension deal! In a country where unemployment is high, and job satisfaction is low, I am one of the lucky ones.

I'm grateful that I live in a country where treatment is not only available, but free. I love the NHS. It frustrates the heck out of me at times, but we are so lucky to have it.  When I get frustrated talking to american friends about their latest treatment and that they get it pretty much instantly whilst I have to wait weeks at a time, I remind myself just how much they are paying for that treatment.  I wonder often, what we would have had to pay for our two days with Bertie? Would they even have given us two days, or would we have had to prove we could pay first? Could we have paid? It doesn't bear thinking about.   Nor does the end of the line with help trying again. But I know that the end of the line would have come a lot sooner for us if we didn't have the NHS helping us on this journey.

I am grateful that I had him. Not that I lost him, never that, but I am grateful I got to experience pregnancy, and moreover that I got to meet him. I am grateful for the ways in which he has changed me, I believe for the better, you may not agree.

I am grateful for my faith. Although I question it daily, I am so grateful that I know he is in Heaven, he is watching me and waiting for me, and that I will see him again. Without that, I don't think I would have survived this.

So please don't think me maudlin, or grief-focused, or ungrateful. I am not. But. Despite all of this, my son is not here, and I would give up all the material stuff in a heartbeat to have him back.  The one thing in the world I want is being denied to me, despite having all my ducks in a row, despite being oh so ready to be a mum.  Yes, my husband and I have each other, and yes, I have a nice life in other ways. But had Bertie lived....I would still have all of those things and so much more. I'd be whole.  Had I been blessed with a rainbow...I'd be broken but patched up. I would have a purpose.



Monday 23 December 2013

Christmas pain

It's come, the grief wave. As I expected, though I thought not yet. Not yet, I thought I had a bit longer to cope. It hits unexpectedly, in a moment, in a kind gesture from a friend. The missing him. The missing piece.

For so long now I have been so focused on the next baby. I must get pregnant again, then it will be ok....but it won't will it? The grief will still be there. Christmas will still be painful.  One photo, one beautiful/painful memory and I'm in bits. Longing to hold him again, longing to smell his hair. To feel him wriggle free because he's a big boy now and he wants to run, not sit on my knee. My heart torn once again when I remember he will never run.  That tomorrow I will take his Christmas gifts of red and white carnations and sparkly red robins to his grave.  Christmas eve because I can't bear it on Christmas day. I can't bear the missing him and I can't bear the guilt.

I can't bear it.

Never. ending. torture.

I miss him.

Sunday 22 December 2013

The third Christmas

I want to tell you, those of you who are not as far on their journey, it is easier this year. Or more truthfully, it isn't so painful. I haven't spent the last six weeks dreading Christmas, but nor am I looking forward to it. This year, I feel mostly apathy.  Well that's progress, right? I've put up the tree, and enjoyed with happysad tears watching Bertie make his candle dance in his excitement. I have started a new tradition of buying a toy for a disadvantaged child his age- man was that tough, and I have managed successfully for third year to get everything done early enough to avoid all the hype in town.  But I'm not excited. I am not looking forward to it, I just want it over.

I'm keeping it short and simple this year, family stuff 24th-27th then back to home turf, can do. Yep. Going to be totally fine.

Isn't it?

There's another side to it for me. This is not only the third Christmas without our son, it is also the third without the hope of a rainbow. I am telling myself for the third time, next year will be my year.....It's getting old. It's getting hard to believe. Not only do I cry over missing seeing his excitement as I turn on the tree lights, I cry as I wonder if I will ever see the excited face of my child at Christmas.  Will the only gift I will ever by for my child be decorations for a grave?

And I don't understand it. I just don't. I ask of God, wasn't taking my son enough? Why are You putting me through this torment, again and again?  People tell me I don't deserve this, and it isn't a punishment...well it sure feels like it! If God is in control, and I am not being punished....then what the heck is going on here?

A year ago today I wrote about it being Bertie's due date, and I didn't know how much more my shattered heart could take. Today I sit here writing that I have only just realised what date it even is....but my heart? Still shattered. I'm still desparate, still bitter, still exhausted, and still angry. I feel broken, physically, emotionally, faithfully.

Christmas. "Unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given".  Only not to us. Never to us.

Tuesday 26 November 2013

Holding baby

Today I faced a very big hurdle; for the first time since Bertie, I held a baby. A little boy, not quite eight weeks' old.  I've been very anxious about this for a long time, all through my friend's pregnancy and since he has been born.  How will I cope? Will I be able to visit? Will I cry if/when I do? How much will this hurt? Today, it felt like time.  Maybe the therapy helped, maybe it was just a step I needed to take now.   I knew I couldn't live in fear of this forever.  I couldn't avoid all babies and all friends with babies until my rainbow arrives. 

I wanted so badly for the next baby I held to be my own.  Life wasn't to allow me that. I felt bitter about that for a long time, I don't mind admitting. Haven't I been through enough? I asked, over and over. In a way though, maybe it was better this way. Maybe I needed to hold anther baby, before I could have my own.  Would I really want to face that fear right after giving birth? Would I want to remember Bertie's last breath and fear my rainbow was about to do the same?  I don't want fear to spoil that moment when my dreams come true.  And now, maybe it won't.  The fear has been faced, conquered, put in it's place.

Visiting and chatting was fine, I was anxious but OK as my friend held and fed him.  We both knew what was going to come and I guess we were both a little anxious about it. I honestly didn't know until she asked me whether I wanted to hold him or not.  When the question came, I felt the anxiety rise, the familiar tingle in the heart and sharp stab of adrenaline running down my arms. I surprised myself when I said through stifled tears....yes...I do. And I did. I really did.

As she handed him to me and I settled him into my arms, I felt fine. Peaceful. The anxiety melted away.  The tears came when I gave him my finger, and he squeezed.  That was the moment I was back with another little boy, gripping my finger with all his strength.  But I was able to seperate the two. I could remember my son, and talk to and enjoy holding this little boy at the same time. I could be present in the moment and remembering another moment all at once. This wasn't Bertie, nor was it my rainbow, but that was OK. It was still lovely to hold this tiny life and have him stare at the crazy lady talking gibberish to him.  Then, tears from him....back to mum.

Later, I held him again, to give his mum a loo break! This time I kept hold a little longer.  This time, I rocked him and walked with him to try and settle him.  It worked, and I felt I was a natural! Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  So strange to see myself holding a baby. Beautiful and painful all at once. A stab in the heart but also elation.  Thinking: This will be me. This will happen. I will be holding my own baby soon. Look how perfect it looks. How right. How it is meant to be.  I do believe it is meant to be. It will be.  It should have been. Bertie.

It was healing. And I am grateful for that.








Thursday 14 November 2013

I have a box of memories...


It's here, at last. The memory box we commissioned for Bertie has arrived. I love it. It is exactly how I pictured it. He whispered to me, helped me find the right man to make it. It is beautifully crafted, it really is stunning. The wood is so smooth, the marquetry looks like it could have been printed on. I am delighted with it. So why am I sobbing?

I must need the release. The memory box has triggered the memories.  It has reminded me of his missingness. Of the memories we haven't made, won't make. Of the toys I wish I were buying him instead.   Can we really be approaching our third Christmas without him? Can this really still be my life?

I haven't filled it yet. I can't bring myself to do it. That means going through his things, his little life, and putting them away into their new home.  It needs time. It needs respect. It needs my full attention and love. It demands the raw hurt and tears that I can't face right now. Just having it is bittersweet enough for tonight.
 
My son. His life story in one box, his body in another. To others, a name, a memory, a whisper. To me, the world. 

I just want to hold him again.



For Robert

So now I’m an angel mummy
My future dreams all gone
I have a box of memories
Of my perfect, precious son

Photographs just aren’t enough
I want to hold you near
I want to see your toothless smile
And gaze at eyes bright and clear

I wish that I could see you grow
And comfort all your hurts
But that was never meant to be
What pain could ever be worse?

We’re grateful for the time you gave us
You really, truly tried
You squeezed my hand, you knew my voice,
Our little soldier, you filled us with pride

You looked at me with your daddy’s eyes
And stole my heart away
I picture your face, looking back at me
Each and every day

To me you’ll stay forever perfect
At peace forever more
My heart will yearn for you my son
Until I’m with you once more

Robert we’ll love you forever
In our hearts you will live on
For you are part of our story now
And you’ve made it a magical one.


21st October 2011. 

Saturday 9 November 2013

Quiet.

I am currently having a fair amount of therapy. Some of it my Christian friends don't entirely approve of, but, I am delighted with the results of it so far. I feel better. I am finding that the inner voice that constantly tells me negative things has, well, shut up. Or rather, I am more able to shut her up more often, which is huge for me.

I should feel really crap tonight. I just found out that our last cycle of the current treatment didn't work. Again. This means having that scary op that I really don't want. This means a twelve week wait to even HAVE that really scary op I really don't want.   I should be a sobbing wreck. I should be saying it isn't fair over and over and over as two more people in my life announce easily-won pregnancies. But I'm not. I feel.....quiet. Peace. My mind is changing. The therapy is working.

I feel God is working things out for me. I can hear Him louder, clearer.  I still have a few issues with His timing, and His apparent unfairness in dishing out the miracles....but we are going to get ours, I believe it now. I realise that I didn't for a while there.  It helps enormously that we have had some really good news this week...not THE news of course, but great news all the same. News that almost makes it OK that I am still not pregnant.  And I can't help but think...maybe, just maybe we will be that couple who after months of infertility treatment, manage to get pregnant once they stop.   

Maybe.

Saturday 12 October 2013

Babies everywhere I look

I'm at work. I never usually blog from work, it isn't what I'm here to do, but right now I just need to take five. Or maybe ten.  It's peads clinic this morning, and it's a huge list. And it seems like more than half of them are babies today. Everywhere I look there's another happy parent holding their baby. It's tearing me apart.  I was doing ok, I even saw one or two of them earlier, but it's getting to me now. It's such a torment. Work, the one place I can be distracted and NOT think about what I don't have. The place I can wear the professional mask with pride and excell at what I do.  Not today. Today I'm reduced to greiving, infertile mother who is not a mother. And it hurts so bad.

I saw a quote yesterday, "Envy: Blowing out someone else's candle won't make yours shine brighter". This is true. I don't believe that is how my envy is though. I don't want to blow out anoyone's candle. I don't want them to NOT enjoy their babies, or not have them even.  But I am jealous. I just want my candle to burn too. I just want some of it to stop hurting. The Bertie pain will never go, I know that, but the pain of infertility is just an added cruelty, which can be removed from me, if only my prayers would be answered.

Sunday 6 October 2013

Doing well and coping amazingly.

I've just been through the tough month. The month that feels like life is nothing more than a series of hard dates to get through, and then one more.  I've been told a lot this month that I'm "doing well" or "coping amazingly".  My boss' favorite when I tell her that a particular something has been hard that day is to tell me "yes but Sarah, six months ago, you wouldn't have even done that". Big whoop! Aren't I doing well? Aren't I coping amazingly! Well I don't want to any more. I don't want to do well and cope amazingly. Or rather, I don't want to have to.

I want more.

There has to be more to my life than this. There has to be more to come for me, surely? Can I really be destined for a life where my biggest achievement of the week is not crying when a colleague brings in her almost one year old, reminding me of just how long this road has been for me? Reminding me of the early days of grief watching her bump grow. Can I congratulate myself on how far I have come and be satisfied with that? Of course I can't. So why do people expect me to be pleased with my "achievement" of coping? Especially, when society's definition of coping is not crying, it seems. So, what we are basically saying is, "well done you for not crying, have a coconut!"

Forgive me for not feeling like the cat who got the cream. I'd rather have won the fish.

Friday 20 September 2013

Feels like it was yesterday

I didn't expect to blog today. I didn't expect the immense pain I feel today. Two years since we said goodbye, and it feels like it was yesterday. It's hit me incredibly hard. I've been catapulted back once more into The Pit.  I am absolutely distraught. I can barely type through gut wrenching sobs. The grief wave is back and it's a tsunami. I'm not even reliving it- not like I did last year,

I just miss him, completely, with my whole self. 

I feel how I felt then, lost, empty, alone. Despite being surrounded by so much love, I feel absolutely alone.

Time is not healing, it's getting worse.

Thursday 19 September 2013

Year two anniversaries

Here we are again, in September. It's different this year, not easier, but different. One big difference was in the number of people who remembered, and acknowledged what yesterday was, it seems people are finally realising that I WANT them to mention him! I was overwhelmed, actually, by the outpouring of love, messages, textx, and even cards and gifts that came through yesterday, before I said anything about it. They remembered. And they mentioned it. Thank you, thank you thank you to all those people, after my "obligatory sympathy" post last month, it was a very welcome surprise.

As I said though, it has not been easier. I am not sure why, but I have a few ideas. It could be because society expects it to be easier this year, it could be because I expected it to be easier this year. Of course, it isn't easier. He's still missing, he still is not in my arms where he belongs, and I've missed out on a second birthday party for him.  I think, in addition, it's the feeling of being another year away from holding Bertie, yet no closer to holding my rainbow. Time is passing, but life is not moving forwards.

I want to try and explain to you readers, how this journey feels to me.

Imagine you are walking a long journey.  You have already been walking a very long time, you are tired, physically and emotionally exhausted, because even though you have been walking for a very long time, you have no idea where the finish line is. That's tough, and tormenting, because you can't pace yourself. You don't know if around the next bend in the road you'll see the end, or if there will be another huge hill to climb.  You fear it's the latter, and the thought makes you despair, because you are so tired, you don't know how you will find the strength to make it up that next hill. You beg for it to be the end, just one more bend in the road, then no more, please.  But you know it's futile, the road is as long as it will be, and there is nothing you can do to change it.

There are people along the way, some being supportive, some pretending they can't see your struggle. Some walk and share your journey for a while, but then they reach their ending and leave you on your journey alone. Some try to advise you, they tell you to stop, relax for a while, stop walking and then you'll get to the end. Of course you won't! If you stop, you are just prolonging the journey, you have to keep ploughing on.

Now imagine you have an army training backpack on. This huge weight that you cannot shake off, that is pressing down on you, slowing your progress further. Part of you wants to just take off the backpack and leave it on the road, carry on without it, surely that would be easier? But, that backpack contains your most precious possessions, memories, love. How can you leave it behind? You just want to make it to the end of the journey, and you cry because you don't know if the end is 500 feet away, or 500 miles.

My life.

Wednesday 18 September 2013

Two

Two

Ride on toys and tiny shoes
Tantrums- the "terrible twos"
Missing you, and missing out
On learning what being a parent's about
We cannot watch as you grow and play
But where you are, you're happy, I pray



For my son on his second birthday in Heaven. Happy birthday gorgeous boy, we love and miss you as much today as the day we said goodbye. xx

Monday 9 September 2013

He never fails to suprise me

This weekend has been very happysad. My brother in law got married on Saturday, it was a beautiful day and we all had a wonderful time. It's also a day I've been dreading for some time, dreading because I knew it was going to be a very hard day of missing Bertie, like all family/celebration days are.  I spent all day imagining him with me, in his little suit, running around on the dancefloor with all the other toddlers, photos with the bride, keeping him entertained through the speeches, saying goodnight early as he has to go to bed.....none of that happened, of course, becuase he was missing.

I coped admiriably, I think.  There were hard moments. The prayer in church that they would be blessed with children, twisted the knife as I remembered the same prayer at my own wedding.
The fact that it seemed we were the only couple there our age without children, and of course, just the fact that the whole family was there, and Bertie wasn't.  I managed. The mask was superglued on, and I did enjoy myself despite the pain in my heart.

The following day, we went to visit Bertie.  This was our last chance before his birthday next week, so we wanted to decorate his forever bed for his second special day. There had been a spare buttonhole left over from the wedding, so we took that to him too. As my husband wedged it in between the carriges of his train, the tears began.  He shouldn't be leaving a buttonhole at his son's forever bed, he should be pinning it to the jacket of his first tiny suit. It was such a bittrersweet moment, so wrong.  He was included, but not included as he should have been. And that was it, the floodgates were opened, the mask was off.  All the pain, all the hurt, all the missing him of the day before escaped from my eyes in a torrent.  Maybe it's the build up to his birthday again too, all at once that's a lot to deal with. 

Then an amazing thing happened. A little robin appeared from behind Bertie's stone, and it hopped along right infront of us, as we sat there. It came so close to us, and jumped all on Bertie's flowers and stone. It stayed for ages. I felt he sent it to tell me, don't cry mum, I'm here. And that, of course, made me cry all the more.



Such a precious boy.  I love you xx

Sunday 25 August 2013

Obligatory sympathy

I have noticed recently, on social media, that people have stopped commenting so much on some of my posts- specifically the difficult, sad, grief loaded ones.  Me being me, I decided to observe as much on my latest status.  I got the expected reassurances from friends who are "still listening just not commenting" which is fine, but in amongst them was an honest, not unkind, comment that took me by surprise: "unbroken humans get bored/tired of hearing about the despair of others after the obligatory sympathy period"*  The words themselves didn't surprise me, I had figured that much out for myself, but the fact that someone would actually say it suprised me. And it's made me decide to write about this concept of the "obligatory sympathy period".

I understand, now I am here, what people mean when they say the second year is in some ways harder than the first. People have by now expected you to move on, stop sharing your grief, it's making us all uncomfortable.  Be British about it and pretend it never happened. The "obligatory sympathy period" is over and we don't want to hear it any more. Nor will we remember when we wake up on September 18th, why it's a difficult day for you,  we have gone on with our lives, our worlds have carried on, and they don't include your son. Sounds harsh, doesn't it? But I do believe it is true. Good friends will reassure me that they don't feel this way...yet. But I expect there will come a time when they do. It's human nature.  People don't want to keep witnessing and being reminded of horrible pain/misfortune/despair. It's easier to hide it, turn a blind eye, forget it and go back to whatever they are up to at the moment.  

I wish I could.  I wish my life, my whole life, would not now be tempered by this cataclysmic event. I wish my life weren't divided into "before he died" and "after he died" But it is.  I can't feel momentary sympathy, then forget it and go back to my cornflakes. This is my life, forever.   I wonder if I will ever reach the point of wanting to not talk about it? Of wanting to pretend he didn't happen?  I have family members who I believe have reached that point already. Maybe it's a generational thing, maybe it's because I'm his mum...but I don't believe I ever will. Maybe though, just maybe, I will at some point feel able to keep a lid on it, to not feel the need to remind everyone else that he DID exist and it DOES hurt like hell that he isn't in my arms now.  Until I reach that point, thankyou to those who still feel able to listen, and a bigger thankyou to those who still talk to me about it.

I don't want obligatory sympathy, or generic responses of condolence and platitude. I want friends, true friends, who genuinely care about me and my life....and most of all, my son. 

I just want him to be remembered.

* I am not using this post to have a go at the person in question at all, I have included the comment purely to show the context of my writing today.

Thursday 22 August 2013

Insanity?


"Insanity: Doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results"
-Albert Einstein 

No wonder I feel like I'm going crazy. This is what we are doing, the same thing over and over and hoping the result will be different. But what else is there but to give up? When does "I'm doing everything I can and still this isn't happening" become "I am not going to put myself through this any more"   When do I depart the crazy train? Would I ever? Could I ever? The desperation is not going to go away. I can't decide to stop trying and be at peace with that decision. And yet, I am doing everything I can...there is nothing different I can try now....so I am stuck in insanity, doing the same thing over and over and over again....until, I suppose, the end of the line. Only, I don't know where the line ends. 

Tuesday 20 August 2013

Prince George



Earlier today I opened the BBC news web page to be greeted by a beautiful photo of Prince George and his proud parents beaming into the camera. It's a relaxed shot, not the typical stuffy "official" posed photos. It's beautiful actually, and it triggered a meltdown. And now I am asking myself why? Why is this baby, who I will never meet, such a trigger? When I've been getting better with baby photos lately. They dont make me cry, sometimes I even smile. I can even stop myself muting the TV when certain adverts come on, and I'm ok....so why this baby? why today?


Is it because I'm feling fragile anyway, with September looming? Is it because there's been so much media coverage of this particular birth? Is it because it makes me think of my own son, who was conceived just before they got married? Maybe it is all of those things in part. But the main thing, I think, is not the baby himself. It's the parents. Their beaming faces are the picture of parental happiness and pride.....the feelings I have been cheated of and so long for again.  I do not resent them, or any other new parents for that matter, their happiness. But, sadly, their happiness reminds me of my own lack of it. And that is what makes it so hard.  Particulaly right now, as I am losing hope that I will ever feel that happiness again.

"Every new parent knows how this feels" An innocent remark from a new dad as he leaves the hospital with his wife and son. No your Royal Highness, they don't. I don't. Nor do countless other stricken families who are suffering the same torment I am. I feel such sorrow for the parents of the babies lost the day the prince was born.  It must be unbearable for them right now.

Sunday 18 August 2013

How do you find hope when hope is gone?

18th August 2013. One month to go until Bertie's second birthday. Another year has passed, and I am still in the same place.   I still cannot believe I am here, that this is my life. And yet, I can no longer imagine any other life, any alternative path. It has been so long now that I can no longer imagine myself with my rainbow.  I cannot picture the scene, I have no idea of how it will feel. I have an overwhelming sense that it won't happen. That I am never getting my rainbow.  I feel no closer, even though we are being treated, as nature has given me her monthly slap in the face, we've been knocked back three squares on the game board, again.

I am losing hope.

I know people try longer than me, I know miracles happen, I know it has "only" been twenty months of trying for this baby.  I know. But, it's been four years of wanting to be a mum, four years of committing myself to bringing my baby home, and I have nothing to show for it but grief. A forever bed to tend. A memory box. Will it ever be anything more? Will I ever be anything more than a grieving mother?

Hope is fading fast that I will. And, my faith is being stretched beyond endurance. After two years of desperately trying to cling to my faith, I am but a snapped thread away from declaring "I am done with You!"  I feel God has answered my prayers with a resounding NO! Not only that but I am tormented every day by other families, other pregnant women, people in that alternate universe of success.  Rubbing salt in my wounds, through no fault of their own, simply by receiving what I am being denied. My faith is not as strong as Job's. I am failing the test. And that is just as big a loss as the loss of hope. As the loss of my son. As the loss of me.

I don't know where to go from here and I don't know how to get through this.  In the words of Audrey's song: "People say that I am brave but I'm not....truth is I'm barely hanging on."

Sunday 11 August 2013

Second year grief

"To have a child is to forever have your heart go walking around outside your body"
-Elizabeth Stone.

To lose your child is to have your heart break, and for half of it to go forever to Heaven....

Grief, the ever present, but usually now quiet, companion has turned back into the all consuming monster today.   Missing him never goes away, but today missing him has taken up a bigger part of my consciousness.  It seems the build up to his birthday, and angelversary, has begun in earnest.

I am finding myself back in the hospital, holding him, saying goodbye.   I'm walking away like a zombie, another mum touches my shoulder, she knows.  It's like it was yesterday.

And I am still in the same place. Life has not moved on for us. Many people must think, it's been two years, they forget, they move on, their world still turns. Our worlds stopped turning, our lives were put on hold, and two years on, life has not begun again yet. 

It's true that on the face of it I am functioning, I enjoy life more than I did, I'm a healthy weight and I'm for the most part, out of depression. But, I'm still a shell of the woman I was. I'm still striving for happy. I'm still waiting for life to begin again.

Next month, I'm another year older, then a week later my son....isn't.  I'm so afraid people won't remember.  One day soon I will make a second birthday decoration for his forever bed.  I will wonder for the millionth time if I will ever celebrate a birthday with a living child. 

And I just want to scream. Still. I MISS HIM.....I miss me.  I want life to begin again.....I want what my friends have.  I know I can't have Bertie back.  I want my rainbow. I want to walk forever away from the edge of The Pit. I want peace, joy and above all....happy.

Sunday 4 August 2013

Absconditus dues

The God who goes missing

It's Easter Saturday in my life, has been for approaching two years now.   Easter Saturday is the day between Jesus' death on the cross, and His resurrection.  It's the time of disbelief, of not understanding, of despair, of "where is God now?"  It's a time that Christians who are going through a time of trial are reminded of.  The difference being, of course, that the original Easter Saturday only lasted for 24 hours, not 24 months, or longer. 

I can tell you, Easter Saturday really sucks.  It's a time of testing, of asking "what are You up to?"   but, it is also, paradoxically, a time of being closer to God.   My faith, that for years I took for granted, suddenly made me sit up and pay it attention. I am talking to God more than I ever have before.  And that, I suppose, is exactly what God is up to.  Doesn't make it OK that my son had to die.  But, is it ok to accept that sometimes, it doesn't make sense? Do we really have to show our faith by steadfastly looking for, and convincing ourselves of, God's work in amongst the crisis?  Can I be allowed to be angry, to question why, am I being singled out? Why did I have to lose my son, and why am I being denied my chance to be a mother again? What have I done to deserve it?

Sometimes, He takes a step back, and makes us seemingly go it alone, in order for us to reach spiritual maturity, as the father who takes his hand away from the child learning to ride a bike.  It doesn't make it any less frustrating and it sure doesn't make Easter Saturday any easier.

CS Lewis write: "When I lay these questions before God I get no answer. But a rather special sort of 'No answer.' It is not the locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze. As though He shook His head not in refusal but waiving the question. Like, 'Peace, child; you don't understand.”  Too right  I don't. 

Isaiah 49:14-16

14 But Zion said, “The Lord has forsaken me,
    the Lord has forgotten me.”
15 “Can a mother forget the baby at her breast
    and have no compassion on the child she has borne?
Though she may forget,
    I will not forget you!
16 See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;
    your walls are ever before me. 

One last thought on this topic. A song, which when I heard it made me cry in it's appropriate answer to my pain.  The Fray- Be Still

Easter Saturday. I don't know what God is doing, all I know is this is really ****. I can trust that Easter Day will come, but not knowing when is so very hard.

Helpful Books

I have read many books in the 23 months since Bertie died, all coming at the problem in a different way, but I was drawn to each in my search for answers: for help, for "how do I get through this", for "am I crazy?" moments and "can I put myself through this process (trying to conceive) again?" feelings.   I feel that maybe it's time to compile a list, for others in my position, of titles I have found helpful and why.  Over the months, I have come very many times back to a feeling that I want to write my own book. I want to create a sort of "survival guide" I suppose, a practical I wish I'd known this then.... sort of thing. I don't know what has stopped me so far. Maybe it's the fear of rejection, of people hating it or not even noticing it.  Or perhaps it's the dread of knowing that to do such a book justice I would have to willingly throw myself back into The Pit.  I would need to re-visit those dark feelings and remember how it was in the beginning.  I am not sure I am ready to do that just yet. So, for now, I offer you my recommendations. I hope you find something that helps you as they did me.

I will come back and add to the list as my journey progresses.

Empty Cradle, Broken heart: Surviving The death of your baby Deborah L Davis

This is the first book I read, in the very early weeks after Bertie died. It was a comforting read, because it made me realise that I was normal. the feelings I was having, that I couldn't make sense of, that scared me because I felt out of control, they were Ok because I wasn't the only one feeling them.  In amongst well meaning family members trying to make me go back to work, to try to get back to "normal", this book was a welcome reprieve that said "nothing's normal any more".

Thomas: A Lifetime Denied Shelly Wilkinson

This book is the story of a mother and her stillborn son. She bravely tells her story of loss, in her case due to medical negligence, and how she coped with the months and years that followed.   To be honest, I didn't find this so helpful, as the story was very different to my own, and focused more on how she coped with the fact her son's death was down to medical negligence. But, I want to include it here, as it will be helpful to others, and also because it  of what it represents: Reading anybody's story. In the early weeks, I wanted to read and read and read about all these other families, all these other babies who had died. It helped me feel less alone.

When Bad Things Happen to Good People Rabbi Harold Kushner

This is a very comforting book, and I read it at a time that I needed to read it. Rabbi Kushner lost his son to a terrible illness, that the family knew would take his life at a young age. The book is his way of trying to make sense of how a loving God could allow this to happen.  A little further along in my journey of grief, and faith, I no longer agree with his conclusions, but at the time, they were what I needed to hear to enable me to continue on in a relationship with God.


God on Mute: Pete Greig

This is a helpful book for Christians going through a tough patch of unanswered prayer. It explores many reasons why we face these times; some of which struck a chord, whilst others didn't.  I particularly liked his section on "Easter Saturday" the time of despair between death and resurrection, the time I feel myself living in at the moment.

The Shack William P Young

Another one for Christains,  this book tells the story of a little girl who is abducted and murdered, then follows her father through "the great sadness" to a weekend with God.  It doesn't offer any real answers, but it is faith enhancing and comforting to read.

 The Dance of Fear Harriet Lerner

This one is a self help book on overcoming fear, anxiety and shame.  It doesn't speak directly to baby-lost parents, but it does help with practical advice on coping with the emotions that follow.

Job The Bible

An essential book to read for any christian who is suffering.  It's a frustrating book actually, in the responses of Job's friends to his situation "well God is good so you must have deserved this..." and in the non-answer Job eventually gets from God himself.  But, there is comfort at the end, when Job is blessed even more richly than he was in the beginning.  He still paid one enormous price, as have I, and all baby lost parents, but Job teaches us that whilst we won't be exempt from suffering, if we persevere, we will eventually be rewarded.


Disappointment with God Phillip Yancy

Another good book for suffering Christians.  I found myself nodding along to a lot of this book, "yep I feel that too" moments. Again, its good to know you are not alone in feeling the way you do.  However, he tries to remind us that "Faith means believing in advance what will only make sense in reverse.” And that sometimes there are no answers, but, like Job we must try to endure patiently.



Monday 29 July 2013

The sublime ridiculousness of well-meant advice

I had to laugh today. And I am sharing it with you because I don't get to laugh so often these days.  I am laughing at how ridiculous all the well-meaning advice I have been told becomes when it is put together.  Quite simply: You are contradicting yourselves.

Now I don't want the purveyors of such advice to be offended by what follows, I appreciate the sentiment with which the advice is given. But please, come on, have a read, and laugh with me. Because then I won't feel quite so crazy for a while.


Sooooooo....

Apparantly I am to think positive whilst not being too hopeful; to keep my eyes on the prize whilst not thinking about it all the time; to FACE MY FEARS, but avoid STRESS; Not think too many steps ahead...but tell you what happens next if this treatment fails; reeeEEEEEELAXXxxxxxx !; Think of how much worse it could be......but listen to you tell me about so and so who conceived quintuplets naturally after 10 failed IVF cycles; count my blessings! whilst somehow avoiding thinking about what is missing.....

need I go on?

If anybody really wants to know how to help, properly, there is some very good advice here.  

Otherwise, please just know and accept, as I must, that you cannot fix this.  You cannot make my pain go away....but you can listen, and you can, I hope, offer sympathy, and an attempt at understanding- without feeling so uncomfortable that you feel you have to try and find a solution.  TALK about it. I sure do!! And your silence bothers me more than anything.  Don't be afraid to get it wrong, just don't dole out cliches.  Just listen, nod, and say you're sorry for my pain.  And I will cry tears of relief that finally. Somebody gets it.


Friday 26 July 2013

No more silent screams

This morning, in the car, I screamed. Properly. Loudly. WHY WHY WHY??? Why am I being so tormented? Punished? Why am I being denied my chance at motherhood? Why are my earnest prayers going unanswered, again and again and again? I JUST DON'T GET IT!!!

Then I cried, the whole journey to work. And tried not to have an accident.

Do I feel any better? No.  But it does beat holding it in.

This month's failure has hit me particularly hard.  This time I followed everybody's heartfelt advice and "thought positive". I relaxed, as far as is possible, and just hoped beyond hope that it was going to work. Afterall, the evil drugs are working in my body now, so we actually felt like there was a chance. So the crash down has been, and continues to be, terrible.

There are many positives. The drugs are working. We are so much closer than we were....close, but no cigar! It simply isn't enough. Not good enough. This isn't just something I want/wish for/hope for. I'm not a newly wed trying for a baby for say 3 months and getting frustrated. This is something I NEED. I have a physical need to be a mother again. I am supposed to be one, let's not forget.   And that boy, my boy, who is mine but not mine- he turns 2 in September. And my arms are still empty.

Time is not making this easier. It's making it worse.  And I don't know what to do. I am scared stiff I'm heading for a nervous breakdown.  I have tried everything there is to "relax" and "take my mind off it" and now we're starting again on the same things, becuase we've tried them all.  Acupuncture, relaxation MP3s, holiday booked for my birthday/his birthday week- did that last year and here we are again! We adopted our cat, becuase I was at my wits' end and desparate. She's been with us 7 months now. How is it I'm still standing?

What is it I am meant to do now?

People say I am so strong, and handling my situation with grace.  I am not. I am slowly going crazy inside my head, one negative test at a time.

Friday 5 July 2013

Panic.

Yesterday I experienced the second most frightening thing that has ever happened to me. I had a panic attack, alone in a train carriage.  For those who have never experienced one, you may think "so what?". Trust me, it's scary.

So now I am left to process, "why did that happen?" And looking back I realize I should not be suprised. My anxiety has been building for a while now.  I am terrified. Terrified of what the future holds, or doesn't hold.   I thought that finally getting some help with fertility treatment would help me. It hasn't- quite the opposite. There's now so much riding on each month. Will it work this time? Will I have to move on to more aggressive treatments/how long is it all going to take?.....

It isn't just that. I know it seems from my posts lately that all I am thinking of now is trying for another baby. It's true, that is pretty all-consuming. (show me a woman who's been trying this long for whom it isn't, and I will salute her) But that doesn't mean I have forgotten Bertie, or that I'm done with my grief. He is still my first and last thought. And several in between. I still stand at his grave, looking at his name and thinking "how can this have happened" whilst silent tears run down my face until I can't read the words anymore through the waterfall.   I am still transported back to that day, watching strangers lower my son into the ground. I am throwing the first handful of soil, I am wishing I could get in there with him.  

It's a delicate balance, the two major players in the game of my mind. Grief and infertility.  No wonder I had a meltdown. But how can I change it? Reminders are everywhere I go, everywhere I look. I can't "put it to the back of my mind" since I can't escape from things that bring one or the other back to the front.

Walking through town. At work. With my friends. On social media. Babies. Pregnant women. Happy families with toddlers Bertie's age and another on the way.  All reminding me both of what I lost, and what I still don't have, 22 months on. I may not run away now, but it still hurts just as much.  It still gives me the same, now familiar stab in the gut.

Chester mystery plays are being held this week. It's quite a production. Written to bring bible stories to the people, they are put on every five years. This year they told the whole bible from Genesis to Revelations in one hit. And hit it did.  During the incredible crucifixion scenes, I was not watching Jesus. I was transfixed on Mary. The actress portrayed the mother's grief so strongly, I couldn't take my eyes off her.  I cried with her.  I remembered my own pain, my constant companion.

And yes, I am afraid. I am so afraid. Of two possible outcomes. That I won't ever get pregnant again,  or that I will, but I will lose the baby again.   These fears are so ingrained that as I sat, literally paralysed in two hands and one foot during my panic attack, my first thought was "what's happening to me, am I having a fit?"....and the second: "Oh God, will this mean I can't have another baby". 

I simply can't convey to you in words how much it means to me to be a mother.  I simply cannot make you understand how worthless my life feels without it.



Wednesday 3 July 2013

Child of mine

Child of my heart
Perfect, precious, tiny
You took my breath away
Those precious hours then
          gone too soon.

Memories of that moment
Our first embrace and our last
Mine to hold but not to have
In too short a time
          your last breath

Gone forever but always here
Your whispers in the trees, chimes
At your forever bed.
Silent tears as I remember
          That day.

Child of my heart
My beautiful son
Never ending yearning
          To hold you again

Child of my dreams
Will you come true?
Will I hold you and sing "at last"?
Your song I already know
          I'll whisper the words to you.

Will I watch you grow, and play?
More than just dreams
Not just wild imaginings
Can my heart be healed by your laughter?
          "Mummy" the sweetest sound.

Child of my heart
And child of my dreams
Both to hold my love, only one to hold my hand
I pray,
          Let it be.

One day a mother?
Already a mother at heart
In love.



Wednesday 26 June 2013

Still searching for the answers

Since losing Robert, I have developed my relationship with God. Weird I know, but, I have.  I guess I took my faith for granted all these years and finally it has been challenged. Shattered, changed, developed....choose your own adjective.   I've had to grow up and make a decision. Do I give up on God? or do I become a "proper Christian". I chose the second path.  That doesn't mean it comes easy though. Far from it. Very far from it.  It also does not mean that Bertie's death was "for a higher cause".  It means that God has used this tragedy to develop me. So be it. I'd still rather have my son and my naivety.

I question my faith on a daily basis.   Some things I am totally stalwart in.  I believe in heaven, and I believe my son is there. I am grateful for that belief, because without it I don't know how I would have coped up 'til now.  I believe I will meet him there one day. I believe he is happy, becuase I believe there is no sadness in that other place.  I believe he doesn't miss me, because I believe he watches me. Oh but how I wish I could watch him too...

I do not believe in "God's plan".  I cannot believe that my son's death was a part of some devine plan, I don't believe my God is like that. (I also don't believe that anyone who has been through an experience anything close to this would say it is)  I do believe, however, He knew it was coming. And that He chose not to prevent it.....which kinda makes Him responsible anyway no?  And so, I question. Why? why, why, WHY?

Not "why me" per se...but why anybody?   I have spent so much time searching for an answer that actually makes sense.  And I keep coming up empty.  Because there isn't one?  Christian writers, speakers and bloggers generally avoid this subject. It's isn't neat and tidy. It isn't comforting, it isn't a nice little story where as Rob Bell triumphantly puts it "everybody gets saved."   I am learning lots, in my quest. I am partway there. I get the argument that some bad things happen, sometimes we suffer, because we chose independence from God, and He's let us have it.  Lots of terrible, tragic things happen through people's choices, and yep, to prevent them, to force a perfect world where nothing bad happened, would be to remove that choice, that free will.  Forced love isn't real love.  Even if that means allowing murder, cancer as a result of lifestyle choices, and accidents because somebody decided to take that journey on that day.  I can give you that. I can understand that, yep, ok.  But. What about tsunamis, earthquakes and volcanoes? What about the child with leukemia? What about world famine? What about the woman who does everything right in pregnancy, but still loses her baby? What about my baby's death?

None of those things are caused by anybody's choice.  Ok, maybe we could really stretch it and say because we choose not to take care of the planet, tsunamis are caused by global warming...but come on. I dare you to find a choice that causes the others.  I spent a whole lot of time and mental effort getting out of the mindset that Bertie's early birth, and therefore, death were caused by something I had done....my choice, directly or indirectly.  I don't want to go back there, thankyou very much.  I hold enough guilt in my heart. So why?

I am going to disappoint you. I don't know either.  But the difference between me, and a lot of the other writers out there, I won't just put the question on the shelf for later because it's too difficult. I won't tell you I am not going to address that question but look at X, Y or Z instead.

 I will never stop asking.



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.