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

Sunday, 4 May 2014

International Bereaved Mothers' day

That's today. Not Star Wars day, Bereaved Mothers' Day. Did you know that?
Probably not, afterall, Hallmark haven't caught on yet....

I'm sat in Starbucks, because we recently moved and don't have internet at home yet. I came here with the sole purpose of using their free wifi to write this blog...and yet here I am with the last dregs of my chocolate-cream overpriced glorified milkshake staring at the iPad and being sarcastic, evidently I have writers block. I've procrastinated all I can and it's time to write. So here goes.

Where am I?

The first thing that strikes me is that I'm in Starbucks. This is relevant, hugely. On my first bereaved Mother's Day there is no way I would have come to a Starbucks. In spring. On bank holiday Sunday. No way, no how.  The thought would have horrified me utterly. Too many families, too many babies. Buggies everywhere I looked and me thinking, screaming inside:  THAT SHOULD BE ME! This year, year three, is different.  Don't get me wrong, they still bother me, other people's babies that is. It still gives me a little stab in the heart, but at least it no longer rips my heart out altogether. I no longer think that should, be me becuase let's face it, it shouldn't- I should have a toddler now. No what I think now is, why isn't it me? Why am I still a childless mother, two and a half years on? And that is what gets to me more.

I recently felt comfortable enough with a new group of friends to tell them my story. They are Christians and I wanted their advice on the jealousy I feel about other pregnant women.  I ended up explaining the whole story, because I needed to for them to understand where I am coming from.  Telling them made me realise that there has been a shift in my grief. That I still grieve deeply for my son, but actually the thing that is really getting me down right now, in truth, is the inability to conceive again. That is what I am jealous of other women for.  I found myself telling Bertie's abridged story, and moving quickly on to how unfair it is that after all this time, there is no rainbow baby for me.  I guess it is all the harder because the grief of infertility comes hot on the tails of the grief of Bertie's loss. It simply is NOT fair to be going through both. It's inconceivable, if you'll excuse the pun.

My new house is filled with evidence of him. But, it isn't evidence of his existence, it is evidence that he existed. Past tense. Instead of crayons, toys and shoes scattered about my home, there are memory boxes, poems, and ornaments.  The smallest room in the house contains the nursery furniture. But it is not the nursery, it's just the smallest room in the house- the one that we have no reason to go into.

One relief. It isn't his room. It's the furniture we bought for him to use, it houses his memory box for now and my favourite Winnie the Pooh quote as a nod to him, but this is not his room. We said goodbye to that room a long time ago, and this is a new room, waiting for his rainbow sibling. It will be decorated in readiness when the time comes. Bertie has no need for a nursery, he is all through the house, king of whatever castle he chooses. I hope he chooses ours the most.

And now I'm crying in Starbucks. Time to go.

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