The promise of new life

I have been feeling pretty glum today, and was fully intending to write about that.  How after almost three years, the only identities I see for myself are childless mother and now, barren wife. How Bertie's third birthday is fast approaching and I can feel myself slipping back into grief over another milestine he will never see. I still feel those things, but, they are no longer the things I want to write about.

I've just been for a run (amazing how much that helps-those endorphines they talk about really do exist apparently!) and decided to water the garden when I got back.  What I saw took my breath away for a moment.  New life, everywhere! Bertie's rose has five buds, and they are buldging, ready to burst out early, before the spring, before their time- a bit like him. My honeysuckle has a beautiful show of bright red berries, and also some tiny buds just forming. Even the basil has sprouted flowers! Its amazing, and beautiful, when  you really look. I mean, really. Stop, and look. Take it in, take a photo. God's work. I plant them, He makes them grow. And why should it be any different with my children? My rainbow will come. I just need to wait for His timing.

A moment so small, and yet too huge for words.

I'm sat barefoot in my new preferred writing space-my garden. I have just got back from a run and my cat is sat on the table infront of me as the sun sets. I am not sure why that is relevant, but I suppose I just want to covey the peacefulness of my current scene. Bertie is here too, his rose is growing and doing well, and now he has his own garden sign. Blue wellies, naturally.


A worship song just came on the iPod......yes.

I want to share something with you. Something that many of you will dismiss, others will think I'm crazy, or deluded, or sweetly naive. But some of you just may be encouraged, and that makes it worth sharing.

Last week on holiday, I am certain I experienced God's healing. I was laying in bed, listening to one of my relaxation tracks, trying to still my mind and drop off. Not an unusual scene so far.  But as I lay there, after a few minutes, I felt a warmth, light spreading through me. Call me crazy if you like but I felt The Lord's hand on me. I felt lighter, happier and healthier than I have felt in months, years now.  It only lasted a few moments, but it happened. It was subtle, yet it was crystal clear. It was beyond my ability to describe properly.

I don't know if He healed my body, my heart or my mind, maybe all three.  I am grateful for either or all of them.  I don't know which. But, passing the school I hope my rainbow will one day attend whilst on my run tonight, I smiled as I pictured them in the playground- rather than crying in desperation because I've lost hope......so maybe I'm not so crazy afterall.

I'm a Raggy Doll

The process of infertility treatment-that's what it is, a process- is exhausting. There is a lot of waiting, and that in itself is exhausting, when you are so desperate to move forwards. It's like a series of hoops to jump through, which you do, but the floor is a conveyor belt-and it's moving backwards. This means that every time you jump through a hoop, the floor moves back so that when you land, you are right back where you started. Exhausting, huh? You feel that despite doing so many things, making it through so many hoops, you aren't getting any further forwards on that conveyor.

You you daren't stop, oh no, if you stop, you'll move backwards with the conveyor belt and wind up falling into the reject bin. Or worse, The Pit. I'm perilously close to The Pit right now after yet another hoop cleared and I'm no better off. Almost three years since Bertie died and more than a year with the fertility clinic and I am honestly no closer to my goal of being a rainbow mummy.  It's devastating. I'm Sadsack.

Her faith is strong.

I believe that God has already answered my prayer. I AM going to be a mummy again. I just don't know when.

From hopeful to tearful and back again-turning on a sixpence.

An up and down time. Again. More down than up, if I'm honest, but trying to tread water so to speak. Not down in The Pit, thank heavens, but pretty low none the less. Frustrated. Time spent researching the next step, because this one apparently didn't work, again. Time spent reading scripture, and making myself encouragement cards, pinning them up on the kitchen wall... reading them every day and feeling, "yeah, you say that, but..."

It's tough. I know it's not meant to be easy. He said "take up your cross and follow me" He didn't say- "this way to an easy life"....but really, this hard? This much hurt? For this long?

The trade off is growth. Spiritual development, closer relationship with Him. I know that, yep that has happened, but it has come with a price. A price of anger, dissatisfaction, questioning.  Why am I being tested so much? Why is it no to me but yes to everyone else?

There are many blessings. Many, many blessings, and I thank Him for them every day. I've listed them in this space, more than once, and the list gets longer. And yet it all feels so empty.  I stand and look out over my garden, that garden I love so much, and I see him, my boy- nearly three, running, playing, laughing.  And I break a little bit more inside. 

I picture siblings, aged about five, the best age there is. I see football with daddy and picnics and camping...hope, then poof! An empty garden and the tears come. They aren't there. Will they ever be?

I stand in the smallest room, complete yet empty. The room with no purpose but so much potential. So much love.  And I sigh. And I cry.  And I pick up my knitting for someone else's baby.

A question: What is the good of the strongest mother heart, in a broken body that can't do it's part?

The gift that is a moment of peace.

It's been a tough few days. I've been really down. Doubtful. Will God ever grant my heart's desire? Thinking He isn't going to. After all I've been through, will it still be NO? Call me Thomas. Starting to think about adoption. I'm not ready.  I'm not ready to give up on my dream. Of birthing, holding, feeding my newborn. Of redemption.   Will there be a rainbow for me?  I just don't know anymore.

Adoption is a wonderful, wonderful thing. But it isn't redemption. It isn't, yes, I CAN do this. It isn't the rush of love in holding my own flesh and blood. But it IS love. A different love. A coming to love. It's a long journey of its own, after the long journey we have already walked. Nay, crawled.

Turmoil in my mind. A nephew due in four weeks. Wanting to be happy for them. Wanting to be excited at the prospect. Actually being numb.  Looking at photos of someone else's little blue babygrows drying after the first wash in readiness. Memories of doing that. The excitement, the readiness....will I ever need to "be ready" again?

Prayer. Thoughts on prayer, working on prayer. Prayers. For peace. For not doubting. For trust. HELP ME!!! please?

Then this afternoon, at 2.10pm. It hit me like a wave. Not grief, peace. I felt it wash over and through me. I physically relaxed. I thought- wow! This is peace. It is OK.  What a gift. A moment. A lifting, an embracing, an answer to prayer.

A mixture of two verses entered my head: 

John 14:27 Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.

John 16:33 I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.

 Take heart! I have overcome the world. 

Nothing is impossible for Him.

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.