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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.