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.
Thursday, 19 September 2013
Wednesday, 18 September 2013
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
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.
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."
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."
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