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.

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.

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.