Hitting the wall.

I just need to moan tonight. I've hit that wall. I've had it. I need to rant and cry and be selfish, childish, petulant and spoilt.  I don't need sympathy, I need to let it out. It won't be eloquent. it may not even make sense. I doubt it will even be read to the end. I don't care. I need to say it.

I'm fed up. I've had it. I'm sick of pumping my body full of hormones, I'm sick of my body not co-operating. I'm sick of set backs, I'm tired of waiting. I hate that I can't plan and the plans I do make end up planned wrong. I hate that i'm putting on weight and I hate looking at that bruise on my tummy every flippin time I go to the loo. Taunting me so I can't forget what we're going through.

I hate that two girls at work are pregnant. Not becuase they are pregnant, but because one is pregnant with number three, the other with her second- both since Bertie died. I hate how unfair that is. I hate that others can just plan their families and have it all just fall into place. I hate it that people keep telling me it is my turn and yet again, it isn't.  I hate myself for being jealous of them.  I hate the way everyone at work smiles at them in the corridors. I hate hearing conversations about names and maternity leave that I can't join in with. Or I could, but I'd cry.

I hate that we have to do this. Everything we've been through, and still it's 50:50. It may not work. I hate that I have to stay positive and yet realistic. I hate that I can't think about anything else. I hate that my baby died. I hate that I have a nursery-in-waiting and it may never ever be filled. I hate that I need new work clothes but keep putting off buying them in the hope I'll need maternity clothes.  I hate that all the extra weight is on my tummy so before long I feel like I'll need them anyway.

I hate myself for comfort eating then googling will that affect my chances? I hate that I can't. stay. off. google. I hate feeling this alone. I hate that if it works, everyone will know. I hate that if it doesn't work, everyone will know. I hate that I have a sharps box in my bedroom in place of my wedding photo.  I hate that the clinic staff know me so well now.  I hate that lie-back-legs-up- here comes the ultrasound scanner is now a routine part of life. 

I hate that the only way off this rollercoaster is to give up.

I hate myself for being so ridiculous. 

Now we know what we have missed.

'Twas the night after Christmas, as all through the house, not a creature was stirring.....except for me. Once again I lay awake in tears while the family lay sleeping. Once again I can't even cry myself to sleep, I can't even manage that. I know that I need to write this blog now. I know that I won't sleep until these churning thoughts are out of my head.

This has been the hardest Boxing Day since that one, that first one, 2011. Bertie's first Chrstmas but not his first. Actually our first without him. This has been our fourth without him and I feel almost as bad as I did then. There have been tears, there have been attempts to escape, to find air, but nowhere to escape to for long enough, far enough. I've hidden it well, I think. I can at least be proud of that. Nobody but my husband knows how difficult I have found today. I have played with my nephew, I have held him. I have listened to relatives talk about their granddaughter, about their and her delight in leaving mince pies for Santa, her suggestion that they leave a brush for him to brush the crumbs from his beard. Their fun in leaving crumbs in the brush as evidence. They don't know how that ripped my heart in two at the realisation that at three, Bertie would now want to leave a plate for Santa. That he never will. That in four Christmases we have made no family traditions, no memories our our boy's childhood. Nor we will. There are no stories for us to share around the table.

My social media news feed has been full of my friends' children today. Of course it has. Of course, that hurts. Of course, I wish I were posting my own pictures of my son, of my son and his younger sibling if truth be told. That was the plan by now.   Each family just posting one charming and innocent picture. It results in a string of torment on my feed. I have not put a status on my main page over Christmas, I don't feel I have anything to say that anyone wants to see.  Of course the simple answer here is to not look over the holidays, a solution I know some people choose, but I don't want to slip back into avoidance. Hiding is not healing. But not hiding sure does hurt.

My nephew's first Christmas. So different from my son's. Yesterday I laid flowers at my son's grave. Today I gifted my nephew two lovingly knitted hats.   I'm watching one grow. The other, I watch the snowdrops begin to grow at his forever bed instead. My husband and I are now learning just what we have missed. But we are not learning it in the way most bereaved parents learn it, through their own rainbow children. Instead I watch from the bench as my younger inlaws raise their little boy.  I get my sort-of, not really, awkward and painful "baby fix" in holding him for a while, then feel my heart break all over again as I hand him back, knowing that tomorrow I will return to a silent house, an empty nursery.   So torn, between wanting to be a great aunty, to love him and play with him and relish it, whilst at the same time attempting to protect myself from the agony of my shattered heart.   I feel an irrational anger that they have bought tree ornaments for him. Bertie has those, they are all Bertie has, can't they leave that for him alone?

I know I did not manage to completely hide my struggle. My father in law knew. He said to me, just think about next year, your own little one will be here, and it will be amazing. I love his heart. But I have told myself that lullaby for four Christmases now.   I think I can be forgiven for a little cynicism, a slight lack of positive mental attitude.  The family mean well.  But I feel my son is the elephant in the room. Do they think-better not mention it, she'll get upset. Or, have I made such a good show of "being fine" that they actually believe that I am?   I know that they don't realise that the combined result of the not mentioning, but talking about all the other children in the family, and having the youngest here with me all day has been a javelin right through my armour today. I wonder what they would say if they did?

If they asked me, I would tell them what I have written here. But they won't, and I won't and we'll all just sweep it right along under the carpet where it belongs, and everyone will be happy and everything will be just fine. Because it's less painful that way, isn't it?

How are you feeling about Christmas?

At church yesterday we were asked to turn to the person next to us and ask, "How are you feeling about Christmas?"  A lady I don't know asked me and all I could say was "mixed" before letting her wax lyrical about how she loved Christmas and how excited she was. I smiled and nodded as I remembered feeling that way. She asked me why I felt mixed and I told her that I would be spending it with family, which will be lovely, but there will be one missing. Then I was saved by the bell, so to speak.

At this time of year I find myself drifting back to SANDS. I am not entirely sure why. I don't feel the need to post anything myself, I am not looking for support or empathy, but I find myself thinking of all the newly bereaved parents. Those facing their first Christmas without their precious baby. I read a few of their posts and I desperately want to reach out and comfort them, to tell them that they won't feel this raw pain forever, that it does get easier.  But I also remember how empty "it gets better"
reassurances sounded to me that first year.  I also now know that it does not, infact get"better" as such, just easier to bear. I now know that the only way past the pain is through it. I know these new parents want to press fast forward, I also know that they can't.  So I find myself doing the completely useless action of saying nothing, but crying a little- for their baby or mine I am not even sure.

This year will be a little different in my family's house. It is my nephew's first Christmas, so there will be much joy and excitement on my husband's side of the family. I'm already packing the armour around my heart. I love my nephew and will enjoy spending time with him. But I already know that watching his parents open his gifts will bring me pain on a few levels. Remembering how different Bertie's first Christmas was to my nephew's. Seeing what we missed out on. Jealousy over their joy whilst we still wait for our rainbow... But also love, joy for them and the pleasure of Christmas being about a child in the family again, even if that child is not mine. Just one more challenge. I am grateful it has come this year, when I am strong enough to face it with grace.

Today is Bertie's due date. It is a date I place no conscious importance on at all, and yet somehow every year it jumps out and taunts me. Pokes it's tongue out in a haha! you didn't see that coming did you? kind of way. It's all just part of the what could have been.  And instead of getting an excitable just-turned-three year old ready for the day. I am typing this blog over breakfast before heading off to work. Kinda sucks doesn't it?

A christian's thoughts on IVF

I've been wanting to write this blog for a while, but it's taken a long while to gather my thoughts on this into a coherent prose! I've been doing a lot of reading lately about this topic, as it's pertinent for us at the moment. Isn't it funny how you only really think about certain topics when you find yourself in the situation yourself. I mean, I've known several couples go through IVF and I've just prayed for success for them and that's about it. Now I am about to embark on the process myself and I've had a few months of battling with myself over whether it is the right thing to do. Is is the right thing for a Christian to do? To put it another way, is this what God wants me to do?

Google "IVF for Christians" and you get quite a disheartening response. Page after page of negative answers. IVF is ungodly.... If God wanted you to have a baby, you'd have conceived naturally.... Wait on God, for His perfect timing...There is nothing in the bible on IVF.....  The bible says God knits us together in the mothers' womb....  You shouldn't force God's hand or go against His ordained will... and so on and so forth.   Most of this comes from people who claim to be christians (yet are in my opinion zealots and are giving christianity a bad name) and have never been in this situation and so really, their opinion matters little to me.  But some of it comes from pastors, religious leaders, influential people.  Isn't that sad? Is that really how these leaders want to minister to couples who likely already feel very low self esteem, confusion about God's love for them and are trying to balance their desperate desire for a child against their religious beliefs? Don't people realise that to be asking these questions, christian couples have already put a lot of thought, and a lot more prayer into their decision?

I know that I have. And I want to put down my thoughts, which are where I am at right now, after a great deal of thought and a great deal more prayer.  Not everyone will come to the same conclusion as me, but I felt there was so much negativity and judgement out there that I hope to give an alternative view that may help someome else struggling with this decision.

Firstly. The desire to have children is God given. He places that desire in our hearts, indeed he tells us in the very first book of the bible to "go forth and be fruitful, multiply on the Earth."  Why then would God place this great desire to be a mother on my heart if He did not want me to persue all possible means to fulful it?  Yes, there is "always adoption" and I am open to that possible route to motherhood in the future. But, I also have the drive and desire to birth and feed and raise my own child, which is the most natural desire in the human heart, and has only been made stronger in me by the birth and death of my first son. I cannot turn that desire off and "just adopt" and to attempt to do so would be unfair to any potential adopted child.

The fact that IVF is not mentioned in the bible is a nonsense argument. Neither is chemotherapy. Neither are any modern medical interventions, because (drum roll please...) they didn't exist when the bible was written.   Telling an infertile woman to pray and wait on God for healing if He sees fit is no different to telling a cancer patient not to pursue chemotherapy, and to instead wait to see if God will miraculously heal them. I believe God could, and sometimes does bestow miraculous healings. But if He did that for every human on the planet they would no longer be miraculous, would they?  Instead, He gave us the intelligence and desire for knowledge that has lead to medical advances which allow us to heal each other.   How then is choosing not to use these skills in keeping with God's will?

Yes God knits us together in the mothers womb, and He will do so with IVF babies the same as naturally conceived babies. So what if He begins knitting them in a perti dish? Are IVF babies any less a miracle? Are they not more of a miracle?

One particularly disturbing and upsetting piece I read argued that IVF is on a par with abortion. Because, in this pastor's view, "multiple embryos are created so that the best may be transferred back to the woman and the rest killed"  This is not really truth. Yes, the aim is to fertilise multiple eggs in the hope that at least one will become a healthy embryo and ulitmately a baby.   The rest are not "killed" Any remaining healthy embryos are frozen for later attempts for siblings, whilst any not suitable for freezing are not suitable because they have naturally stopped developing and would also have done so if fertilised naturally.   This is real crux of the matter in my eyes. What happens if after your family is complete, you still have remaining frozen embyos?

I think the answer lies in where you believe life begins. Where is a soul bestowed upon us? Or put another way, when do we stop being a ball of cells and instead become human?  I have come to the conclusion that that point is conception. I can't picture any precise point in human gestation where that transformation happens other than the point at which sperm meets egg. In which case, those embyos, whilst not human yet, have the potential to become so.  Now, not every fertilised egg becomes a baby as we know, but I do believe that we have a responsibility towards the embryos we create through IVF. That is, I could never allow any "extra" embryos of mine to be discarded.  Nor could I allow them to go for research.   So that leaves me with the choice of donating them, or keep having them transferred to me and potentially wind up with a bigger family than we planned! I guess we cross that bridge when it comes, if it comes. Most couples do not end up with lots of "spare" embryos anyway and I would consider myself very lucky if we had to make that decision.

As for waiting on God/not forcing His hand. Well, this point I can take. And this is where prayer comes in, and listening to the real answer, not convincing yourself of the one you want to hear.   Am I, by persuing IVF, potentially missing out on the outcome God had planned for me?  Possibly. But, that argument could be applied to any decision we make in life. Remember, God gave us free will. He wants us to make our own decisions and persue our own goals.  Do I believe Bertie died because it wasn't God's plan for me to be pregnant yet? Of course not!  But, I do believe that if I knew what God knows and saw what God sees, I would want what He wants for me.  Hence I pray for His guidance when making major life decisions.  For me, personally, I feel God is telling me to go for IVF. Ever since I started really seriously asking God if this was the right thing to do, doors have been opening for us with regards to IVF treatment, and so I feel at peace with the decision to do it.  Another couple may feel God telling them this isn't right, and that is OK too.

Each couple needs to make their own decision on this, after careful thought and prayer. But I do feel strongly that as christian friends, supports, family and leaders, it is very important to have an educated and balanced view, and not to add to a couple's burden of worry and stress by passing judgement on them for persuing fertility treatments.   It is up to the couple, ultimately, to decide how far is too far in following what science and medicine can do for us.  I know in my mind what I will and won't do with IVF and this isn't the place to share it as my opinion will differ from someone else's.  I am fortunate in that nobody has been judgemental or nagative about my decision so far (to my face anyway) but I have been careful about who I have told for fear of such judgement.   Feel free to comment below if you think it appropriate, but as ever I will remove any offensive comments.

Three: It doesn't get better, it gets different.

This morning a colleague asked me how I am doing. I was suprised she asked and was honest with her. I was suprised again when by the end of our chat, she started to cry- and I didn't.

I told her that I am ok, but that it would be Bertie's third birthday next Thursday, so it's a difficult time for me. She said the expected stock answer "it takes time."  Usually at this point I just say yes and smile and carry on about my day. But something made me engage her a little further this morning. I said, "Well yes, it is in some ways easier than it has been the last two years, but in other ways it is harder. He would be three. He would understand now what a birthday was all about- he'd be getting excited and pestering me about his birthday. It's different".  And it is. The grief is not all-consuming as it was. It is "better" in that sense. I am coping well and getting on with living. But, the hurt is still as bad as it was. The hole in my soul and my life remains as wide and deep and empty as it ever was. My birthday yesterday was happier than the past two- but it still hurt aswell. It still represents another year gone by without Bertie and without a rainbow. 

She told me about her aunt who lost a child, and was still grieving well into her seventies. I told her about my grandmother's last words to my parents, asking where her lost baby Jacqueline was.  She told me she knew it would never go and I said no, it won't. I will never be over it. I'm coping, I'm living, but the hurt is still here (tapping my heart.) She walked off in tears and I stood there suprised, and  impassively wondered if she regretted asking me how I was doing in the first place.

Is this how it changes? Has it become just another part of my life, something to mention now and then in a matter of fact way like redundancy or moving house? Yes it hurts, enourmously. And yes I cry, at home, in the car, now as I type this, in bed when I can't sleep....but not when I talk to people. It's like I am telling a story- telling it how it is, but I rarely cry now when I talk. Have I become used to it? The telling I mean?

And why was I surprised that she got upset? Did my lack of visible emotion give her the space to express hers? Because she was not needed in the role of comforter, did that give her space to truly put herself in my shoes, or her aunt's?  She has no idea what a gift she has given me, through showing me that side. By demonstrating to me that empathy. It's so much more comforting than platitudes. Of course she cannot totally empathise with me. of course she does not know and can hardly imagine the depths of my pain- but for a few seconds, I think she allowed herself to try.

I wonder how this grief will evolve in the future. Will I stay in this limbo forever? In this getting on with it- but not happy, not fulfilled, making the best of a bad situation -life? I wonder where in society my husband and I fit now. We gave up the life of a childless young married couple three and a half years ago when we saw those two pink lines. We made a mental shift to parenthood and all our hopes, dreams and plans revolved around that.   There's no going back from that. You can go through the motions of being a childless young couple again, and you can tell yourself isn't it great that we can be spontaneous and sleep in at weekends and go out when we choose and etc etc etc...but it's empty. We don't want those things any more. We don't fit in with our friends who do, but we can't find common ground with our parent friends either.   I don't know where we go from here, how to carve a new life for us.

My husband thinks he could be happy if we never have a living child. I don't. My every waking thought is consumed with the pursuit of motherhood. Either with striving towards brining a living baby home, or of finding new ways to be a mother to Bertie. As I said to my mother in law in response to her pleas for me to find something else to fill my life- What else is there?

What would I tell my pre-bereaved self?

I've just seen an interesting question on facebook: "If you could go back in time to visit yourself, before you became bereaved, what would you say to yourself?" It got me thinking, and when I think I usually blog, so here are my thoughts.  

I would tell her to enjoy every moment of pregnancy, but not to take a second for granted. To keep a diary and write down every thing you felt, the first kick, and every one after it.  Feeling sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. And then feeling wonderful! Every hiccup, the feeling of euphoria after each scan....everything. You'll wish you had later. You will want to remember it all.   Share everything with your husband- tell him about everything you feel, so he feels the same attachment to the baby you do.

To take more photos of yourself pregnant. Don't wait until you get bigger. Just do it now- all through. Dressed up, dressed down, on you own and as a family. Take them.

Don't leave your home full of baby magazines, leaflets and vouchers on every surface. Put them away so if the worst happens, you don't have to come home to it all everywhere.  Avoid signing up to emails from baby companies.

Don't work so hard. You will manage without the extra money. Listen to your body. When you get tired, STOP. 

When he is born, take more photos. And more again. Never mind they all look the same- you'll want them when they are all you have left.  Pose for photos with the three of you in them-smiling and happy- you will wish you had them.

Never mind if you are exhausted. Spend. Every. Second in NICU with him. Just watching, smelling, soaking in every inch of him.

At the end, ask them for his hat.

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This may read like a list of regrets. I suppose in some ways it is. It's a wish-I-had...list. I wonder if I will follow it if I ever manage to get pregnant again.

The many perspectives of grief

I had a conversation with Bertie's grandma at the weekend. One which left me a little shocked as to how far apart our views on grief, and missing him, and how to deal with it really are.  She commented that he is "all over my house" and didn't I think it would be easier on me if I kept him to the nursery? That way I could go in and look whenever I wanted?

Err.....no. Actually I am trying very hard to keep him out of the nursery. It isn't his nursery, not any more. Since we moved, since we packed that room away and filled this new one, I drew a line in my mind. He is no longer a baby, that is no longer his room. That is the room we don't use right now, but it's waiting to be filled soon we hope. Wouldn't making it a shrine to Bertie be a little creepy? Or did she mean to suggest I should pack him away in a drawer? I don't know what she meant, I am not sure she did either. I told her that for me, I need to have him all around, that it brings me comfort. In fact, I explained that it was very hard for me now that a photo of my nephew is proudly displayed on her mantlepiece, but not one of Bertie (there never was).  She told me that she doesn't want to be reminded. I told her that I cannot ever forget. By never mentioning his name, by not displaying his photo, I am not going to feel better about his death.  I am not going to forget for a second. 

I have just finished making his third birthday gift, ready to take to his forever bed in a few weeks. She doesn't know I do this each year and would probably worry about me if she did know. She would see this as torturing myself, making it worse for myself.  I don't, I really don't.  It brings me comfort to do things for him. Sure, it crosses my mind that I could have been making a "3" birthday cake instead of a grave decoration, and yes, of course that's a painful thought...but, not doing anything at all for him is not going to make that thought disappear. Rather, having a little project to do fills the  painful days in the run up to his birthday.  Buying things for him does nothing for me. I know a lot of bereaved parents find comfort in buying toys etc to take to their baby's forever bed. Not me, I know he does not need toys and buying them just feels odd. But making something at least gives me a chance to be a mum in a small way.  A chance to show my love for my son.

Having his photos on display, well, I know that's a contentious issue. Most bereaved parents I know choose to display them, or would dearly love to but feel they can't for fear of judgement.   I am "lucky". I have photos of my son alive, and those are the ones I have on my wall. I don't see it as any different to my brother in law and his wife proudly displaying photos of their son all over their lounge. It's no different to any parent. Yet, my mother in law thinks it is strange to display photos of someone who had died. As do lots of people.   I told her you wouldn't take a photo down of a parent or sibling after they die and she said no, but....(but what, exactly? What is the difference??) 

I wonder what you all think about this? Do you think it is strange, or right, or even acceptable, to have photos on the wall of a baby who has died? Do you think it is weird to try and create new images, by writing his name in the sand for instance? Do you think I make it worse for myself by making gifts for him? I'm asking purely because I am curious.  I won't be offended (but I will remove any comments I think are impolite) and I know that everyone has to grieve in their own way.  I am just interested to know how my own variety of grief looks through the eyes of people who aren't related to me, especially those who have not been through a loss like this. Please feel free to leave a comment, anonymously if you wish.