during my meditation and prayer this evening, this verse just came so clearly to my mind from 2 Corinthians 12:9
"Your grace is sufficient for me, for Your power is made perfect in my weakness".
Bam. I can give it all to God. I can let go.
Lord, all that I cling to, I lay at Your feet. Your grace is sufficient for me. Martin J Nystrom
Friday, 10 July 2015
Sunday, 14 June 2015
I am stronger than I believe (apparantly)
Staring at a blank screen, wondering where to begin. There's a lot in my head. Church today. I wasn't going to go. It's been a really tough week and I just didn't feel up to it. But as is so often the way, I was nudged to go and felt challenged when I got there.
It was a difficult start. The vicar's wife has recently given birth to their third child. As he stood proudly with his baby daughter at the front of church and everyone applauded, I sat with tears brimming and tried not to make a scene. Why do we do that? Why do we applaud a new baby? It's like we're saying, well done, you made a human! Isn't that an amazing achievement! What kind of message does that send to the couple who have been unable to "achieve" a family. The same at weddings, the same when we wax lyrical about the many "blessings" God has given us. What then is the person who has not been "blessed" with the things you have to feel? Doesn't God feel they are deserving of these blessings too? It is hard enough not to compare ourselves to others who have the things we so desperately long for, harder still when as a congregation or society we cheer/approve/celebrate/applaud these things in each other. It can leave the person who does not do, or have, or achieve the same things, (but wants to), feeling inadequate, undeserving or sidelined.
I didn't applaud. Not because I'm not happy for them, not even because I am jealous. Because I was hurting for myself and because it was all I could do not to walk out the door right there and then.
I am glad I didn't. We were looking at Judges 6, in which Gideon is asked by an angel of the Lord to "go in your might and deliver Isreal from the hand of Midian". When Gideon questions how he can do that, saying he is the lowest of the low in his clan, he is told "I (God) will be with you and you shall strike down the Midianites, every one of them". Today's speaker interpreted this to mean that God is always with us, and with God we are stronger than we believe. She encouraged us not to focus on our problems and anxieties, but to focus on God. Stop telling God how big our problems are, and start telling our problems how big our God is.
Wow. I felt the words were ones God wanted me to hear this week. It's been a week of severe pain and anxiety, after finding out our second IVF transfer attempt failed. I've been feeling pretty hopeless, to be honest. And very anxiuos over our next step. We have two more embryos, and I am incredibly torn over whether to transfer both together for our next go. On the one hand, I don't believe either of them are going to produce a viable pregnancy- afterall we started with five "high quality" embryos, and so far have lost three of them. On the other hand, transferring two does carry the risk of twins, which with my history of premature birth is very scary. This, mixed with the feelings of sadness, pain, fear of never being a mummy.....the feeling that life is on hold for us whilst everyone else moves forward, getting pregnant, delivering healthy babies, celebrating birthdays as those children grow up.....it's been a hot mess of fear and pain and over-thinking and tears. Lots of tears.
We are approaching our fourth anniversary of Bertie's birth and death, and we still are no closer to bringing home a baby brother or sister. The pain is not lessening, the fear is growing. Its a lonely road and it's awful. The strain on our marriage is huge. When I stop and reflect on what we have faced as a couple...we have buried a child and now faced years of infertility. Either one of those blows is enough to break many marriages apart, and we have faced both...continue to face both. It's incredible that we are not only still standing, but standing firm together.
I heard God's words today, and I will try to heed them, but, this problem is so huge, all consuming really and it has been going on for so very long now.....it isn't easy. I don't know that I am as strong as God believes me to be. But I will continue on, with gratefulness for my husband and the tiny grain of hope that remains that we will be able to parent a living child, one day. One day WILL arrive. Won't it?
Please.
It was a difficult start. The vicar's wife has recently given birth to their third child. As he stood proudly with his baby daughter at the front of church and everyone applauded, I sat with tears brimming and tried not to make a scene. Why do we do that? Why do we applaud a new baby? It's like we're saying, well done, you made a human! Isn't that an amazing achievement! What kind of message does that send to the couple who have been unable to "achieve" a family. The same at weddings, the same when we wax lyrical about the many "blessings" God has given us. What then is the person who has not been "blessed" with the things you have to feel? Doesn't God feel they are deserving of these blessings too? It is hard enough not to compare ourselves to others who have the things we so desperately long for, harder still when as a congregation or society we cheer/approve/celebrate/applaud these things in each other. It can leave the person who does not do, or have, or achieve the same things, (but wants to), feeling inadequate, undeserving or sidelined.
I didn't applaud. Not because I'm not happy for them, not even because I am jealous. Because I was hurting for myself and because it was all I could do not to walk out the door right there and then.
I am glad I didn't. We were looking at Judges 6, in which Gideon is asked by an angel of the Lord to "go in your might and deliver Isreal from the hand of Midian". When Gideon questions how he can do that, saying he is the lowest of the low in his clan, he is told "I (God) will be with you and you shall strike down the Midianites, every one of them". Today's speaker interpreted this to mean that God is always with us, and with God we are stronger than we believe. She encouraged us not to focus on our problems and anxieties, but to focus on God. Stop telling God how big our problems are, and start telling our problems how big our God is.
Wow. I felt the words were ones God wanted me to hear this week. It's been a week of severe pain and anxiety, after finding out our second IVF transfer attempt failed. I've been feeling pretty hopeless, to be honest. And very anxiuos over our next step. We have two more embryos, and I am incredibly torn over whether to transfer both together for our next go. On the one hand, I don't believe either of them are going to produce a viable pregnancy- afterall we started with five "high quality" embryos, and so far have lost three of them. On the other hand, transferring two does carry the risk of twins, which with my history of premature birth is very scary. This, mixed with the feelings of sadness, pain, fear of never being a mummy.....the feeling that life is on hold for us whilst everyone else moves forward, getting pregnant, delivering healthy babies, celebrating birthdays as those children grow up.....it's been a hot mess of fear and pain and over-thinking and tears. Lots of tears.
We are approaching our fourth anniversary of Bertie's birth and death, and we still are no closer to bringing home a baby brother or sister. The pain is not lessening, the fear is growing. Its a lonely road and it's awful. The strain on our marriage is huge. When I stop and reflect on what we have faced as a couple...we have buried a child and now faced years of infertility. Either one of those blows is enough to break many marriages apart, and we have faced both...continue to face both. It's incredible that we are not only still standing, but standing firm together.
I heard God's words today, and I will try to heed them, but, this problem is so huge, all consuming really and it has been going on for so very long now.....it isn't easy. I don't know that I am as strong as God believes me to be. But I will continue on, with gratefulness for my husband and the tiny grain of hope that remains that we will be able to parent a living child, one day. One day WILL arrive. Won't it?
Please.
Sunday, 29 March 2015
Finding trust
This morning's service was very apt and challenging for me. It was a Palm Sunday service, and the speaker reminded us how the same crowd who laid palm leaves and shouted "hosanna" as Jesus approached Jerusalem just a few days later shouted "crucify him". Isn't it easy for us to look back at that time, that crowd and shake our heads at their fickle behavior. They saw Jesus as their savior and when He didn't appear to save them in the way they wanted, they turned on him in anger. As today's speaker pointed out, well, aren't we exactly the same? Don't we stand in church on a Sunday and worship God, only to turn from Him in anger when we face pain and suffering?
I know I am guilty of this- as my last post will attest to. The greatest challenge for me as a Christian over the past few years has been trust. When people try to help me in my pain by talking about God's plan, it is very hard to hear, harder still to be comforted by. In the darkest depths of grief, disappointment and despair, the simple answer is "I don't like this plan, why would God plan this for me?" But faith is trusting in what is not seen, in what is yet to come. It is hard, so hard when the yet to come takes a great deal lomger to arrive than we would choose. But, I am working on reaching that place of trust, that my faithful God will keep His promises to me.
The letter of James is a small book tucked away towards the end of the new testament. It is a great book with loads of practical advice on how to live as a Chrisitan. But, it does challenge us too. It opens with a call to consider suffering as joy, and goes on to admonish us not to be "double minded" or to doubt. I am slowly coming to understand verses such as James 1:2-8. Of course the suffering itself will not produce "joy" but I can indeed trust that God is using it to aid my growth to spiritual maturity. I still say, and I expect I will say to my dying breath, that I wish He had chosen another way to teach me, that my son's life was too high a price to pay, but, I will also continue until my dying breath to endeavor to find trust.
I know I am guilty of this- as my last post will attest to. The greatest challenge for me as a Christian over the past few years has been trust. When people try to help me in my pain by talking about God's plan, it is very hard to hear, harder still to be comforted by. In the darkest depths of grief, disappointment and despair, the simple answer is "I don't like this plan, why would God plan this for me?" But faith is trusting in what is not seen, in what is yet to come. It is hard, so hard when the yet to come takes a great deal lomger to arrive than we would choose. But, I am working on reaching that place of trust, that my faithful God will keep His promises to me.
The letter of James is a small book tucked away towards the end of the new testament. It is a great book with loads of practical advice on how to live as a Chrisitan. But, it does challenge us too. It opens with a call to consider suffering as joy, and goes on to admonish us not to be "double minded" or to doubt. I am slowly coming to understand verses such as James 1:2-8. Of course the suffering itself will not produce "joy" but I can indeed trust that God is using it to aid my growth to spiritual maturity. I still say, and I expect I will say to my dying breath, that I wish He had chosen another way to teach me, that my son's life was too high a price to pay, but, I will also continue until my dying breath to endeavor to find trust.
Wednesday, 11 March 2015
When faith is no longer a comfort
This morning I uttered the words "I wish I wasn't a Christian, then I would find this easier to deal with." I was referring to our recently failed first attempt at IVF. My husband would nominally call himself a Christian, but he is not practicing and is primarily a scientist. He looked at the situation of our embryo transfer as a 50:50 chance that a ball of cells would attach itself to my womb. If it didn't, we could try again and it would be another coin toss. He didn't get his hopes up too high and is therefore taking this pretty well comparatively. For me, I have had weeks, months really of answered prayer to get to the point of trying the transfer. People across the world were praying for us on the build up to the transfer, and on the day itself. I prayed the whole way there that I would not cough on the table as I had a horrible cough/cold. I didn't cough and the transfer went perfectly. I felt so calm all the first week, I was off work, relaxed, meditated, prayed, did gentle yoga and watched funny movies. I was so sure the answer was finally yes.
It wasn't.
And that is so hard to accept. Despite all that prayer, despite it all going perfectly, despite the years we have waited and all we have been through in our quest to be parents, it was still, inexplicably, a no. And that hurts, so much more than the thought that the coin toss didn't land in our favour. To me, that was not a ball of cells. It was our embryo, created with God's hand guiding science. Why tell us yes to having IVF, why allow us to go this far, just to say no at the final hurdle? So similar to my question three years ago- "why allow us to conceive Bertie, just for him to die?"
You read a lot about people comparing infertility to grief, a recurring grief. Right now, that's how I feel. A lot of my thoughts and feelings remind me of how I felt after Bertie died. Obviously on a much lesser scale, but none the less, it does feel like another grief. Not the loss of a baby, but the ending of hope. I am having the classic reactions: Denial (a weekend of repeated peeing on
pregnancy tests, just in case the last one, two, three....were wrong/faulty/taken too early). Anger (at God, at life, at the unfairness of it all). Depression (withdrawal, lack of concentration, lack of motivation). Acceptance (I'm still waiting to get there).
I'm noticing similar reactions in others to after Bertie died too. Nobody has the words. Nobody knows what to say. Everyone knows what an enormous blow this is, the ripping off of a plaster, a recurrent gaping wound. A difference, two camps: those who have wordlessly held me and let me cry, and those who have avoided me.
I have spent today with this blog formulating and whirling in my mind, and God knew that. He worked to remind me that He is there and is working in other people to prove it. I came home to a bunch of flowers and a card on my doorstep, from some Christian friends. The flowes include
daffodils. After I cried this morning over another approaching Mothers' day with no daffodils for me,
what a strangely sweet comfort. Did Bertie nudge them? The card contains the expected encouraging bible verse. It grates a little in the midst of grief, these promises feel so empty in the face of repeated disappointment, however I appreciate the thought and the effort. And hey, at least it wasn't Romans 8:28 again.
As the months have turned into years, and the people who had babies when I didn't start to have second babies, I start to wonder if our turn will ever come? It is so hard to keep finding that positivity, to keep trusting in God's plan, to give it all to Him. Do I really, truly mean it when I pray "your will father, not mine?" No, I don't. And nor, I am sure, would most women in my shoes. My will is to be a mother to a living, biological child. And I do not understand why I am not being allowed that joy. I am a good person, and I don't think I deserve this. Yes, I believe that there will be no more tears in Heaven, but, Lord, why can't I have my heart's longing here on Earth first? If You are not punishing me, then why am I facing this punishing grief, over and over again?
It wasn't.
And that is so hard to accept. Despite all that prayer, despite it all going perfectly, despite the years we have waited and all we have been through in our quest to be parents, it was still, inexplicably, a no. And that hurts, so much more than the thought that the coin toss didn't land in our favour. To me, that was not a ball of cells. It was our embryo, created with God's hand guiding science. Why tell us yes to having IVF, why allow us to go this far, just to say no at the final hurdle? So similar to my question three years ago- "why allow us to conceive Bertie, just for him to die?"
You read a lot about people comparing infertility to grief, a recurring grief. Right now, that's how I feel. A lot of my thoughts and feelings remind me of how I felt after Bertie died. Obviously on a much lesser scale, but none the less, it does feel like another grief. Not the loss of a baby, but the ending of hope. I am having the classic reactions: Denial (a weekend of repeated peeing on
pregnancy tests, just in case the last one, two, three....were wrong/faulty/taken too early). Anger (at God, at life, at the unfairness of it all). Depression (withdrawal, lack of concentration, lack of motivation). Acceptance (I'm still waiting to get there).
I'm noticing similar reactions in others to after Bertie died too. Nobody has the words. Nobody knows what to say. Everyone knows what an enormous blow this is, the ripping off of a plaster, a recurrent gaping wound. A difference, two camps: those who have wordlessly held me and let me cry, and those who have avoided me.
I have spent today with this blog formulating and whirling in my mind, and God knew that. He worked to remind me that He is there and is working in other people to prove it. I came home to a bunch of flowers and a card on my doorstep, from some Christian friends. The flowes include
daffodils. After I cried this morning over another approaching Mothers' day with no daffodils for me,
what a strangely sweet comfort. Did Bertie nudge them? The card contains the expected encouraging bible verse. It grates a little in the midst of grief, these promises feel so empty in the face of repeated disappointment, however I appreciate the thought and the effort. And hey, at least it wasn't Romans 8:28 again.
As the months have turned into years, and the people who had babies when I didn't start to have second babies, I start to wonder if our turn will ever come? It is so hard to keep finding that positivity, to keep trusting in God's plan, to give it all to Him. Do I really, truly mean it when I pray "your will father, not mine?" No, I don't. And nor, I am sure, would most women in my shoes. My will is to be a mother to a living, biological child. And I do not understand why I am not being allowed that joy. I am a good person, and I don't think I deserve this. Yes, I believe that there will be no more tears in Heaven, but, Lord, why can't I have my heart's longing here on Earth first? If You are not punishing me, then why am I facing this punishing grief, over and over again?
Friday, 20 February 2015
Facebook etiquette?
In the last twelve months, a LOT of family and friends have had babies. And naturally, they post photos of their new arrival on social media to share with their own family and friends. I am pleased to say that newborn photos no longer make me cry, they no longer stab completely through my heart either. Infact, on a good day, I almost, enjoy looking at them. However, I don't want to "like" them, and I certainly don't want to comment. Because if I comment, I will be shown the pictures again every single time someone else comments, which will be a lot of times; if I "like" an image, it tells facebook to show me more images like it.
So, I have a quick look, smile for them, then ask facebook not to show me it again. The most recent time I have done this has made me wonder- do the parents, my friends, notice my lack of a comment, and do they mind? I am pretty sure anyone who knows me well enough to share photos of their baby with me would understand, but modern culture dictates that all congratulatory messages are posted on social media for all to see and share. Is it enough these days to send a card and perhaps a gift?
I certainly hope so. I hope that most people would not be offended by my not wanting a gorgeous photo of their precious bundle to catch me unawares on a bad day. I hope that they understand that it is not that I am not over the moon for them, wish them every happiness and think their child is beautiful. I just don't want to see what I am missing and I certainly don't want an entire newsfeed full or what I don't, but should have.
It is quite simply, or infact- complicatedly- self preservation.
So, I have a quick look, smile for them, then ask facebook not to show me it again. The most recent time I have done this has made me wonder- do the parents, my friends, notice my lack of a comment, and do they mind? I am pretty sure anyone who knows me well enough to share photos of their baby with me would understand, but modern culture dictates that all congratulatory messages are posted on social media for all to see and share. Is it enough these days to send a card and perhaps a gift?
I certainly hope so. I hope that most people would not be offended by my not wanting a gorgeous photo of their precious bundle to catch me unawares on a bad day. I hope that they understand that it is not that I am not over the moon for them, wish them every happiness and think their child is beautiful. I just don't want to see what I am missing and I certainly don't want an entire newsfeed full or what I don't, but should have.
It is quite simply, or infact- complicatedly- self preservation.
Tuesday, 27 January 2015
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.
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.
Saturday, 27 December 2014
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?
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?
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