How can it be 2011?

I gave birth to a daughter in 2008 - a beautiful, bouncing baby girl as the rhetoric goes. Oh my, she was beautiful. I don't have words to describe how precious she was although I try. I pour words into this place about her and to her but I'm not skilled enough to render how truly gorgeous my little girl was or how deep my love for her has settled into me.

2009 has rolled past, 2010 has been and gone. How? How, when my world stood still that day have I suddenly found myself 26 months further on, living and breathing? Surely, it was only yesterday that I undressed her tiny body and tucked her inside my nightshirt, hoping my body heat would warm her rapidly cooling little body? Three Christmases, three New Years and it still hurts like hell that she died when she should have lived. She feels so present, curled up in my heart and she feels so distant, flying in the stars.
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I gave birth to a son in 2010 and he lived. When he breathed, I breathed out and I have had almost twelve months discovering that the treasure at the end of the rainbow is not actually gold - it's chubby baby thighs and milky breath tickling my neck at 4am.

2011 - the year my son turns one, my daughter turns 3 and I continue to straddle the twin worlds of love and loss.

With love to all who are navigating it all too. May 2011 bring you only good things.

A void

I have been avoiding coming to my blog, reading other blogs, commenting on blogs. I haven't avoided thinking about blogging friends though - this part of the internet has been my virtual home for nearly two years now - a place that I buried myself in for a while back there. I still potter on with my daily life and wonder about the mums who are completing difficult PALs or who are trying to embark on one, mothers who are learning about the joy and the strain of motherhood after loss. And it's all still important to me but, with a dodgy internet connection and online shopping to be done, it was easy enough to claim that precious screen time needed to be spent elsewhere. But, that wouldn't be the whole truth - the decision to step away was somewhat more deliberate than that. These times come along sometimes, it seems to be just part of the cycle.

I don't know what I expected for two years. Something more gentle maybe. But, no. What I got was a stumble, a head first pitch into the deeper recesses of the grief pit. Because there is still a void - a hole that will never, ever, never be filled. Most days I can step around it - carefully, but relatively surefootedly because I know the terrain by now but not this time of the year.  I celebrated my daughter's second birthday without her, just as I will celebrate her fifth, her eighteenth, her twenty first... We do celebrate but it is a conscious choice to do so - to do it in the face of an overwhelming urge to roll into a ball, refuse to leave my bed and focus on the void.

And gradually, imperceptibly, the depression lifts again and I only realise how low I actually was in hindsight.

And then it's Christmas - a whole bundle of conflicting emotions to try to deal with. I can't avoid Christmas, even if I wanted do, not with exuberant living children writing Christmas lists and begging for the tree to go up. I think it's good for me to be pulled out of myself and I am finding some seasonal joy this year as we sing along to carols and make mince pies. There are moments of intense sadness - of course there are. Emma isn't here and she should be, no amount wrapping paper covers the void. I took a Christmas wreath to her grave and cried harder than I've cried for a long time. I hang her decorations on the tree and feel again the paucity of what I have for her, compared to the piles of gifts hidden upstairs for her siblings and I feel angry all over again. Angry for what I've been cheated out of, angry that SO many of us face this Christmas without our babies and angry for her, that she is missing all this. Except I don't really think she is missing out on it all. I truly believe she is somewhere safe and well - somewhere I hope to join her one day, if I find my feet with my faith again. Somewhere, where Christmas is celebrated without sadness and only joy.

But, still, at this time of year I long for there to be no gaping hole in my life and I struggle to comprehend that there is - and always will be.

Ten Months - A Toby post.

Double figures!

So, what to say about you little man? You are gorgeous - that probably doesn't need saying. You're still as chubby as ever with ringlets of sweet baby podge on your arms and your legs. You are crawling (of sorts).You remind me of a caterpillar as you still use your stomach to manoeuvre yourself to wherever it is you want to get to, (usually towards the nearest wire. You are yet another man in my life with an absolute fascination with technology). It's amazingly efficient - nothing chewable stands a chance against you.

You're a chatterbox. Yes, you're right - you have to be to get a word in edge ways around here. No definite words yet (we did wonder if you tried to say Ben the other day - maybe) but lots of emphatic sounds. I do love our nonsense conversations.

And I remain ridiculously, naively, hopeful that sometime soon, you'll decide to sleep! I'm not reckless - all night wouldn't be completely necessary but three ... maybe even four... hours at a stretch unpunctuated by you expressing your view that sleep is for lesser beings, that would be the icing on the cake little one. Until then ...

You have brought such a lot of light and love and giggles into our life. Thank you for living.

Ghosts and Rituals - Glow in the Woods.

I decided to do this because it is probably the part of life after Emma's death with which I struggle the most. Faith, beliefs, rituals and the solace they provide.

 

1 | Do you believe you can communicate with people in the afterlife, or they with you?  Do you believe you can do this with your child?

Just after Emma died, I had a couple of dreams about her. I don't know if they were a communication from her but they were very comforting nonetheless. I've not had anything like that for a very long time now. I kept a journal in the early days where I'd write directly to her - and when I visit her grave I talk to her. It's a monologue - and I don't expect a reply really. I DO (despite many, many other doubts) believe that Emma is in heaven and I believe she is happy and safe there even if she has never told me that herself.

 
2 | Do you believe in ghosts?  Has this changed since the loss of your child?

 No. I don't. I never have and I can't imagine I ever will. I agree with those who said that they can't think of anything worse than someone precious and special to them being trapped between this world and the next. I don't want that for Emma; it would horrify me. As above, I believe she is safe and happy elsewhere.

3 | Have your feelings changed about Halloween?  How do you respond to Halloween humor such as zombie and ghost costumes or macabre gravestones as decorations?

I am (I think!) a Christian and was brought up in a Christian household. Halloween has never been a part of my celebrations. My church used to organise a "Light party" for the evening so the church children had somewhere to go other than trick or treating. My own children have never participated in Halloween. As a commercial ploy it means absolutely nothing to me and because I see it as such - another opportunity for companies to sell us tat in the slow patch between Easter Eggs and Tinsel - the decorations just don't bother me. They're just junk. It's all separate from my authentic experience of grieving and death.


4 | Does your religious or cultural background have a day or holiday where the focus is honoring the dead? How do you use this experience to honor your own child(ren)? 

No - it doesn't. I suppose the words of the funeral service are quite ritualised - although I don't think we had them for Emma. Isn't that awful? There is much of that day that is burned on my mind but it's like a silent movie. One or two things stand out but not the words we said.

When I read the question, I also thought of Easter. It's not exactly the same but the focus is on Jesus' death and resurrection. And, inevitably, it's also about my daughter's death for me now.
 
5 | Do you ever reach outside of your spiritual/religious framework for comfort from other practices/religions?

Not really. I am moved by the things that I see other mothers doing for "Day of the Dead" and also Samhain. I can feel the ...sacredness ... of these occasions but I haven't integrated any of the rituals into my own grieving.

6 | Is there a season or holiday, other than your child(ren)’s birthday, that inspires you to perform a ritual in memory of your child(ren)?

Christmas. Our first Christmas without Emma was only 2 months after she died. If it hadn't been for our elder children, we wouldn't have bothered celebrating. We asked people not to buy us gifts but to buy for a child who was Emma's age instead and donate it to one of the charities collecting for less privileged children. We continued it last year with gifts for a one year old. This year, it'll be gifts appropriate for a two year old. 

7 | Is there a ritual you perform everyday? Weekly? Monthly? Yearly?

I light a candle when I need to feel close to her. I work on her cross-stitch on the same ad hoc basis. The only "regular" ritual is during the week before her birthday, I light Emma's candle on 10th October to remember Josie who also died in labour in 2008. I keep lighting it to remember Gideon who was born on the 12th and died on the 13th (also in 2008) and, of course, it is lit on the 14th for her birthday and stays lit for the "Wave of Light" on 15th.

On Emma's birthday, we all unwrap a small gift and I make a cake. We take flowers to her grave. We try to make it a day of celebration for the fact that she was rather than mourning the fact that we don't have her here.

8 | Do you perform any public rituals (in real life or online) on October 15? How do your friends, family, or community respond to your acknowledgment of loss?

As above - October 15th is a sort of appendage in this house to Emma's birthday on the 14th. It's usually a rough day - the come down from her birthday. I do participate in "Wave of Light" at 7pm. Our friends and family are very supportive. Grandparents, Aunts and Uncles all sent cards and flowers (or donations in lieu) for Emma's birthday. They also participate in buying gifts for charity at Christmas. We know that we are very fortunate in this.

Day 30

I was completely blown away reading Angie's post today. I don't know if I can come up with anything quite that good :)

As I said yesterday, I'd love to write ... something ...? Not sure what. I did start a Mills & Boon once - I'm not sure I should really admit to that. It's still knocking around our computer somewhere!

Aside from that, I'd like to grow old gracefully with my faculties intact and be the sort of grandmother that my grandma was.

Day 29

My hopes, plans and dreams for the next 365 days.

I don't really plan ahead any more. I've lived what happens when plans got to hell in a handcart, or whatever the phrase is. Maybe my plan should be to start planning more? Live a more effectual life than this one that I meander through.

Always, that the living members of my family remain healthy and well and happy - that we have no more tragedies to live through.

Perhaps Toby will discover his inner sleepyhead? Although that's his plan more than mine. It's just a dream of mine right now!

More prosaically, we have neglected our house. Never DIY-ers at the best of times, we have basically holed up these past two years and ignored the fact that our house is in need of some serious TLC. So, I guess trying to sort that out consistutes something resembling a plan? How dull / middle aged do I sound?

Okay, a little less dull - writing. I'd love to do more. Maybe that's one to expand on tomorrow.

Day 28

The contents of my handbag:

I hate clutter so normally, just the bare essentials.

My purse and keys. My prescription sunglasses (which might sound strange, since I live in the North East of England, where the sun is an exotic sight. I have very sensitive eyes and find they water with even quite weak sunlight, so I'm often the slightly mad looking lady in a woolly hat and shades!!). A hairbrush. My mobile. Some pens and scrap paper (handy for entertaining children in restaurants). Lip balm. Our year pass for entry into a local museum.

I suspect only British readers of a certain age will understand if I confess to writing the above and wanting to end ... "And a Cuddly Toy".

(There is no cuddly toy - they end up in the changing bag.)

Day 27

Worst habits since my loss?

Two:

1) Losing myself completely inside the internet for hours on end without surfacing for human interaction. I can always chart bad patches coming, my internet usage creeps back up when I'm low. Not writing but reading. Immersing myself in other people's stories to escape my own.

2) Comfort eating. No packet of biscuits (or cakes or chocolate) is safe from me since Emma died. It's not attractive and I need to find a way out of it but tiredness and grief do a wicked number on my will power.

Day 26

It's half-term, so this is a different week as Dave teaches and it's a holiday for him as well as Ben & Lucy. But, an ordinary week looks like this:

Mon-Fri: We walk to school (hopefully - but rarely - arriving on time). After dropping Ben and Lucy off, Toby and I come home (sometimes via the cemetery). Most of our days are quiet. I just can't do the local Mother and Baby group any more. Too many of the mums were too useless when Emma died. Time enough for that when Toby is actually more aware that hanging with his mum isn't actually the whizz bang he appears to think it is right now. He naps in the morning and I rush around doing jobs (feeding guinea pigs, washing nappies, ironing -yuck, thrice yuck.) except for the days when the nights have been really bad (often, at the moment) when I might just give up and nap too.

At least once a week, my best friend and her little girl come over to hang with us. Most Thursdays, she and I and the babes attend a sling walk at a local park (although, since the weather has turned there's less walking and more cafe haunting).

Toby and I eat lunch together and then play. If he's grumpy, he hangs out on my back in the sling whilst I wash up. Really, wee man could do with a nap around 3 but we're struggling with that right now because we have to collect Ben and Lucy at 3.20 (except Wednesdays, which is after school club and art club).

Home from school, a drink and a snack for the older two (and some TV but no computer which is rationed to weekends), maybe a short nap for Toby. I cook whilst the children play. Dave is back around 5.30pm. We all eat together where possible. Tuesday night is Rainbows for Lucy. Thursday night is Anchor Boys for Ben. Dave does bath time which all the kids adore. I wash up and clean around downstairs. I head back upstairs for stories - normally I'm Lucy's primary story reader but right now, Ben and I are sharing the second Har.ry Pot.ter so I read to him whilst Dave reads to Lucy. Teeth then prayers and lullabies and good nights. I lie down with Toby and feed him to sleep. Sometimes it works! I head downstairs for time with Dave and/or laptop/TV/embroidery. Until recently, Toby would reliably sleep until 11 but, having made the reckless decision to grow 4 teeth at once, this is no longer a given. I fall into bed far later than I should most nights and am up again every couple of hours right now. I'm looking forward to getting some sleep sometime in the future!

Saturday: Ben has trampolining at 10.30 and Lucy has just stopped dancing at 12, which frees up our afternoon a little. We try and keep the afternoons a little bit relaxed (aside from cleaning out the guinea pigs and the obligatory "Do I haaaave to?" from their 6YO owner). Sometimes, we see my parents who live locally. Sometimes we do that on Sunday instead. The kids love their Wii right now so we can often be found dancing round like loons. Saturday tea is usually quick and easy (and sometimes nutritious *blush*).

Sunday: Up for church. Our service has just changed from 9.15 to 10.15, which is a relief for us and makes the morning a little less fraught. It's not always the easiest of times. I don't blog much about my ongoing attempts to integrate my faith with what has happened to us but it's turning out to be a long, slow path and I often feel quite low during church.

Back home for lunch and homework (my least favourite time of the week and the time when I seriously wish I home educated!!) If we're not seeing my parents or doing soft play parties then I do stuff with the kids while Dave does his preparation for the following week. Sunday evenings right now, I catch up with both Saturday and Sunday's "Strictly" on i.pla.yer. Love it.

Lost for words

I shouldn't be surprised really. I was asking a lot of myself to think that I'd be able to come here and write with any coherence in the days after Emma's birthday. I remember from last year that the time after was so much harder than the days before (or the day itself). Both Emma's daddy and I have been sunk in a deep funk. We miss her, we miss her so much. I have waded through the last week, just going through the motions. My introverted little heart has had no space for anything else, except me and my grief. I've not been emotionally available to my other children - simply meeting their physical needs has exhausted me (especially short stuff's need to feed at 1am, 3am, 5 am ...)


But, the thing about two years, is I know there's light. Two years ago, I feared I might never smile again. Now I know that these seasons of sadness will always come but so too will better times. I can't force them to happen, I just have to wait until they return. And I think my mood is a little lighter again. Hopefully, I'll manage the last few days of the meme.

Day 17 - A Piece of Art.

For the longest time, I had a chip on my shoulder about "Art". I wasn't well taught, I don't think. My art teachers had a lot of time for those with natural aptitude (I wasn't one of those) but there was very little encouragement for those of us who might have had a lot of enjoyment in the process, even if the result wasn't polished. Nor do I remember being given much encouragement to appreciate beautiful pieces created by others. I was just pretty ground down - both my teacher and I breathed a sigh of relief when I opted not to continue my art to exam level.

So, I had this idea that it was somehow inaccessible to me. My first experience of enjoying art was studying Impressionism for my A-level French. The course included a 4 day stay in Paris (and the resort formerly known as "Euro.Disney"), with a visit to the Musee d'Orsay. And, maybe it's a cliche, but that's when I became engaged with "Art". I had to do a fifteen minute presentation (in French) on this piece. I have a framed reproduction of it on our bedroom wall. Post loss, I still love the innocence I associate with it.

Day 16 - A song that makes you cry (or nearly)

I'm not going to fill in the gaps from the last few days, just pick up with today.

So, songs. I agree with Angie, all music has the capacity to dissolve me into a puddle of sadness. Sometimes, I deliberately play things I know will make me cry, just for the catharsis. All song lyrics are about dead babies, all babylost parents know that. I can't sing many of the songs in church any more. And lullabies and nursery rhymes? I'll be astonished if Toby ever learns the words, as pronounced by his wailing, snot-dribbling mummy as she hugs him so hard he gives his protest squeak.

But, in  particular, a piece of music played by Emma's daddy for her birthday chokes me. I've heard it a lot these past months, as Dave practised it before recording. It has become her music.

And this will always remind me of my beautiful little girl too:

Thank you.

I am listening to Jess reading our babies' names as I type and crying harder than I have cried in a very long time. So many babies loved and gone too, too soon. And, in the midst of so much pain, such love and compassion.

THANK YOU, THANK YOU for all the wonderful messages of support, the candles and the beautiful acts of kindness done in Emma's name. Her second birthday was very, very special. Thank you.

TWO.

 Presents:

 A cake:

and a lot of love and support and kindness.
I just wish the birthday girl was here.


Emma,
We love you more than you can know and miss you every single second of every single day.
Love from,
Mummy, Daddy, Ben, Lucy & Toby.

No meme today - just memories.

I attended my first SANDS meeting just 5 weeks after Emma died. Dave and I were desperate to know we weren't alone. I remember one mother there, who had just passed her baby's first birthday, talked about how the day before was somehow harder than the actual birthday. How the day before was all about remembering how *this* day x years ago was the last time I was completely happy, completely the person I was before I became this person.

This time two years ago, I was already in labour - pretty far on as it turned out. This time two years ago I was excited about the fact we were about to meet the last baby to join our family - our little boy, George Joseph (or maybe George Nathaniel, it wasn't decided). Or, if I was completely wrong about the gender, our little girl ... Felicity Hope / Felicity Joy, maybe? I was SO wrong on so many counts. I don't really remember the physical pain of this day 2 years ago but I remember those wonderful, innocent expectations that things would turn out just the way we planned them.

Thank you and Day 12

Thank you to everyone who responded to my last post. I'm tremendously touched that people are willing to reach out for my little girl and pleased that Thursday will be a day punctuated by small acts of kindness. Thank you.

So, my OCD. My family have often been wont to wonder whether I really, truly do have this illness. I don't think I do, certainly not enough to entail a formal diagnosis. But  I do have a very strong need for things to be "just so". If someone puts a can in the cupboard upside down (or back to front) then I HAVE to turn it around the right way. It is a long running source of humour/frustration for my husband that I cannot -absolutely cannot- go to sleep if he has his pillowcase turned wrong side up - even if it's dark and I can't see it. Just knowing that it is "wrong", is enough to leave me lying uncomfortably awake. When we changed the bookcase in our living area, I ended up demanding that Dave just let me put the books back - he wasn't putting all the books by the same author in the same place, you see. All this seems nothing more than harmlessly idiosyncratic to me ...

I'm always LATE for everything though ...

A request for Emma's birthday (and Day 11)

I feel as though Emma's birthday has hit me out of nowhere. Because Ben and Lucy have birthdays at the end of September, the build up to her special day is short, but intense. I just feel ... malaise ... I want her back, I can't have her back and I don't want to be trying to find ways to make a second birthday that is also a death-day into something meaningful. I mean I do, of course I do, but I don't. Oh ... if you're in this with me, you know. You understand the sentiment behind that befuddled stream of words. Last year, we planned lots of stuff to do. This year, not so much. I'll make a cake and we'll each have a gift (a tradition - if second time through can be said to make a tradition - I hope will continue through the years.) But, I wanted something more for her.

Her name means "All encompassing" or "universal". If that seems a random leap, it's not. I'd like to ask all my bloggy / FB friends if they would be prepared to try and do a small, random act of kindness on October 14th, in memory of Emma - making kindness "universal". It doesn't have to be big (and I know it's not an original idea - I have stolen it directly from lovely Angie!) but it would mean a lot to me to know she is remembered in some little ways around the world. Thank you.

And now ... Day 11. A photo of me now. My husband took the "now" literally and took a picture of me, sitting at the laptop (actually leaving a comment on Angie's blog, if you want to be precise about it) - tired, a bit low, scruffy after a quick tidy round now the kids are in bed. Literally, me NOW. Not the most flattering thing I've ever seen!

Day 10 - A photo over 10 years old.

Me - age 23 - on honeymoon in Malta. So young, so happy.

Excuse my lack of words, Emma's birthday is on Thursday - my brain doesn't have room for much else.

Day 9 - A picture taken since my loss

I just commented on Angie's blog  that I try to avoid having my photo taken - but here's an exception. And I know, it's a picture taken by someone else, not me (Dave!) but, once again, I'm working with the limited resources of the laptop!

But, I like this picture. It's the first time I managed to get Toby on my back using my woven wrap. It's the wrap I bought to use with Emma. I didn't know anything about "babywearing" with Ben and Lucy, although I did have a carrier that I used with them, so I was excited to try it out for real with our third child. The wrap was the only thing I bought new for Emma, little third child with hand-me-downs, that she was. I never got to use it for her but I love snuggling Toby in it - a small connection between him and her.

Day 8 - A photo that makes me angry or sad.

This was taken 20th September 2008. We were celebrating my mother-in-law's 60th birthday by going on the "York eye" - one of those slow moving, viewing  ferris wheels. I don't know who took the photograph - I didn't even know it was being taken, hence the completely unguarded pose. I'm 36ish weeks pregnant, rubbing my bump and chatting to Emma. I feel so sad that a beautiful, full, happy pregnancy ended like this and so angry that I went through a full nine months for "nothing" (not that she is nothing, but you know what I mean). I didn't look at the camera for a long time after Emma died and when I came to sort out the prints I wanted, this was the picture that made me sob and sob and sob.

Day 6 - 20 things that calm me.

In no order:
1) Listening to Classic FM.
2) Cross Stitch.
3) Card Making.
4) Playing Lego with Ben.
5) Playing "Princess" Snap with Lucy.
6) A rise and fall of Toby's chest when he's peacefully asleep (not teething, like now :( ).
7) The "good" walks home from school, chattering about nothing much with the children.
8) Colouring in!
9) The Sea - especially on cold, dreary days.
10) Sunsets.
11) Visiting Emma's grave.
12) Revisiting an old book or getting completely hooked on a new one.
13) Browsing (but never buying) the For Sale folder of the babywearing forum I recently joined.
14) Toby's grin and babbling when he's in the wrap on my front.
15) A lovely cup of tea (keeping up the best of British, Jeanette!)
16) Singing along to really cheesy pop.
17) Praying (when I am able to).
18) Galaxy chocolate.
19) Setting the world to rights with my best friend.
20) Lighting some candles and snuggling on the sofa with Dave.

Day 5 - Your Favourite Quote.

Maya Angelou has plenty of pithy stuff to say about life. At college I had her poem "Phenomenal Woman" on my wall (although it isn't entirely true to suggest that I had men falling on their knees around me. But I'm allowed a little poetic licence, surely?)

I like this one of hers:

"When we knew what we knew, we did what we did - when we knew better, we did better"

 (I found slightly different versions when googling this, so I don't know if this the actual quotation). 

Immediately after Emma died, both Dave and I talked about becoming better parents as a result of her death. It doesn't always work that way, I know. Grief is tiring and sometimes, of necessity, selfish. Sometimes I have been a far worse parent when I am mired in thick, sludgy sadness. But, now that I know better than most how precious and fragile the lives of my children are, I try to do better by them.

Day Four - Favourite Book

Day 4 - your favourite book. has it changed since your loss?
 
This could be a V-E-R-Y long post if I were to allow it but I'm supposed to be online grocery shopping so I shall attempt to edit myself. I'm interested by the fact that a lot of the stuff this "sort-of meme" is throwing up, I blogged about, back in the rawer days of my early grief. I blogged here about the fact that I missed reading immediately after Emma's death. I'm pleased to report that I have now rediscovered my inner bookworm. But, yes, my reading choices have changed since my loss. I remain an ardent Jane Austen fan but I'm not sure when I'll be able to read Emma again. I know that I couldn't watch the BBC serialisation of it last year. My daughter is not exactly named for the book but, when we struggling to come up with a girls name for a baby we were certain was a boy, Dave suggested Emma. He likes classic names and thought I might agree to it because of the Austen link. So, she's not named for the eponymous heroine but her name is a respectful nod in that direction.

I still prefer a walk on the lighter side of literature - the adventures of the boy wizard will always, always allow me to escape and relax. I still find it very hard to read a book without peeking forward these days. I don't want nasty surprises to leap out on me.

One book which I loved before Emma died - and which I re-read as a direct result of a DBM blog about it, is The Red Tent. I wrote about it here. I still want to live in a red tent with only babylost mothers for company. I still think it is a book that profoundly honours baby loss.

And finally, something I really "enjoyed" - or rather, was captivated by, is the Stig Larsson Millenium trilogy, which I read this summer. Easy prose, very tough on the stomach ideas. I really don't know if I would have enjoyed these books, if I had read them before becoming baby-lost. I suspect I might have found them too disturbing but, since I live with the disturbing fact of baby death every single day, fictional distress doesn't deter me anymore. I have a stronger stomach for it.

Late as usual! Day Three.

I've just read Angie's idea for thirty posts in thirty days and I love it and hope it might help me out of my bloggy rut. Although, given that three posts in thirty days would be a challenge for me, I'm not entirely sure how this will work out!! So, immediately, I'm cheating. I'm going to skip days one and two and leap straight into day three.

A Television Show.

Immediately after Emma died, Dave and I spent long hours sitting on the sofa, after the children were in bed, watching DVDs and drinking wine. Amongst others, we watched Series One and Two of  "My Name is Earl". Perhaps, comedy was not the most obvious choice for grieving parents - or perhaps it was the most natural choice in the world. We laughed a lot - and took a break from watching when we realised we were unconsciously allowing the show's simplistic views on karma to influence our feelings about Emma's death. That sound so silly now but, back then, lost in a world where nothing made sense, where the foundations of our Christian faith had been rocked utterly; it was too easy to allow something that was never meant to be more than a handy hook from which to hang implausibly silly situations, become a philosophical possibility. I really don't have much of a clue about karma but I'm quite sure I'm not going to understand it any better by watching "My Name is Earl" Still, we've been watching them again recently - purely for pleasure and not to garner deep insights into the universe. They still make me laugh.

Silence and Shadows.

For the first time ever, I have an unpublished post in my "drafts" folder. Generally, I'm from the "publish and be damned" school of blogging. Probably because my head acts as my drafts folder and, if something makes it from head to screen, it's usually what I needed to get out. But, recently, I feel wordless. I have wondered whether this is me telling me to stop, to pack up and move out. But I'm resisting. I don't feel done and this is one of the few places in my life that is still all about Emma (okay, with a little bit of Toby thrown in ... but mainly my girl.) The frustrating thing is that the words are there - I feel them bubbling under the surface, I gag on them but I can't make them take shape here. And I hate that it's her second birthday soon and I can't find anything to say. Of course I can say "I hate this", "I wish this hadn't happened to us", "I want her back" but, well, those things go without saying don't they?

***

It's our niece's second birthday today. I thought it was tomorrow. Fortunately, I sent the card and present earlier in the week so it arrived in good time. Shopping for her presents is a strange experience. I couldn't let myself think about what 2 year old girls really like so I was staring at rows of toys trying to choose something innocuous, something that wasn't going to make me feel sad and mad and angry that I'm not buying something for my daughter too. I certainly couldn't buy her clothes - that would mean going into the girl toddler aisle and I can't do that. 

I rant (prudish mama, me) about the difficulty I had in trying to buy Lucy (soon-to-be 6 but tall and lissome and older than her age sized) an age-appropriate winter wardrobe - Jeggings, yuck, yuck, yuck! At least, shopping for a 6 year old among Han.nah M branded clothing and lurid neon sack dresses - nostalgia for an era twenty years before she was born - is a world away from trousers still cut to accommodate nappy covered bottoms and sweet little dresses. 


I don't actually know what my little niece is "into" - her favourite TV characters or her preference for play. I don't know because I choose not to know. Bad Auntie that I am, always striving to avoid the unavoidable. She is here - a beautiful, healthy little toddler - and Emma is not. I bought some jigsaws and some crafty/colouring stuff. A nice (such an anaemic word) present I hope. I made her card too - taking time and care over it, perhaps overcompensating for finding it hard to see her as anything other than my daughter's shadow companion.

The precious gift of being able to miss.

I love all of my children with a white hot love. I remember my first night with my first-born. A difficult but successful birth - a baby who lived. I was high on motherhood and morphine so those early hours are blurred but, as dawn rolled into the room, I remember watching my tiny son in his plastic bassinet and thinking, "I would kill for you." It was a foregone conclusion that I would have died for him. That choice was made the minute I knew I was pregnant. But having him there, next to me, my mama-tiger was roaring, prowling - ready to fight. White-hot love. Fortunately, I have never had need to test that strong, primal feeling but it is still there - for all four of my babies.

Many of us with rainbow babies have written about the fact that we, probably, would never have had both babies, if our dead child had lived. That is almost certainly true for us - although when I said so to Dave, he said that maybe Toby would have been my "stamped feet" baby - the "let's have one more" child. Or, as my sister calls it, my "Oops-a-daisy baby". Maybe, we were always meant to have him somehow. Look at him - he's gorgeous. So alive. How could he not ever have been? How could I not love him with every last atom of my being ? ... and yet, if I hadn't had him, I wouldn't have known him to miss him. I find that so strange and unsettling.

When Emma first died, both Dave and I questioned the adage "It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all." Some days were so hard and so painful and so raw that we wondered if it might have been better not to have had our third child. If we had never known her, we would not have been able to miss her with such gut-wrenching profundity. But that thought was fleeting. More often I recognised that her being in my life was -and is- a precious gift. To be able to miss her every day is my connection to her, my opportunity to mother her. A testament to the deep, abiding adoration I have for my tiny, beautiful baby girl.

Moonlight, Memories and Musings

The long drive home after visiting close friends who live at some distance. It's late and three bathed and pyjama-ed children sleep in the back. The sky is clear and the moon is full - maybe. Maybe just past full. It's beautiful and I think back to the days before Emma's birth - the frenzied speculations on the forum about whose labour would be triggered by the full moon. I look again. The moon is a nine months belly - full and round and gorgeous. From here, it's not barren and dusty - devoid of life.

The short drive away from home - I step out of the back door into a peaceful, silent night. I'm wearing a nightdress and wooley socks. I walk, pausing often to breathe...scream ...groan, to the ambulance that has come to take me to hospital. I'm barely away of my surroundings but just for a second, I look at the moon, serene and round. With total clarity, I know that this moment will be imprinted forever - a postcard on my mind. The moments just before the birth of my child. The moments just before her death.

I look behind me. I can't see baby. He's rear facing. I can barely see the oldest - they're in the second row of seats but I sense their breathing and their dreams. Just for a moment I'm aware of my second daughter too - the moon brings her close.

I step out of the back door - no romance. I'm taking the bins and the compost out. But I look at the moon and I remember a poem I wrote a long time ago. I go in and dig around the computer, trying to find it. To lay claim to something that connects me to her.


Emma's Playtime.

Search for me in the slim silver sickle
Of the new moon.
I'm swinging there
Legs out ... legs in
Flying high.
I've watched you teach my sister, mama,
And I can do it too.

See me climb the brightest rainbow
Heart in your mouth.
I'm sliding there
Hear me squeal with delight
As I propel myself down.
I love the orange, mama,
But I know you prefer indigo.

Find me in the softly blushing tulips -
The ones you bring to me.
I'm pretending to be Thumbelina.
I giggle as I hide
Tucking my knees under my chin.
I'm wearing fluffy fairy wings.
Can you see them, mama?

Admire my handiwork amongst the symphony of colours
In a beautiful sunset.
I'm finger painting
Dabbling my fingers in pots of pink and gold
The paint is everywhere, mama.
I'll enjoy my bath tonight.

Feel me in the sleepy kiss of my sister
As you tuck her in,
In the last, long hug my brother gives
Before you turn out the light.
It's been a busy day, mama.
I'll sleep well tonight.

Hope Angel

About three weeks before Tobias was born, I contacted Sally to say that if he was a little girl, we were probably going to call him Hope. Sally responded with such grace and generous spirit. It didn't register with me then but we already knew the date our baby was coming - Tuesday 19th January.

Toby, obviously, was a boy. I cannot envisage it (nor would I want it) any other way. And it is right and proper that a very, very special little girl remains, uniquely, Tuesday's Hope.

Sally - because the 19th is significant to me too, now - I think about you and Hope around this time every month. But especially today.

Happy 2nd birthday, Hope Angel.

Holi-holiday

"We're all going on a summer holiday" ... la, la, la, la.

It's nice, having my family around me. August is the biggest perk of having a husband who teaches. The six weeks holiday is delicious for us - completely shared parenting means lie-ins, blissful opportunities for much missed sleep.

We pack picnics and head off to parks, museums and such. Today was lovely and lively and happy. I was surprised by the pang I felt when I saw a V-E-R-Y pregnant lady. I thought I was past that. In the land of the lost, I'm lucky enough to have been found. But, sometimes I still feel lost and pregnant bellies remind me. But, it's fleeting these days and all I have to do to counter it, is look at the tiny sumo wrestler who looks up at me and laughs as if he's really pleased to see me and the feeling folds back into my heart.

At some point we'll head back to the place I wrote about here and it'll be lovely. I have been there with Dave and Ben and Lucy and Emma (34 weeks pregnant). I was there last year with tiny, still mostly secret, Jurgen tucked inside of me. This year, I actually get to follow up on a pregnancy and head back with a baby - an honest to goodness little person. I will get to see how Toby reacts to sand (on current form - my prediction is he'll try to lick it!) and I'll still wonder what Emma would have made of it all.

Strange but true - Denial.

I wondered, when I wrote the post entitled "Acceptance?", whether I was just setting myself up for a fall, hence the question mark. The question mark was supposed to show I wasn't taking it for granted at all, that I wasn't trying to push my luck.

I don't think I ever "did" denial - I sort of skipped over that little bit of the grief cycle. Emma's death was unexpected - I laboured, I birthed her, we rejoiced and then we were handed our dead baby. I don't suppose labouring, knowing is any easier. I doubt it. But, even in the absence of any time to process what this was going to mean for us, we held her and I think we both realised that denial wasn't an option. We both felt that we needed to face the grief, the hardship, the horror face on. I was definitely numb for the first couple of months but I never sunk into any sort of denial. I have told people that I have four children - and omitted to mention that one is dead but I don't omit that information because I can't face it or because I forget or because I try to fool myself. Usually I omit that information for the benefit of the other person or simply for privacy for me.

And yet, since Toby, I have struggled to hold onto her. Immediately after his birth, I lived in the land of gratitude and joy. I had a baby WHO LIVED. I cried a lot more often for Emma, I felt so close to her all over again because I could see her in him. And then, I hit a bit of a slump. Tiredness, hormones resetting ... who knows. But recently, I've found myself resenting the fact that I'm a mother whose child died. I'm tired of grieving and I just want to pretend that I'm not. I've never needed to visit Emma's grave with regularity but it's close and it's a very beautiful and peaceful place. I've never found it hard to go and just be still there - until now. Recently, I've felt like I ought to go and I've been unable to. Something in me has resisted. And I feel so guilty - as though Emma is drifting away from me - and I'm pushing her away. I still love her so much but I haven't quite worked out how to parent my living children the way I want to, how to be the sort of mother I want to be and not deny my precious, precious third child in the process.

Balance.

Some days I realise all over again that these scales can't be balanced.

I'm an optimistic, "count your blessings" kind of girl. The stuffing got knocked out of me, big style, twenty-odd months ago, leaving me limp and floppy and sad. But, on the whole, I have been unwilling to sacrifice any more of me than was ripped away without my permission. So, I've strived to grieve actively, to confront it all head on. Keep my eye on those blessings. Dave, Ben, Lucy and Toby - they're my lifeblood.

But I can't put them on one side of a set of virtual scales and expect them to balance with Emma on the other side. It's not that simple. That simile doesn't work. That view of life doesn't cut it. She's my lifeblood too, my love for her wraps around everything. Sometimes, it's possible not to be sad - to remember her and simply be glad that I ever had her at all. But other times, like now, fighting my way to the positives is just too hard. I am sleep deprived - I don't mind. I am losing sleep in the best possible cause. But I know me and I know how lack of sleep pulls me down. I don't think this is depression, postnatal or otherwise. But, I don't always have the energy to fight the sadness. Finding balance is hard.

Some things will always hurt ...

... like:

The family who followed my son and I into his trampolining class, last week. Daddy, little boy, little girl and mummy - proudly pushing 10 day old baby girl. Baby girls will always give me a pang. It was the briefest of pangs because she was gorgeous and sweet and DIFFERENT. Not my baby. That makes a difference these days. What hurt for longer - what still hurts - was the hungry look in my son's eyes. He's seven. It's not fair.

...like:

Coming across her name as I'm marking exam papers - or your baby's name. Because, even though the exam scripts I'm marking are from 11 year olds - giving them first dibs on the names really, I still consider those names OUR names, chosen with care for the babies we love so profoundly. I have to be careful not to overmark all the Emmas I encounter - not to give them extra marks for simply giving me the pleasure of seeing her name written in girlish scrawl.

... like:

Taking Toby "swimming" (dandling him in slightly warm water for all of five minutes, whilst he ponders it all very seriously - as is his wont - before he considers my skimpier than normal attire an open invitation for a snack and attempts to dive bomb my breasts!)

I take him out of the pool, wrap him in a towel and feed him. Milked up and exhausted, he falls asleep in my arms and I'm BACK, back in the hospital room when the midwives handed her to us. She was wrapped in a towel, her hair was still curly-wet fuzz from amniotic fluid and her sweet little mouth was a little slack - not from milkdrunkeness - but from death. I don't see her in him so often these days. He is almost 18 pounds with the cheeks and the thighs to match. He is so alive and so substantial and so very much himself but, in that moment, she was there too. Which is good and painful and confusing, all at once.

Exam pressures, Alien invasion and other reasons not to blog.

Perhaps this is how it'll be here - no formal goodbye just, well, less of a presence. I made a conscious decision to walk away a couple of months ago but I knew I'd wander back. I like this place and I like the virtual friends I have made here. So, there will be no final post here. Like others before me, I'll meander back to say "Hi. How you doing?" I'll still try to read EVERYTHING that comes through my reader, fail miserably and feel guilty. I ponder posts, like the darned good one I thought about which was an extended metaphor of grief as a forest (don'tcha wish I'd been around for that scintillating piece of writing) and then reject them. I agree with Jess - I still have things to say but they aren't always about sinking in a morass of grief or even specifically about Emma any more - although all my observations of my world and my life are threaded with her and my love for her and my longing for her and the space that is not her, but not always consciously now.

So, I will still be writing and definitely still trying to read your blog too if I know of it. It's just got harder. I've just embarked into my annual foray in the world of work-at-home motherdom. Our dining room is currently home to several hundred exam papers to be graded and returned by the end of June. I do this most years and I always forget the slightly panicked feeling I get as friendly postmen unhunch themselves on my doorstep as they divest themselves of heavy looking parcels for me to pour over. I manage it all by chanting "Think of the money, think of the money" under my breath and drinking too much tea.

Besides which, I no longer have internet access during the day. Our ancient old PC has been re-sited into Ben's room, which does not have anywhere for the modem and there seems no way of asking it nicely to connect wirelessly. So, I am constrained to visiting here, via the laptop, in the evenings only when, frankly, my brain has seen better days. The PC has been moved to accommodate a cot in our room for the gorgeous and exceptionally chubby Tobias, who has now outgrown his Moses basket. I always feel slightly envious of co-sleeping mums and dads - it seems so lovely and snuggly to me but it's a no go here. My lovely husband has what I have boldly - and with no medical training at all - designated a mild sleep disorder. It's not at all bad but occasionally he acts out his dreams. I was woken a few months ago when the duvet was unceremoniously ripped off my legs and my (completely asleep) husband started slapping my legs (not hard, I want to stress!) Upon further questioning of said sleepy other half, it turns out he was "getting the aliens off [me]"! So, no little baby in the bed for us (although he does sneak in for his night-time feeds) and no more computer in our bedroom. But at least I can rest easy that I'm sorted in the event of alien invasion.

Little Ewok.

When we realised that I was pregnant for the third time, your daddy and I (well, mainly daddy in all honesty) were thrilled to realise your due date was Sta.r Wa.rs day (May the fourth/"May the force" - groan). Hence your bump name - Little Ewok. I say bump, you never really got to be that. You slipped away from us so quickly and so soon, just six weeks after coming into being and just two weeks after we'd learned of your existence. I know we don't speak of you often. What happened to you - the worst thing ever to have happened to me up to that point in my life - got overshadowed by the death of your little sister. I think you were a little boy and, in my head, your name is Asher. I dreamed of you once - holding hands with a little girl I know was Emma. You were tall, like Ben and blonde, like Lucy. Today, which might have been your second birthday, I have been remembering you and here seemed the right place to do that.

35

Today is my birthday. I am 35. This weekend I have eaten too much cake, drunk some wine (between feeds), watched the DVDs I was given (this, since you ask!) and wondered why this birthday felt significant. It's not 18, 21, 40 - you know, those milestone ages.

And then it dawned on me. I have spent the last nine years of my life absorbed in the world of fertility, pregnancy, birthing and parenting. In that area, 35 IS a significant number. I'm not going to discuss whether or not it should be. It just sort of amused me that I've been so entrenched in getting pregnant, staying pregnant, parenting and grieving that, subconsciously, I invested this age with more significance than it warrants. I won't be pregnant again (not intentionally anyway) so it doesn't matter than I would now qualify as a mother-to-be of "advanced maternal age". I'm okay with being done. I've done some grieving for the end of my childbearing years but essentially I feel like I finished on a high - a living child - and I do not, not for one second of one minute, take that fact for granted. I know that I am one of the "lucky unlucky" to borrow a truthful phrase from Sally.

So, I've had a lovely birthday - and today marks the start of the next bit of my life, getting to watch my family grow. And that is a very good thing to celebrate.

Acceptance?

I think it's fair to say that I'm doing okay. "Acceptance", "Integration" ... whatever the correct turn of phrase might be, I see it happening in my life. Not always - the black can still get me in a stranglehold sometimes - but mostly. I am happy. I can count my blessings. I laugh. I am able to enjoy my life again. A friend shared recently how, two years on, she is able to think of her son not only with love (which was there from the start) but with affection too. That's how I feel about Emma too. I don't always cry when I think about her - sometimes I smile with pleasure at the simple idea of her having been. Now, after a little while on this lifelong journey, I can separate her from her death and just enjoy the knowledge that she's my little girl eternally.

Sometimes, I even pull myself up, "Did I really have a baby who died before she was born?". Even after the hard evidence of the trauma and the pain and the hardship of the past eighteen months, I still can't quite believe it. It feels like a hazy, half-remembered nightmare. But then I pick up Toby and hold him in front of the photographs on the mantelpiece and point to Emma and tell him, "That's your big sister." and it feels very real all over again.

Eighteen Months

The daffodils we planted on Emma's birthday are blooming now. I stood by her grave today, in the peace and the sunshine, and wondered at the passing of time. It's been long enough for us to plant bulbs and for those bulbs to grow and flower. Sometimes it feels like forever. I can't remember the person I was on 13th October 2008. Other times, like today, it's still so close. I can be back in the hospital room, her tiny body lifted onto my chest. Triumph - followed by devastation. I remember removing the clothes the midwives had dressed her in and holding her bare body inside my nightdress in some parody of kangaroo care. I was so warm, she was so cold. My heart was beating hard enough for both of us - but it wasn't enough. I was waiting for my miracle that day - I was going to make headlines. "Baby presumed dead suddenly breathes." I didn't (of course). She remained dead and I remain bereft of my daughter and my miracle.

Eighteen months, sweetheart. We love you and we miss you.

The Ruined Temple

Last year I participated in the 7x7 meme from "glow in the woods" about body image. My answers are here. I talk about being "defiantly self confident" pre-loss.

Defiant because, well, I was under no illusions that I had a future career as a supermodel. As a teenager I was a little shorter than average, a whole lot plumper than average, just a smidgeon plainer and more bookish than average. But, hey, who wants to be average? I was happy with who I was. I would observe with bewilderment as friends, far slimmer then me, launched themselves into the latest fad diets. "Why on earth would anyone choose to exist on a diet solely consisting of grapefruit?" I would wonder (I still wonder). Perhaps some of my body confidence came from my faith. I was taught in church that I was created with purpose. My existence was no accident and I was loved unconditionally for who I was - so why strive to change? Why worry about those extra pounds when my body, seemingly, worked just fine.

That confidence lasted through my twenties. I met my wonderful husband when I was twenty and married at 23. Three years later we decided to start a family and, hey, my clever body knew how to make babies. I took the easy conception of my first child completely for granted. I didn't know, then, how lucky I was. As I have posted before, my belief in the essential strength, functionality, accomplishment of my body was a little dented by the difficult births of my first two children but it was balanced by the awe I felt at the idea that such amazing little beings had grown inside me.

But then Emma died inside me. She grew beautifully for nine months but, at the end, before she ever emerged from my body, she was dead. And it doesn't matter how many times other people tell me it wasn't my fault, my relationship with my body changed forever that day. Because it failed. It failed my innocent, gorgeous, precious child - catastrophically.

Since then it has conceived, with ease, twice more and managed to remain pregnant on one of those occasions. Once again, I am in awe of the beautiful little being who has emerged from me. He is stunning.

But, I feel repulsive. Two pregnancies in two years have taken their toll on my body. I feel old, weak, fat. I am tired from grieving and I can't muster the energy to be defiantly self confident any more. I have a living daughter and I don't want the legacy of disordered eating and body issues from my family to pass down to her. I owe it to all my children, but particularly my girl I think, to be fit and well and healthy. I just cannot seem to find the impetus to change the things that need to be changed.

Still Here.

I needed to step away, pause, regroup - enjoy these fleeting, precious newborn moments with my last child.

But I still need this place. Because, despite the joy and happiness that Toby has brought back to our family, my daughter is still dead. Still dead. Still dead. Stillborn, still dead. And I still miss her deeply. I still want to speak her name. Toby has given me opportunities to do that. People ask who he looks like. "Emma. He looks like Emma," I say - and watch their confusion, their memories ticking over as they try to remember who Emma is. My daughter, his sister. I have not forgotten and I will speak her name over and over again. It may discomfort them but it brings me comfort.

He smiles now - and it melts me to tears. Tears of joy, tears of absolute devastation. He is so beautiful when he smiles. I know her smile would have been adorable too and I feel like I've lost her all over again.

And even though I've not been writing or reading here as frequently, I have been thinking about you all. I am still here.

Hiatus

I'm taking a break.

I think, really, I already have with regards to writing. I was never a prolific writer but, aside from photos, I'm not managing to get much posted here at all. But, I've been trying to still read about everyone else. The trouble is, I read ... I want to comment but I can rarely find words. I love this little (sadly, not little enough) part of the internet but, with the arrival of Toby, my focus has shifted. And I feel guilty for not giving due time and attention to everyone else's writing. Because I know, if you're anything like me, posts are carefully crafted and comments matter. I don't want to be dismissive of that.

This is not goodbye. I still want a space that belongs to Emma and I still care for each person who has shared this pain and this grief with me. I am sure I will be back. I just need some time away. After the death of a child, people talk about "new normal". After the birth of a subsequent baby, there is another shift. I need to work out what that means for me - and this time round I need to do that somewhere quiet.

Toby's photoshoot.

A friend from SANDS (Stillbirth and Neonatal Death Society) is a photographer. She gifted us with a photoshoot to welcome Toby to the world. Here he is, aged 4 weeks:

Greedy.

I want to have all four of my children. I want to raise both the sons and both the daughters I have birthed. I should be grateful - I AM *so* grateful for Ben and Lucy and Toby but I miss Emma. Toby hasn't changed that.

When we attending counselling with our bereavement midwife, she used the metaphor of Emma's death as a great big black ball. She said that as time passed and as we mourned we'd find things to wrap the ball up in. Gradually we'd find more things to stretch over it, we'd get more adept at covering the ball but, crucially, the ball would remain the same size forever. It would never shrink. Toby has provided us with so much wrapping for the big, black ball of our grief but it is true. The absence of Emma remains as big and as tragic and as sad as it ever was, as it always will be. I stood by her grave with Dave, just after Toby was born, and told him I wanted them both. "I know", he said, "I'm greedy like that too."

Mad about the Boy.

I've gone quiet. I'm sorry. It's just that if it comes to a choice between catching up on my blog or one more snuggle with my delicious boy, then the snuggles win hands down!

He is two weeks old - and gorgeous. He is feeding well and getting to be a chubby little thing. He has perfected his Queen Victoria impression and quite often pulls his "we are not amused" face whilst asleep. I could sit for hours and watch the different expressions flit across his face. I wonder if Emma visits him in his dreams. I have told him about her. I remember reading "An Exact Replica ..." and crying when Elizabeth McCracken describes whispering Pudding's story into the ear of newborn baby Gus. The night he was born, I did the same for Toby. I described Emma to him. It pleases me that he will grow up hearing her name spoken.

Here he is:

The same, so different.

All four of my children have looked similar at birth - there is no mistaking their sibling relationship. But Emma & Toby ... perhaps because of their colouring or perhaps I just want to see it more ... they are so very, very alike.

I am happy and I am content. I am totally and utterly in love with the tiny boy who snuggles in my lap. But when I hold him as he naps, I can look up and see her photograph (the same picture as the one on this blog) and the tears fall so easily. In his sleep, the similarities are painful because that is how I remember her - the stillness. And yet, it isn't the same. Even in his sleep, Toby is not still. He frowns, he makes little milk moues searching for the breast he is dreaming about, he squeaks, he melts our hearts. He wriggles with wind.

I call Emma our forever baby - I don't like the term angel and this description sits more easily with me. The truth of it hurts though. At one week old, Toby has changed more, grown more than ever Emma will. I am forcibly reminded of what I am missing as the mother of a child forever a newborn. And yet, I agree with Jay when she speaks of the thinness of the veil separating us from our children. I feel Emma's presence so profoundly and strongly right now and I'm so glad of it.

I'm relieved that I was prepared (a little) for this. I have read lots of blogs by mothers raising subsequent babies so the grief that is entwined with our joy has not taken me by surprise. I have always been clear that none of my living children bear any responsibility for healing me. They simply make my heart sing - and that is the same for Toby as it is for Ben & Lucy.

The baby formally known as "Jurgen" ...

I know Dave has already posted our wonderful, wonderful news on his blog (and has been very touched by all the lovely comments) but here it is from me:

Tobias Matthew (Toby) - 7 lb 9.5oz
Born at 11.37am, 19th January 2010
UTTERLY GORGEOUS!


***Warning: Entirely self indulgent bit of blogging to follow. Toby's birth story and lots of gratuitous shots of the little man.***

I wanted to write out Toby's birth story as soon as possible. I was pretty cranky a few posts back about his imminent arrival by c-section. I think I went a bit loopy from the pregnancy hormones and anxiety for a couple of weeks back there. This is where I eat humble pie and say that Toby's arrival in the world was beautiful and I want to honour it and remember it. Dave and I agree that, of the four births we have experienced, Toby's - despite taking place in a brightly lit, surgical environment - was the calmest and most gentle. I worried I'd never fully feel at peace about the way he needed to come earthside. I was wrong - I already do.

So here is our journey to meeting our second son:

Jurgen's last night in utero (38+2):


We arrived at the hospital on Tuesday morning at 8am to be booked in. We were met by the midwife, A, assigned to be our main carer and we warmed to her immediately. Because we were booked for surgery, her role was primarily to support us emotionally and help to advocate for us. Ordinarily, only one midwife would accompany us to theatre but we were asked if a student could come too - and our midwife's manager - as A. had just transferred to our hospital from a trust with different procedures. Our baby was certainly going to have quite an entourage!

We filled in forms. We met LOTS of different staff - who had all read our notes (not always a foregone conclusion) and were respectful and sympathetic about Emma's birth and death.
... and then we waited. An emergency had occurred. Of course it took precedence. The waiting was probably the hardest part of the whole day - we felt so close. And the fear of something going wrong again was palpable.

Finally, at 11, we set off to theatre and I said goodbye to Dave as he went off to make like George Clooney in his surgical scrubs. The atmosphere in the OR was really amazing. I could tell everyone in there was rooting for us (Dave said he heard one of the midwives in the seconds before Toby arrived say, "Please be okay baby.") It was SO very different from my experiences of birthing in an emergency. The pace was measured and everyone's professionalism really reassuring. It took quite a while to site my spinal but finally Dave was by my side and we were informed that our baby's birth was imminent. They lowered the screen and our very cross, pink, SCREAMING baby appeared over the top. A boy we discovered - I actually guessed right this time!! The next few minutes are - quite literally - a blur. They had taken my glasses away and I was crying so hard I couldn't see anything for quite a while. I did hear lots though - I heard the wonderful, wonderful midwives chatting away to our son, cooing over him and telling him how gorgeous he was - which I think are pretty good things to hear when you're minutes old! ... and then he was in Dave's arms. We had waited a lifetime for that moment and it was hard to believe that he was healthy and whole.
Emma - we miss you every single day. This week more than ever. So many mixed emotions, our sweet forever baby. We love you.

Toby - welcome. We are so grateful for your presence in our lives, our precious rainbow son.

A funeral, a birth and the bit that (hopefully) comes between.

Funeral

I've been trying to find a few minutes to get this post from brain to screen. Now that I've done so, I've discovered that Dave has been writing on the same topic.

Dave's family are lovely. They have been sensitive and compassionate and loving since Emma died. They all seemed genuinely pleased that, at 38 weeks pregnant, I had decided to accompany Dave to his aunt's funeral. I think the word "brave" was used at one point. I know it's a word that can sometimes be somewhat triggering for us all but in this context I was touched that people, in a roundabout way, thought about Emma and the way this funeral might affect me. Because it really wasn't about me. I have very, very fond memories of Dave's aunt - a vibrant lady with an amazing sense of fun and I wanted to do my little bit to honour her memory. I wanted to offer as much support and comfort to Dave as I could. It actually seemed like a very natural thing to throw my hospital bag and labour notes in the car, "just in case", and travel the couple of hours to the funeral. It didn't seem at all brave to me, really.

Although this was the first funeral I've attended since my daughter's, I have had a feeling throughout the last fifteen months that I will feel a lot more comfortable at funerals now than I will at other less sad family functions. I know how to be at a funeral. I can empathise with the gut wrenching grief. I honestly think I would have needed more more courage to have attended one of the four christenings we have been invited to this year. I've yet to find enough gumption for that.

Dave is right though. It's hard not to feel guilty when the tears fall and you know that you're not really crying for the person whose funeral you are at but for a tiny little girl who never got a chance to experience all this world has to offer. My tears now, no matter what the immediate cause, always have an element of Emma in them.

Birth

I had my pre-operative assessment today. It went well - the two midwives who were jabbing me with needles and forcing me onto their scales (something I have studiously avoided this pregnancy - with good reason I discovered today!) were thoughtful and compassionate and gentle with me. The senior midwife did my Glucose testing at 24 weeks and remembered me (and Emma and Jurgen). She asked how I'd found the remainder of the pregnancy and was genuinely sympathetic as I talked about the roller coaster of emotions these past months have been. It ended with her mentioning that she is on a late shift on the day that Jurgen will be born and she is going to make a special trip to the post natal ward to meet our baby. It's nice to leave a hospital appointment feeling just a little bit special! Anyway this will be my last post before Jurgen is born this week. I HOPE with every fibre of my being that very soon we'll be up our elbows in the bit that should come between a birth and a funeral: life - glorious, milky, sleep deprived life.

Seven Minutes.

Beth left a comment on my last post that got me thinking. She said that she hadn't realised that Emma had died SEVEN minutes before she was born. I'm not surprised. I talk a lot about how I plod my way through grief and I even wrote this post about the person I thought my daughter was or might have been. But I've been reticent about sharing the details of her birth - which was also her death. Partly because I've done pretty well at avoiding the attentions of the malevolent "anonymous" trolls who leave despicable and thoughtless comments on the blogs of grieving parents. I suspect a post about birth choices might draw some of them out of the woodwork. Mainly, however, it's because I'm frightened of being revealed as a fraud. I think all of us grieving parents recognise guilt as part of the grief process. We also understand that mostly the guilt is not based on reality. But, how do you process it when choices you made are implicated in your child's death?

In real life, I have worked hard on this. Mostly, I have made peace. My obstetrician assured me just hours after Emma's death that I would never know if she might have lived through an elective section. He was sure that arriving at the hospital sooner would not have changed the outcome. They were some of the kindest words I could have heard in the immediate aftermath of her death.

But, as I approach Jurgen's increasingly imminent arrival in this world and I feel the familiar dread of a surgical birth enfold me, I realise that this might be one part of my grief that I will never fully accept or "heal" from. I'm hoping writing here will release some of the panic I feel as I prepare for our fourth child. I will have the planned section because I am a mother and I want what is best for my child. It seems that operative deliveries are best for my children so, of course, I set aside my own preferences to hopefully obtain the best and safest outcome for my baby but I miss feeling joy and anticipation at the prospect of labouring and birthing my baby myself.

Emma will be my only vaginally birthed child. Her two older siblings were born by emergency section after long and difficult labours. I experienced some post-natal post traumatic stress disorder after the birth of her elder sister. It isn't nice - it isn't, of course, one billionth as painful as living for the rest of your life with babylost grief - but it isn't a pleasant or easy way to start mothering a child. I know that some babylost parents feel very frustrated by mothers who profess birth trauma after the birth of a living child - and I understand that entirely. I mention it here because it is part of the path that led to me making the decision to pursue a vaginal birth at home with Emma. NHS protocols here meant that I would have been offered a planned section at 39 weeks for her birth. Would I be here if I hadn't declined that path? What if ... what if... two horrible words to live with.

We don't know because we don't exactly know why Emma died. I went into labour spontaneously, my labour for the most part was straightforward. Emma, by every indication used to determine distress, was a perfectly happy baby for the duration of my labour. The last time we heard her heartbeat at 2.17am, just after we had transferred to the hospital so I could have a little bit of help with my second stage, it was well within the healthy range for a baby so close to birth (and we're pretty sure it was her heartbeat not mine, something I've been asked about when I share this part of the story). At 2.25am, I birthed a baby with no breath and no heartbeat. We didn't have an autopsy because it seemed so obvious to us that it was a "birth accident". Sometimes I wonder if a postmortem would have showed something more but I think that's because I want to believe that healthy babies being born to healthy mothers during healthy labours can't die. I'm proof to myself that they can. She was a good healthy size, her placenta and cord were healthy and revealed no clues. The best guess we can make is that her cord became pinched between me and her in those final minutes.

In the absence of any definite answers to her death, I have had to simply surrender to the course of action that will bring Jurgen into the world. I don't feel like I can make any choices for this little boy or little girl. I tried last time to make the choices that were "best" and safest for myself and my child. With the benefit of hindsight, it turned out they were neither.

SOOO done with the snow

I've just read Jeanette's post and all I can say is a hearty "I agree".

This is the view from our front door:





Beautiful - but treacherous. I'm at the stage of pregnancy where, by instinct, I slow down, withdraw and go just that little deeper inside myself. But, previously, I've been this heavily pregnant during the dog days of summer (three autumn babies). I've never been forced into this sort of hibernation before.

When it first snowed, I was so excited - the potential for a white Christmas, the first I can remember (and it was!). But since Christmas, there have been four people and two guinea pigs living in what are feeling increasingly cramped conditions. Cabin fever and Pregnancy after Loss anxiety are not making for pleasant bedfellows. We have had lots of fun, the great Christmas LE.GO rebuild was a great success - Ben is now able to have full on St.ar Wa.rs LE.GO battles now that we have reconstructed most of his battle fleet.

But it's all come to head today. The children have been off school and Dave has been off work and I was supposed to go to the hospital for my 36 week scan and my final appointment with my consultant - the one where I would get to know Jurgen's birthday for definite, the one where I'd be booked in for a pre-operative blood draw and meeting with the anaesthetist. In other words, an appointment I *really* wanted to go too. We couldn't get through to the hospital - the road was blocked and we couldn't use the car. Buses weren't running and people have generally been hunkering down and keeping warm. In the scheme of things, it isn't a big deal. The appointment is rescheduled for next Wednesday and, fortunately, little one has been as good as gold. As if realising that mama needs extra reassurance today that things are okay, Jurgen has been more active than he/she has managed in a while (even in my voluminous belly, space is at a premium). But, it hasn't helped my anxiety levels. In the unlikely event I were to go into early labour, could I get to the hospital? Would an ambulance make it onto the ice rink that is our estate? What if there's a problem with my placenta or umbilical chord that might have been picked up today, an issue with fluid or growth? Might it be too late next Wednesday? Given the pregnancy I've had, it's such an unlikely scenario - but then so was a healthy baby dying 7 minutes before she arrived in the world at the end of an uncomplicated labour. ... unlikely isn't impossible and I'm having to force myself to take deep breaths and find a little bit of optimism from somewhere.

I don't need sunshine and roses but a thaw would be nice.