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: