"Pregnancy brain" - that well documented (by mothers, at least) condition whereby you put your purse in the fridge and attempt to leave the house carrying a pint of milk (no? Just me then) is nothing I'm discovering. Not compared to grief brain. In the very early days after Emma died I simply couldn't concentrate on anything at all for more than about 10 seconds. I'd watch peoples' mouths move and not really be aware that I should be decoding the sounds coming to me. I'd wander upstairs with things in my arms to put away and find, when I got to the top of the stairs, that I'd completely forgotten why I was there - despite the physical evidence in my arms.
Anything that required more than the most cursory care and attention was left neglected and I missed - I still miss - reading. I am a bookworm and an English graduate and a former high school English teacher so my inability to lose myself in the pages of a novel is particularly frustrating. I need escapism, right at the point when I simply lack the brain power to truly appreciate it. I do read - but it's stuff I've read before. (Ha.rry Pot.ter anyone?) That's safe. If I've read it before I know whether I'm going to be confronted by plot devices or situations that might pull me up short. Whilst I'm uplifted and upheld by the real life stories I search out in the blogs I read, I don't especially want trauma and sadness shadowing me into my little bubble of relief from the hard slog of grieving. Reading blogs is participating in this painful world, reading novels is my attempt to retreat from it.
I'm quite sure my grief counsellor would want to explore further the fact that when I do pick up anything new, I have to flip to the last chapter first. I just need to check, I need to know how things will turn out before I commit myself. I need to know if there's a happy ending.
Thursday, 30 April 2009
Saturday, 25 April 2009
I want to be alone ...
According to the My.ers-Br.iggs Type Indicator, I am ISFJ. At least, I was when I was 18. I took a gap year, working as a volunteer youth worker and part of my training involved a degree of psychological profiling. I'd be interested to know if 16 (oh.my.goodness... it hasn't been that long since I was 18, has it??) years on, I have changed. Just as I said in my last post about being reduced to merely the curve of a graph, so I don't wish the essence of me to be four letters. That said, I remember recognising me in the definition that accompanied my characterisation. Especially the "I".
Here's what the Wik.i.pedia has to say (because I didn't think I could say it as well):
I have several friends whom I have not seen since Emma died. They have been giving me space. They drop off email and texts saying they are thinking of me. I appreciate that. Some of them I suspect I will not see again. Time will pass and it will become too awkward to resume the friendships. I do not feel sadness - I know that relationships do change with time. It is simply that my grief has perhaps telescoped the time it would take for these relationships to fade from my life anyway. My loss is simplifying my life and my desires. I yearn for gentle, silent space and places to pause for reflection and dreams of my little girl. Mostly, I just want to be alone.
Here's what the Wik.i.pedia has to say (because I didn't think I could say it as well):
I know that I have heard so many babyloss mamas talk about how different we are after our babies die, how we have to spend time getting to know the new us. That's true but, for me, mixed in with all the newness is a more extreme version of who I have always been. I am more strongly "I" than I have ever been. I crave solitude - vast swathes of it. I have so little energy for social interactions and, if given a choice about whether to go out and meet up with people, I will invariably decline. My energy is directed towards holding fast to my family, to trying to ensure that my children are not damaged by my grief and theirs. I enjoy their company - and their daddy's - unreservedly. And yet, I still fall into bed every night exhausted by the effort it takes not to simply hole up with a book or the laptop and hide.The terms extravert and introvert are used in a special sense when discussing the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. People who prefer extraversion draw energy from action: they tend to act, then reflect, then act further. If they are inactive, their level of energy and motivation tends to decline. Conversely, those whose prefer introversion become less energized as they act: they prefer to reflect, then act, then reflect again. People who prefer introversion need time out to reflect in order to rebuild energy.
The extravert's flow is directed outward toward people and objects, and the introvert's is directed inward toward concepts and ideas. There are several contrasting characteristics between extraverts and introverts: extraverts are action-oriented and desire breadth, while introverts are thought-oriented and seek depth. Extraverts often prefer more frequent interaction, while introverts prefer more substantial interaction.
I have several friends whom I have not seen since Emma died. They have been giving me space. They drop off email and texts saying they are thinking of me. I appreciate that. Some of them I suspect I will not see again. Time will pass and it will become too awkward to resume the friendships. I do not feel sadness - I know that relationships do change with time. It is simply that my grief has perhaps telescoped the time it would take for these relationships to fade from my life anyway. My loss is simplifying my life and my desires. I yearn for gentle, silent space and places to pause for reflection and dreams of my little girl. Mostly, I just want to be alone.
Thursday, 23 April 2009
Cycles
I have been a bad blogger. A combination of horrible grief and sick children has pretty much robbed me of the power to articulate all I want to say.
But it's simmering in my head so here goes ...
Well, as the light nights get longer again, DH has once again raised the possibility of me getting a bike (DD1 insists it must be a purple one). Our eldest two can cycle a fair distance on their own and we have a great cycle track near us - the old disused railway. I have a very poor record with bicycles. My only broken bones? (the tiny ones in my right hand since you ask) - a trip over the handle bars of my first (only) bike. My enduring memory of my German exchange trip? Cycling to my exchange partner's school, applying the break, locking the front wheel and sailing over a 4 foot metal barrier. Yep, me and bikes - it's a fraught relationship.
And yet, it appeals (a bit). Getting out, getting away, doing something *so* different. I feel betrayed by my body on so many levels - it feels saggy and flabby and I cannot help but regard it as the cause of my daughter's death. I have, I think, been essentially punishing it since Emma died and it's definitely showing the strain of too much wine and too many bars of chocolate. Maybe showing it some loving kindness and trying to nurture it for a change might not be such a bad idea.
So, if you spot an overweight women on a purple bicycle this summer, do give me a wave. And if I'm head first in a gorse bush at the time do, please, pull me out.
:::
How do I feel about The Kubler-Ross grief cycle? I think of it a bit like this:
Hard to balance with a blooming uncomfortable saddle.
On the one hand, just as I seek out other babyloss mamas to compare what I am feeling with what they are feeling and so check that I'm "normal" (!?), I also find reassurance that I recognise myself in the dips and peaks of the graph. On the other hand, there is a part of me that screams that my grief is my grief and no-one can quantify it, measure it or label it. How dare anyone assume they can explain or explore this to me. I think I'm bothered by it now because I worry that it is unavoidable - that whether I will it or no, I will encounter ALL of these phases. I know for sure that I've "done" denial and anger ... oh yes, I have done anger. I have screamed until my throat hurt and I have thrown some spectacular temper tantrums as I have raged about the unfairness of my daughter's life curtailed before it had even begun. I suppose I'm scared of depression - I think that's it. I've never experienced depression personally and it frightens me. Anger feels more acceptable to me somehow perhaps because it is "active" - I am doing something with the grief not just being pummelled with it. The inertia I associate with depression frightens me and I've had a taste of it this week when the grief has seemed black and deep and utterly all encompassing - when everything else has been smoke and shadows and my daughter's absence has been the realest and most solid thing I have.
:::
And so to menstrual cycles - which is not such a big leap as it might first appear since my cycle is at least partially implicated in the nasty funk I have found myself in this week. I used Fertility Awareness to help us conceive Emma and I was absolutely fascinated. I loved the knowledge I gained about my body and about the hows and the whys of all the different hormones and their effects. Of course, when that knowledge showed me that my body was functioning as it should and I conceived quickly, it was all brilliant. I restarted charting after Christmas, thinking that it might help in restoring some equlibrium in my relationship with my body. When it revealed that things had not returned to "normal" yet, I started to feel like a hamster in a wheel ... waiting to ovulate, measuring my luteal phase ... waiting to ovulate ... frustration, rather than fascination, has been my primary emotion. This month I conceived very briefly, only for my period to arrive (3 days late on Emma's 6 month day) and quench that tiny spark of hope. I am uncertain of how I feel about this chemical pregnancy. I do feel sad but the sadness is about Emma, about wanting to be caught up in sleeplessness and weaning and chubby thighs not themometers and cycle days and cervical fluid. I'm sad that I'm even trying to get pregnant again when that was never supposed to be part of the plan. I know that if I get pregnant again and if the pregnancy sticks and if I get to bring home a breathing baby, I'll once agan see the wonder and value of having this amount of knowledge about my body and its inner workings. Right now though, I'm sad that I'm back in this particular cycle again.
But it's simmering in my head so here goes ...
Well, as the light nights get longer again, DH has once again raised the possibility of me getting a bike (DD1 insists it must be a purple one). Our eldest two can cycle a fair distance on their own and we have a great cycle track near us - the old disused railway. I have a very poor record with bicycles. My only broken bones? (the tiny ones in my right hand since you ask) - a trip over the handle bars of my first (only) bike. My enduring memory of my German exchange trip? Cycling to my exchange partner's school, applying the break, locking the front wheel and sailing over a 4 foot metal barrier. Yep, me and bikes - it's a fraught relationship.
And yet, it appeals (a bit). Getting out, getting away, doing something *so* different. I feel betrayed by my body on so many levels - it feels saggy and flabby and I cannot help but regard it as the cause of my daughter's death. I have, I think, been essentially punishing it since Emma died and it's definitely showing the strain of too much wine and too many bars of chocolate. Maybe showing it some loving kindness and trying to nurture it for a change might not be such a bad idea.
So, if you spot an overweight women on a purple bicycle this summer, do give me a wave. And if I'm head first in a gorse bush at the time do, please, pull me out.
:::
How do I feel about The Kubler-Ross grief cycle? I think of it a bit like this:
Hard to balance with a blooming uncomfortable saddle.
On the one hand, just as I seek out other babyloss mamas to compare what I am feeling with what they are feeling and so check that I'm "normal" (!?), I also find reassurance that I recognise myself in the dips and peaks of the graph. On the other hand, there is a part of me that screams that my grief is my grief and no-one can quantify it, measure it or label it. How dare anyone assume they can explain or explore this to me. I think I'm bothered by it now because I worry that it is unavoidable - that whether I will it or no, I will encounter ALL of these phases. I know for sure that I've "done" denial and anger ... oh yes, I have done anger. I have screamed until my throat hurt and I have thrown some spectacular temper tantrums as I have raged about the unfairness of my daughter's life curtailed before it had even begun. I suppose I'm scared of depression - I think that's it. I've never experienced depression personally and it frightens me. Anger feels more acceptable to me somehow perhaps because it is "active" - I am doing something with the grief not just being pummelled with it. The inertia I associate with depression frightens me and I've had a taste of it this week when the grief has seemed black and deep and utterly all encompassing - when everything else has been smoke and shadows and my daughter's absence has been the realest and most solid thing I have.
:::
And so to menstrual cycles - which is not such a big leap as it might first appear since my cycle is at least partially implicated in the nasty funk I have found myself in this week. I used Fertility Awareness to help us conceive Emma and I was absolutely fascinated. I loved the knowledge I gained about my body and about the hows and the whys of all the different hormones and their effects. Of course, when that knowledge showed me that my body was functioning as it should and I conceived quickly, it was all brilliant. I restarted charting after Christmas, thinking that it might help in restoring some equlibrium in my relationship with my body. When it revealed that things had not returned to "normal" yet, I started to feel like a hamster in a wheel ... waiting to ovulate, measuring my luteal phase ... waiting to ovulate ... frustration, rather than fascination, has been my primary emotion. This month I conceived very briefly, only for my period to arrive (3 days late on Emma's 6 month day) and quench that tiny spark of hope. I am uncertain of how I feel about this chemical pregnancy. I do feel sad but the sadness is about Emma, about wanting to be caught up in sleeplessness and weaning and chubby thighs not themometers and cycle days and cervical fluid. I'm sad that I'm even trying to get pregnant again when that was never supposed to be part of the plan. I know that if I get pregnant again and if the pregnancy sticks and if I get to bring home a breathing baby, I'll once agan see the wonder and value of having this amount of knowledge about my body and its inner workings. Right now though, I'm sad that I'm back in this particular cycle again.
Tuesday, 14 April 2009
6 months
... and I have NO words at all for this pain. I think I'll let my darling husband's beautiful words say it for me.
Saturday, 11 April 2009
7 by 7: the body shop
Glow in the Woods 7x7:
I'm a little late getting to this (too busy reading everyone else's responses!) but I wanted to participate:
1 | Give us a few words you would have used to describe your body, your health or your sense of physical vitality before the experience of babyloss—and a few that you’d use to describe it now.
Well, I was sort of defiantly self confident. I chose to feel good about my body in the face of being *several* pounds overweight and two emergency sections for "failure to progress". Now, I can no longer even pretend that my body is any good at all at giving birth. I feel very unfeminine for failing three times, once catastrophically so, at something most women take for granted as their birth-rite ...Vitality ... yes, I vaguely remember that as a concept. Something to do with not being perpetually exhausted, right?
2 | What do you do to take care of yourself? Has this changed?
I have started taking a salsacise class and have surprised myself by loving it. Otherwise, I have been pretty much intent on sending my body to hell in an ice cream van. I honestly don't seem to be able to work out what I need to do to take care of myself. But then, it was never something I was all that good at.
3 | Give us one or two words to describe sex or physical intimacy before, and then after the loss of your baby.
Before: Lovely, familiar, lilting. After: Healing, passionate, necessary.
4 | Has loss and/or grief left a physical mark on you (a scar, a chronic condition, insomnia, a tattoo)?
I think I must clench my jaw when I sleep now. I wake up with so much tension in my muscles. Lots more grey hair.
5 | Do you medicate or control your emotions with food, wine, altered states, prescriptions? Without judgement, what have you gravitated towards in an effort to heal, and how do you feel about it?
Food & Wine: I have always been a comfort eater and this grief is beyond uncomfortable. I feel somewhat disgusted by how physically unhealthy I am right now.
Physical intimacy: This feels different - more wholesome and, for me, a more healthy way to "let go" (for a short time).
Does the internet count as an addiction? I'm a reader and have naturally gravitated to words - reading blogs, reading grief guides, memoirs, loss forums ... so many of us hurting. It feels good to connect in some way but it's heartbreaking to face up to the fact that there are so many of us.
6 | Was physical healing important for you in the first year after your loss? What did/does physical healing entail and how did/do you work towards it? If physicality hasn't been a priority for you, what do you do that makes you feel stronger or more able to cope?
I'm only 6 months out and physical healing should be a priority, considering I hope to embark on another pregnancy but, I can't do it - I simply can't find the energy right now to nurture my body well. It's so much more about the emotions at the moment. I'm concentrating on things that make me emotionally strong.
7 | If you could change anything about your body and/or health, what would it be? What would it feel like to be either at peace with your body, or at peace with this babylost state?
If I could change anything, I'd want to change how my body does labour ... I tried during my pregnancy with Emma. I saw an osteopath and had a lot of "realigning" done. She still died trying to be born. It's a moot point really as I will never go into labour again. I remember feeling at peace with my body. My affirmation during my pregnancy with Emma was Psalm 139, "... I am fearfully and wonderfully made." I will never get that back - that feeling died with my daughter. I have so far resisted the urge to draw a thick, black line through that particular psalm in my Bible. Feeling at peace with my babylost state: I want to believe it's possible. I hope it's okay to quote Bon's description of integration:
"taken back in, into my pupils, my breath ... sometimes this feels terribly empty, guilty...and other times like the most beautiful thing i know. "
I think that's what I hope for someday.
I'm a little late getting to this (too busy reading everyone else's responses!) but I wanted to participate:
1 | Give us a few words you would have used to describe your body, your health or your sense of physical vitality before the experience of babyloss—and a few that you’d use to describe it now.
Well, I was sort of defiantly self confident. I chose to feel good about my body in the face of being *several* pounds overweight and two emergency sections for "failure to progress". Now, I can no longer even pretend that my body is any good at all at giving birth. I feel very unfeminine for failing three times, once catastrophically so, at something most women take for granted as their birth-rite ...Vitality ... yes, I vaguely remember that as a concept. Something to do with not being perpetually exhausted, right?
2 | What do you do to take care of yourself? Has this changed?
I have started taking a salsacise class and have surprised myself by loving it. Otherwise, I have been pretty much intent on sending my body to hell in an ice cream van. I honestly don't seem to be able to work out what I need to do to take care of myself. But then, it was never something I was all that good at.
3 | Give us one or two words to describe sex or physical intimacy before, and then after the loss of your baby.
Before: Lovely, familiar, lilting. After: Healing, passionate, necessary.
4 | Has loss and/or grief left a physical mark on you (a scar, a chronic condition, insomnia, a tattoo)?
I think I must clench my jaw when I sleep now. I wake up with so much tension in my muscles. Lots more grey hair.
5 | Do you medicate or control your emotions with food, wine, altered states, prescriptions? Without judgement, what have you gravitated towards in an effort to heal, and how do you feel about it?
Food & Wine: I have always been a comfort eater and this grief is beyond uncomfortable. I feel somewhat disgusted by how physically unhealthy I am right now.
Physical intimacy: This feels different - more wholesome and, for me, a more healthy way to "let go" (for a short time).
Does the internet count as an addiction? I'm a reader and have naturally gravitated to words - reading blogs, reading grief guides, memoirs, loss forums ... so many of us hurting. It feels good to connect in some way but it's heartbreaking to face up to the fact that there are so many of us.
6 | Was physical healing important for you in the first year after your loss? What did/does physical healing entail and how did/do you work towards it? If physicality hasn't been a priority for you, what do you do that makes you feel stronger or more able to cope?
I'm only 6 months out and physical healing should be a priority, considering I hope to embark on another pregnancy but, I can't do it - I simply can't find the energy right now to nurture my body well. It's so much more about the emotions at the moment. I'm concentrating on things that make me emotionally strong.
7 | If you could change anything about your body and/or health, what would it be? What would it feel like to be either at peace with your body, or at peace with this babylost state?
If I could change anything, I'd want to change how my body does labour ... I tried during my pregnancy with Emma. I saw an osteopath and had a lot of "realigning" done. She still died trying to be born. It's a moot point really as I will never go into labour again. I remember feeling at peace with my body. My affirmation during my pregnancy with Emma was Psalm 139, "... I am fearfully and wonderfully made." I will never get that back - that feeling died with my daughter. I have so far resisted the urge to draw a thick, black line through that particular psalm in my Bible. Feeling at peace with my babylost state: I want to believe it's possible. I hope it's okay to quote Bon's description of integration:
"taken back in, into my pupils, my breath ... sometimes this feels terribly empty, guilty...and other times like the most beautiful thing i know. "
I think that's what I hope for someday.
Friday, 3 April 2009
Wistful & listless.
I was expecting to feel the grief more this week. We all know there's no free pass out of babyloss - the good days have to be paid for. So, I've been relieved that after the wonderful high of our anniversary, what has followed has been wistful sadness and listlessness. Although it doesn't seem much, I was expecting to be plunged back into the very depths of the rawness again. That's how the "good day, bad day" pattern has gone in the past.
This week though I've felt the lack of my Emma all over again but in a subtle way. In the earliest days I felt physically fractured by her death but these last few days it's been a weariness right down to the bone marrow. Daylight saving has brought lighter nights, spring is bringing buds and blossoms. Out in the garden yesterday, I realised that, to an untrained eye, we probably looked pretty good - I was mowing the lawn whilst B. & L. alternatively "helped" or threw grass cuttings at each other whilst we waited for daddy to get back from work. Nobody else would have been able to see the hole. The lighter, brighter days mean too that the sweet little babes born last Autumn are no longer amorphous blobs swaddled in pink. Suddenly they have personalities, they're holding their heads up, dressed oh so beautifully, charming the world around them. I find it even harder to reconcile myself to these perfect little people than I did to the anonymous bundles of blankets in strollers. I want to smile at them and stroke their soft cheeks but I also don't, because they're not Emma.
Daylight saving has also resulted in very tired children who don't fall asleep easily. Their tiredness seems to be exacerbating their longing for their sister too. Our nighttime lullaby (a somewhat tuneless number composed by me during 4am breastfeeds with our firstborn) includes the line "mummy loves you very much, daddy loves you very much, *insert sibling* loves you very much, *insert cuddly toy* loves you too" (I did warn you it was composed at 4 am). At B.'s behest, the cuddly toy has been relegated to the second line of the song and Emma is now included. I love that he asked for this but amsad that this is how it is.
This week though I've felt the lack of my Emma all over again but in a subtle way. In the earliest days I felt physically fractured by her death but these last few days it's been a weariness right down to the bone marrow. Daylight saving has brought lighter nights, spring is bringing buds and blossoms. Out in the garden yesterday, I realised that, to an untrained eye, we probably looked pretty good - I was mowing the lawn whilst B. & L. alternatively "helped" or threw grass cuttings at each other whilst we waited for daddy to get back from work. Nobody else would have been able to see the hole. The lighter, brighter days mean too that the sweet little babes born last Autumn are no longer amorphous blobs swaddled in pink. Suddenly they have personalities, they're holding their heads up, dressed oh so beautifully, charming the world around them. I find it even harder to reconcile myself to these perfect little people than I did to the anonymous bundles of blankets in strollers. I want to smile at them and stroke their soft cheeks but I also don't, because they're not Emma.
Daylight saving has also resulted in very tired children who don't fall asleep easily. Their tiredness seems to be exacerbating their longing for their sister too. Our nighttime lullaby (a somewhat tuneless number composed by me during 4am breastfeeds with our firstborn) includes the line "mummy loves you very much, daddy loves you very much, *insert sibling* loves you very much, *insert cuddly toy* loves you too" (I did warn you it was composed at 4 am). At B.'s behest, the cuddly toy has been relegated to the second line of the song and Emma is now included. I love that he asked for this but amsad that this is how it is.
Wednesday, 1 April 2009
April Fool
So, I generally try to keep a lid on the bitterness. It achieves nothing and, actually, doesn't generally make me feel better.
But for today, I'm bitter and grumpy. One year ago today we headed into the ultrasound room for my 12 week scan. It was a big deal as my last pregnancy had ended in miscarriage and I was looking forward to waving goodbye to the first trimester of this one and breathing a sigh of relief. I must have been feeling okay about it because we took 3 year old L. in with us - so I think at some level I "knew" this pregnancy was a keeper - and there it was, the little blobby alien being incredibly active and cute. That was the moment I wasn't just pregnant, I was having a baby. That was the moment when I knew for sure that I had fallen in love with this baby before the pee was even dry on the stick(s). That was the moment when I breathed out.
Happy April Fool's day.
But for today, I'm bitter and grumpy. One year ago today we headed into the ultrasound room for my 12 week scan. It was a big deal as my last pregnancy had ended in miscarriage and I was looking forward to waving goodbye to the first trimester of this one and breathing a sigh of relief. I must have been feeling okay about it because we took 3 year old L. in with us - so I think at some level I "knew" this pregnancy was a keeper - and there it was, the little blobby alien being incredibly active and cute. That was the moment I wasn't just pregnant, I was having a baby. That was the moment when I knew for sure that I had fallen in love with this baby before the pee was even dry on the stick(s). That was the moment when I breathed out.
Happy April Fool's day.
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