Ode to my Counsellor.

I never thought I'd ever talk about my counsellor.

Until October '08, the two worst things to have happened to me were not getting accepted into my university of choice (it was a HUGE deal when I was 18 - isn't everything!?) and then my miscarriage in September 07. That really hurt. But, and I mean no disrespect to anyone else who has suffered a miscarriage, I didn't need therapy to help me manage the grief. I was sad, terribly sad, that my tiny twinkle didn't stick around for longer but I was able to be pragmatic. "These things happen" - and, just as I've discovered about stillbirth since losing Emma, they happen a lot more often than most people care to acknowledge.

Emma's death is different. Never getting to bring her home with us is not something I'll ever get over. It's not something where I'm going to look back in 15 years and think, "Yeah. I really over-reacted there" (a la university rejection). I have to learn how to live with this for the rest of my life. From the minute I left the hospital I have been determined to grasp whatever is out there to support me. Hence, my near addiction to Internet loss forums and baby lost blogs. Connections, I need connections. D. & I attend a local SANDS (Stillbirth & Neonatal Death Society) group once a month. Some of the other parents are becoming friends.

We only started going to counselling a couple of months ago. We left the hospital with a sheaf of papers, a lock of Emma's hair and her very blurry footprints. I dumped it all in the corner of our bedroom and it remained there for five months. It was only when I started to put together a memory box for Emma that I tackled the pile of papers. Amongst the handy guides to grief was a printed list of useful numbers - including the number for the bereavement midwife.

You know how some people just have a warmth in their voice when you speak to them on the phone? That's Sharon. The first time I spoke to her to arrange an appointment, I immediately knew she was going to be truly valuable to D. and I. So, once a fortnight, we go and sit in a tiny room - not much bigger than a cupboard, drink tea and avail ourselves of Sharon's tissues. We invariably come out feeling the load is just a little lighter. We call it our Emma time - a place where she is the centre of attention, where we can talk about her birth, about the hopes we had for her, about the difficulties of living without her. We talk and we talk and we talk.

I love it.

Wisdom from my radio.

I'm not Roald Dahl's biggest fan. Some of his books stretch the boundaries of the macabre a little too far for me but he does know what makes children tick. When I was still teaching, I used to read his autobiography, "Boy", with my Yr7 students - and, having read his account of life at a brutal English boarding school in the 1920's, I can understand why his view of the world was laced with casual cruelty. But "Boy" ends once he leaves school so I had no idea about what happened in his adult years ... and now that I do, I can understand even more fully where the darkness in his writing originates.

I was washing up yesterday and listening to the radio as is my habit. It was an archive programme - Roald Dahl's life, revealed through radio & television interviews that he gave. I hadn't realised that his precious daughter, Olivia, died from complications resulting from a measles infection when she was seven. At the end of his life, when he talked about dying, he is quoted as saying, "I've seen one of my children die. It's easy, anyone can do that. I'm ready."

It made me gasp, hearing it put like that. Because that's how I feel now. I should have died first - not my daughter. Not my BABY daughter. But, since she has, I am ready. I'm not suicidal - there are days when living is hard work but I do it anyway. I have two children who need me here, potentially other lives to nurture. I feel as though it's an affront to Emma, who never got to experience what this life has to offer, if I don't try to experience its richness. But, because of her, I no longer fear my death.

Hanging by a Thread

Right now, I feel like the hapless heroine in some terrible, generic action movie. You know the sort; she's kidnapped by the bad guy, tied up and dangled over a cliff. The lantern jawed hero appears to save her and while he and the villain wrestle manfully, the rope holding her frays and breaks fibre by fibre. Just as it seems she is doomed, the hero manages to rid himself of the villain and grabs her hand just as the last thread holding her up twangs. *sigh*

I've never considered myself helpless or hapless but right now my faith in God, in me, in a universe that makes sense is hanging by a single thread and I'm not sure there is a waiting hand to catch me.

I go back to life before and I remember that for 30 years I have lived my life a certain way. I lived that way because I believed - absolutely, whole-heartedly in the tenets of my Christian faith. Belief on the sidelines wasn't an option. What I believe needs to have an impact on how I live, otherwise it's just hypocrisy. Christianity does not point the way to paradise in this lifetime. I was never promised an easy ride. In that sense no-one lied to me.

I always listen to the news headlines as I make breakfast for my family. I believed and wept and prayed as I listened to the news on 9/11, as the radio turned out details of genocide in Rwanda or the horrible abuse cases that have made the news here recently. I hurt when I heard those things but I never questioned my belief in an omnipotent, loving God. I might not have had the answers but I accepted the fact that I didn't ... and then my baby died. My long anticipated, prayed over baby was born without breath and my soul was shredded. I still don't have any answers but now that it's personal, I'm angry. Like I said in my last post, inside I'm 4 and I'm having a big ole' temper tantrum here.

For the last 8 weeks of my pregnancy, I did a hypnobirthing programme a few times a week. I'd lie on my side and listen to the gentle words on the CD. I'd imagine myself and my baby bathed in a golden light. I would modify it - the light, for me, was the light of God's love and I'd picture my little one and myself enfolded in a peaceful, warm place in the shadow of the cross - the central image of my faith. I would speak a variety of pregnancy affirmations. My favourite was a Bible verse, "For I know the plans I have for you, ... plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." (Jeremiah 29.11) My hopes for the future were utterly bound up in the safe arrival of my child. Right now, that verse sticks in my throat. It seems the height of arrogance and foolishness to think that there was a plan (mine, God's or the universe's) I'm not unharmed and I don't feel prospered or hopeful. The fibres of the rope of my faith are thin and pulled taut. I don't know how much longer they'll bear the strain.

Our newest family member arrived a couple of days ago. He hasn't has the easiest transition earthside. He came a little early and is needing a bit of help to regulate his temperature. I have been asked to pray for him - I haven't. Not because I wish him harm. I don't - the exact opposite in fact. I love him. I love his mummy and daddy. I want my nephew to grow healthful & vibrant, surrounded by people who love him. I haven't prayed because I prayed as hard as I knew how for Emma and it didn't work. It. didn't. work. I'm frightened to pray for him because my prayers might actually be toxic. They might make him worse not better.

I've settled for sending positive vibes but it's a pale imitation of what I used to be able to offer.

Inside, I'm 4.

Such a ubiquitous image - The Scream. A standard at all the cut price poster sales happening on campus when I was a student. One of those pictures seen so commonly that they are never truly noticed. I recognise it, of course, but have never paid much attention to it; except to feel a slight unease. Now through my dead baby lens I perceive it differently. If I didn't have Edvard Munch's word that this is "the enormous, infinite scream of nature”, I'd have said it was a babylost parent. It's certainly how I feel on the inside - the swirling, garish colours and the pain from too much noise.

Seven months out my veneer is pretty good - my smile doesn't always reach my eyes but most passing acquaintances would probably think I'm healing up, doing okay. To some extent, that's true - I can see the path I'm walking. I can see how far I've come. Unlike my acquaintances, I can see how far there is still to go - the journey towards accepting my daughter's absence is lifelong. No wonder I'm screaming on the inside.

My 4 year old daughter doesn't scream on the inside. She's a heart-on-her-sleeve kinda gal and screaming, when required, is very definitely something to share with the world at large. There is generally no ambiguity about L.'s emotions. Her giggles seem to come from her toes, her empathy is astounding, her hugs are huge and effortlessly healing and her rages are absolute. In the aftermath of a particularly thorough meltdown at church this morning, I found myself deeply envious of her. Yes, her behaviour was unacceptable this morning and embarrassing - but only to her daddy and I. She felt unhappy - and that unhappiness found expression. No repression here!

I have learned so much from the way she grieves. I hate that she does. I hate that her brother does. It is a perpetual source of guilt that my inability to bring home their baby sister has permanently marked my children. But, as seems to be the way with children, her grief is public ("Our baby died you know. We're very sad.") and seamlessly integrated into her day to day life ("I would have shared my toys with Emma, mama. I miss her. Can I have some juice?) I'm the grown up so it's not acceptable to the world at large that I show my grief, that sometimes I still slump on the kitchen floor and keen with the hurt and longing I feel for my baby girl. Inside, it's a different story. Inside, I'm screaming. Inside, I'm 4.

The Glass Baby

Apologies to fellow MDCers. This might seem familiar as I posted it when I wrote it back in December. But, conception, fertility, hoping for another a baby, parenting after a loss - all these have been on my mind a lot recently and I still don't think I can express how I feel better than this.


The Glass Baby

I wake one morning
Aware of molten glass
Pouring into me.
It burns and the pain makes me cry.
But my tears don't cool the fire
So I grit my teeth and reach down.
I pull and push until a shape is formed -
A tiny glass child.
I look at my hands, burnt and bloodstained,
And I fold them over my belly
To protect the fragile life within.
IT ISN'T ENOUGH.
Until suddenly, my little glass boy floats.
I look inside and see his sister.
She is rocking him and crying tears of joy.
Her tears surround him in a warm, wet bath.
He floats, protected and happy,
My tiny man.
Her tears reflect in the glass of his limbs
And Rainbows burst from my womb.
Her tears, my broken hands, his rainbow
Surround him on our journey
'Til he bursts forth in a gush of her tears and my blood.
I recognise his newborn cry
As a call of goodbye to his womb mate
His newborn limbs flailing a wave
To his loving sister,
Who smiles and kisses his head,
Before wrapping herself in our rainbows
And tucking herself back into my heart.

My Girl.

The test on 4th February 2008 confirmed what I already knew. I had joked on a TTC forum that I was either pregnant or having one heck of a phantom pregnancy. Even before the hormones were strong enough to show, they were making me sickly and sore. My solicitous daughter - giving me strong, strong signs to support me through the frightening early weeks of a pregnancy conceived quickly after a miscarriage.

I felt her move at 14 weeks - early I suppose. I feel such gratitude for having a few extra weeks of cherishing her presence in a more tangible way. Her movements were gentle, unlike those of her big brother, who thought he was John Travolta and gave frequent in utero renditions of "Staying Alive" at 2am in the morning. I never worried for the health of my ribs or my bladder with Emma. Ironically, hers was the only pregnancy not to entail a frightened phone call to the maternity ward concerning reduced movements - she was never terribly active nor terrifyingly still. She and I passed our days gently, lyrically.

I had regular osteopathic treatment through my second and third trimester and I'd lie quietly, feeling her feline stretches in me. She liked those moments as much as she hated the Doppler. Her heartbeat always seemed easy to catch but never for long. She would twist and turn away from the wand - demonstrating a definite preference for privacy.

I always think of her as generous spirited and giving. After all, Tuesday's child (according to the rhyme) is full of grace. She was the only one of my children (and will always be unique in this respect) to initiate spontaneous labour - and on the day before her due date. As a mummy who was concerned about a long pregnancy (40+12 & 40+7 for the last two) , I was so proud of my little "Bobby Bingo" for surprising everyone with an "early" arrival.

I don't know if I will ever write about the details of my actual labour here. I don't think I can. My feelings are confused, vacillating. One the one hand, it was a beautiful and peaceful space - a time to heal a lot of the birth trauma that I experienced with my previous two births. On the other hand, something went very silently and catastrophically wrong. Labour killed my baby girl. She slipped away from us without us ever knowing.

And then I held her in my arms: 7lbs & 4oz and chubby. Gorgeously round little body - so healthy looking. She was the image of her sister - the same button nose, perfect cupid bow lips and almond shaped eyes but with dark hair. I'd joked in labour how I was hoping for the set - a red head, a blondie and now, maybe, a brunette. She was a brunette - the only one of my children to have my colouring. She had long fingers, like her brother - another pianist for the family. I wish I knew if she had a birth mark. I didn't look for one when I took off the clothes the midwives had dressed her in and held her naked against my chest, willing her heart to start beating again. I forgot to look to see if she had the little genetic tic that runs in my family - a very slightly webbed toe that both my son and I have. "Did Emma?" he asked once. I cried when I told him I hadn't looked.

As I read back what I've written here, I see my choice of words give shape to the person I think she would have been: solicitous, gracious, lyrical and generous hearted, less of a fire cracker than her big sister! And my heart breaks all over again to realise that I will never truly know in this lifetime. All I can do is share my proud memories of my littlest girl, my Emma Faith.

The Great British Art of Understatement.

D. (Finding me, daydreaming in our room): Are you okay? Are you feeling sad about Emma?

Me: Well, yes a bit. But, really, I was thinking about the fact that the little one we miscarried would be turning one right around now. His due date was May 4th last year. I'm just feeling really fed up because we've been trying to bring a third baby home for over 2 years now and we haven't managed.

D: Yeah. We haven't been terribly successful at that have we?

Me: No. Not terribly.

Cue slightly manic laughter from both of us.

P.S Have I mentioned how much I love this man?

Birthday Musings

Birthdays are a big deal in this house. The smaller members of the household traditionally ask on the first of every month, as the calender is turned, "is this my birthday month?" and, when September finally rolls around, celebrate uproariously. The older members of the family aren't much better. D. (my toyboy for the next 6 months!) knows it is not decent to compile his birthday list or plan his birthday bash for November until AFTER my birthday.

Me - I've always wanted to grow old gracefully. I've always celebrated my birthday with the belief that this year has the potential to be even better than the last. That far from ageing, I am maturing, settling into my skin. 34 is different, obviously. I still believe that this year can be better but not out of optimism really. Now it's out of a desperate and flimsy longing to know that 2009 simply cannot be worse than 2008. I'm clinging to that desire. For the first time ever, I feel old and, for the first time in my whole life, I can practically hear my ovaries creaking.