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.

Funeral

A year ago today, our family all gathered in the parish church near our house to say our formal goodbyes to Emma. Not our final goodbyes because, to me, that's what grief is - a lifetime of saying "I love you and I miss you and I'm trying to say goodbye".

I still find that thinking about her funeral triggers the disbelief. I still can't believe that I am someone who had to organise MY CHILD's funeral. It still makes me shake my head in sad wonderment - especially when I remember that most of us plan and order such things so soon after our babies leave us. When I think back to the state I was in this time last year I honestly cannot remember how we managed to make the plans we did - I suppose the numbness serves a useful practical purpose.

We don't have photographs of Emma's funeral - this is not something I regret. It never crossed our mind that it might be a day we wanted to document to be honest. Moments of the day are burned into my mind anyway - the moment my dad carried her tiny, tiny casket into the foyer of the church, the moment Dave's dad carried her out of the church. I close my eyes and I can be back there in a moment.

I honestly don't know what to do with this anniversary. Are we "supposed" to mark it in some way? Do we want to? We're away from home today so even a visit to her graveside is not practical. We visiting family, surrounded by noise and chaos and small people - it's very different from a year ago ... maybe that's for the best?

Intact

Several months ago I was reading a post I came across in a grief and loss forum. A mother, six months out from the death of her toddler, talked about the difficulty in trying to reconnect with friends from the time before. "I can't just pretend," she wrote (I'm paraphrasing slightly as I can no longer remember the exact words), "that I don't hate their intact lives."

It was one of those "Whoa" moments. I understood exactly what she meant. That sentence clarified exactly what I had been feeling. I have written here before about being introvert, about needing solitude and preferring to avoid anything requiring a degree a sociability. Deep down I had a sense of what this mama was saying but I hadn't managed to articulate it, even to myself. I planned to write a blog entry about it, back then, several months ago. But then other things came up, other topics to consider and I would remember it as various times but never got round to writing about it.

I've been thinking about it a lot over the summer and the post I write now is very different from the one I would have written three months ago. I have had a LOT of company these past few weeks. My husband and both my older children have been on holiday for six weeks and we've crammed such a lot of things into a month and a half. Most profoundly for me, we have visited with family and I held my thirteen week old nephew for the first time and spent time in the company of my little niece - 5 weeks older than Emma would be. What struck me was the lack of resentment. I braced myself for these visits, expected to survive them and sink into a deeper grief afterwards. It wasn't like that at all. Of course I thought about my daughter and looked for her features in these cousins of hers. Of course I longed for it to be different - to be passing my nephew back to his daddy because I needed to stop my 11 month old making a beeline for the staircase. But there was more too. I enjoyed snuggling a wonderfully warm and cuddly three month old and seeing him smile. I realise that somewhere in the last three months I have stopped hating people for their intact lives.

I know, of course, that some of this is down to Jurgen and the hope that he/she engenders in us. If I weren't pregnant again I doubt I would have had the same capacity for graciousness. But, there's more to it than that. After all, my husband and I have both considered how best to tell people about this pregnancy (it is still for the most part a secret to anyone except family and blog readers). We want people to be pleased but not to assume that this baby replaces Emma or somehow makes us "intact" again. He/She doesn't. If this baby lives and thrives, I will still be a bereaved mother - something everyone here gets but not everyone in real life.

I think mainly it is the passing of time. My grief, in the early stages, was of necessity selfish. How I felt, how I handled things, what I needed to do to survive and get through the day - these were my main considerations. They had to be. As I'm slowly emerging from the deepest level of this pit I am able, once again, to consider other people more objectively. Whilst very few of the people I know in real life have experienced tragedy at a level I have, I can now recognise that life is not perfect for anyone and I do not need to hate their "intactness". Also, I'm in a better position to appreciate the joys and good things that still exist in my own life - my truly amazing son and daughters and their wonderful daddy and other smaller daily gifts.

If this sounds insufferable, I apologise. I do not intend it to come across that way. This is a season I'm in at the moment - a breathing space for which I am grateful. Emma's first birthday is approaching - I know. This fact nudges at me through everything else. I have other milestones to face - my 20 week scan on Friday, my son's seventh birthday, my daughter's fifth birthday. For now, all my concentration is on these things but when October comes around there are no more distractions and I don't quite know how I will be. It's too big and momentous a time. For now, I'm just trying to enjoy a period of respite.

Getting it wrong.

You are only an acquaintance - we met at a coffee morning, probably a year ago. I remember I had an obvious bump - probably about the same size as the one you are carrying proudly now. I was probably stroking my wee girl - in the way that absent minded and unburdoned pregnant mamas do in public. You didn't say much then - I thought you were shy. My best friend fears you are just arrogant.

I can't tell how pregnant you are - I think you must have been pregnant when Emma died. That at least would explain why you look like a rabbit in the headlights when we pass each other at the school gate. It's your third - like Emma was my third. I shouldn't judge but I suspect you've had no losses - your children are close in age. I wish I knew what you are thinking when you look at me with such empty eyes. Are you feeling sorry for me? Guilty over your third beautiful bump?

Most pregnant women seem to exude an air of relief around me - a naive assumption that because I was the unfortunate 1:200, their odds are somehow lowered. I've done the suffering for them. I could tell them that I'm the third of three generations to experience stillbirth in my family or I could tell them of an internet acquaintance who lost her baby daughter to a placental abruption back in September and posted a heartbreaking message just weeks ago to say that her sister's tiny boy had been born too soon to survive life outside of his mama. The fact is their odds remain the same - low but not somehow lowered by my tragedy. Perhaps your reaction is more honest; perhaps my daughter's death has shocked you to the core. But I dislike you and I go out of my way now to avoid eye contact with you. NOT because of your pregnancy - pregnant bellies do sting me but I can't stop the world gestating and I hope to do it myself again one day. No, I dislike you because I can't read you - you don't warm your sad eyes with the ghost of a sympathetic smile. You make me feel worse - if that is even possible - about being a deadbaby mama. I don't like you because when it comes to reacting to me, you got it wrong.