After reading Lea's lovely news about her new pregnancy and her thoughts about a second blog, I contemplated the possibility of starting a new blog to document Jurgen's journey. I only contemplated it briefly. I am unlikely ever to win an award for world's most prolific blogger as it is and I know that I would not be able to do either blog justice. So, with your permission, I will remain a solitary blog kinda girl for now.
This is Emma's place and I still intend it primarily to be about her and my journey since meeting her, kissing her and saying goodbye. There will be the occasional pregnancy post of course. The crazy triad of birth/death/maybe life that is pregnancy after loss (so powerfully articulated by Sally here) is an enormous part of my tangled, messy grief yarn right now. Parts of Emma's birth and death that I thought I had begun to process, begun to integrate suddenly loom very large again now.
I remember reading "Empty Cradle, Broken Heart" just a few days after Emma died and latching on with absolute fervour to the idea of "grief work". The idea that grief was something I could "do" something about, the possibility of clawing back some control in a situation where I lost every last vestige of controlling influence - that possibility was a heady and intoxicating one. It still is, although I think I possibly have a more nuanced idea of what it means now. I might be able to "do" grief but I cannot do away with with it.
I also remember reading a thread over on the pregnancy loss section of Mothering, not long after Emma died when my arms ached to hold a baby and getting pregnant again seemed the cure for all ills. There was a wise and gentle post written by a someone who was several years into this journey. She found herself unexpectedly and quickly pregnant again after the death of her precious firstborn daughter. She talked abut how she handled her still very raw grief alongside her hope of a different outcome for her second pregnancy. She talked of working on her first daughter's scrapbook & journal whilst all the time documenting her journey towards meeting her second little girl. It seemed to me then, and still seems to me now, a powerful and positive way to approach a new pregnancy and I have stored it away in my brain for a time like now.
I'm about to leave the first trimester and today I saw Jurgen again, doing headstands. I am being forced to believe (against my current inclination to preclude any optimism in case of a jinx) that at his moment in time, this pregnancy is progressing well. When I was expecting Emma, I started a cross stitch birth sampler for her. I didn't start it until I was 34 weeks as I was making one for her cousin first who was expected before she was. So Emma's was unfinished when she was born. I looked at it a few days after I arrived home from the hospital and had what might have been my first coherent thought of the aftermath. "I can't complete this now but if I ever have another pregnancy, this is my project to get me through". I have not touched it again but now I'm ready. Ready to document my daughter whilst I wait hopefully for her sibling. Like the cross stitch, this blog is a place to document her too, another place where I do my grief work.
I think there is still quite a lot to do.
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Monday, 13 July 2009
Monday Musings
9 months.
Tomorrow she will have been gone from my arms longer than I ever held her in my womb. But she is not gone from my heart - my ever pregnant heart. There she lives, there she shines, there she IS ... eternally.
***
The Red Tent.
After reading this beautiful post from Inanna, I was compelled to go back and read this gorgeous book. It is rich and dangerous and brutal and sad. I've read it more than once but this time I read it in a different way. I read it as a baby lost mother. I don't think I managed more than 2 pages at a time without tears. It is a story that honors motherhood profoundly. It is a story that recognises that for all mothers, even those who in our sanitised culture have forgotten it, death & life are both a part of birth.
"In the red tent we knew that death was the shadow of birth, the price women pay for the honor of giving life. Thus, our sorrow was measured." (page 58)
We ignore the shadow in our modern world and when our babies die, we become shadow women. Other mothers don't know what to make of us. They don't/can't embrace us because we are the embodiment of their most secret fear. The thing they want to deny.
We don't have a red tent. I do have a little gray box and a keyboard. It's not quite the same but I don't know where I'd be without you all - my modern red tent.
***
Gravestones.
I never imagined having to choose a gravestone FOR MY BABY. It stinks and we can't agree on a design. But we will, because we do agree that we want her name proclaimed. Her tiny plot is no longer so clear, the edges are no longer raw like a gaping wound. There is comfort in that, the earth is doing its job - integrating her more thoroughly than I can yet. But there is fear too - I don't want her forgotten or hidden. So soon, there will be a stone - beautiful and polished and permanent and we will plant daffodils round it. And her name will be remembered.
Tomorrow she will have been gone from my arms longer than I ever held her in my womb. But she is not gone from my heart - my ever pregnant heart. There she lives, there she shines, there she IS ... eternally.
***
The Red Tent.
After reading this beautiful post from Inanna, I was compelled to go back and read this gorgeous book. It is rich and dangerous and brutal and sad. I've read it more than once but this time I read it in a different way. I read it as a baby lost mother. I don't think I managed more than 2 pages at a time without tears. It is a story that honors motherhood profoundly. It is a story that recognises that for all mothers, even those who in our sanitised culture have forgotten it, death & life are both a part of birth.
"In the red tent we knew that death was the shadow of birth, the price women pay for the honor of giving life. Thus, our sorrow was measured." (page 58)
We ignore the shadow in our modern world and when our babies die, we become shadow women. Other mothers don't know what to make of us. They don't/can't embrace us because we are the embodiment of their most secret fear. The thing they want to deny.
We don't have a red tent. I do have a little gray box and a keyboard. It's not quite the same but I don't know where I'd be without you all - my modern red tent.
***
Gravestones.
I never imagined having to choose a gravestone FOR MY BABY. It stinks and we can't agree on a design. But we will, because we do agree that we want her name proclaimed. Her tiny plot is no longer so clear, the edges are no longer raw like a gaping wound. There is comfort in that, the earth is doing its job - integrating her more thoroughly than I can yet. But there is fear too - I don't want her forgotten or hidden. So soon, there will be a stone - beautiful and polished and permanent and we will plant daffodils round it. And her name will be remembered.
Monday, 29 June 2009
Little Whisper
Well, I'm getting used to my emotions careering in all different directions. After crashing and burning yesterday, today is a whole different mood swing.
I'd like to introduce you to the person who is somewhat responsible for playing with my hormones - but who is also a precious source of hope for us. At 9 weeks and 2 days gestation, this tiny whisper is going by the somewhat odd bump name of "Jurgen" (D.s idea!!).
The scan was an emotional moment. Our sonographer found the heartbeat immediately and then lost it again because I was crying and making my belly wobble! I was completely expecting to be knocked down all over again (which might account for my huge grief dip yesterday) and the relief is immense (albeit temporary, I'm sure).
I know this will be hard news for some of you and for that I am truly sorry, but for those of you who are able to stay with me for this journey - whether it lasts seven more days or (please, please, please) seven more months and then beyond - please know how much I value the support and love I receive through the comments I get.
I'd like to introduce you to the person who is somewhat responsible for playing with my hormones - but who is also a precious source of hope for us. At 9 weeks and 2 days gestation, this tiny whisper is going by the somewhat odd bump name of "Jurgen" (D.s idea!!).
The scan was an emotional moment. Our sonographer found the heartbeat immediately and then lost it again because I was crying and making my belly wobble! I was completely expecting to be knocked down all over again (which might account for my huge grief dip yesterday) and the relief is immense (albeit temporary, I'm sure).
I know this will be hard news for some of you and for that I am truly sorry, but for those of you who are able to stay with me for this journey - whether it lasts seven more days or (please, please, please) seven more months and then beyond - please know how much I value the support and love I receive through the comments I get.
Sunday, 28 June 2009
Black
I smile when I remember that I delayed starting this blog because I was frightened that if I started pouring it all out, I'd never stop; that I'd be sucked into a virtual world and fade away from the real world. It was like that to begin with. There would be so many threads I'd be trying to unravel in my brain. I post one thing and already be thinking about what I wanted to say next. But now, I look at the big gaps between my posts. It's not that the buzz in my head has quietened - I still find it hard to pin down any one feeling or emotion but I can't seem to find the words for here.
Perhaps it's because I feel wrapped in blackness right now. I never wanted this blog to be a place where I spewed bitterness. I've tried to look for the positives in this horrible and tragic situation. I believed (I think I still do) that whilst I will never "get over" my daughter's death, I will in time find joy and healing and hope. Sometimes that's just too hard.
Right now, I feel as though if I start to unpick the thoughts that rattle around in me, I'll fall apart. I feel so fragile. I miss my little girl so much. I ache for her every single day. It hasn't got easier - or rather it had. I definitely felt that I was making some progress. I was starting to rediscover a little of the life I had before. Maybe it's because I'm heading for Emma's nine months day. That just seems huge to me - in two weeks she'll have been gone from me longer than I ever carried her in my womb. I'm so frightened by that thought.
All I know is that today is a black day.
Perhaps it's because I feel wrapped in blackness right now. I never wanted this blog to be a place where I spewed bitterness. I've tried to look for the positives in this horrible and tragic situation. I believed (I think I still do) that whilst I will never "get over" my daughter's death, I will in time find joy and healing and hope. Sometimes that's just too hard.
Right now, I feel as though if I start to unpick the thoughts that rattle around in me, I'll fall apart. I feel so fragile. I miss my little girl so much. I ache for her every single day. It hasn't got easier - or rather it had. I definitely felt that I was making some progress. I was starting to rediscover a little of the life I had before. Maybe it's because I'm heading for Emma's nine months day. That just seems huge to me - in two weeks she'll have been gone from me longer than I ever carried her in my womb. I'm so frightened by that thought.
All I know is that today is a black day.
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Eight Months
Tiniest Sweetheart,
I keep waiting for the point when this gets easier. I suppose, most days, it has. But today - and all your Forever Days - it's just not. If anything, I think these days get harder because the gaps between the truly sad days are longer now so when they come, I'm blindsided all over again.
I hate that I don't get to choose how I mourn you. I want an ineffable sadness to wrap around me - a blanket of memories. I want the grief to pull me closer to you again. But that's not what I've got today. Today, my grief is bitter as if the anger I've been carrying has cooled and hardened to a leaden lump at the pit of my stomach. I never invited bitterness to come on this journey with me. I want you to be proud of your mama, little one. I want you to be the star that I swing from. Not possible when I'm mired in hatred and self pity. It hurts to be so vulnerable to the side swipes of hormones and emotion. To feel unable to fight the urge to stamp my feet and scream, "It's not fair." But it isn't fair. Not fair at all. No amount of cool, calm logic will ever make it so.
You'd probably be crawling now - tormenting the life out of your big sister and brother. It's not fair.
I try to go back to those moments when I first held you, when I kissed you and tried to love you in mere minutes enough for a lifetime apart. The only image I can conjure today is the moment in the porch of the church when your granddad carried you in your tiny, tiny white box - so tenderly. I buckled, your daddy held me up as I sobbed. Nobody can tell me that's a memory a mother should have. Too many of us do.
I miss you, sweetheart. Eight months or eighty years - I always will.
love
mummy
xxx
I keep waiting for the point when this gets easier. I suppose, most days, it has. But today - and all your Forever Days - it's just not. If anything, I think these days get harder because the gaps between the truly sad days are longer now so when they come, I'm blindsided all over again.
I hate that I don't get to choose how I mourn you. I want an ineffable sadness to wrap around me - a blanket of memories. I want the grief to pull me closer to you again. But that's not what I've got today. Today, my grief is bitter as if the anger I've been carrying has cooled and hardened to a leaden lump at the pit of my stomach. I never invited bitterness to come on this journey with me. I want you to be proud of your mama, little one. I want you to be the star that I swing from. Not possible when I'm mired in hatred and self pity. It hurts to be so vulnerable to the side swipes of hormones and emotion. To feel unable to fight the urge to stamp my feet and scream, "It's not fair." But it isn't fair. Not fair at all. No amount of cool, calm logic will ever make it so.
You'd probably be crawling now - tormenting the life out of your big sister and brother. It's not fair.
I try to go back to those moments when I first held you, when I kissed you and tried to love you in mere minutes enough for a lifetime apart. The only image I can conjure today is the moment in the porch of the church when your granddad carried you in your tiny, tiny white box - so tenderly. I buckled, your daddy held me up as I sobbed. Nobody can tell me that's a memory a mother should have. Too many of us do.
I miss you, sweetheart. Eight months or eighty years - I always will.
love
mummy
xxx
Sunday, 7 June 2009
Living in the Kaleidoscope...
... that's pretty much where I've been, these past couple of weeks. Just being one of the dancing, ever changing flecks that glow when you hold them up to the light. Some of them are dark, some of them are bright. Together the patterns are luscious. I love kaleidoscopes.
I'm learning, more deeply than before, that this grief is eternal. It changes and mutates and bursts into the foreground and fades into the background but it is - always. I've been rediscovering joy with the children I am privileged to parent. I was frightened it was gone for ever but it hasn't. Moments of perfect peace and contentment and licking of cake batter - they've come back. I'm glad. They are my light, my life and my reason for living. I've been rediscovering belly laughs and bear hugs with my husband too. I am proud of us - weathered and brow beaten and together and in love. I'm recognising my limits too - and learning to respect my own vulnerabilities. I have met my brand new nephew and my 8 month old niece, thought how gorgeous and adorable they both were and forgave myself for feeling not one iota of longing to hold them in my arms - and forgave them for not being Emma.
The pattern will change again - and I'm learning to let it.
I'm learning, more deeply than before, that this grief is eternal. It changes and mutates and bursts into the foreground and fades into the background but it is - always. I've been rediscovering joy with the children I am privileged to parent. I was frightened it was gone for ever but it hasn't. Moments of perfect peace and contentment and licking of cake batter - they've come back. I'm glad. They are my light, my life and my reason for living. I've been rediscovering belly laughs and bear hugs with my husband too. I am proud of us - weathered and brow beaten and together and in love. I'm recognising my limits too - and learning to respect my own vulnerabilities. I have met my brand new nephew and my 8 month old niece, thought how gorgeous and adorable they both were and forgave myself for feeling not one iota of longing to hold them in my arms - and forgave them for not being Emma.
The pattern will change again - and I'm learning to let it.
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
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.
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.
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