It was the worst of times...

This time last year, I was newly bereaved. I was depressed. Not on medication but I felt like a zombie - just going through the motions of life.

Having lost my second baby, I felt as though the ground had fallen away under my feet. I thought I had let everyone down by not providing the longed-for child. I was convinced it would turn out to be my fault and had no idea how I would live with myself.

I felt I was letting my daughter down because I was unable to give her the attention she needed. She was two-and-a-half years old and confused. Why were her parents both at home? Why was mummy crying? Why were grandparents coming to stay? Where was the baby?

I thought I was the world's worst mother. Not only had my son died inside me, without me knowing (where was my 'instinct'? why didn't I notice something was wrong?) but I felt unable to function as a mother for my daughter. I didn't want to play or sing or laugh - I just wanted to curl up on the sofa and hold her close. I managed to take her to nursery, to gymnastics, to singing group but I couldn't join in with any of these activities. We had started potty-training but I had to put it on hold because I just couldn't cope.

One year on, I am feeling a lot better: I am looking forward to Christmas and have planned some family holidays for next year. I can smile, laugh, join in and have fun. There are still days when I wonder about my parenting ability but now they are fewer and farther between. I am no longer depressed, although symptoms of my bereavement stress remain. I'm nearing the end of my bereavement counselling and feel as if some of the weight of my loss has been lifted.

Guest post: Should have been...

This is a guest post written by my husband:

It should have been our son Monty's first birthday today.

We should have been watching his big sister "help" him open his presents, wondering with a smile how much worse it was going to be at Christmas, just a couple of weeks away.

We should have been wondering, one year in, if we were going to stick with two children, or try for the third one we'd always held as a possibility.

Instead, it's a year since we released Chinese lanterns into the sky to say goodbye to our stillborn baby. He came six weeks early, perfectly formed but small, too small. A common viral infection, picked up at the wrong time, damaged the placenta enough so that it couldn't support him as he grew. We had no idea anything was wrong until he had already died. The virus usually has no symptoms in healthy adults, certainly not anything distinct from the normal symptoms of early pregnancy, and is carried by a large proportion of the population. There was nothing anyone could have done.

We didn't find any of this out until three doubt- and guilt-filled months later. In this respect we are luckier, for want of a better term, than many parents of stillborn children, who never find out why their babies died or, worse, find out that they were in some way responsible. We also didn't have to spend months at a hospital bedside watching our tiny child struggle and fail to survive. In the awful club of bereaved parents, we're by no means the worst off.

I have learnt more about grief than I ever hoped to. I have learnt the uselessness of the one question everybody asks: "Is there anything I can do?". This is unanswerable - the only thing a grieving parent wants is not to be one, and nobody can deliver that. Far better to ask something that does not transfer a burden of having to think of an answer beyond yes or no: "would you like to come out for a drink / coffee / over for dinner?".

I have learnt that grief has physical symptoms as well as the more expected mental ones. We have both had the worst year, in terms of health, of our adult lives, and were told to expect as much.

We talk about Monty frequently, even with our daughter when she wants to, which is quite often. The raw wound has now become scar tissue - it no longer automatically hurts to probe it, but occasionally some circumstance or thought can slip through. On my cycle route to work I have a choice - I can ride past the hospital where his post mortem was carried out, or past his funeral home. A few months ago, I saw the converted estate car that is used for baby funerals pulling out. I gasped out loud in sadness and sympathy. Seventeen babies are stillborn or die shortly after birth every day in this country. The Maple Suite at Southmead Hospital, where Monty was born, is more or less continually in use.

I have learnt what my wife and daughter really mean to me: everything. Losing Monty put out the light at the centre of our family for a time. The three of us have worked hard together, and it is coming back. I cannot imagine dealing with a situation like this without these two amazing ladies by my side. Monty will always be a part of us, and we will never forget him. If we have another child, it will be our third.

The Deafening Silence

A short film about stillbirth through the eyes of the mother has been made by Abigail's Footsteps.

My experience wasn't quite like this but it was similar.

If things had gone to plan, tomorrow would be Monty's first birthday.

Schrodinger's baby

Trying to conceive feels like being in limbo: always 'maybe-pregnant' but never certain until a period comes or two lines appear in a window on a little white stick.

I am highly aware of my cycle even though I'm not counting days, taking my temperature or peeing on ovulation sticks. I am careful about what I eat and drink. I take folic acid to carefully nourish the tiny embryo that might implant and grow. I know when my period is due and each month I hold my breath and cross my fingers that it won't come.

But it does. And it catches me out.

I had vowed not to go back on the Pill after my daughter was born but, following Monty's stillbirth, it was recommended by the family-planning nurse as a way of giving myself the emotional space to grieve. However, since I stopped taking it, in the Summer, my 'cycle' has been irregular. Three times now, my period has been late enough that I've dared to believe that I might be pregnant... but I'm not.

I feel like the butt of some cruel biological joke: I lost my much-wanted second baby at 34 weeks' pregnant and now I don't even know if/when I'm ovulating!

My mind is filled with trepidatious hope - "maybe this month?" - alongside fear and anxiety about how I would react if I were to fall pregnant. It's all I can do to try not to let this take over my life.

It's not your birthday

Monty,

Today is your anniversary. One year has passed since you were born. Yet, it's not your birthday. Not to me. You weren't due until December - my Christmas baby! Instead, your early arrival was artificially induced because you had already left my world.

This photograph of us together is so special. I could be watching you sleep but I am not - I am meeting you for the first and last time.

Mine was the voice you heard. Mine was the love you felt. Mine was the strength you used to grow but it wasn't enough.

I wonder what life would be like if you were still here?

love
Mummy
xxx

Remember, remember...

Your sister remembers you. At least, she remembers that you grew inside mummy's tummy.

She remembers looking forward to your arrival and being confused when we told her that you wouldn't be coming home, after all.

She looks at your photograph. She holds your toy bear.

She asks questions about where you are and if you will ever come back.

She talks about you at nursery. Yesterday, her friends shared their stories of lost pets and grandparents.

She is proud to be your big sister.

I think she remembers that nearly one year has passed.

Wave of light

Always loved, never forgotten

(Baby Loss Awareness Day, 15 October 2013)

Good mental health

Since World Mental Health Day falls in Baby Loss Awareness Week, I guess I might as well write about my mental health since my baby loss:

When I found out that my baby had died I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The sonographer and doctor told me that they couldn't find a heartbeat. I just kept thinking 'well, keep looking!' and 'why is nobody panicking?'. They offered me a cup of tea. I asked them to phone my husband. I screamed and cried.

That was just the start of my year of mental anguish.

The first few days and weeks passed in a blur. Time went wrong - too slow and too fast at the same time. I lost track of the days and weeks. I couldn't remember anything about anything. There were so many decisions to be made: about post mortem and tests; about funeral arrangements; about how and where and when to seek help. There was too much information and too little advice. I couldn't sleep. I cried and felt sick.

I lost my appetite. I couldn't make decisions - not even about simple things, like what to wear (answer: nothing fits, so maternity clothes or pyjamas?). I had to keep going for my daughter's sake and my husband's but for a long time, I just went through the motions of daily life. I felt depressed but everyone said it was early days and I should 'give it time'.

I felt that it was my fault. I worried about everything and nothing. I could think of little else than the baby I never brought home. I thought it must have been because I would have been a rubbish mum to two children - he must have 'known' and bailed out.

I blamed myself for his death. I scrutinised my pregnancy. I relived the last few days, looking for clues and missed signs that something was wrong. I hoped it wasn't my fault because I didn't think I could live with myself if it was but I couldn't see any other answer. The safest place for a baby should be inside his mother but, for my son, even that was not safe enough.

It took 14 weeks to find an answer, to know why my son died. Fourteen weeks that I spent hating myself and wondering how I could ever climb out of the black hole I was in.

Christmas was hard. Monty had been due just a few weeks beforehand. I just couldn't join in with the celebrations. On Christmas Day, I found out that a friend was pregnant and I cried. I told my husband that I thought I was broken and could never be fixed. That was the point at which I decided to get help.

When I asked for it, help came in spades; from the friend who counselled me over coffee to the physiotherapist who mended my divarication; from the GP who gave me sound advice to the SANDS bereavement support group; from friends and family who listened to my employer who made my return to work as easy as it could be.

I took 5 months off work but still felt fragile when I returned. It has taken almost a year to start to feel enjoyment in the things I used to love, like my singing. I have had to absolve myself of responsibilities and commitments beyond the most important and to ask people not to rely on me like they used to. I just don't know if tomorrow will be a good or a bad day.

There are fewer bad days now but they still occur. I still don't sleep well. I feel anxious a lot of the time. My self-confidence and self-esteem are low but improving.

I know I have come a long way since Monty died and was born but I still have a long way to go along my bereavement journey. We are approaching his anniversary and I can feel myself winding up to it. I still cry at night sometimes. Anything can set me off. I feel a mixture of fear and happiness when people tell me they are expecting.

To the outside world, I look normal. I eat, shower, get dressed, leave the house and have a routine. I take my daughter to nursery and extra-curricular activities. I go to work. I do all these things because I am a wife, a mother, alive. Because life carries on.

I have learned a lot since I lost my son. I have learned about life, about love, about myself. I want something positive to come out of my experience, even if I just approach life differently.

I never realised that bereavement stress was a mental illness. I do now.

1/6205

This time last year, I was 31 weeks pregnant, in full-swing rehearsal for the LABBS Convention in Telford, and blissfully unaware that my baby wasn't going to make it.

Since then, 6205 babies have been stillborn or died shortly after birth in the UK. Monty is one of them.

This week (9-15 October 2013) is baby loss awareness week. I have bought a commemorative pin and, in the run-up to Monty's anniversary, I will be trying to raise awareness and break the silence and taboo surrounding stillbirth.

The blame game

I have been seeing a bereavement counsellor. A friend told me to go. She said I needed help, although I thought I was doing OK on my own. Anyway, I took her advice and I think it is helping. We have dealt with a range of emotions associated with bereavement: grief, depression, anger, guilt and shame. For the most part, I have been able to engage fully with the counselling process. I have cried lots of tears, admitted things I wouldn't say out loud in any other circumstance and done my homework.

Until this week...

This week's assignment is either to work through some grieving activities or to consider who I blame for Monty's death.

I've already done the former: I made a memory box; I wear a necklace that I bought in his memory; I wrote him a poem; I raised money for Southmead hospital maternity unit and Bristol SANDS; and Monty has an entry in the hospital chapel's book of remembrance. I look at his photo on the windowsill and I think about him all the time. It's the latter that bothers me because I don't hold anyone responsible for what happened. I can't list the people I think played a part in the loss of my baby or draw a pie chart apportioning blame because I don't think it happened like that.

The truth of the matter is that I picked up a virus. CMV is asymptomatic in adults and most people come into contact with it at some point in their lives. I could have caught it anywhere, from anyone. Unfortunately, I caught it at the wrong time - in the first trimester. It infected the placenta and my baby. The combination of these two things meant that the placenta failed and my son couldn't get enough food or oxygen. Even if I had been referred to the hospital sooner and delivered earlier, he probably wouldn't have survived because of the congenital infection and his smallness.

All the healthcare professionals were kind, helpful and supportive. They couldn't have spotted the problem any earlier because I was considered to be 'low risk' and all the scans and tests indicated normal development. I didn't know I was ill, I just felt tired, and I felt my baby move right up until the day I was told he had no heartbeat. I don't believe it was fate or God's will and suggestions along these lines challenge my 'beliefs'. If 'anyone' is to blame, it is Mother Nature but she's not a real person.

Wishin' and hopin'

My daughter seems keen for a sibling. She is a bit confused, though, and thinks that any future baby we may conceive will be Monty. I've tried to explain that Monty won't come back and that it would be a different baby, a new one. "A sister baby?" Maybe.

We talk about babies quite often. Many of my daughter's friends have younger brothers or sisters. Most of my friends from antenatal group have gone on to have second children. I had thought that I would be one of the first to 'complete' my family but now it seems I will be the last. I know it is neither a competition nor a race but I am beginning to wonder if/when we might be blessed with another baby.

I have kept all the baby clothes, equipment and books that I bought for my daughter. They were stored neatly in plastic crates in a cupboard in the spare room but, since Monty died, I have moved them up into the attic. I can't have them staring at me, reminding me of the baby I've lost and putting unspoken pressure on me to conceive again.

If we are to have another baby, I need serendipity. I can't try too hard - not like I did when I tried to conceive Monty. I desperately want my daughter to have a sibling to grow up with but I'm scared to make an emotional investment in a child that might never be.

I never thought that my second pregnancy would be my last and I would dearly love to be pregnant again and have another baby. So, I wish and hope that, one day, we will be lucky.

This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you...

When I was at primary school, we had to say prayers three times a day. It was a Catholic school, so prayer-time was compulsory. We said them at morning assembly, before lunch and before going home.

In Class 3 (when we were 7-8 years old), our teacher would allow the students to include a prayer or blessing of their own at home-time. We had to take turns. She would go round the classroom, choosing three or four students a day. Normally, it was something childish and simple, along the lines of "Dear Lord, please look after my puppy who has hurt his paw" or "Dear Lord, please let it be sunny tomorrow so I can ride my bike".

One day, one of the girls in my class said a prayer that started the teacher crying:

"Dear Lord, please look after mummy's baby, who was stillborn."

The teacher asked her what the baby was called.

"Vincent"

We were all sent home.

I didn't understand.

I asked my mother about it whilst she cooked dinner. She said that it was very sad because the baby had died. I was confused - the baby had been born hadn't it? My mother tried to explain how some babies die before they are born and, when that happens, we say there are stillborn. I still didn't understand. In my world, it wasn't possible for something to die before it had lived; if it was born, it was born! In my head, the word 'stillborn' didn't mean 'born still, unbreathing and unmoving' it meant 'yet he was born'.

Nearly 30 years on, I remember that day. I remember the girl. I remember her brother's name: Vincent.

Nearly 30 years on, I am still confused.

Since my son was stillborn, I have thought a lot about Vincent and his mummy and his sisters and brother.

Looking back...

This photo was taken one year ago. It is the last photo my husband took of me pregnant with Monty (at 25 weeks).

I can hardly believe how much things have changed since then.

I miss him so much.

The missing link

Sometimes, I read Jennie's blog at edspire.com and this post really struck a chord with me.

To the outside world, we are a 'normal' family of three: Mummy, Daddy, Daughter. However, there is someone missing. Someone who was born but never lived. Someone we can never replace. We know that he should be with us but there are times when even I 'forget' that three should be four.

Within the family, we talk about Monty quite openly. With strangers, it doesn't seem right. Yet, there are many times when I want to remind the world that he did exist, inside me, for 34 weeks. He was born, he was named, he was photographed. He is my daughter's younger brother and she is a big sister, not an only child.

Except, that's not what you see. You don't see the hole in our lives.

Ursa major

Six bears were knitted to raise funds for Bristol SANDS:

Six bears were sold but people wanted more!

Notes and coins were thrust into my hands.
Requests were made for particular colours.

I knitted two dozen bears (some of them are pictured below) and raised over £100 to say 'thank you' to those who have helped me.

Outside looking in...

Since my son was stillborn, many people have told me about their own baby losses. I am surprised at the number of people I am acquainted with who have suffered the miscarriage, stillbirth, neonatal death or cot death of their babies. They have chosen to share their experiences with me because I, too, have lost a baby.

I look at other mothers in a different way now: I wonder what sadnesses they are hiding.

When I see other people's photographs of their toddlers meeting a brother or sister for the first time, I feel both happy and regretful.

When friends announce pregnancy news after the first scan, I hold my breath and hope that their baby will make it.

Overwhelmed and amazed by the strength of love I feel for my daughter, I am floored by the sense of loss I feel for the son I never got to know.

I never knew that motherhood could feel joyful and so intensely painful at the same time...

How many children do you have?

By its virtue, this question is only ever asked by people who don't know me. Usually, it is asked innocently, perhaps by another parent at the park or by someone I'm meeting at work for the first time, but I have to think carefully about how to answer and it always makes me feel uncomfortable.

The easiest response is "I have a daughter." This is completely true and doesn't tend to lead to further questions except, perhaps, about how old she is.

Sometimes, though, the question is slightly different, which means that my stock answer doesn't quite fit. For example, when I was with my daughter at the hairdresser's, the new stylist asked me "Do you have just the one?" and "Would you like to have any more?" I didn't tell her about Monty and just said "Yeah, it would be nice..."

A friend of mine tells people she has three children because that is how many grew up - she doesn't mention the baby who died shortly after birth. I understand her approach. The number of babies I've had differs from the number of children I have, too. The answer isn't wrong, it just isn't wholly right.

In reality, the answer doesn't matter. People who ask are only making conversation. They don't want to know about our tragedy and it would feel awkward to tell strangers about something so personal. It's just that an uneasy feeling is left behind - a sense that I'm doing my son an injustice by not talking about him as freely as I talk about his big sister.

That which we call a rose

After Monty's stillbirth, a friend sent us a gift - a rose bush dedicated to his memory. It has just come into flower and it is beautiful.

Sometimes I feel like I can't even sing

I have lost count of the number of times I've been told that I look well, but appearances can be deceiving. There is inner turmoil that many people could not imagine or understand.

The past few weeks, I have been close to tears and not for any particular reason I can fathom. I think it's just another stage of grief but it's frustrating: perhaps I haven't made as much progress as I'd thought?

I have been told that, with time, the pain will become less raw and I will have days where every conscious thought isn't about Monty; that I will feel guilty when I realise a whole day has passed without making a note of his existence and passing. I'm not there yet. I'm not even close. I live his loss every day. I dream about it at night. He is with me at all times - sometimes I think I can feel him near me but I'm unable to grasp hold.

I feel incredibly tired. The weight of suppressed emotion is wearing me down. I fall to sleep easily at night but often wake in the early hours from dreams filled with anxiety. It takes ages to drift off again...

It is eight months since I found out my son had died. Eight months since I heard those words: "There's something we need to tell you about your baby..." Eight months since the scream ripped out from my core. Eight months since the silence of the hospital room swallowed me up whilst inside my head the voices were shouting "Do something!" Eight months since the doctor 'phoned my husband to ask him to come to the hospital and eight months since I told him that our baby had no heartbeat and would be stillborn.

It is eight months since my life fell apart.

Monty, this seems strange to me...

I promised myself I wouldn't think about all the what-ifs and should-haves but I can't help myself.

You should be 6 months old by now. We should be embarking on your weaning journey. I should be getting used to a little more sleep and starting to enjoy watching your personality develop. You should be sitting up unsupported and able to hold things with a fist-grip. Perhaps you'd have a tooth or two? You should definitely be able to smile and laugh at me and Daddy and your big sister. I should still be at home, not back at work.

But things didn't work out, did they? Despite my best efforts, nature got in the way.

I think back to this time last year. I was 14 weeks pregnant. I had tried hard to conceive you, wanted you so much and was so happy to be expecting you. You were still our secret, although a few people suspected we had news to break! Your EDD was 12/12/12, which would have been a cool birthdate!

I miss you so much. It has only been seven months but it seems like a lifetime ago that you were with me. Sometimes, I wonder if you were ever here at all.

I want the world to know about you, yet don't feel the need to talk about you with everyone I meet. I understand now why bereaved parents don't tend to talk openly about stillbirth - it's the look in other people's eyes, the delayed "Oh, I'm sorry" to which I usually quietly reply "It's OK". But it's not OK. It's far from OK. It's terrible.

I don't want other families to go through this experience but I know that they will. Every day in the UK, 17 babies are stillborn or die shortly after birth. How can we stop this from happening? No-one could have stopped it from happening to you.

I will never get over losing you. My heart is forever broken.

Anniversary post

This blog has been active for one year now. How things have changed since I created the blog and wrote my first post about my life as mummy:

I'm still a working mummy (although I have reduced my hours) and my daughter has just turned 3. I am mummy to two babies but I have only one child.

There has been a change of tone in my posts since Monty died. I suppose this is inevitable but I don't intend for my life or my blog to be defined by his stillbirth. So, I try to write about positive family experiences at least as often as I write about my bereavement journey.

People say that 'time heals' and 'life goes on' but I don't think that's quite right. It's more that life continues around you; eventually, you find a way to participate again. I'll never 'move on' from losing Monty but I can move slowly towards my 'new normal'.

because it's June

Did you know that, every day in the UK, 17 babies will be stillborn or die shortly after birth? I didn't, until it happened to my son.

The bereavement group in Bristol has been very supportive. I have only attended four group sessions so far but the befrienders there have empathy and provide good advice. Everyone there has lost a baby and so there is a shared understanding of the pain, grief and anxiety that comes from such devastating loss. People come and go but I always feel welcome. There is tea and biscuits and tissues.

June is SANDS Awareness Month. I want to give something back, so I will be doing my bit to raise awareness this month. I can't run a marathon or abseil down a building but I can knit. So, as well as telling people about stillbirth, I am knitting teddy bears (like the ones pictured below). The money I make from their sale will be donated to Bristol SANDS. It's not much but it's my personal way of saying thank you.

Something inside so strong

Apparently, yesterday was International Bereaved Mothers Day. I didn't know. It completely passed me by until I read someone else's post about it this morning. Do I wish we'd 'celebrated' it or acknowledged it in some way? Not really. I think about Monty every day and I hold his memory close. I don't need a special day for that. He is part of our family. He will always be missing and he will always be missed.

I do silently 'celebrate' the lessons I have learned through sharing my life with Monty, even though I never got to know him as a person. I have found inner strength and been reminded of how lucky I am to have supportive family and friends. I have re-assessed my priorities and attitude to life. We live in the moment more than we used to and value our family time, which is so precious.

People tell me that I am amazing. They marvel at how I am dealing with the loss of my son: how I manage to get up and dressed each morning; how I can talk freely about him and my experience; how I answer my daughter's questions and explain what happened over and over again. But I'm not amazing - I'm just dealing with bereavement the best I can.

I have to carry on with life. I have a wonderful husband and a beautiful daughter and they need me. More than that, they need me to be me. I'll never be the same person I was before but I can be almost the same, with a few healed scars.

Feel the fear and do it anyway?

I have longed to provide my daughter with a sibling since before she was born. I was delighted to find out I was pregnant for the second time at Easter last year but, six months ago, our lives were turned upside down when our son was stillborn. Now, we are faced with the challenge of trying again. Lots of bereaved parents go on to have more children but I am scared of losing another baby.

I never felt that my second pregnancy would be my last. I could picture myself with three little people toddling along beside me! So, in some ways, trying again would give us the third child I was hoping for anyway.

But...

I worry that everything will go wrong again. I worry that there will be difficult decisions to make. I worry that I won't have the strength to battle the anxiety. I worry that I won't be able to bond with my baby. I worry that I won't be able to talk about how I feel. I worry that other people won't understand. I worry about depression. I worry that all the worry will make me a poor mummy. I worry that there won't be a 'right time' to start trying and I worry about leaving it too late.

I didn't worry about anything during my pregnancies. I was considered 'low risk' and I never expected things to go wrong. I was so sure of myself as a mum-to-be, custodian of the unborn child. I was careful about my diet and how I exercised, and I was prepared for my babies' arrivals. I never thought I would come away from the hospital with empty arms, sore eyes and a broken heart...

The clock never stops, never stops, never waits

I've never really been bothered by my age before but I am this year. The past six months, I have felt old, worn down, wrung out. I'm not where I expected to be by this stage in my life, which is disconcerting.

I do have lovely things planned for my birthday, although not all of them for the big day itself. My presents will be nice treats for me (rather than practical items or things for the home): a framed family portrait, a new handbag, cosmetics, some tasty brandy (VSOP), and a pedicure. We will be going out for lunch and my mother is taking me to see Aled Jones in concert at Truro Cathedral.

I'm not looking forward to being a year older, though...

I know that age is just a number but this number comes with baggage! It pushes me into a different demographic group and there are things I still want/need to do before I get too much older.

Hearts and minds

"Did Monty give you that heart?"

"Sort of, yes."

"It's shiny. Can I kiss it?"

"Yes."

"It's small. Can I cuddle it?"

"Monty was small and yes, you can."

"Monty was born."

"Yes, he was born and he died."

"I'm sorry Monty died."

"Me too. I wanted to bring him home."

"I'm sorry he didn't come home."

"You don't have to be sorry, sweetheart, but it's OK to feel sad. I feel sad about Monty. Daddy feels sad about Monty."

"I'm sorry he didn't come home."

Big cuddle.

A marathon, not a sprint

My husband's step-sister is running the London Marathon later this month. It's not the first time she has run a marathon and she has run the London race before. She is part of a running club but runs to raise money for charity as well as for fitness.

Normally, she raises money for Cancer Research UK in memory of her mother (who was also a distance runner). This year, she has kindly agreed to seek sponsorship to raise funds for Southmead Hospital maternity unit, in memory of Monty. Donations can be made via Virgin Money Giving.

Since Monty was stillborn, we have raised over £700 for the Mum's the Word appeal in support of the hospital's planned developments. It would be fantastic if Becky's marathon run could help us get that figure closer to £1000!

I still feel a huge debt of gratitude to the maternity staff at Southmead for they way in which they have helped and supported us. I hope that one day, I will enjoy their care again (and their new, improved maternity unit facilities) under happier circumstances.

Insecure, what you gonna do?

I still feel unsteady, unsure of myself, uncertain of the future.

Some days, I feel strong and brave; on others, I feel very small.

Outside, I look the same. Inside, I am very different.

It is my birthday this month. I will move up an age group; into the next tick box on surveys. I feel old but age has never bothered me before.

I am very focused on family. I love my husband and daughter so much. I had pictured myself with a clutch of children but now I don't know if I will have any more. I feel as though I can't move on with my life until I have worked this out but it's complicated.

When the human touch is what I need, what I need is you...

It's been a long cold lonely winter

Like most people, I'm well and truly fed up of the cold weather now. The equinox has passed and, in my mind, we really should be starting to see some temperatures in the double figures! For the past four or five days, we have had light flurries of snow. My hands are dry and sore - no amount of moisturiser seems to help. My lips are chapped too. One sunny day, I tried going without a vest - big mistake!

I was looking forward to bunkering down this Winter with my newborn: venturing out only to take my daughter to nursery. I was going to make the house a cosy, warm solace where my baby and I could get to know each other before emerging into the world in Spring. It didn't turn out that way.

The first snow fell the morning after Monty was stillborn in early November. I hate November anyway - too many sad memories. Fireworks pop and bang for at least a week, intruding into my thoughts. An annual reminder of those I have loved and lost. I hardly did anything in November. We tried to keep our daughter's routine as normal as possible. We sorted out all the administration for Monty. We wrote the order of service and attended his funeral. We had visitors, cards, flowers but not the joyful ones we had been hoping for. I had my postnatal checks.

December wasn't much better although we did have a couple of nice events. The Festival of Light went well on Monty's due date and we spent Christmas with family (but I wasn't really in the mood).

January and early February, I was preoccupied with getting the results of the post mortem and postnatal tests. I started attending SANDS meetings and bobbed up and down on an emotional rollercoaster. A friend said I looked very sad. My sadness rubbed off onto my daughter. We were melancholy but kept going through the motions of our weekly routine.

It's been a long, cold, lonely Winter but I'm hoping that Spring is just around the corner. The mornings and evenings are getting lighter. The sun has come out today and it does feel a little warmer. It feels like years since it's been here.

Finding me, no?

"People travel to wonder at the height of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars; and they pass by themselves without wondering."
St Augustine

Bereavement has forced me to think about myself and take a look at my life. I am so lucky to have my husband and daughter, a loving family and supportive friends.

These past five months, I have wrangled with the rawest emotions and found latent inner strength.

I am making changes: taking time for my family and for myself; thinking closer to home. I am taking a step back from life's fast-lane for a sedate drive along a country road. I wonder what I will discover along the way?

I am determined not to pass myself by.

Hold that thought

My daughter has asked me twice this week "Is the baby is your tummy now?"

The first time, we were messing around, playing boats. We had put the sofa cushions on the floor and were rocking and reeling to 'Row the Boat'. She lifted up my T-shirt, poked at my navel and posed the question. The second time, we were in the car on our way to the optician. It was a question shouted from the backseat whilst I was driving; part of the toddler monologue that forms the new soundtrack to every journey we make.

We have been told that young children take longer to process grief and that it's normal for them to ask questions for months or years after the death of a family member or pet. Perhaps my daughter is still just trying to work out what happened to her brother? Or perhaps babies are on her mind because we met up with a friend and her toddler and 7-week-old baby?

It was lovely to catch up with my friend and her girls. We went on maternity leave a few weeks apart, so I hadn't seen her since the beginning of October. The two older girls played nicely together whilst we chatted and the baby slept. After the baby had woken and had some milk, my friend very kindly asked me if I'd like to hold her. I said yes, although I was a bit nervous about how I'd feel.

I needn't have worried - it was fine. In fact, it was better than fine. It was nice to hold a tiny baby again. It felt comfortable. Maybe, one day, I'll hold another of my own...

My daughter saw me holding the baby and came over to have a look. She asked questions about the baby. We practised saying her name, confirmed that she likes milk and sleeping, and described the babygro she was wearing. The conversation probably reminded my daughter of her big sister book.

That's probably why she's wondering if there will be a baby in mummy's tummy again.

Mothering Sunday

I've never really celebrated Mothers' Day, although this year I did send a card to my mum. I have been treated to the longest lie-in I can remember and had banana muffins made for me by my husband and daughter. However, there is someone missing - my beautiful son.

So, to all the mummies who don't have their babies with them: I hope you manage to get through the day.

xxx

Missing Monty

This morning, my daughter brought a book into the bathroom when I was in the shower. "Mummy, read the names" she said.

I promised I would read it with her when I got out of the shower, dried and dressed. I kept my promise.

Snuggled up, comfy on my bed together, she handed me the book. "Mummy, read the names" she said again.

I looked at the cover: "What's Inside Your Tummy, Mummy?"

We hadn't read this book in months...

I asked her what the book was called. "All about how babies grow in mummies' tummies" she said "but Monty isn't in your tummy - he died in the picture."

I read the book. She asked me to read it twice more. I did. We looked at the pictures. We practised saying some of the words: 'umbilical cord', 'embryo', 'size of a pumpkin!'.

I said that I felt sad that Monty had died and she didn't have her brother to play with. She said she was sad too.

I asked if she would like it if mummy and daddy tried again to give her a brother or sister. She said yes. I said "We'll see..."

Then we came downstairs and she took the photo from the windowsill. "This is baby Monty" she said "and this is the bear. I want it." I got the bear, originally bought as a toy for him but subsequently given to her as a 'big sister present from her brother'. She put the bear and photo next to each other on a chair.

Then we made Mothers' Day cards for Granny and Grandma.

I can never thank you enough

I feel deeply indebted to so many people who have been there for us over the past few months but I will never be able to write enough cards or buy enough gifts to return all the kindnesses extended to us. This is my attempt to express my gratitude:

To all the nurses, doctors and hospital staff at Southmead, thank you for treating us so tenderly and compassionately. Thank you for your advice, sympathy and kind words. Thank you for the medication that took away some of the physical pain. Thank you for giving us time together. Thank you for giving us time with our baby after he was born. Thank you for a positive birth experience that we can treasure.

To the community midwives, health visitor, my GP and the physiotherapist, thank you all for your help on my road to recovery.

To the Registrar, thank you for registering my son as a real person and for giving me a copy of his stillbirth certificate. I know this is your job but you validated my son's existence and I am grateful.

To the medical examiner and research lab staff, thank you for looking after my son with respectful care. Thank you for investigating thoroughly and finding an answer. Please use the results to try to prevent this happening to another family.

To the chaplains, thank you for not trying to calm me in the throes of my grief. Thank you for making arrangements and explaining processes. Thank you for putting us in control of the funeral service and for allowing visitations at the chapel of rest. Thank you for recording Monty in the hospital's book of remembrance.

To our family, thank you for your love and support. Thank you for rallying round, for feeding us, and for looking after our daughter. Thank you for listening, crying and smiling. Thank you for visiting our son in the chapel of rest and for keeping photographs of him.

To my mother, thank you for being there at Monty's birth. I'm sorry that the only grandchild whose birth you have witnessed was stillborn. Thank you for washing and dressing him and for helping the midwife to take handprints and footprints and a few locks of his hair for us to keep. Thank you for helping to write the order of service for Monty's funeral. Thank you for doing things I could not.

To our extended circle of friends, thank you for the cards, letters, texts, gifts and flowers. Thank you for the phone calls. Thank you for all the cups of tea, the cake, the playdates. Thank you for being here and for listening and talking. Thank you for sharing your stories with me.

To everyone who donated money to the Mum's the Word appeal in Monty's memory. Together, we have raised over £700 (plus gift aid) and we have a balloon dedicated to Monty on the fundraising wall.

To all participants of the Festival of Light, thank you for lighting candles and lanterns in memory of our son on his due date. It was a special night. One that I will remember forever.

To the people whose names I don't know but who see us each week at toddler groups, thank you for your sympathy. To you, I am 'the lady whose baby died', I can see that in your eyes but I thank you for not avoiding me and for not asking questions. To the one lady who gave me her phone number and an offer of coffee, thank you.

To colleagues, thank you for the flowers and cards. Thank you for offering support. Thank you for not putting pressure on us to return to work.

To the Government, advisors and policy-makers, thank you for providing maternity leave and statutory pay to enable me to take the time I need to recover from my son's stillbirth.

To SANDS, I am grateful to the people who established you, although I wish there was no need for you to exist. Thank you for empathy and good advice. To the Bristol SANDS Bereavement Support Group, thank you for listening and understanding.

To my husband, thank you for everything. Thank you for the gift of Monty and for helping me deliver him. Thank you for taking beautiful photographs of him for us to treasure. Thank you for holding me tight and for sharing and wiping away my tears. Thank you for all your support, for being strong, for keeping me grounded. Thank you for loving me. I love you too.

To my daughter, thank you for lighting up my life. I love you so much.

If I had known, would it have made a difference?

There is a temptation, now that I know what caused Monty's death, to investigate the current state of scientific research into the links between viral infection and stillbirth. Somewhat ironically, the virus in question (human cytomegalovirus) is one that I spent six months studying during my biochemistry degree, although I was investigating it for reasons unrelated to pregnancy.

I don't plan to research very deeply, as I believe nothing could have prevented what happened to us - I was just unfortunate to pick up the virus in the early weeks of my pregnancy. However, it is interesting to know that CMV is beginning to be recognised as a potential cause of stillbirth: Pregnancy and cytomegalovirus

I never expected my baby to be stillborn. No-one does. If I had known about the risks associated with CMV infection, would it have made a difference? I don't know but I don't think so.

Brokenhearted

Today, by rights, you should be 8 weeks old.

Today, fourteen weeks after the last time I heard your heartbeat and felt you moving inside me, I went back to the hospital to find out why you died.

It seems I picked up a viral infection in early pregnancy. A virus that is carried by the majority of the population and which causes asymptomatic infection in most adults. A virus that is not routinely tested for in antenatal bloodwork and which cannot be treated or avoided. A virus which took hold in the placenta and prevented you from growing.

I am so sorry that there was nothing I could have done to save you. There is nothing anyone could have done to save you. There was no sign to suggest anything was wrong until it was too late...

******

Even before your big sister was born, you were on my mind. I knew I wanted children: more than one. You were an idea long before you became a reality. I planned you. I wanted you. You were conceived on purpose. You would have been loved but I never had a chance to show you how much.

I lost you and now I am lost without you. You are the hole in my heart that will never heal.

My precious baby boy.

I'm not sick but I'm not well

I'm in a state of anxiety.
I can't rest my mind.
It's exhausting.
At least I can sleep at night now.

This morning I was in a deep sleep when my daughter woke me up. Every morning, when her 'gro-clock' changes colour, she pads across the landing, opens the door to our bedroom and climbs into my side of the bed for a snuggle. I enjoy a few minutes of holding a wriggly toddler (she's always been wriggly, that's why we called her 'the wriggler' before she was born...) before she decides which of us has to get up and make her breakfast. This morning it was my turn.

One of the things I was looking forward to was lazy weekend mornings in bed. All four of us. Me, nursing the baby; my husband reading stories or watching something on iPlayer with our daughter.

As I cuddle my daughter each morning, I feel so grateful to have her and so sad that I don't have her brother. I start every day tired and sad. It's exhausting.

I'm still on maternity leave (not sick leave) and am waiting for test results before I decide when to return to the office. I don't know how I will feel after we've seen the consultant next week. Do I want to know if there is a reason why Monty died? Will it help to have my questions answered? Am I strong enough to hear the answers if they are there?

I can't summon the energy to do things that I used to love. Will I ever find the strength to sing again? Why can't I bring myself to cast on stitches for the cardigan I started making for myself before I knew I was pregnant? Will I wear it once it is finished or will it just remind me of what should have been?

I can't shift this cold. Together with the pregnancy-related rhinitis, I don't think I've been able to breathe clearly for about a year now. I'm taking multi-vitamins to boost my immune system.

I worry about the impact of my anxiety and grief on my family, particularly my daughter. I decided weeks ago that I didn't want to be a sad mummy. Yet, I spent most of yesterday afternoon close to tears. A few trickled out as we sat on the sofa together, watching "Wallace and Gromit".

Bereavement: it's exhausting.

Why today?

Why, today, do I feel so sad? Why do the tears flow so readily? Yesterday, I was fine.

Why, today, do I feel emptiness where you used to be?

I've been thinking and talking about you a lot. I miss you. I want you back.

Tonight, I will talk about you and think about you some more, in the company of other people who are in this club that no-one wants to join.

Our one night was special. Precious. Too short. It's all I have of you and I clutch it tightly.

Thinking of Monty

It has been three months since I found out Monty had died. In two days' time, it will be three months since he was born. Later this month, I will return to the hospital to see my obstetric consultant and receive the results of the postnatal tests and post mortem. I really don't know what to expect and I feel more and more anxious the closer it gets.

I've been feeling low again this week and I've been thinking about Monty a lot. I don't know if that's because these dates are hanging over me? Perhaps it's because of all the baby-related news I've heard? Maybe it's because a friend of a friend organised a candle-lighting to remember her baby? It could be because the next Sands bereavement support meeting is next week and I'm building myself up for it.

Whatever the reason, he's been on my mind and I'm missing him.

Family tree

There is an heirloom tablecloth that Grandma would bring out on special occasions. At birthday parties, Christmas and Boxing Day dinners, any gathering that required two tables to be pushed together: the tablecloth would be brought out and take pride of place.

Originally a bed sheet, from when Grandad was in the Royal Navy, the cloth is good-quality cotton and has been laundered many times. After Grandad left the Navy and became a Coastguard, Grandma re-purposed the sheet as a tablecloth and embroidered her family onto it. Ma and Freddy (her parents, my great-grandparents) are at the centre and spiralling out from them are three generations of names - their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. There are some place names too, around the edge of the cloth, indicating how the family has spread across the globe, from Canada to Australia.

After Grandma died, my mother sorted through all her possessions and passed the tablecloth to me. I think she wanted me to continue updating the family tree but I've never felt able to - I wouldn't want to spoil it by not stitching as neatly as Grandma did. Besides, there are so many names to add now (the next generation is growing rapidly!) that it would take a lot of research for me to gather all the missing data. Finally, Grandma would unpick the names of people who died and re-stitch them in white and I can't bring myself to do that to her name. So, the tablecloth is wrapped in blue tissue paper and stored in my 'treasure box' in the bottom of my wardrobe.

I have been thinking about Ma quite a bit recently. She died when I was about a year old. There are a couple of photos of me, sitting on her knee. Her name was Mary Annie Giles. She married my great-grandad, Frederick Smith, and they had nine babies. There were 18 years between their eldest and youngest children! Six children survived to adulthood. Leonard and twins, Donald and Florence Mary, were the babies who never grew up. I wonder how Ma coped with the loss of three newborns? I wonder how she found the strength to go on to have more children? I wonder how she coped, years later, with the loss of a grandchild, Annette, who also died in early infancy?

I find it comforting that, within living memory, I'm not the only person in the family to lose a baby. I am glad that Leonard, Donald and Florence Mary, who were born more than 80 years ago, are not forgotten. I want the same remembrance for Monty, which is why his photo is on the windowsill, why I talk about him often, and why I will make sure my daughter knows about her brother. I have a memory box with photos, hand and footprints and a lock of my baby's hair - did Ma have keepsake mementoes of her babies, too?

Perhaps, one day, I'll feel ready to update the tablecloth and include the names of my children and nephews and fill in the rest of the gaps? Until then, the cloth will remain frozen in time, as it was nine years ago, when it was passed from Grandma to me...

(Pictured above: Ma, Grandma, my mother and me on my christening day)

The best laid plans...

I'm one of life's planners. I'm organised and always have been. I used to be embarrassed about this (as a child, my family teased me for setting lots of rules for the games we played) but I now see my planning skills as a huge advantage and I try to exploit them to maximal benefit at work and at home. I'm ESTJ and proud!

The disadvantage of being a planner is that I find it hard to deal with chaos and spontaneity. I prepared, before going on maternity leave with my daughter, so that I wouldn't expect too much of myself. It was hard to let go of my routines but I positively embraced the freedom of my year as a SAHM and learned a lot from the experience. My mantra was: any day on which we all get dressed and eat is a good day!

The last two months have challenged me in many different ways. I'm dealing with the emotional response to bereavement and my physical recovery from giving birth. I have felt alarmingly unsettled, to the point that I haven't known how to think about the future. The baby I longed for, planned to conceive and carefully gestated was stillborn and we may never know why. The coming year was supposed to be a second year at home with my young family.

It has only been 8 weeks since my son was born, which isn't very long, but I've had a nagging feeling that I should be doing something. I have imagined a question mark hanging over me - who am I now and where do I go from here? The bereavement pack we were given at the hospital contained some excellent advice: don't make any big decisions for at least a year. However, I need focus and cerebral challenge, I can't just sit at home all day, watching daytime TV, knitting and convalescing. My GP is right - I need to get out of the house and find social things to do to fill my time until I am fit to return to work.

Thankfully, over the last couple of days, I have started to feel calmer and less panicky. Perhaps that is the benefit of finally getting a good night's sleep? I can still work towards some of my goals but more flexibly and in a different order. I can make new plans; some of them may come to fruition. Most importantly, I don't have to rush into anything. I'm suppressing my J.

Although I don't make New Year resolutions, I am resolved to give myself a bit of a break this year. I need to adjust to the 'new me' and take time to enjoy the family I have.