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.