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.