Birthday message

Dear Monty,

By rights, we should be celebrating your second birthday today. This should be a day of presents, cake and laughter and the sort of candles you blow out whilst making a wish.

What would you wish for if you were here?

What would I wish for on your behalf?

I spent your present money on gifts for an unknown child. A child who is less fortunate than others. A child who may not have parents or siblings. A child who may not be loved.

You are loved by your family, even if you cannot feel it. Your sisters would love to have their middle brother to play with.

I wish that we were wishing you a happy birthday today and singing you the birthday song. I wish that we were opening presents and eating cake and blowing out candles. I wish that you were here.

Love,
Mummy
xxx

It's a family affair

Ever since our new baby cam along in August, my elder daughter has been fascinated by the concept of kinship and family.

When we brought her sister home from the hospital, she asked me "Mummy, do we get to keep the baby?"
I said "Yes."
"But we didn't get to keep baby Monty." she said "He died but he can still be in our family. I wish he hadn't died - I would have liked to have kept him, too."

She is very keen to understand what being a family is all about, as if we weren't a proper family before. "A family has a mummy and a daddy, a big brother or sister and a little brother or sister." she told me on the way to school this week. "We have a family because I am the big sister."

She has also asked why she doesn't have a big sister and finds it hard to comprehend that it's because she is our first baby!

Keeping the conversation going

Over the past week or two, I have had a few opportunities to talk about my family, my pregnancies and my experience of stillbirth and bereavement stress. I am grateful for each and every one of these opportunities because talking about it reminds me how lucky I am, how far I have come and how much I can do to help others understand.

Thank you to the friend who has a shared and, in my opinion, greater experience of baby loss. It is always comforting to speak to someone else who has been 'pregnant again' and who understands the unspeakable weight of anxiety at a time that should be filled with joy. The long wait for your baby to be born safely and delivered breathing into your arms is difficult to navigate and so difficult for those who haven't lived through it to understand.

Thank you to the Willow Tree Centre for the invitation to attend your 10th anniversary celebration. I enjoyed speaking about how bereavement counselling helped me to deal with Monty's death and how I found the strength for a third pregnancy. I am brave because you helped me to rebuild myself.

Thank you to the friend who shared her experience of being pregnant again after miscarriage. I know what it feels like to no longer be able to hide the bump and to have to make small-talk with well-meaning friends, colleagues and strangers. I found it very hard to talk about my third pregnancy; to hear others tell me that it would all be okay this time around. I felt confused, anxious and very grateful for the increased support offered by my community midwife and the hospital consultant. Those who cannot listen to your fears cannot empathise. Find someone who can.

Thank you to the friend who asked me how old Monty would be. It was his second anniversary just a few weeks ago. I can't imagine what life would be like with a 4-year-old, a 2-year-old and a newborn! It was nice to re-live his story, to talk about what happened and to remember the positive stillbirth experience that we were so fortunate to have. I feel privileged to live at a time when stillbirth is not brushed under the carpet, when my son does not have to be a skeleton in our family closet.

It is important to keep these conversations going. I strongly believe that no-one should have to live through baby loss and bereavement alone. If those of us who are bereaved parents keep talking about it, the taboo will be broken.

Wish you were here...

It has been two years since you were born 'sleeping'.
[I don't like that phrase because it's not as if you could have woken up...]

Somehow, it seems that this second anniversary is harder than the first. It feels lonelier. Almost as if we should have 'moved on'...
but I could never leave you behind.

I remember the quiet of the delivery room and the midwife's kind words as clearly as if it were yesterday. If I close my eyes, I can see you, wrapped up cosily in the moses basket, wearing a little blue hat. You looked peaceful and, at first glance, it did look like you were asleep but you weren't - you were perfectly still.

How things have changed since then. I have been broken and become stronger. We have tried to come to terms with and understand your loss. You now have a younger sister, who is 10 weeks old. Your elder sister has started school. She asks about you often and wishes you were here because she likes being a big sister.

With you and your sisters, our family is complete. Your photograph is framed alongside theirs and I look at your image every day. I wonder what you would look like at two years old. What games would you play? Which words would you be able to say? What would be your favourite thing to eat? Would you cuddle up to me like your sisters do, or wriggle to get free and refuse my kisses?

I've been capturing my grief in photographs over the past month. Although I may appear healed on the outside, I am still very broken in places inside. I feel your loss as keenly today as I did two years ago.

I love you, Monty. I miss you.
I wish you were still here.
In many ways, I think you still are...

Do you believe in life after loss?

On the afternoon of the day that I was told my son had no heartbeat, a doctor reassured me that I could have more children. "We know you can carry to full term" he said "you've done it before." At that moment, it was difficult to hear his words and impossible to think beyond the inevitability of giving birth to a baby who would be stillborn.

He was right, though, and I have been lucky enough to have another baby.

After a year of grieving, I conceived. After post mortem test results, physical rehabilitation, support groups and bereavement counselling, I was given hope. After the anxious wait of an emotionally challenging and physically demanding third pregnancy, I have a second daughter.

Do you believe in life after loss?
I do.

Wave of Light

Guest post: Snipchat

This is a guest post written by my husband:

Kate and I have been together for as long as we haven't; we met on the first day at university in October 1996, halfway through our lives so far. For the past eighteen years, Kate has either been on the pill, attempting to conceive, pregnant or recovering from childbirth.

After having our three babies, we don't want any more children. The loss of Monty meant that the last pregnancy was particularly stressful and exhausting, despite the increased medical attention we received. While our rational scientific brains knew losing this baby was unlikely, it was impossible to stop worrying about it, impossible to imagine how we'd survive if the worst were to happen again.

We're older, tireder and in generally worse condition. Kate's abdominal muscles have taken a battering, coping without sleep is harder, and the thought of starting again again with another newborn is not appealing at all.

We are a partnership of equals. We both work, both cook, both take care of the children. Until now, though, the burden of contraception has fallen on Kate. I'm redressing this balance by having a vasectomy.

My wife has given so much to this family, putting us above her health, career and peace of mind. She is loved by us all for it, and it's time she had a break. No pills, no injections, no coil, no tube tying.

A vasectomy is a simple and straightforward procedure, done in minutes. We're certain this is the right thing to do. The common argument against it is that it's permanent, and you “never know” what might happen in the future. I'm fully aware of that and I'm fine with it. I consider our family complete and permanent.

Our lives have been in limbo for the past few years, with no real plans for the future other than to wait for the next pregnancy. We're done with that. Our children mean more to us than we could ever have imagined, and the next chapter of our family's story starts now, with the certainty that our daughters are at the centre, growing into the bright, independent young women we know they can be. We can plan for the future again. It's liberating.

Remember

October seems to be the new Lent, with campaigns for people to give up smoking and drinking alcohol for 31 days. It is also Baby Loss Awareness Month.

This year, the Wave of Light will take place at 7pm on Wednesday 15th October, at the end of Baby Loss Awareness Week. We will be lighting a candle in memory of Monty.

There is also a project called Capture Your Grief, which encourages people to take and share images along a set of themes as a way of healing themselves and expressing the grief they feel after the loss of a baby or child. I'm not a great photographer so I don't know how much I will participate in this project but I want to give it a go.

Today's theme is "Sunrise". I took this photo to capture the watery, Autumn daylight filtering through the leaves and branches of the tree outside my bedroom window. In the first few days and weeks after Monty was born, I would lie in bed, looking out at this tree and feeling the subtle warmth of Autumn sunshine. It was very calming and grounded me in the midst of my grief.

My precious babies

I look at your sister and I think of you.
I cry a little (just a tear or two)...

I gaze on her face as she drinks from my breast
And smile as she snuggles to sleep on my chest

I nuzzle her forehead, kiss her with care
And drink in that 'newborn smell' from her hair

I rock her to sleep in the still of the night
She fits in the crook of my arm, just right.

I wonder what she will grow up to be?
Will she look like big sister or daddy or me?

And I cry a little, just a tear or two,
Because I couldn't do any of these things for you.

Parenting for programmers

Link up to my husband's blog and his latest post on the parallels between parenting and programming

Missing out

I have concealed you twice now. I omitted you and, once, I fibbed. I didn't intend to; it just happened. 

It made conversation easier not to mention you.

I'm sorry.

******

It's not that I don't enjoy talking about you, it's just that the memories are bittersweet and telling new people can feel awkward.

Remembering how you felt, when you existed inside me is so special. How you moved and what you liked. Your big sister is delighted to know that you disliked marmite toast and cups of tea (two of my breakfast staples) so much that you would make me feel sick if I ate them! I don't think you were a fan of my singing, either, since you stayed ever so quiet during rehearsals.

But thinking about you and the plans I made brings back the memories of losing you, of how I found out that you had died, and how we had to say goodbye before we even said hello.

******

You should be 18 months old now. You should be toddling about and starting to play with your sister. 

You are missing out and I have missed you out.

I am sorry.

Losing my religion

No-one congratulated me on the birth of my son.

The room was quiet. "Let me look after this little angel for you" the midwife said, as she cut the cord.

I had delivered him on my knees. I gripped the bed rail and caught my breath. I felt relieved that the labour was over but sad that my baby was no longer a part of me and would soon no longer be with me.

***

The next day, the midwife said she was in awe of me.
I didn't feel awesome.

At home, a few days later, the community midwife told me I didn't have to be so brave.
I didn't feel brave.
I felt numb.

********

Grief changes shape, but it never ends
(Keanu Reeves)

Letter to a newly bereaved mother

Dear bereaved mother,

I heard that you, too, have lost your baby. The precious child that you have been carrying and loving for months has been born and died. You have empty arms and a broken heart.

Unfortunately, you are not alone. Other mothers have felt this pain before you and more will follow.

The fabric of your world has been broken. The ground has given way beneath your feet. All that you understood and believed in has been shattered. Over the coming weeks, months and years, you will try to repair and rebuild your life; it will never be the same...

but there is help. Among family, friends and people you do not yet know, there is love and support. You just have to look for it. Take the plunge and open your heart, whether to a counsellor or a support group or the Samaritans. Do not hold the grief and pain to yourself - it is too great a burden to bear alone.

Although it seems that life has lost its meaning, you can find a new purpose.

The family you dreamed of will never be realised. You may go on to have other children but there will always be one missing. I know it may seem insensitive now to talk about the future but, one day, there may be another baby. Perhaps more? Rest assured that no future children will ever replace the one you have lost or diminish the love you have for your lost baby.

Take time to grieve. Find inner strength and courage. Build a sanctuary in your heart to keep your baby's memory safe. There is hope and in time, if you feel brave, you may embrace the fear and try again.

Yours faithfully,
Bereaved mother
xxx

No one feels another's grief

No one feels another's grief, no one understands another's joy. People imagine they can reach one another. In reality they only pass each other by.
(Franz Schubert)

********

One thing I have been conscious of since Monty was born is that I haven't had (or made) room for other peoples' grief. My primary concern throughout my bereavement journey has been my own health and the welfare of my husband and daughter. However, I recognise that many others have been affected by my son's death: our immediate family (the grand-parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and great-grandparents who were looking forward to his arrival), friends and colleagues.

At the very beginning, I could only focus on my own emotions and take account of my husband's and daughter's reactions. I couldn't process anyone else's experience of my son's stillbirth. Perhaps that was wrong of me? It seems selfish in retrospect but I just didn't have the emotional capacity to deal with external factors, I just had to concentrate on myself and my little family unit. So, I didn't solicit inputs to the funeral service, I just wrote it with my husband with the help of a bottle of wine (although my mother wrote a 'letter from the grandparents' that we later included). I was aware that other people needed a grieving process and so we organised the Festival of Light but there was no way that I could have organised or invited people to attend a funeral and wake. Maybe I should have done more to recognise others' need to grieve and pay their respects?

A few weeks after Monty was born, after the funeral had taken place but before the Festival of Light, my Dad phoned me. He wanted to talk about Monty but didn't want to make me upset. (I think I said that nothing he could say would make me more upset than I already felt!) He said he was struggling to understand what had happened and kept thinking that life shouldn't turn out this way - he ought to have four grandchildren and it wasn't natural that one had died before he was born. I didn't know what to say, except that I was struggling with similar emotions.

Then, my boss came to see me and she said that several of my colleagues had taken the news of Monty's stillbirth badly and sometimes became overcome with tears at their desks. I didn't really know how to deal with that!

Even now, 16 months later, I find it hard to understand how other people feel about Monty. I know that our family are extremely sad for his loss and wish that things had turned out differently but I can't imagine how they feel day to day about him not being here. Perhaps I should try to do more to engage with wider family and friends when I talk about my son and to empathise with their experience of grief in relation to his loss? It is hard, though, because I am still so involved in my own emotions.

Stillbirth remains a taboo subject for many people and not everyone feels comfortable talking about a dead baby. No-one feels another's grief but I want to break down some of the barriers associated with baby loss and bereavement stress and to try to help others in dealing with the emotional conflict that it creates.

Every single year, we're a different person

A friend asked me recently, how I feel now that more than a year has passed since Monty was born.

We have children of similar ages - her elder daughter is two months older than my daughter and her younger daughter was born three months after my son. We have both recently experienced grief: she lost her mother a couple of years ago; I lost my son in November 2012. We have been on our own bereavement journeys.

I am different now. Neither the person I was when my son was stillborn, nor the person I was before he died. I can't explain how - just different. Grief has aged me and changed my perspective on life.

Getting past the first year has been a huge task. So many 'firsts' to acknowledge and deal with. I know there will be more to come but now they will be fewer and farther between.

I have felt as if some of my emotional burden has been lifted since we passed Monty's anniversary. I wound myself up to his 'birthday' and held myself together but, the next day, I crumbled. It was a good job I had booked the day off work and arranged to see my bereavement counsellor because I was a mess.

I am definitely feeling better. I am more confident (although my self-confidence and self-esteem are markedly lower than they were before) and I have started to take on more in my hobbies and at work. This week, I have increased my working hours and I'm concurrently working on four projects. That was unthinkable a year ago, when I was just contemplating my return to the office. However, things are not back to 'normal'. I used to be a social and extroverted person but I am less so now. I find it difficult to meet new people and at work I'm not ready to return to line management - I just can't take on the responsibility of other people.

My focus and priorities have changed. It's all about me, my husband and daughter, my son's memory and our hopes for another baby. My family.

******

All of us every single year, we're a different person.
I don't think we're the same person all our lives.
(Steven Spielberg)

Brave, Open & Hopeful

I have 'graduated' from bereavement counselling: completed the programme; been signed off; released from the system, set free!

It has been a long journey. I wasn't planning to seek counselling but a friend told me I should go. She said that six months after Monty's death, I seemed angry. I didn't think I was but, looking back, I can see that I probably looked very angry with the world. I had just returned to work and wasn't coping very well with the annual performance review, setting forward objectives or thinking about 'where did I want to be in 5 years' time?'. In reality, I think I was extremely frustrated.

So, I promised I would attend a couple of sessions. I actually went many times over six months. I could have easily turned away for so many reasons but I kept my promise to my friend and actually found the process very helpful.

In the first session, I completed a depression scoring test. Guess what? I was mildly depressed! (No surprise there...) I set some aims: to deal with my anxiety and fear about a future pregnancy and to deal with my anger and frustration. I also expressed three desires: to have another baby; to achieve a work-life balance that would allow me to make the best of my time as a mummy and as an employee; and for something positive to come from my loss.

My last counselling session was in the early New Year. We looked at some emotion cards and I had to choose three that expressed how I felt when I started counselling and three that expressed how I feel now. There was a difference. (Phew!) At the end of the process, I said I felt brave, open and hopeful. Brave for having taken the plunge and sought counselling when I didn't want to. Open for having talked honestly about my experience and my feelings with a stranger. Hopeful for the future.

My life is different now in so many ways to what I thought it would be like. I never expected to be a bereaved parent but I believe I have learnt a huge amount through losing my son. I have made and lost friendships, I have found inner strength and I have developed new perspectives. I have navigated my way through a difficult first year without Monty and feel better equipped to face the second.

I hope to help others by sharing my experience.