Tuesday, 2 September 2014
Parenting for programmers
Link up to my husband's blog and his latest post on the parallels between parenting and programming
Tuesday, 3 June 2014
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.
Sunday, 18 May 2014
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)
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)
Sunday, 27 April 2014
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
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
Tuesday, 11 March 2014
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.
(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.
Tuesday, 4 March 2014
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)
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)
Friday, 14 February 2014
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.
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.
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