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