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.

Something inside so strong

Apparently, yesterday was International Bereaved Mothers Day. I didn't know. It completely passed me by until I read someone else's post about it this morning. Do I wish we'd 'celebrated' it or acknowledged it in some way? Not really. I think about Monty every day and I hold his memory close. I don't need a special day for that. He is part of our family. He will always be missing and he will always be missed.

I do silently 'celebrate' the lessons I have learned through sharing my life with Monty, even though I never got to know him as a person. I have found inner strength and been reminded of how lucky I am to have supportive family and friends. I have re-assessed my priorities and attitude to life. We live in the moment more than we used to and value our family time, which is so precious.

People tell me that I am amazing. They marvel at how I am dealing with the loss of my son: how I manage to get up and dressed each morning; how I can talk freely about him and my experience; how I answer my daughter's questions and explain what happened over and over again. But I'm not amazing - I'm just dealing with bereavement the best I can.

I have to carry on with life. I have a wonderful husband and a beautiful daughter and they need me. More than that, they need me to be me. I'll never be the same person I was before but I can be almost the same, with a few healed scars.

Feel the fear and do it anyway?

I have longed to provide my daughter with a sibling since before she was born. I was delighted to find out I was pregnant for the second time at Easter last year but, six months ago, our lives were turned upside down when our son was stillborn. Now, we are faced with the challenge of trying again. Lots of bereaved parents go on to have more children but I am scared of losing another baby.

I never felt that my second pregnancy would be my last. I could picture myself with three little people toddling along beside me! So, in some ways, trying again would give us the third child I was hoping for anyway.

But...

I worry that everything will go wrong again. I worry that there will be difficult decisions to make. I worry that I won't have the strength to battle the anxiety. I worry that I won't be able to bond with my baby. I worry that I won't be able to talk about how I feel. I worry that other people won't understand. I worry about depression. I worry that all the worry will make me a poor mummy. I worry that there won't be a 'right time' to start trying and I worry about leaving it too late.

I didn't worry about anything during my pregnancies. I was considered 'low risk' and I never expected things to go wrong. I was so sure of myself as a mum-to-be, custodian of the unborn child. I was careful about my diet and how I exercised, and I was prepared for my babies' arrivals. I never thought I would come away from the hospital with empty arms, sore eyes and a broken heart...

The clock never stops, never stops, never waits

I've never really been bothered by my age before but I am this year. The past six months, I have felt old, worn down, wrung out. I'm not where I expected to be by this stage in my life, which is disconcerting.

I do have lovely things planned for my birthday, although not all of them for the big day itself. My presents will be nice treats for me (rather than practical items or things for the home): a framed family portrait, a new handbag, cosmetics, some tasty brandy (VSOP), and a pedicure. We will be going out for lunch and my mother is taking me to see Aled Jones in concert at Truro Cathedral.

I'm not looking forward to being a year older, though...

I know that age is just a number but this number comes with baggage! It pushes me into a different demographic group and there are things I still want/need to do before I get too much older.