The Real World

The other day I started playing netball again – I was on the court and got knocked over and I felt like yelling at the person that knocked me “don’t be mean to me, my baby died 2 months ago”. 

All I could think for the rest of the game was, how can I be playing sport and acting like everything is normal when I am not ‘normal’ anymore, life will never be the same again.  At the end of the game I got an overwhelming urge to cry, I had to say goodbye really quickly so I could retreat to the haven of my car to burst into tears.

Is it wrong to feel such self pity?

I’m nervous about going back to the ‘real world’.  It means facing up to the fact that life exists and carries on outside my grief.  That my daughter is not the sole focus of everyone’s universe, just mine.

Slowly I start to venture back into society and see people that knew I was pregnant.  The dentist enquiring if my baby arrived on time – ‘no, she was stillborn’, the person at the bank enquiring if I was working or looking for a job – ‘no I’m on maternity leave’, her ‘oh, you don’t look pregnant, how far along are you’, me ‘oh it’s a sad story, my daughter was stillborn’. 

I wonder what people think when I can say that without crying.  Do they judge me, do they think I’m insensitive or have moved on.  I’m not, I haven’t.  It’s just I’ve had time to come to grips with this shocking reality and this constantly heavy heart.  I hope they don’t judge me.

I am nervous about returning to work.  About becoming the ‘big elephant’ in the room.  I know people won’t want to bring up my daughter for fear of how I will react and a general not knowing what to say, but all I want to do is talk about her, she is real and this really happened.

I remember my friend’s son being stillborn a few years ago and when I visited not mentioning him at all, just being awkward and not knowing what to say.  Now I know, just talk about him, he is their son, I bet all they wanted to do was talk about him.  

Today I need her

Today I need her.  I need her physically.  I need to touch her face, her dainty earlobes, her button nose.  I need to kiss her.  I need to hold her and feel her weight.

Time is passing, and so is the distance from when I last held her and saw her face.  Today memories are not enough.  Today I want her, desperately.

Today I am crying, the type that shakes your body and takes away your breath.  Today I want my daughter, I want Amelia.

And as I yearn for her, Transatlanticism by Death Cab for Cutie comes on my playlist vocalising what I feel “And the distance is quite simply much to far for me to row, it seems farther than ever before.  I need you so much closer.”

I need you so much closer Amelia.

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Transatlanticism - Death Cab for Cutie

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Does this define me?

My life must have meant something before I had a baby.  But now it just seems to be meaningless. 

I sit at home pretending that I’m occupied but all I crave is to seek someone out who I can rant about my feelings too, someone that doesn’t want to talk about themselves but just wants to sit and talk about me and my baby.  This is why I’m blogging – to share, to get out into the ethos how I’m feeling to people that just might understand where I’m coming from and somewhere I can constantly talk/write and it’s up to people if they listen/read.

Someone that asks to look at the photos and doesn’t hold back, someone that’s not afraid to look at my dead baby and can see what I see, a beautiful girl that was once alive, a baby girl that is mine, that is beautiful and perfect and would have been amazing. 

How did my life have more substance before I even considered having children and why does it feel so meaningless now I don’t?

Why do we work so hard to fill our lives when it should really just be simpler – life is so much more for living than working?  I can’t believe I was even considering going back to work so soon after having Amelia.  My how priorities have changed.

I’d like to be more self-sufficient, live off the land, live cheaply.  I want a family and to be happy.  I do want nice things, but my life will be fine without the fancy.

Is it strange that I now want lots of children?  Initially I only wanted 2, then when I was pregnant and enjoying it I thought 3 would be nice.  Now I could easily go up to 4.  My partner is from a family of 4 kids so why couldn’t we do that too!  But then reality kicks in – what if I have a problem that makes pregnancy too difficult or risky?  What if the stress and anxiety of being pregnant after loosing a baby is too much for me to handle?  

I'm Ok, I'm Not Ok

For the last 2 months I’ve been, obsessed with thoughts of my daughter.  A deep yearning for her, a longing for her, a need for her to be here – alive. 

I’ve been enclosed in a bubble.  I’ve been focused on moving through the stages of grief.  I’m analytical by nature and have come to terms with what has happened.  That doesn’t mean I’ve moved on or it hurts any less, I’ve just accepted that there is absolutely nothing I can do to change this situation.  I can’t linger on blaming and ‘what if’s’; it won’t change anything at all.  It will only damage my heart and mind.  So I have accepted that Amelia is physically gone and nothing will bring her back to me.  I will instead hold her forever in my heart.

People find it hard to understand that I am doing so well when I see them.  I explain to people that they ask me how I am and I say ‘OK’.  What OK means now is very different to what OK meant before.  OK before could be taken literally.  The new OK for me means ‘I’m doing well but my heart is heavy and I long for my daughter – but this is my new standard state of being’ so yeah, I’m OK.

I can hold it together mostly when I’m in public.  But I’m nervous this won’t last.  I’m still in this bubble, not back in the real world, not working, just sitting at home obsessing over my thoughts, reading ever helpful blogs, crying when I need to, not crying when I don’t. 

I say that I don’t cry often, but I do cry.  I’m so nervous that I haven’t cried enough, that I haven’t dealt with it fully and that grief and its full impact will rear its ugly head and hit me hard when I least expect it.

Am I really as OK as I think I am?

The Reality of Amelia

It has been just over 2 months since I gave birth to my beautiful, perfectly formed little girl (at 39w 4d).  2 months doesn’t seem very long, but every day since then has felt like an eternity.  It feels like a lifetime ago.

Sometimes (most of the time) it feels like it never happened.  Did the last 11 months happen at all – was I really pregnant, I can’t ever remember having a swollen belly now, my body bounced back so quickly you can hardly even tell I was.  No physical signs or scars to mark the most significant thing that has ever happened in my life.

Since that day I’ve aged a year, literally and figuratively.  My birthday was 2 days after I gave birth – not exactly a great way to mark a significant birthday.  My face looks old, marked with the creases of sadness and grief.  I don’t cry often (when I do, I sure do) but my soul is broken, my heart is heavy.

The reality of Amelia is that she will never open her eyes, never gasp a breath of air, never smile at me, never grasp my finger, never coo, never spill on my shoulder, never share the intimacy of feeding, never experience the bond of mother and child, never be daddies little girl, never experience the bad times and the good. The reality is I had her, but I never really had her, that I am her mother but not her mum. 

The reality of Amelia is that she is dead.  It pains me to write those words.  It makes me feel disloyal to her, like I’m already giving up on her memory – but it is so far from the truth.

Amelia has given me so much happiness, yet so much sadness.  Her presence is like a lead weight on my heart that poisons my soul with grief.  Her presence is like sunshine growing a smile across my face with pride and eternal love.

I so wanted to be her mum, I wanted to have that relationship I see with my sister and her kids.  I wanted that intimacy, closeness and loving bond you have with your children.  One day I hope I still will but will it be forever marked with the loss of my eldest child, my eldest daughter I will never have.