The highs and lows

I have drafted so many blog entries in my head, some highs and some lows, but haven’t had the chance to get them out.  So this blog is a bit of an overall update.

Oliver is now 12 weeks old.  He’s a great little guy and is doing all the right things, putting on good weight, reaching cute little milestones and generally being the sunshine of my life. 

The first few weeks were a big learning curve about how I wanted to approach this parenting thing.  I really hadn’t thought too much about the actually getting a baby in my arms bit and had just been focusing on getting through the pregnancy.  And then he was in my arms and I had to consider what to do with this little bundle of life. Everyone seemed to tell you a different approach as to how it should all go down but in the end we figured out our own way and it works great for us both.

Being Ollie’s mum is just the best.  Not having experienced all this before is just the worst.  I have been loving and enjoying so many beautiful moments with Ollie and as I sit there gazing at his face and so happy, I find myself so sad that I didn’t get this with my daughter.  I miss her most in the moments of happiness.

Christmas sprung up on me after giving birth to Ollie and it didn’t hit me how sad I was that I didn’t have a 15 month kid pottering around until quite close to the day.   I am trying to move away from the “I should have a 15 month old here today” statement at Christmas time or any other time.  She will always be remembered on Christmas day, but as she was, my first baby who will never grow up.  I want to try to be in the current moment and to allow new happiness with Oliver (I have a feeling that this is easier said that done however).

I find the turn of the year much harder than Christmas day.  New Year’s eve I was completely fine until the countdown and as the clock ticked over into 2013 I felt so sad… another year further away from her.  Another year further into missing her and dealing with societies expectation to be ‘over it’.

I still think of her every day, EVERY day. Oliver has been a little band aid to my broken heart.  He holds it together, but unfortunately even he can’t heal the scars that have been etched into it. 

ONE

How quickly a year disappears.  One year, gone, just like that.  One year living without my daughter.  One year of her never being far from my mind.  One year of a life forever changed.

We went away for the weekend, I didn’t want to sit around home so we caught a ferry to beautiful Waiheke Island off the coast of our home city Auckland, New Zealand.  We spent four days keeping busy but every time I stopped I remembered.  The days of this last week have marked too many milestones.

I miss her.  I want her.  I wish that things were different. 

I worry that I have become a mother consumed by the death of her daughter and that this has defined who I am because she is constantly there, on the edge of my thoughts, in my periphery, always.  This new pregnancy I always compare to my first and she is part of my discussions, my life.  But this is being a mother, right?  If she were alive it would be no different.  She would be there, in my conversations, in my thoughts, in my life.

Tears have been shed, more leading up to today than there have been today.  It does seem the anticipation is greater than the day itself. 

The thing I struggle with the most is this forever hurting.  This always missing.  This constant of never having her.

The hope of having her brother only 6-8 weeks away (hopefully) helps, but I wish she were here giggling and smooshing cake into her face.

My Amelia, I miss you always!!  xxx mum.

The inevitable question

I now look undeniably pregnant, not like I’ve just eaten a few too many cakes and pies!  And with this un-deniability comes the inevitable question “Is this your first?”. 

I work in a large office so there are many people I don’t know and who either never knew I was pregnant, or had seen me pregnant and don’t know what happened.   This week at work I had three days back to back where I had to answer this question or something similar.

Day 1 – the lady in kitchen. 

“When are you due?”, “November”, “What date?”, “The end” (I don’t tell people due dates because find it very irrelevant especially when an induction will be done early!) “Do you want a boy or a girl?” “We are having a boy this time” “Is this your first?” “No, it’s my second.” “So you have a little girl at home?” “No, she passed away.” “oh” and then she quickly scuttled off, obviously feeling awkward and not knowing what to say.

Day 2 – the marketing manager from a sister company who I’d played netball with a handful of times before I got pregnant with Amelia. 

“So when are you due?” “November” “You recently had a baby …” (obvious confusion in her question, did you have a baby, are you still pregnant…), “Ah, she was stillborn” – I see the telling scarlet colour creep in around her face.  I notice I feel warmer in the face too! 

Day 3 – someone I don’t think I’ve ever seen or noticed in the office before but now work with in my new job. 

“So how far along are you?” “6 months” (as soon as the conversation turns to pregnancy, about 3 other ladies stopped and joined in) “You were pregnant before, that’s quite close together.” “Ah, yes, my daughter passed away." and then I add to diffuse the awkwardness "So this is our new little hope.” I give them a smile then potter on my way.

I’ve been struck by how uncomfortable people clearly are when I mention what has happened. This has led me to the question – do I deny her to make it easier for others?

I am conflicted.  I don’t want to make people feel badly but I don’t want to deny my daughter her existence.  I am happy to talk about what happened.  I have come to terms with this and no matter if I do or don’t talk about it will continue to feel her absence in my life.  I also feel to some degree stillbirth is not talked about, people don’t realise that it happens as frequently as it does (1 in 120/130 in NZ), more common than SUDI.

So due to these reasons, I will continue to make people feel awkward.  This is something that happened, it is a fact.  Unfortunately life isn’t all peaches and cream so I will continue to share my daughter’s existence with the world.

An unmarked grave

For the 6 month anniversary of Amelia’s birth we installed two new plaques - one on a central memorial plinth and one on her grave.  It made the day less hard as we were doing something practical and nice to honour her.

Amelia is buried in our home town so on Easter Friday when we went down to visit a friend who has just had her baby, we popped out to the cemetery to visit.

We were greeted by an unmarked grave. 

Just the most awful feeling – I felt guilt that I had neglected her even though it was not something we had done.  Luckily we had the old plaque we had removed still in our car so put this straight back in.  The plot next to ours had their plaque missing too (they are small silver markers).

I rang the cemetery once they opened after Easter and asked if they had removed it because it didn’t comply with regulations.  But no, they hadn’t. 

So the only assumption I can make is that someone took it.  But why?  I’m so confused, I wonder if the plot next to us had taken it as an example to get their own made up since their marker was missing too – but why would they do this, they have lost a baby too so surely they would understand how upsetting that would be.  I just can’t think of any other reason why someone would remove the marker off a baby’s grave.

She's been gone awhile now

6 months she’s been gone.  Half a year.  Too many weeks and days to consider.

I miss her.

To remember what happen on those days 6 months is like a foggy dream and wonder if it was real.  But the details of those days are clear in their haze-like appearance - forever etched into my memory.

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Wednesday 21^st September 2011

Have I felt her move today?  I don’t think I have.  Surely she’s just running out of room – we’re due next Wednesday, that must be it.  Still poke, prod, push – wake up baby girl.

Thursday 22^nd September           

I wake with tears in my eyes.  I know something’s not right.  I try more things to get her to move – sugary food, cold drinks, warm bath, pleading.  Not one thump, push or kick, not one hiccup, not one single thing. 

I ring my midwife, trying to sound rational and calm.  “Meet me at the hospital” she says.

I say to my midwife as she arrives ‘I know I’m just being irrational and we’re just going to hear her heart beat and I’m going to feel really silly’.  The Doppler goes on.  It’s moved to the left.  It’s moved to the right.  My partner had been optimistic too but within a split second relocates from the end of the bed to my side.  Then those words ‘I’m sorry Diane.”  I knew. 

My eyes shut, my hands over them, shock. We’re shuffled off for an ultrasound through the waiting room full of expectant mothers – I couldn’t see their faces, everything was awash with white, a blur. Do you want to see the screen, no I don’t want to see my dead baby floating on the screen, please turn the monitor off.  Eyes closed, whispering ‘this doesn’t happen to me’. The technician chimes in with those words, ‘I’m sorry, there is no heartbeat’.  Ushered back into a room - sitting there, us two, not us three anymore.

We go home.  We needed time to comprehend, to understand (if we ever can), to cry, to talk, to let some of the shock wear off. 

At home we cry, we choose an outfit for our daughter to wear, we cry, we call people and tell them the devastating news, we discuss names, we mindlessly watch tv.  We are confused - this doesn’t happen, how does this happen, why does this happen.  I am one week from my due date, this isn’t how its meant to happen. 

Friday 23^rd September & Saturday 24^th September

I wake up numb.  Today I deliver my baby.  My baby who is not alive.  I am afraid, I am numb, I am in shock, I am on auto pilot.  I spend the last peaceful moments in the shower with just my baby and me.

We get a taxi to the hospital and sit in silence watching the world continue on around us.  People going to work, people unaware that our baby was dead.  The taxi driver dropping a pregnant lady off to the hospital, unaware that I was carrying a baby that no longer moved with life.  People watching us enter the hospital with bags thinking ‘there’s another happy couple about to have a baby, how nice’.

I want to get on with this quickly and urge for the induction to begin.  Prostaglandin is administered and then the waiting.

Those 2 days waiting were hard, so hard.  We talked, we cried, we waited for the labour to begin.  We listened to music that was far too sad and made us cry more.  I felt afraid.  What would happen once she was born, what do they do with her, what are we meant to do.  Do we see her, how will it be to look at a dead baby, I don’t want to hold her, I’m too scared.

On Saturday afternoon I am finally in active labour and they take me down to the birthing suite.  They hadn’t taken me down earlier to avoid seeing any other pregnant ladies in labour with living babies.  I know it was for my benefit, but it made me feel tragic - like I was something that needed to be hidden.

On Saturday 24^th September at 7.24pm - after many cursive words, no epidural (but entenox and Pethadine) and many points of just simply wanting to give up this futile exercise – I delivered our beautiful daughter, Amelia. 

Finally the moment I was frightened of arrived.  Seeing and holding my daughter.

The fear melted as soon as I held her, she was after all, my perfect, beautiful daughter.  She was mine.  I spent 9 months growing her so perfectly and here she was along with the instant love and pride of a new parent.  Finally being able to gaze upon her sweet face, feel the weight and warmth of her body, and cradle her in my arms was amazing and a moment I will treasure forever. 

==========

The moment I knew of you, I loved you Amelia.  I will continue to love you now and forever.  

“If there ever comes a time when we can’t be together, keep my in your heart, I’ll stay there forever.” Winnie-the-Pooh

Always in my heart - my Amelia.

Everywhere I look, I wonder who she’d be

I sit in a crowd.  I watch the happy families.  And I wonder who she’d be.

Would my Amelia be the boisterous little girl grooving away at the front to the band.  The sweet little girl running circles around her daddy and then enveloping him in a hug.  Would she have curly hair like her daddy had when he was young, or straight hair like her mummy. 

I think of too many things and it breaks my heart all over again.  I wish this mystery of her didn’t haunt me.  No, actually if I were to wish anything, it would be for her to be alive.

Weekends are my sad time now.  My weekdays consumed with work let my mind remain occupied.  And then the weekend comes and there is space to remember what I don’t have.  The 6 month old little girl sitting on a rug in the sunshine at a fun event in the park - an event that would have been fun, but instead became a tortuous reminder of all I will miss out on with my daughter.  

I love you Amelia.

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.

______

Transatlanticism - Death Cab for Cutie

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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.