I’m not normal

I am struggling with my own inadequacies today.  I feel that I say things that are just odd to the outside world.  I say things out loud that sound peculiar to people that don’t know I have lost a baby.  And maybe sound pathetic and pity seeking to those who do.

At the moment I want to hide away from these new mothers.  I want to bury my awkwardness and big mouth when I say things in these social gatherings that don’t make sense or sound too blunt when you don’t add “because my first baby died” to the end of the sentence.

I forget that this new realm of parents I meet do not know my past.  How is the fact I have lost a baby not plain and simple for everyone to see?  It beats out of my chest, it is sitting on my shoulder, it is on the tip of my tongue.  But it is not.  They don’t know, I am by all perceptions a new mum with her first baby. 

If I have the opportunity and it comes up in a relevant way I do not hesitate to mention her.  But of course it doesn’t and its not really something people like talking about.  Finding my new normal recently posted on the When to drop the dead baby bomb and I commented that I was hoping to mention her sooner to new acquaintances.  Hmph, easier said than done.  This whole “breaking the silence on stillbirth” is such a burden because people don’t want to know the “one” who it happened to.  They don’t want to talk about it. They want to avoid, avoid, avoid this awkward topic.

I know I put myself in these situations on a daily basis to help me feel more normal, but if anything it just makes me feel more abnormal… oh, what is normal, I certainly don’t feel it today!

Waiting for a baby

How has this become my life?  How come I know such sadness of child birth before I know such joy?  Why did my first baby die?  Why can’t someone explain why they think this second pregnancy is different from my first and that the outcome will be different this time?  Why didn’t they pick up on the fact something was wrong last time if they can say that this pregnancy is so much different – it doesn’t feel different to me other than the bump being a little bigger which is common with a second pregnancy anyway.

I sit here waiting for my second baby to be born and I am so excited, I can’t wait to meet him.  But I hate that he comes in the wake of such sadness, that he already has so much expectation and waiting and yearning put upon him.  He already carries the burden of his parents need for him. 

I’m part of a coffee group (formed after I attended antenatal classes again as blogged about previously) so I have support when I have a newborn in my arms to care for as I have no family in the city where I live.  None of them know my history and now as their babies start to arrive I am so envious, I just really want my baby to arrive – soon!

I’m also not helping myself by watching a TV series called “One Born Every Minute” showing labour and birth at the Leeds Hospital in England.  Every episode I watch, I cry.  I can’t wait till it is my turn to be in that position, to be in labour pains with the imminent arrival of my son not too far away.  I am not afraid of that pain, I welcome it, I look forward to it because it means he will be here shortly.

But we are getting there.  I never thought I would get to full term but here I am.  Finally.   Maybe next week it will be my turn to have a warm, squirming baby placed on my chest, screaming and gawping at the world, ready to live and be loved.

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.

A Trigger

So in a bid to try and feel normal I’ve signed up to attend Antenatal Classes again.  The idea being that once my baby is born it will be nice to be part of a group of mothers who are parenting newborn babies at the same time as me.  

It feels a bit strange going to these classes again as feel like we are cheating.  We know all the answers to the questions, we’ve already been through full term pregnancy, labour and birth.  To be amongst a room of first time mothers who think they know all the answers is strange when we actually do. 

I have told the lady taking the classes of our situation but haven’t told the other parents-to-be.  We’ve only been to one class and missed the second one.  I don’t know if it is fair to tell the other parents and present them with my burden before their births.  However I sense most will be how I was with my pregnancy with Amelia and mentally think to themselves "that won't happen to me".  It will definitely be something I tell them should we get to proceed to a normal coffee group post delivery of my boy, but should I tell them now if it comes up in conversation at the classes?

Any how, this original post started out about “a trigger”.  In the first antenatal class we watched the video of a water birth.  I watched the video without flinching, yip, labour and birth, been there done that.  And then the trigger.  The baby came out alive and crying and was handed to the mum.  Queue me leaving the room in a rush to get to the bathroom to have a wee cry.  Damn, I just didn’t even think how I would handle that.  I managed to compose myself to rejoin the class but I left Jared in the room fretting how he would diplomatically get out of the room if I wasn't able to come back in!

That really did heighten for me how much I really can’t wait for the moment I will be handed my crying, breathing baby and can’t even imagine how AMAZING that will be. 

Taunting myself

I need to learn not to be nosey, not to care, not to facebook stalk.  As soon as I find out someone is pregnant I limit their updates to my facebook feed, close them down and pretend like it isn’t happening.  Once they have their babies and it is so in my face, I do the same!

However I can’t help but taunt myself, every so often I go and look at their profiles and see their growing bellies and posts filled with optimism, I see their posts raving that “life couldn’t be better right now” after the arrival of their new baby, photos of the intimate moments of getting to know their babies.  And I get f*cked off that its not me, that I don’t have a sweet 8 month old baby brightening my home.

Instead I am designing a baby book filled with photos of my beautiful daughter who was born dead.  Whose memories I scrape together to fill 30 pages, no more.  A book I will never show anyone because who would want to look at that many photos of a baby who is lifeless.  She is beautiful to me but due to the time between her dying and being born she had deteriorated and had bruising etc and those ever telling crimson lips.

I know the simple solution to avoid this frustration is to not look, to stay away from facebook, but I also get the guilt that I’m not being a good friend because I’m not interested.  And… I do know they are entitled to their happiness, damn I would have been if it had all worked out for me!  Instead I sit on this side, angry, frustrated, annoyed at their bliss and ignorance to my pain.

And then BAM, right back where I started

I was pregnant.  Now I am not – what am I when I still am carrying something that is no longer alive?  Anti-pregnant, a coffin?

We found out yesterday that our new hope had not developed and was not viable at 6-7 weeks gestation. 

Yesterday I was in shock driven practical frame of mind.

Today I am a mess.  I am angry.  I am pissed off.  I am sad.  I am confused.  I am just so fucking sick of dealing with this.  Pissed off that the world continues on around me when I hurt this much.

After Amelia died, all I wanted was to get pregnant again.  After this loss I am now scared to try again.  I know I will but I am just afraid to have to feel this again.  Knowing also that because it is a missed miscarriage that I have to wait for the spontaneous miscarriage to happen – how long will it take to happen and get back to a regular cycle again?  Do I push for a D&C?  There goes any chance to have a baby this year…

Can someone tell me how I get through this?  How I can move beyond this hurting and keep focusing on the future and functioning on a day-to-day basis?  At the moment I am struggling to see beyond this grief (again).  I am sick of this hurting, this pain, this shitiness that has become my life!

Apologies for a post filled with raw anger – just venting.

A grief relapse

I thought things got better with time.  I feel like an addict who’s relapsed, yet my addiction seems to be grief. 

This week I feel nauseous.  This is something new in my “grief journey”, feeling physically ill.  This week I am crying again, a lot.   I feel worse than I did 2 or 3 months out, who knew the 4th month would bring such renewed pain.

I just really want my daughter ALIVE.

In addition to the going back to work imminently (Going back to ‘Normal’), a girl I know was due on Monday this week.  I don’t know if she’s had her baby – I’ve closed down updates from her Facebook page so I don’t torture myself.  But all I can think about is her going into labour and being handed her beautiful baby, the skin to skin contact, the happiness, the accomplishment, the alive-ness of her baby and the dead-ness of mine.  This makes me feel ill and incredibly jealous.

A good friend also came over for dinner.  She is 26 weeks pregnant and all I can imagine is her baby warmly nestled in her tummy sleeping, her body cradling him, nurturing him, loving him.  All I can think about is how Amelia was once in my tummy and how I would so love for her to still be there and feel her close to me again.

I thought I was doing so well with my pregnant friends and holding babies so soon after loosing my daughter.  Now the idea of this is extremely hard again.

I've also been really busy with guests visiting from overseas and trekking around the country so haven't had time to myself to process my thoughts, read blogs and be in my bubble.  Maybe this new grief is just the next stage of incorporating and dealing with my hurting in the real world.  It will get better right?

What ever it is, I don’t like this relapse, it hurts.  

Going back to ‘Normal’

Will I ever be normal again?  Will I ever feel like I can smile and not feel guilty, like life can continue without my daughter being present either physically or in my thoughts?

Today I went into work for the first time since I lost Amelia.  Last time I was there I was happy in the thought that I was going to meet my little girl in a matter of days. Last time I was there was the day I think she died.

I had prepared myself for visiting work and leading up to it was fine with the theory of it all.  The actual task of walking through the doors and talking to people was much harder.  Facing people I don’t like and who caused me immense stress in my last few weeks of work (of which I can’t help question if that contributed to this horrid outcome), talking to people I do like about everything else except the fact that my child has died.

My first visit back to work was meant to be me showing off my cute little baby girl, not talking about returning to work and life going back to “normal”.

I survived though.  I managed.  Only one little break down, which I managed with the help of a colleague who has since lost her father unexpectedly.  She may just be my saving grace when I return. 

I don’t want to go back. 

Or if I have to can I please be pregnant again!  (please).

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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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.