Thursday, 20 August 2015

Three Weeks

Everything is a painful reminder of what we've lost at the minute. We are forcing ourselves to go through the motions, leave the house and do normal things which I think is helping in a way but it's so difficult and exhausting. It's the summer holidays so children are everywhere. Families are everywhere. We went for lunch earlier in the week and I burst into tears twice because there was a couple cooing over their small baby and that should be us but it isn't. Pregnant women seem to be sniffing me out. Seeing them rub their beautiful bellies with pride makes me ache with what I've lost. My hand still automatically goes to my tummy sometimes and for a second I forget, then the reality kicks me in the pit on my stomach and I can't breathe. 

Even the sunshine makes my heart ache. He will never feel the sun on his beautiful face. We will never push him in his pram in the fresh air. I'll never have to fight his wriggling to put suncream on his precious skin. We've lost a whole lifetime of tiny moments most people would never even give a second thought to.

Grief is full of contradictions. I am in a constant state of one part feels or thinks one way and the other another. I know he was poorly and part of me is so grateful he slipped away safe and warm in my belly with me rather than on an operating table or in the middle of the night in the NICU. He didn't have to go through operations on his tiny body or that difficult first year of his life before everything had healed. But the other part thinks he didn't even get a chance. Why did he have to be sick in the first place? Why was that fair? Why did my baby have to be so poorly?

I feel like I have to protect other people from our grief. It's all consuming at the minute, constantly in the forefront of our minds and it's so difficult not to talk about it. Being around us is sad and I don't want to inflict that on anyone else. I absolutely understand why infant loss is such a quiet, private experience and why people don't talk about it. It's hard because I am so proud of the beautiful baby we created and I want the world to know he existed. I want to tell everyone I had a baby with the softest skin and fluffiest hair but I can't deal with the awkwardness when people realise he's not here. I don't blame them, I would struggle to know what to say.

Thankfully we're going to Cornwall tomorrow for a week so we can have a little breather from the fear of bumping into people. Alongside the scary prospect of having to say the words 'he passed away' when someone looks at my flattened tummy and empty arms is the guilt of being out behaving normally. It may sound ridiculous but I feel so on edge when I'm out of my house that people will look at me and think I don't look heartbroken enough or question how I can possibly be dressed and not just rocking in a dark corner somewhere. I'm scared someone will think I didn't love my baby enough because I'm able to function and do basic tasks. Isn't that insane? I know that's insane but again grief is full of contradictions and it's incredibly confusing sometimes.

There are brief moments of peace where we talk about something else, laugh at something silly or get lost in something on the television and it's not that we forget because it's impossible to but it just doesn't hurt as much for five minutes. We don't always have tears in our eyes when we talk about him. We can laugh and smile at how big his personality was for someone who never lived outside my body, we can make stories up about things he would have done and we can imagine what he's doing right now wherever he is and for those minutes my heart feels so much lighter. But then a child will walk past holding his mother's hand or a dad will heave his boy onto his shoulders and the grief kicks me in the stomach and I cannot breathe and all I can think is this is just not fair.

Monday is the day I was booked to be induced. It should have been our baby's birthday and to celebrate we will light a candle and remind eachother of his chubby chin and pink fingernails and hopefully we won't have tears in our eyes but joy in our hearts. 
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1 comment

  1. I miscarried umpteen times and felt exactly the same, wondering how people would judge me for my choices on grieving. I spent so long outside of myself watching myself and wondering what other people thought I drove myself potty. It's amazing how many mums you find that have experienced the same thing, and it wasn't until I found all these 'silent' mums that I could even begin to put my thoughts together. It's not about being loud, proud, in your face, it's just about acknowledging that yes, I am a mother and I think your elephant necklace and it's verse says it beautifully.

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