Monthly Archives: June 2014

baby loss

Lost Raw Grief

Having one of those weekends, where it’s taken far too long to write…
Where the tears are too heavy to hold onto.
I wasn’t sure to post, because I don’t feel strong enough, a moment where I feel belittled, and almost silly.
I miss her.
The moment you re-discover that being a bereaved parent isn’t just about keeping your lost child’s memory alive.
It’s about survival.
It’s getting through the next stage of grief, next part of living. The next flashback, the flash back that makes you feel like you’re there, re-living it all. Whichever part that may be. You’re moving through life, almost comfortably; until something begins to feel uncomfortable, tighter and tighter. So heavy that moving forward seems like an impossible task.
You’ve been hit with the raw stick, the rawness that you remember so well, yet you cannot quite believe it is behind you. Two Years behind you. Of course there isn’t a day that goes by without a thought, but the rawness lessens more, few and far between
People look on, wondering why you haven’t gotten better, why you’re not as strong as the next person. Most probably because the next person doesn’t have a full understanding of the overwhelming, sickening pain that gets you right out of the blue. The type which rips through your body, but doesn’t leave physical scars.
No warning, no triggers, uncontrollable emotion. When you can feel nothing else, paralysed by it all. No amount of cake and a cuppa will fix, or a jolly gossip in the park. It’s the undeniable sick to the stomach feeling, that nothing, absolutely nothing can change a thing.
I’m not in denial, nor do I need “help” because I am having a moment, where there is nothing comparable to knowing that your baby daughter is cold…in the ground.
The baby that wiggled and fed, a person who we met and spent time with, 10 fingers 10 toes, the one with the windy smiles.
It cannot be fixed. It cannot be belittled. I’m not messed up, or damaged just a mummy, who is missing her girl.
It hurts today, more than yesterday, maybe less than tomorrow.
The days where they can be so heavy that you’re almost drowning by emotion. Paralysed by the raw pain that takes you back to the very beginning of this painful journey, that even the word pain just isn’t enough to explain that feeling.
It is a life sentence, life without parole, a break or a holiday.

An Ice Queen

A Change.
Once you get to a certain stage of grief, people think it should be over, you should be all better.
You see when you lose a child you see the world in a completely different light.
A hope that you were born with, a belief that all of the nicer statistics make the hope easier.
Say like when in pregnancy you get to 20 weeks pregnant, your baby has a sex, a personality forming from deep within. The tiny hands on the screen waving back at you.
You get past the half way mark and you think, brilliant that didn’t take long it’s all down hill from here.  A finish line is insight.
24 weeks is the next goal, the goal that is the magic number, that if baby is born now then it’ll be ok, it’ll be healthy, the hospital will save the baby’s life.
Bated breath and you get past this, successfully, unscathed 37 weeks is the apparent full time, where the time is now to get things started.
Baby arrives everything is fine, is perfect. You cannot understand why you were ever worried.
“Bad things” never happen to me.
But what happens when actually, you’re not a happy statistic at your 20 week scan, your baby gets to 26 weeks past ‘viability’ but your babies STILL die, you get to 40 weeks and actually you still don’t get to take your baby home, how is that right? You’ve done your ‘time’ of being pregnant embracing your moving bump, only to be left broken empty armed.
It doesn’t stop there as babies, infants, young children, children, adults. Someone’s child.
You see burying a child you have given birth to, gotten to know, fed kissed, changes you.
Only you don’t know the devastation until you’re thrown into the devastation.
The heartache and pain that you can’t actually describe, because the people who truly understand are the ones who actually doesn’t need it describing.
It’s incomparable.
I’ve changed, I’ve become cold…I’ll admit that.
But when you lose part of yourself, you truly do lose something else too, it may be different to everyone. And for me it’s a certain warmth I had once upon a time.
But luckily for me I have people in my life, whether it’s my support to them or them to me, reassuring me that actually, it is ok to change.
And those who will stick around will understand, stay and embrace the new you.
Those who don’t, don’t matter…
I am broken, but not beaten.
baby loss


So today have been hit a little with a trigger that had kind of crept up on me.
Although hard, I’ve gotten used to the hazy Christmases, the completely foggy February, the lead ups and the knowing that April/May have dates that lessen as the days go by. Things I have learned to cope with in my own little way.
Well today at my usual baby group, that I absolutely love, love the ladies, love the atmosphere, completely relaxed atmosphere. As it’s not in the town I live, right at the beginning I decided that I wouldn’t mention Melody, not because I am ashamed or embarrassed in anyway it is just easier, a day where I don’t feel left out or segregated in anyway (not that anyone there ever would).
It is just nice a couple times a month to be ‘normal’ not a lot of mention of Melody or anything else, that some places makes me feel very uncomfortable.
A couple of the mums I have become friends with now know, and I am pleased they know as again they show such empathy and don’t push for anything more. Most importantly K has made friends with babies her age too.
The point.
Well today was the first time in 2 years 1 months and 7 days since I last spoke to Melody’s midwife, the lovely midwife that gave me tea and toast the morning no-one knew she would be born. The Midwife who I begged not to tell me that she was born sleeping.
The midwife whom when we last spoke to her… Melody was coming home.
Seeing and hearing her brought so much back, her happy smile when she confirmed that Melody had been born kicking and squeaking.
I could feel some kind of emotion, but let it slide, I never mentioned Melody to her, just my knowledge, that although hard it was nice (although probably unknown to her), to be in the same room as somebody who had ‘known’ Melody, who had seen her being born, who reassured us greatly that day.
A trigger that was sudden, unplanned; but successfully pushed down, so that I can still remain normal (and incredibly loopy) mummy who enjoys and is thankful to the ‘meet’ for allowing me to feel ‘normal’
Today is a day I have missed Melody and have still been able to smile.
May baby loss


Hello May I am glad to see the back of April
Knowing things aren’t as heavy as they have been. A way to now be able to breathe alone. Then this is the month that should have been.
A month that has a little bit of an uphill struggle, but simply because it is full of…
“should have”
Even the word is a possibility. Sadly I know I am not alone. The bitter-sweet.
Originally Melody’s due date was 28th May. But as I would have to have a c-section it was brought forward to 22nd May. The date that “should have” been her birthday. But as we know we only got to February.
We got married 20th May 2011. The happiest day of our lives.
But of course the most important I married my soul-mate. A date after everything I cannot comprehend that we got married, or how long we have been married, not because I don’t love my husband but a way I guess to stop my brain from hurting, post Melody. Our wedding album a weird elephant in the room. The date we received it was the day it all went wrong with Melody.
Brains are strange things. I wonder Is mine damaged?
May 15th Could have been her discharge date. A date we were told she could have been coming home, as day our lives should have changed with a new baby in the house, full of wonder at the happy balloons. Instead the house was full of silence. Of course it will always be full of what ifs because May “should” have given us our honeymoon baby. But instead May has given me marriage and friendship.
May brought me the ‘talkers’ and the ‘flowers’ And for that I am grateful for May. Thoughts to everyone else struggling with May

The Lasting Goodbye Part Two

13th April 2012.
The alarm bounded out.
But we were already awake, sleep wasn’t one of the options.
We had been dreading this day.
The children were restless, chatting at breakfast eyes wide with wonder.
John and I paced silently.
What would this day bring?
Flowers arrived, was this really all for us?
The sun was shining exactly as it did on the day she arrived;
now it shone for the day she would be leaving.
Set on auto pilot, we washed we dressed.
We remained calm, following the children’s examples.
How were we going to get through this day?
In fact any day.
We made our way to our car hand in hand,
brightly dressed so she could see us clearly,
desperately hoping she could now open her eyes without pain.
We were still too early, clock watching to the last moment, the final second time stood still.
We arrived at the church to a small line of people, I can’t remember the order but there were people.
My legs felt like jelly, my bones had been removed, yet somehow I managed to keep up right to keep breathing.
Again we had no choice.
We followed the smartly dressed man into the church. Hands tightly held the four of us, too scared to let go unless we lost one another.
I could just recall the haunting sound of Bagpipes playing Amazing Grace,
I could feel myself detaching.
We were here for someone else. This wasn’t our story.
We continued to walk closer to the front of the church, when we looked forward,
there she was a little pink box on another little table.
Only now we wanted more than anything for it to be
the big clear box that she had been in 2 weeks before.
One last chance, one last hope that this had all been a horrible mistake,
her final chance to let us know everyone was wrong.
“Dragonflies and Water bugs”
Was read to us all, the children concentrated on every word.
Joseph clung to every word.
Leah nervously waited to do her part.
She wanted to do something for her sister.
A picture she had drawn, a love for her sister that would grow with her forever.
Another song was played, instead of hymns, she was far too young to have hymns, the song had far more meaning.
“My Love”
(I can’t share the song as the covers don’t do the song justice)
The tears hit, the pain knocked like waves smashing into my already broken self,
Would they ever stop?
Would I ever be able to stand from this seat again?
We blew her a kiss and followed her as the smartly dressed man carried her out of the church, to her final journey.
We felt too weak to carry her; we were still too scared we would hurt her.
The blessing was a private moment between John, the children and I.
A candle lit as the blessing took place,
when all we could think of was her baptism should never have been like this.
We knelt beside her, and gave her a blanket of daffodils,
some extra warmth because we didn’t want her to get cold.
The rest of our guests came forward so they could say good bye, and send her some pink balloons.
35 balloons 35 daffodils.
One per day she was with us, not enough days.
A decision we could never change.
The chance had gone.
11am we released the balloons watching them fly high some together,
some drifted; the drifters would be as Melody is now.
We thought this was going to be the worst day of our lives, but really how could it have been.
We had already done that part on the 1st.
Flying solo, while we as a family carry her in our hearts.
camera!!!!!! 002
People may wonder why we continue to remember these dates.
Can you remember the age your child said their first word?
Melody never did that.
Can you remember when your child first walked?
Melody never did that either.
Th dates of final moments, final memories are all we have of her.
We had no choice in how happy the memories would be, this is what we have.
And shall continue to build a last memory.
Because that is all we have.
Thank you for reading

The Lasting Goodbye Part One

Completely different from 2012 on this day.
On this day in 2012 I had to make a decision,
a decision I had no idea whether I would regret or not.
A painful choice.
We walked to the white building hand in hand,
John had already made his choice and was set.
Yet it felt impossible.
Our names were called and in that moment my mind had been changed,
for the millionth time, where once again I took John’s hand has we closely but slowly followed the smartly dressed man…
The room was small, delicately lit with candles to add to the effect.
A small table in the centre of the room, painfully obvious, but looked no
bigger than a memory box,
but definitely bigger than a shoe box.
The next question “Are you ready?” I know took us by surprise.
Were we ever ready?
But this was not something we could put off,
because we knew that the next day would be too late.
We nodded, holding each other tight, tighter than we felt strong enough for.
Terrified we had made a wrong choice.
The crochet blanket was gently pulled back,
the smartly dressed man left.
“Have as long as you need”
But we wanted forever, you can’t give us that.
We stepped forward slowly, peeking in not knowing what to expect.
A warning, a guide but nobody is ever the same.
There she lay peaceful, make up made her look perfect.
Almost like there was no reason for her to be there,
of course this wasn’t the case.
Surgical tape had slightly embedded into her baby face,
and the obvious stillness that was blindingly obvious,
no breath sounds was just the deafening silence.
We exchanged glances, and questioned
“How was this fair?”
“Why us?”
We didn’t know if we were allowed to touch her or get to close.
I wanted to cuddle her, but was afraid I would hurt her,
although I knew that was now an impossibility.
Placing our photos and drawings the children had asked us to take,
I stoked her face suddenly remembering her warmth had long gone,
replaced with an icy cold glow.
Still hoping that somehow she would still open her eyes.
We felt lost, we held on to each other’s gaze,
when we knew the time had come to tuck her in to her blanket for the final time,
to kiss her good night for the final time.
Knowing we would need to remember how she smelt,
how she felt, all in one movement.
One chance.
Our final chance.
Lifting the blanket a corner in each hand,
tears rolling down our faces we covered her,
tucking her in replacing the blanket with each others hands
walking back wards giving her a lasting Good Bye;
for the next day would be the last……
phone pics to sort 006 (4)

I didn’t want to have to kiss her Goodbye.

baby loss grief

Two Years of Grief.

An Anniversary.
How has it been two years?
How was this the last thing I remember about being normal?
A simple photo that would become a favourite, but also the hated. The one that we took for granted the we thought we could repeat as a whole family, as her biggest sister was missing that day. The photo we so naively thought everything was perfect.
Only for the next one, taken less than 24 hours afterwards to be the exact opposite.
The ones that followed would become the faces of bereaved parents, not just a happy couple. From the numb and speechless.
We never envisaged that walking through the unit doors two years ago, to be greeted by the words, “She’s not going to survive”  would be anything but a nightmare, an April Fools’ joke.
Broken, beyond repair, no easy fix solution.
No faith, no beliefs would ever put this right.
No believing that she is all around us, or visiting every body else.
No fluffiness or making the sun shine.
No finding feathers, or the butterflies floating by.
The only place she resides is in her mum and dad’s hearts.
My damaged mind searching for why people think they can “feel” her, when all I feel is numb. When I’m told that she can be felt by other people it makes me then wonder does Melody blame me? Does she STILL not belong to us? Our Daughter, but not our own.  Was she ever ours in the first place?
My shattered thoughts searching for a way to go back and change things, when indeed that is impossible.
No believing that everything happens for a reason,
(neither do I believe that Melody died so we could have her sister).
I cannot think why we were allowed to get to know and think our baby was ok.
Then be taken away. What would ever be a good enough reason for this? I sometimes wish I could believe in a reason, maybe it’ll appear one day, maybe it won’t. I won’t get ,lost looking.
I have changed, I don’t know who I am any more I don’t want to forget her, of course I don’t she is part of my life, my daughter.
But now sometimes I feel as though I am living for the next milestone.
The next person to walk away from me.
I just want to feel human again.
I’m slowly regaining a social circle, but am petrified of getting close to them,
or letting on too much about Melody or doing something
All trust lost.
I feel awkward in the way I am.
Still having people tell me they don’t know what to say to me.
How do I find me again?
How can I learn to be normal again?
To the outside I put up a mask, a very good one at that.
I’m done with grief,  and watching others grieve for her, when I can no longer cry, “Melody doesn’t wanna see mummy sad” So she won’t…
I want to learn to walk as high as 10 feet tall, rather than the 10 inches I feel at times.
I want to be her mum but not like this.
I miss her so much.
When I look back to see where I had come from to where I am,
I feel like I have paused and feel the same as I did then.
I miss her, there is nothing that will ever change that, and I will speak of her often, maybe now not as much. My heart will always feel that Melody sized heavier.
But learning to live a new life moving forward, but without leaving her behind.
I hope I can stand as strong, tall and as inspirational as the other parents in this community.
I am now a little more than existing, which feels better than it was….
Two years since we said Goodbye.
“As long as I am living, forever my baby you’ll be”
26.02.2012 – 01.04.2012
sibling grief

You Have Other Children

What is on my mind…
I felt compelled to put this piece together. Whilst coming across a seemingly harmless article, a person mentioning about a significance of her friend’s loss because her friend already had children, like it almost didn’t matter.
It got me thinking,
My question to this would be – Why Would This Matter?
                                                                                                                                 A death is a death; other children, other family members do not and will not make up for this, in fact at times losing a child when you thought your family was complete, when you thought everything was perfect, holds no words.
Numb could possibly come a little close.
Already having children should never mean “losing” a child should be less of a tragedy. The thing is the grief you have in your own personal being, is added with the grief and the guilt you hold for the children left behind. Our children had met their little sister, touched her, spoken to her. They were told she was coming home, and then she died. So not only our dreams and hopes shattered but dreams shattered in young children, carrying their grief, to pick up their tiny pieces too, while being clueless of your own.
As parents the world is now a cruel and ugly place; but we have to actually mask these feelings and show the children at a young age that the world is beautiful, trying not to take away their innocence, as it’ll be gone soon enough as they hit adulthood.
To be broken; but glued.
To hold them in their tears; while you hide your own.
To show you are still their main hero.
They ask you, Why, when you don’t know this yourself.
When somebody says, “Well at least, you have your other children”
It isn’t helpful, yes we are so, so lucky to have them, but this doesn’t make our daughter’s death, any less tragic, because I “already have children.” Then it doesn’t stop there, we now have our “after” baby, our “rainbow” “You wouldn’t have had her, had your other daughter died”
Well actually yes we would have had,
I hope upon hope that nobody, ever says this to her when she is older.
We’re not ‘better’ because she is now here, we were never ill. Having an ‘after’ baby just enhances, what our dead daughter missed out on, and actually what our new daughter will miss out on too; she will never get to meet her sister.
And one day we’ll have to re-answer the whys all over again.
Every single child is precious; they are a gift and are irreplaceable, no matter how many we are blessed with.
This really isn’t a competition.
There are no winners here.
baby loss

A Christmas Interrupted

The bikes,
The trikes,
The twinkling lights.
The empty stockings,
That are pinned up there.
This is the year you should have been,
Going to your first festive parties,
Sitting on Santa’s knee.
Pulling his beard wondering if it’s real.
The wrapping paper, being less important this year
The wonder that is inside.
Your face changing as the magic unfolds.
But instead you are part of the magic
An imagination
That’s all I have.
Make believe
This year is no different to last
You’re still not here,
An empty space.
Dear Melody,
A second Christmas
Once again we’re hitting the Christmas season, a time where you should be here.
Pulling the tree down, poking the presents;
you’d have been 22months so the wonder inside the presents
would have been almost as important as the paper.
It’s not just Christmas,
we miss you every single day,
but it’s a time where there is an obvious hole, and empty space.
People think because we have your little sister we should be better,
be healed.
We were never ill.
Having a rainbow just reminds us that you are not here.
Touching the tree delicately, poking the presents because you don’t know what they are.
You’ll never feel tinsel between your fingers,
You’ll never meet Santa,
Or taste Brussels sprouts.
You’ll never get the chance to party
To pull a cracker and hear it bang,
Your mummy, daddy brother and sisters miss you
I wish you were here,
I wish things were different.
I wish
I wish……