Monthly Archives: April 2019

awol

Absent Without Leave

Absent without official leave. Without intent to desert.

Are you with me?

When we have a tight knit group, a close family unit it’s called living in a bubble. People look and see how we all live our lives, sometimes we close off this bubble to anyone new; sometimes things happen in our lives and these bubbles burst, only for them to heal and be tighter than ever. Happy lives, so perfect, so wonderful.

I have bubbles. I like bubbles. Floating free, I don’t see them exploding into nothing, they explode with excitement. They give joy.

Are you with me?

From January to May (or thereabouts), I live in a bubble. But rather than be transparent, happy joyful bubble. It is filled with fog, thick “late at night” fog. I can’t see through it, I can’t concentrate through it. You could almost say it is suffocating, a fight to breathe, a fight to stay afloat without tears, outbursts or moments of being a villain. Not the hero that everybody expects you to be after you lose a baby. “The brave warrior”.

While I suffocate in this thick grief fog, the fog isn’t seen by all; most people can only see the transparent bubble; because that is what most people like to see. Light airy bubbles, not dirty polluted ones.

I’m suffocating in grief.

Are you with me?

In the first 5 months of the year, while I battle trying to brave, for myself, for my family; my friends sometimes – without realising I can seem like the worst person. I probably am.
I really, really don’t mean to be. I am sorry.

I am sorry.

It is hard to put things like this in to words, because explaining the feelings throughout these months are just not easy to comprehend. Unless you can physically feel the effect the death of our daughter has on my brain, unless you can feel the pain which spears through my body; thinking about the what if, maybes and should have been.

I probably should not still be feeling this raw, earth shattering pain seven years down the line. I am not, I have learned to live, to cope with this. I work though it the best way I know how.

Even that I can’t quite explain.

I push people away, I shouldn’t.

When she was alive and then died people – family, friends were cruel; selfishly I protect myself without realising I shut myself off from people who are being kind.

Are you with me?

Loving someone like me probably isn’t easy. Loving me for who I am, but also for what I bring – I am not a normal parent, I am a bereaved parent.

I am still grieving.

These months make me bloody miserable, no matter how hard I try to put on a brave face. No matter how many shits and giggles I have in the back of my mind, I think of “this time in 2012…” Believe me I have tried so hard to not do this.

January, we had the perfect birth plan, I was going to attempt labour and have a vba2c.

February I almost died, and our micro premature baby was born.

March, we had her whole life.

April Sepsis Killed her. I still can’t fathom what went wrong.

May was her due date, it was the month she was going to go home.

Leaving the hospital with PTSD, the idea of replacement children and trust issues.

I don’t have many memories of her, although I am told that I won’t forget. I know I will forget something. I concentrate so hard on being normal, keeping her memory alive without offending people who don’t want to hear about the dead baby.

But this is my normal, “I’m not crazy¸ my reality is different from yours.” C.S.Lewis.

Are YOU with me?

I’m not out to spin a load of excuses, to gain sympathy or pities.

I just need to explain, that I am bloody hard work. I didn’t ask for any of this shit, not one bit of it.

I want family, a village of friends, to be fucking happy. I hate having a dead child too, I can’t change this.

I just need you to understand that I really am not a bitch, I am shy, I am scared – I really am not miserable.

All I ever wanted was to learn to be happy, to laugh again, whether it is through these months or for the rest of the year.

I am sorry for ever being a shit friend,

misunderstood family member,

who wants happy days in the sun.

Are YOU with me?

Please don’t give up, not yet.

Don’t let me go, no matter how hard this gets.

We can be brilliant together.

But sometimes, just sometimes I am AWOL

Absent without leave.

This is me.

baby loss

More Than Statistics

Statistics hit right where it hurts, sometimes facts, numbers figures are heard better than the stories behind them.

But while we concentrate and fascinate ourselves with numbers – maybe even obsess with them. It is forgotten that there are real life people behind them.

For the first couple of years I searched high and low for a statistic of where I would fit in; where our story fitted in; this has led to countless of thoughts of did any of my losses matter?

Five miscarriages, how can I be 1 in 4, when I have watched five positive pregnancy tests return to negative. Heartbeat for my first baby as a young Mum, stop because the sonographer hadn’t turned the monitor around – when just one week before a heartbeat flickered on the screen. In that instant, as I went from a naïve young mum-to-be, I became a number.

Repeatedly told that these things just happen, that it probably wouldn’t happen again, because the numbers tell us so. You’ve had healthy children the odds of baby loss are less now – you know you can do it.

So, when our baby died at five weeks old, after being told she had an 80% chance of survival when she was born rising to 100% when she was given a discharge date. All we heard was numbers, high numbers of odds, of how great these micro premature babies do out of the womb.

Some numbers aren’t as easily recognisable, as others. Not all figures include all losses. The 1 in 4 mostly misses out the babies who live and die.

Our daughter isn’t a number, I don’t trust the statistics. Babies, the children the lives which are cut short are more than numbers and odds which are for or against their tiny lives.

1 in 4 seems like an avoidable number, accept when it is not, accept when miscarriages go unreported, because they were too soon to be registered for booking. My last miscarriage in early 2018 was merely down to one of those things – “go home and rest, your body has done this before”.”you didn’t want another baby anyway.” (I was sterilised four years ago)

Statistics are important but lets not forget the names behind the numbers.

I am not 1 in 4, I am not a number. Our daughter is more than a statistic. She is a person who died. Please remember that.