Category Archives: Neonatal

Melody – Remembering Our Daughter.

I love taking photographs; even more so since Melody died. We have few photos of her, but we do have them, but in her albums there are days missing. Days which I can’t piece together what she did, moments of her life missing, memories which have faded for me.

Photographs now are of great importance to me. I try to take them of my growing children as often as I can, but I always try to capture a moment in every day, albeit small or something huge.

I don’t want to miss a thing.

In the weeks which followed the death of our daughter, we began to find comfort in seeing her name. I have always struggled with signs from her, struggled with the thought that “she is all around us”. I have worked on this over the five years, it isn’t something that has really changed, and I don’t think it will.

So, I love seeing her name, it kind of began with our memory box which my online birth group friends brought for us; her name as clear as day on the front of the box, inside the box is a tiny cushion with her name on too, it gave her presence.

Various social media pages began offering personalised graphic pictures, where they put your baby’s name on a picture, so I began “collecting” these, different designs – some were themed like for Christmas or Easter, some just had a nice or meaningful background; each included Melody.  

I can’t quite remember which picture started it off, but I remember we visited a place in Devon the first summer we were without her, there’s a section named “Melody Close”, seeing her name felt like she had been included in our day out. 

From then we began writing her name in the sand. Every beach we visited we wrote her name, close friends began to follow suit, places we had never heard of or would dream of visiting. Having the imagination I have, it is almost like she is having her own adventures, traveling the world, going to places we’d never dream or afford of going.

By our first October, Melody was soon included in the Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Wave of Light, her name placed by candles alongside many, many other babies’ names. I was a beautiful thing to know she was remembered in this event. The following summer I placed a status on my Facebook, asking if people would write her name in the sand at the beaches they visited, it was a way of giving her a footprint to walk in the sand; she never had the chance to feel sand between her toes, this would have been the only way.

Many pictures came through; it was touching to see the many places she was being remembered, for the moments her name was being written, she was being thought of. Sad as it is as time as moved forward, the moments of thought can lessen. As her second birthday approached, we didn’t know how we would ‘celebrate’, we found the second birthday harder than the first; from a friend’s idea from her daughter’s birthday the year before, we asked people to write her name, not just in the sand, but in any kind of way they could think of. There would be no cards, no party or her choosing a birthday cake. Our friends and family came up with the most wonderful designs and ideas – there were so many and no two were the same. It meant so much to see people had taken a moment out of their day to do a little something for her.

We are five years into this journey, and over the course of the years the photos don’t come as often. But the ones which arrive mean so much to us. We can’t physically make memories with her, but we can somehow make her memory last. When the days in which is feels all is fading her name appears, someone has taken the time to remember her.

We fill scrap books when we have time, rather than photo albums.

We have several which we love; the children are often the first to want to include her name in a place we were visiting.

She has been taken to Florida, Indiana, France, Cornwall, Australia, Scotland, and Devon to name a few.

She was remembered by a couple we have never met on their wedding day, this one landed a spot on our wall in our living room.

Here are just a few.

We named her after a character in the Doctor Who series, when she was born we knew we had picked the right name. 

We just didn’t know she would end up traveling on her own. 

I don’t want the only place her name is written is on her headstone. 

Her name should be surrounded the beauty she deserves. 

Why I don’t like to Visit

I must admit I have visited her on a weekly basis during the past few weeks, more because I would be walking passed the cemetery, so it wouldn’t have been right if I didn’t pop in to see her.
But generally, it isn’t a place I like to be.

Visiting

We go to visit around her birthday, her anniversary; we give her a carnival theme in September, which changes to Halloween and then Christmas.
We visited her a lot in the beginning, at the time it felt right, it felt like it was something we needed to do; like a guilty feeling for not spending time with our daughter. But as time moved on, the more difficult it became to visit; I’ve never found the spiritual side of this loss, I never felt that she was always around me… I’d completely lost her. To me she had literally moved from one box to another, only her new box was this ugly thing that is now buried 3ft underground.
I don’t like visiting her because I know where she is; I know and can imagine where she is lying. No amount of what people tell me, that she isn’t there, I know she is….I watched them lower her into the ground.

Ugly

It probably is a form of torture, imagining the totally ugly side of death, of her death. But there isn’t anything exactly beautiful about having a funeral, a burial for your child.
I used to feel guilty about so many things, about how I chose to repair myself; not visiting on a daily basis or talking to her for hours on end. She could once hear me, when I spoke to her she would respond to me, now – well you know.
I’d have nightmares in the beginning about her final resting place, awful horrible nightmares; most rarely appear now, I don’t think they will ever go away.

Good bye

When she was alive the word ‘Goodbye’, couldn’t get past my tongue, it was a word in my head that felt so powerful, that I felt scared to use it, every evening when we left the unit, or every tie during the day, I’d say “See you later.” Or “See you tomorrow.” Goodbye always seems so final, her time spent in the unit she was doing well, so I never really knew why I was so frightened to use it.
Then I had to say it, I had to say this final word, as she slipped away I had to say it, amongst the “I love you.” And “please don’t go”. Goodbye had to now roll off the tongue.
When I, we visit her at the cemetery, I now have to say it, I have to say goodbye to her, I have to walk away, to leave her there, to turn my back on her every single time.
It isn’t how it was meant to be, walking away each time, even now still hurts, she’s still dead, she still should have been here.

Love

Visiting her on the surface, it seems okay, I take photos of her flowers, of her new toys…I still like to buy her things. But the inside it kills me. This wasn’t supposed to be our life. But it is – she is where she is. I don’t have to visit her to show that I am her Mum. Doesn’t mean I love her any less, I just have to try and live every day for her, make each day count, even the ones where we have Pyjama days.

Inside Out.

I originally shared this post here a year ago. Working on this year’s Guest Post, I wondered what I had written for this annual project. I don’t think this feeling will ever differ…

Right Where I am 2016 


Inside Out. It’s a Disney film, about emotions from the emotions themselves.

Joy, Sadness, Anger, Fear and Disgust.
All important roles in how our moods take us. Most importantly how we cope with things that change our lives, and almost break us.
Having seen the film, several times over now, I can understand the feeling of losing one’s marbles.

My personality islands collapsed, the day she died. No warning, I couldn’t stop them. Lost, forever.

For me, 4 years into this journey, I can associate myself with all 5 of the emotions. Some less than others.

Disgust, I guess how some parents take their precious children for granted. I feel disgusted in myself sometimes. When I have days, where I’m not quite coping. I shout, I snap. I somewhat alienate myself.

Fear. It goes without saying, the fear of not only losing my other children, but my husband, my friends. Fear paralyses me at times. I have to control it. It can take over, but it isn’t allowed.

Anger. I don’t get that raw anger very often any more. Because we should have had a different outcome, the anger was eating me, tearing me apart bit by bit, as if the bigger picture of our daughter dying wasn’t enough, but the anger, drilling through my very being. Don’t get me wrong, I get angry, really bloody angry at the whole having a dead child, I’m allowed, but it’s far more contained. I’m lucky to have a husband who will let me release it, by talking, crying. It’s not often any more.

Joy and Sadness.
Together? In the head of a bereaved mum.
Maybe.
As above I said my personality islands collapsed, fell silently away, as she died in our arms. There were no controls, no brakes. It happened.
I’ve had to start again.
New hobbies, new train of thought, new friendship circles, and how I spent my time with those friends, family. The shape of our family changed.
I never expected joy to be part of my emotions again, ever.
But I refuse to have Melody be the little blue person.

This time of year, I find just as hard as the part of the year my brain associates her with.
September to May. There is always something attached to her, from a positive pregnancy test, to her birth, her anniversary, discharge date and due date. I no longer make a big deal over the smaller dates, I always will for her birthday and anniversary. But they’re all still related in some way.
So, when June arrives, it’s like a strange come down. Every thing I do gets touched by sadness, core memory after core memory affected by sadness.
It shouldn’t be. I’ve, we’ve been punished enough.
I do believe joy and sadness can coexist. There’s a balance.
But people have to remember everyone grieves differently.
If I want to ball my eyes out 4 years after my daughter dying. I will. I don’t need therapy or medicine.
But laughing doesn’t mean I’m over her either.
I’ve found a good balance, albeit right or wrong. It is right for me.

Right now. I’m missing Melody. That will never change.

She is my bundle of joy, cuddled in a blanket of sadness.



What I have learned in Five Years

Five years in the scheme of things doesn’t seem a lot. 
A 5 year old human is still growing, learning and a long way to go before they’re ready to face the world as an individual. They’re so young.
A car which is 5 years old also has so much more going for it, more miles, more adventures. More places to be.
It just isn’t very long. 
But to me five years seems almost like a life time ago, far too long to remember everything about her. 
But if she’d still been here, she would have been almost ‘just’  five years old.
Since April 2012 I’ve learnt so many things, things I never would have imagined learning. 

1. I was told in the beginning I’d never be the same person again.  I didn’t want to believe it, she’d only been here 5 weeks how could she change me, us so much. 
But at the same time why wouldn’t it have all changed us.  You can’t expect anyone to grow a baby, a child love, bond, feed as you would any other baby, for the baby to then die.
To have to decide “what’s best” when removing a ventilator, to watch their life leave them, to organise an event that should only be set for the elderly,  a burial or a cremation for the child you bring into the world.  Tiny coffins and holes in the ground.
It isn’t not going to have lasting effect.  You can move forward to a degree, but you’re just not the same. 
I look at people differently, I have to pick conversations with people, so not to offend them, but mainly to not alienate myself. 
I have to pause when answering parenting questions like how many children I have.
I see the world differently. EVERYTHING changed. 
2. Time is not a healer.  It really isn’t. I’ve section scars that will never go, they will always be there.  We will always be minus one.  For me the further away the harder it seems,for me in particular this 5th year. So many missed milestones, never started school, or had birthday party invitations, not knowing what things she’d have liked, who her friends could have been.  Pictures made with love.  I’ll never be “better” because I wasn’t ill. Time has just added to the crap that goes with all of this. 
3. Grief Tourism exists. The rubber neckers.  The people who only want to know or speak to you due to their own personal nosiness. People who want the grief for themselves, it’s a bizarre thought I know, and I’ve seen it done for adults too,  but those who somehow want a piece of the action, which in turn the grieved ends up being the supporter.  Which isn’t right,it’s not how it should work. It isn’t a sightseeing trip. 
4. It is a complicated type of grief,as I have mentioned before, the grief I had for losing my Grandparents, losing my Dad is so different from the grief I have for Melody.  The first thing I can think of is I could breathe when they passed away, their deaths weren’t easy,  they were incredibly hard, I do think of them at birthdays and Christmas, but Melody’s death, is something, although I speak about so much is not something that is really easy to explain in perfect detail either.  We’ve lost a lot over the years, friends, relationships with family.  Not something you’d expect when you lose a baby, you’d have thought the opposite. But we have gained people too (which you’ll see in a moment).
There’s so many times when your brain wanders back to the time of life, of normality, there’s nothing to stop it, it is a nice time to remember; but then you get to the part where you think you could change things, but obviously you can’t your heart stops for a millisecond for a short moment you’re back to the beginning again.
Nobody truly understands, unless you have / are going through it.
As much awareness, with premature births,  causes people only listen so much.
It’s complicated.

5. Online Support is wonderful.  I’d met my husband online, but never imagined to meet lifelong friends via the Internet too.  Some were from Melody’s pregnancy, when I was suffering with HG unable to face the world, and people didn’t have patience with me either,  the friends behind the screen became my life line.  Together we went through so much, not just my own loss but others too,  then the pregnancies that came after.  When for me once again the HG took hold and they were there no matter what.  This included the women I’d met through bereavement forums too.  Without them I’d have no idea that what I felt was indeed normal, and actually I wasn’t alone in these thoughts.
I will always be grateful to these people,  I’ve met a couple of them, two are God parents to the littlest ones.
I never knew online people would become my people..

Five years is far too long to have last kissed her.
But not enough time to have healed.  Maybe not even forever.