Tag Archives: Baby loss

Melody and Me

Memories. The Weather

The weather is always a big conversation opener, particularly at the moment whilst we have the snow – being in the South West of England, it is the first time since 2013 that we have had any snow to actually speak of. I was pregnant then, with Melody’s little sister, the year before I was pregnant with Melody.

There was snow annually; I remember not wanting to go out in case I slipped – something I have done a lot in the snow; I didn’t want to risk hurting my unborn baby. I remember looking forward to our new baby’s first experience of snow how she would react, lots of wonder.
She never got to see the snow, but the following year I was pregnant again unable to risk the snow again; fearful of making those magical snowy plans.

The winter always reminds me of her, as she was alive and a fully expected baby; it was exciting; which is exactly how it should be when you have a growing bump.
We do obsess with the weather as a nation, most often it does bring people together; where the snow reminds me of her pregnancy; it also brings some memories of her life on the opposite scale.

Heatwave

In the year that she was born – 2012, the whole time she was born we had the most amazing weather, an unusual weather for the time of year (February-April). It would be the hottest March on record. The day she was born was a glorious sunny day, I could remember just being able to see what the weather was doing through the window from my bed; I wish I had taken pictures of our surroundings that day; it makes up part of her life.

The Spring had come early that year; I guess that is why we associate Daffodils as her flower.
There were days when we had to be away from the hospital – often at their request, we’d walk into town which is a fair walk away, particularly when you have had major surgery, often without a cloud in the sky it was beautiful blue skies for days on end, we could sit in the hospital grounds to enjoy the sunshine. I wore vest tops and flip-flops; whilst my husband had his sandals; it was hard to imagine that I even got sunburnt in March.

Apparently, it is such a rare occurrence (at least according to weather records); I always enjoy associating the heat wave with her life, she was able to feel the sun on her face a couple of times too whilst she was out having a cuddle; I am glad she did. It made our visits easier; it helped us to be able to find space away from the building.

It rained on the day of her funeral, just as we began her celebration – it then became the wettest Summer on record.
These little memories are a big deal; these are the nicer ones.

memories the weather

Then she was six.

Then She Was Six.

Today is her birthday, a day where I am meant to share little things about her – a before and after picture, a celebration of life and of growth. I thought about sharing her birth story to give more words; but it is one I have told so many times, people are bored. People expect me to have moved on, grief is boring it is ugly – nobody ever knows what to say – I am so open I guess that, I assume people are okay with me speaking her name; I mean I am. But they’re not, not really; especially as it is six years. But to me, each birthday, each day that leads to her birthday and then those days which lead to the anniversary – they feel like six weeks; to everyone else, six years is a bloody long time ago – for that I am painfully aware.

It is six years today since she was born in a rush; I remember every single minute – I try hard to savour it, just as I do my other children’s births. It is what we Mums do; her birth story should not be any different. But it is.

I probably should have moved on, and I have to some degree, of course I have it isn’t as dark as it used to be; but I am still allowed to feel like shit – not all the time (even if it were all the time that is okay too); the hardest thing to process, something I will never truly understand, is why our seemingly healthy baby died.  I’m allowed to feel pissed about that. About why our baby had the best odds, why being a girl meant she should have come home, why every bloody thing was just a little too late – she never got to come home.

I do wish sometimes that I could be understood; just a little about why I continue to talk, to mention her name, to be angry even all these years later. I guess it is that unimaginable, that it makes it easier for people looking in to move forward, to forget; to tire of the baby who never even came home who died years ago. “She should be over that.”

 

Everything about the 26th February should have been different; for so many reasons. Yet today no candles will be blown out, on the cake which we have all eaten that she will never get to taste; no presents to open or badges worn to school. An empty space in the classroom, yet nobody would even notice.

birthday

But we do, we know that there should have been a girl today turning 6.

If Only.

Her Birthdays

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

 

The Waiting Game

Melody and Me

A Photograph. Infant Loss

In parenting there is such constant competition.  
My baby took their steps before yours.  
My child read a whole book before yours. 
I’ve done so much more as a parent than you. 

 

It is hard to know that even in the devastating community of baby and child loss that even then there is some kind of competition.
There shouldn’t be.

I remember feeling particularly bad because all other baby loss mums had a shelf or something in their home to remember their babies with, I didn’t.. But now I have and I don’t really like it.
Over the course of the years there’s been a lot of mention about the quantity of photographs I have for our daughter, the clothes, the memories we were able to build.
How I’m lucky I got to spend time with her.
How lucky to have a “million” photographs of her.
(of course it isn’t a million, maybe just about 50).
I know it is 50 more than other parents, but it also 50 less than others too.
I feel sad that I am made to feel less because I have these photographs, these photos like I said others may not have.
When the first photograph was taken, not by me but some random nurse, I’d not even met her, I didn’t know that the photograph that arrived in my room was the only photograph I would have knowing she was alive at that point.
I was stuck to the bed on drips, body still numb, still really poorly and I was desperate to see her, to know she was OK.
John went to see her, midwives went to see her EVERYONE went to see her, they returned with photographs and even a video.
They’re precious to me.  The first few photographs at that point were the only things keeping me going.
Once she’d come off the ventilation, I knew then I needed to document everything about her journey.
Her life, because at one point, she was coming home, these photographs were meant to be her story to tell her at her 18th birthday.  They were never meant to be.

“In Memory of.. “

I have empty folders of days I’d not photographed or days where I wasn’t allowed to visit.  To me now that kills me that I don’t have every single day of her short life.
She was not meant to die.
I don’t have cuddle cot photos, or bed sharing photographs, we didn’t get chance to spend extra time after she died, we didn’t get that option.
So when I share the photos I have it isn’t to hurt anyone else, for attention,  it is because it is all I have, I don’t expect other people to comment on “how lucky I am to have these photographs”.
I hear this often, as well as “at least you got time to with her”.  Same with everyone else it was never enough.
Well because if I had a choice, the same choice anyone in our situation would have, I’d swap the photographs for her any day.

Every single baby/child loss parent is in this shitty time together. Nobody’s journey is worth less than someone else’s because of how different the situation is.
I’m not lucky I got to spend time with her.
I’m lucky because I GET to be Melody’s Mum, no matter how long she lived.
This photo is her second photograph, (her first she is completely naked flat out in her incubator).
Here she is Two Hours and Fifteen Minutes old. There are a few taken close together.
At these moments I did not know how many more pictures I’d get.
Whether this would be the only way I’d have seen her alive,
I didn’t know a thing, apart from she was stable.
But to me it could have meant anything.

 

 melody and me
This is her second from last alive, (her last is with the three of us broken beyond repair, watching the vent being removed from our precious daughter).
When this photograph was taken, she was 34 days One Hour and Ten minutes old.
We had no idea that she would die.
We had no idea that this photograph was going to be the final one of our then normality.
We had no idea that this photograph would turn into a part of a memorial.
We had no idea that LESS than 24 hours after this photograph was taken she’d be dead.
We have photos of her after her heart stopped beating, and in the chapel of rest, only but a few have seen that one (the hospital ones only myself and John have seen those).
I cannot bear to look at them, this may sound particularly ungrateful to anyone who hasn’t got photographs,
I can’t imagine that loss, that feeling.
But to me Melody is so like her sisters, and even her brother at times, seeing her in such a devastating way, only reminds me, not just of the loss of Melody, but the unimaginable anxieties that come with being a bereaved parent.
I don’t just see her, I see them too.
I cannot imagine ever not having photos, or for the parents that couldn’t have a footprint…because there are footprints just too small.
But please don’t make my memories, my pain any less because I do have the photos.
Because if I could choose to have any of this shit, I’d have chosen not photos and no footprints just to give her one last cuddle and one last kiss.
I’d have never let go.
Melody and Me

Different Year – Please Bear With Me

When I woke up with my pregnant bump on January 2012; I never imagined that we’d have a funeral rather than a baby. And since then January has always been different.

I like January, my son is a January baby; there are lots of magical New Year’s resolutions and plans for the year ahead. Some see it as just a day while others see it as an opportunity for a fresh start. January 2012 gave me her 20 week scan photo, and a birth date to plan for, even a start of a birth plan, with a growth scan date to break the wait up; that January we were so excited celebrating the fact we’d be having a baby *that* year. I remember it so clearly – well, almost.

The New Year brings us to that step onto the uphill climb to her birthday in February; March the month she was alive and the crash of April remembering her death, and the aftermath.

Each year I say to myself I will be okay; I will talk less, I will try to forget a little; make it easier on myself on other people around us. But I can’t. I try to keep busy – this year I have already made plans of redecorating and throwing myself into birthdays, her siblings’.

Believe me I have tried to be “over it”, to move on “I hate to see you hurting.” I don’t want or need treatment to forget her; that is definitely not something I want (at least right now).

We’re coming up to the 6th year, and this time of year for me sucks. No matter how busy I make myself; how much fun and laughter I have – it sucks. 80% of the time I think I am ok, I do just fine; but then there are other parts where I don’t and can’t cope; it is hard for people who haven’t switched their child’s life support off to really understand why six years down the line and I find certain times of the year shit.

I can be a bitch, over emotional, quieter than normal. But I can also laugh until I cry, until it hurts to breathe. It is hard.

With it being six years I can also know when people are fed up of me; they’re not too obvious, to give them the benefit of the doubt they may not even realise they are doing it but I know; like when the messages of comfort are less, people stop mentioning her, or squirm and fidget when I do – the eye rolls.

Because that’s enough now isn’t it? I have told her story so many times, shared her a lot, I have been open.

While I am being a bitch, over emotional, quieter than normal, who also laughs until I can’t breathe, I am trying to hold on the only memories I have, the only timescale of months that I can connect with her. The scan, her birth; her discharge date and cuddles, her death, her funeral and the May due date she never reached. They are all I have on repeat; I have nothing new to say – to most they must be boring.

But it is all we have.

I don’t always bring her up to the people I meet, in fear of scaring them off; but I am not strange because later down the line it is discovered that our one of our daughters died.

So please bear with me, while I wade through these next few months coping the only way I know how to by winging it and remembering to breathe.

Just don’t walk away. Please.

 

We’re not ill. 

Melody and Me

Grief Timescale – We’re Not Ill

My grandparents are in a cemetery; my Dad is in the same one, burial spaces decades old. I don’t visit them often, not because I have forgotten them, or I am finished missing them; their cemetery is just outside of our town, it is not always easy to pop out to visit them.

I talk about them; share memories. People listen and they too share memories of their missed loved ones.

In the years since I have lost my grandparents, since I lost my dad, since my mother lost her husband; it never ever occurred to me that there was a time limit of how we grieve.

Of course the loss of these people, were – are very different to losing our daughter. Losing her and watching others go through the loss of theirs; the way in which society brushes off our losses.

When we visit our daughter, which we don’t very often these days; we do at least for special occasions; like her birthday, anniversary and Christmas; more often than not carnival and Halloween too. As we walk through the cemetery and see beautiful fresh wreaths places onto graves whose names have faded, or are decades old; still loved and still very much a part of whoever tends to said graves. I would never judge, or have ever thought of this as an odd thing to do.

I certainly would never question their grief, or that they still tend or speak of them. Every single person’s grief is individual, we all wear it differently.

What has led me to here? Well I came across a news article about a Mum wanting to decorate her baby’s grave. This isn’t an issue to me, or to anyone other than the family. But I made the mistake of reading the comments from the general public – our society; whilst I have no idea who the family involved are I think it effects every single bereaved parent.

There were comments after comments about the Mum needing help, counselling; how she should concentrate on the children she does have. That seven years is too long to be grieving or visiting a grave.

I don’t think it is because I am a Mum who has buried her child; but it would never, ever cross my mind to question the grief of anyone – to judge another person visiting a lost loved one.

Can you imagine going to someone and passing comment about how they visit their husband too much? Or that they talk about them too much now that they’re not here.

I genuinely cannot understand why society feels the need to judge on such a personal thing, an emotion often raw. I am five years down the line – almost six; but there are some moments that will catch me off guard and take me back to that raw emotion of hearing the words. “She isn’t going to survive.”

With me being five years down the line, I have questioned myself about whether I talk about her too often; whether I visit “too much.” I have also often wished this had never happened, that she wasn’t my daughter; I have also debated about never visiting her grave.

But I can’t simply block her out; and I am no one of those people who doesn’t believe she lives within us, if you have followed over the years; you will know this is something I have always battled with myself about.

Letter M in a garden.

When I don’t visit I get that huge guilty feeling, especially if it has been weeks on end; I also feel guilty if I don’t take her something; I know she doesn’t know any difference –  and I am painfully aware that she is dead. But I am her Mother; just as I feel guilty when I can’t watch my son’s choir concert, or forget his University show.

The times when I can’t afford to buy my eldest the latest Now album; or the days when I accidently don’t treat them all the same.

So, when I read how society believes I should be how they think I should be over her by now; how visiting however many years is unhealthy. Let me tell you, the only thing that is wrong here; is not that I cry for her occasionally; that I miss and talk of her.  Please help me to understand.

It is that she IS dead; there is absolutely nothing I can do about that; but I will forever be her Mum. I can’t cuddle her or tuck her in to bed, I can’t see her walk across a stage ready for her Nativity; or hear her sing out of tune.

I can’t have a school report; or see Christmas Cards for her from her friends. I’ve never held her hand to walk across the road; just like she will never have a sleep over or taste ice cream.

She, we will have never experienced any of these things.

So if I am still visiting her grave; or including her this year – five years on or in 25 years; please don’t judge; be kind; don’t assume that I am ill.

I am her Mum; the only thing that is wrong about this is that she died.

M in forest

Post-Neonatal. Fight or Flight

When we walked out of the hospital after the death of our daughter – Post-neonatal death; I never expected to spend the years afterwards in what feels like a fight or flight mode. Nearly everywhere we turned there was nothing, and I have said this many, many times. I think I have repeated this, because I cannot get my head around how little support there is for babies who lived, then died, the ones who never came home.

Fitting In

I have searched for statistics, for facts for something for us to fit in. Yet there’s almost nothing. It is bloody lonely.

 

Where exactly is it we fit in? I know people can’t help it, because I guess babies who are older than 28 days are more than likely to live – or are they?

I feel as though I am on a losing battle, talking about her. Even if I screamed in my biggest voice, would I ever get listened to? I know I do in a way; because people tell me so. But in a way to make change, to make neonatal and post-neonatal losses heard, to make their statistics drop.

If I have to be a bereaved Mum I at least want to fit in, to feel less alone. Can you imagine what it feels like to be told that when your baby dies, there seems to be a cut off for support, because she was too old? Or that we were bumped off or down the list? To have a session where not only was it in the G.U.M clinic (sexual health), but the person listening wasn’t massively interested in talking about our loss; but had an opinion about falling pregnant again afterwards.

Breathe.

Awareness

I have so much I feel I want to achieve. I have let fear get in my way for almost six years now.

Our daughter was born due to HELLP syndrome, a severe form of Pre-Eclampsia, a condition that is quite clearly STILL under researched – When I say clearly I mean being told by two different midwives that you don’t get pre-eclampsia before 28 weeks, the second time being after the death of our daughter (she also stated that you don’t get it twice). It can kill.

I want to help. (There have been in talks about case studies).

I suffered Hyperemesis throughout each of my pregnancies, each getting worse the more babies I had. Another under supported condition, a condition that leads women to abort, commit suicide or die from malnutrition, (a contributing factor to the death of Charlotte Bronte). That and living with mental and health issues afterwards

I will help.

Melody died at 35 days old, she died from overwhelming sepsis. 35 days. Post-Neonatal Death.

She had a good chance of coming home, but she didn’t.

I want to help lower the mortality rates of these babies. I want to show their parents that they really do matter; to be recognised more.

I hoped by setting up Little Daffodils that I helped a little in making that step towards supporting people, making sure people are never left alone.

Post-Neonatal

There is so much I want to do, but have no idea where to begin. I want to change so much, the maternity services, the bereavement services. I would like throw the text books out of the windows and burn them, because no BODY is the same. Women and families should not be treated as such.

Tonight I feel a little angry at the world, and how cruel it is to feel essentially thrown out into the cold, when all we ever wanted was the warmth that we watched others have*.

I need to now figure out the next step.

But maybe when I feel less angry.

Ideas are welcome, links to places I can contact. I want to do more.

*I was lucky to have online forums, people slate the online community a lot, but if I hadn’t had them I honestly do not know where I would have been.

 

Thank you for reading.

Post-Neonatal awareness

 

Clear and Let Go

Children’s Grief Awareness

Children’s Grief Awareness.
People struggle with talking about death, and in particular when it involves children’s grief.
I was a child when I lost my grandfathers.
One it was all terribly hushed, there was rarely any mention. When the other died I was told he’d gone to sleep. For me it made a natural thing difficult, would I sleep and never wake up? There was never any real openness about it, which in my mind, even now made it terrifying.

Sibling Grief

sibling grief

When our five week old daughter died it wasn’t me who told her siblings, it is definitely something I wish I had. But I couldn’t process what on earth had happened.
It certainly wasn’t something I could hide from them.
Unfortunately when it comes to the loss of a baby, of a child, society wants you to be silent; there’s a need to stop talking about the tiny person, to forget.

For us as a family Melody’s immediate family, made the decision to be open with her siblings.
A week after she died it was my oldest daughter’s birthday; there was no locking ourselves away, we had to return to normality. We’d already brought presents for her; in our minds we knew who was giving her what; which included a present from Melody – she wasn’t expected to die. My husband and I chatted between us made the decision that the presents would still be from Melody.
To outsiders this seemed strange, it probably was but there is no text book, no right or wrong when it came to early grief of our daughter.

Criticism

As bereaved parents, we are often faced with lots of criticism from people who quite frankly don’t understand. They’re lucky they don’t.
We needed to be grateful for having our living children; or being over the death of our daughter.
We know she wasn’t here long, we are reminded of that daily.
“At least you have other children”
“At least she never came home.”

Emotion

Watching my children cry, sob because they had to learn the hard way that babies die, feeling not only helpless but guilty too…I’ve been made to feel like that many times.
Having to tell the children that she wouldn’t be coming home like she was supposed to.
Seeing a tiny coffin in the church; this was then placed in the ground.

We didn’t know if we wanted them at the funeral; but I guess we were selfish maybe in wanting to break without the children being there; we had no idea how we would be. But they did go, my daughter read a story.
There’s nothing least about any of it.
So, having made the decision to be open, we chose to be led by them.
Of course it was hard; we were never able to let grief grip us, there were no days in bed, no crying on the sofa for days on end.
Of course we cried, it wasn’t something we could control, we didn’t want to. Crying is normal and healthy thing to do.

They needed to know that they could cry.
They chose to be as open as they wished, we literally followed their lead. Things like talking about her or visiting her grave.
For me her grave is full of horror, I hate it. I visit because I’m her mum, but rarely.
But if the children want to, then that’s what we do. They’ve taken the role of tidying her, if my husband or I place items; they move them to a spot they prefer. They look out for her.

Off Days

 

But there is also the other way too; where just recently one of them didn’t want to talk about her. He was having a moment where he preferred he didn’t have a sister who died. From an adult point of view, from my own grief I quite often agree with him. There are days when people ask me how many children I have; and I lie or simply the days where I just don’t think about her. That is okay. He fears he would be bullied from his experience. But that is possibly down to the fact that there aren’t many of us in this situation. And society as a whole would rather we keep it quiet. Truth is told he is probably not the only one in his class who has lost a sibling, either through pregnancy or after.

Yet today he is asking to buy her an “M” ready for our crafting session this weekend.

Individual Grief

 

Grief is incredibly individual especially a child’s grief; there certainly are no hard rules.

Grief and death as a whole are both so taboo, yet it sadly affects everyone in their lifetime.

The taboo is even more so when it involves baby and infant death, it shouldn’t. To talk openly and freely helps those who are in the grips of grief. It helps spread awareness, often helps save others too.  Time is no way a healer; I wish that things were different, I wish that she hadn’t died; biggest wish is that I wish my children hadn’t lost their sister.

We are nearly six years down the line, I really am so proud of everything they have done since; how well they have coped. They have two new sisters, they now educate them of their sister “who lives in the clouds.”

Sibling grief

 

melody and me

New Questions. Siblings Love.

light up lettering, siblings

Losing Melody

We’re open about the death of Melody, we don’t hide the fact that she has died; especially to her older siblings. They met her and spent five weeks with her. Five years on, it is still the case. We can go weeks even months without talking about her, but can also go weeks where we talk about her daily.

It is something we have come to be comfortable with in our family unit. My son struggled just recently, saying how he didn’t want to talk about her; to me I am glad he was open and we as a family respected that. He went on to say that he didn’t want to get bullied about the situation and it wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk about her. We have spoken through this; and he has since brought her up of his own say so.

I would never force her on the children; we have right from the very beginning been led by the children, often even before our own feelings.  I know people choose to believe otherwise – but unless you have been through losing Melody (not baby loss as a whole), but Melody then judging has no place in our home.

When I say “losing Melody”, I say this because each and every person’s loss is individual it is personal to them. Baby bereavement is incredibly complex without the need to judge how anyone glues themselves back together.

Siblings Lessons

Being open has played a huge part in our healing process. When you have a baby it is parent’s job to teach that growing baby about life, from walking and talking to colours of the rainbow, everything has to be taught.

For Melody’s younger siblings that is the case, to them Melody is nothing but a fairy tale; a picture in the frame, a name or a letter we include to remember her; headstone that needs to be decorated. The older two siblings however between them they made the decision to not hide Melody from the younger ones, to be open with them, to teach them about the sister they will never meet.

The older out of the two youngest, is 4, she was born 11 months after Melody had died.

She has started mentioning her, when we see garden ornaments or flowers; her sister will say “Aw that would be lovely for Melody.” She is very sweet.

She knows about her, or at least as much as we can explain to her. The painful thing is that her older brother had already learned about baby death at her age now. It wasn’t something we could hide from him.

Questions

Today she started asking questions; right from the very first Halloween after loss, we have always included her, we always decorate her grave; this year we haven’t, we haven’t been up for several weeks now – I know I should; but I just find it hard. The children were doing their pumpkins; we always do one for Melody.

“Did she laugh?”

“Was Melody in your tummy?”

“Did she say Daddy?”

“Did she say your name Mummy?”

I had to stop her there.

“No; because you have the biggest giggles now.” I replied.

I always knew what to say before, but now I am not so sure. These are the same questions but they are new. They are new to them.

Answers

I don’t understand myself why we never got to hear her laugh or hear her say Mummy and Daddy. I am stumped. My older children knew she didn’t laugh, her siblings knew she never spoke a word. We as her parents have slowly come to terms with never hearing her voice.

Now, these new questions, although I guess expected have caught me off guard. I will be as honest as I can be.

How can I say to her that no, your sister born before you never had the chance to say a word, never felt the first belly laugh from deep within. She never got to leave the hospital, despite the odds being in her favour.

I never got her hear her say “Mama.”

We know that we will answer them in a gentle way, that Melody was here for a little time, but she had to go and live in the clouds (where she thinks she is). I know it will pacify her enough for now, and for a little while longer. At least until she’s older, until they’re all older we get the real questions on why she died.

We don’t know, I don’t think we will ever understand.

Little girls sat on a headstone, belonging to their sister.

If you have missed my recent posts here is the last one I shared…

baby loss awareness

Baby Loss – Jordanna’s Story

Our Story

Our story began on October 25th 2016..we had been trying for a baby for 6 months when we found out I was pregnant.. I had all the symptoms up until about 5 weeks when everything eased off and I felt good, I just put it down to every pregnancy being different that I’d lost all my pregnancy symptoms but it turned out that was when our baby stopped growing… it was another 4 weeks before we found out…

The Long Few Weeks

Those weeks were plagued with no sleep I couldn’t settle or relax in my head I knew something wasn’t right. On November the 17th the bleeding started a small amount getting heavier.. I rang 111 in a panic then they referred me to the doctors who gave me a appointment for the early pregnancy unit at Musgrove the next days. The next 24 hours were torture..

Knowing that the outcome wasn’t going to be good but hanging onto to that tiny bit of hope. We arrived at the hospital sat in a waiting room with expectant mum’s all glowing and excited. I knew we had lost the baby. I was took into a room and scanned I was told my baby had stopped growing weeks ago and that it wasn’t growing where it should be. I was asked if I wanted to see I declined if I didn’t look it wouldn’t be real.

Baby Loss

The sonographer handed me a leaflet on miscarriage but I declined as our baby was still there it hadn’t happened yet they might have got it wrong.. we had to return in a week to check that it happened naturally. I broke down leaving the hospital after that I went into shut down it was only months later it hit me like a ton of bricks,crying day in day out; blocking pregnant people and baby’s from my Facebook news feed,crying at other people’s pregnancy announcements; angry that everyone had moved on but you haven’t.

Why is no-one else mourning but I am..a year on I’m still feeling that way but the tears are less and some days are better than others..now we are crossing our fingers for a rainbow baby..it’s the hope of one in the future that keeps us going.

 

Thank you Jordanna, for sharing your story.

melody and me

Charity Awareness – PAIL Awareness

charity towards tomorrow logo

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Week

This week remembers and spreads awareness about the babies and children who have passed away. I have always been open and honest about my grief journey; my thoughts after Melody died. I don’t really need this single week to do so; however it gets people thinking, it gets people talking, it brings the taboo to the forefront of people’s minds. In the hope that one day the taboo will be a distant memory. We have a long way to go.

When we walked out of the hospital after Melody had died; it became apparent form very early on that the support as a whole for bereaved parents really is few and far between; even more so with Melody’s death. Leaflets, awareness, even charities concentrated on a few scenarios; which of course is amazing, the more awareness the more chances women and professionals will be able to reduce the rate of death. But it can leave parents like us feel alone, pushed out and even more isolated.

Charity

From the first few days I took to online support; but knew I wanted to help more; there’s so much more I want to do. I decided that I would like to try and get a group together. It was something I felt was missing. I ended up contacting Mel Scott of Towards Tomorrow Together, a charity who supports families who have lost a baby through miscarriage, stillbirth, babies with poor prognosis in utero and they included us. So essentially all losses, nobody gets excluded.

Little Daffodils was born; although it was originally named Melody’s Voices I came away from a prestigious baby loss event in 2016 – The Butterfly Awards and knew that giving support and making a difference was so much more than doing something in her name, and in her memory. Daffodils are the flowers for us who represent Melody but they give so much colour, but only live for a short time. I really want to make a difference; sometimes it can feel like I am hitting a brick wall; others when people message for support and then say thank you, I know something must be doing.

Towards Tomorrow Together provide Butterfly Boxes to hospitals to help families create memories in the short time after a baby or child has died. Unfortunately it isn’t something we personally received (back to the lack of support), but they do bring comfort to families who have to leave without their beloved children.

Little Daffodils

 

 

Education

Through the death of her own baby, Mel has worked tirelessly to raise awareness, put together educational sessions – I have even spoken at one; and in the midst of putting one together myself, with the help of Mel.

It is difficult to get across to professionals the real thoughts and emotions behind losing a baby; through textbooks there should be a time limit. There isn’t.

This Somerset run charity works a lot from fundraising, this year Little Daffodils as a team has made £1900 with various fundraisers.

There is so much more to do within the baby loss community, especially for infant loss awareness; it will take more than a week out of a year to achieve it, but we do need to keep talking, keep listening most importantly to not let any parents – Mums and Dads feel alone and unsupported. Their – our babies mattered.

She wasn’t “just” a baby. She is ours; she was here for five weeks. She is Melody.

 

Julz.