Category Archives: Melody

Baby-Loss

End of the school year

The further away from the initial death you go, the less milestones you think you will come across. But truth be told, I think there will always be something which will connect your baby and the things they should have been doing. September 2016 should have been the year she started school, out of all the milestones to reach; I had assumed that would have been the last one – at least until secondary school starts. But there will always be something.

Sports Day

These next few weeks up and down the country (UK), parents are heading out to watch sports days, or eagerly waiting for the day to finish learning how the day went. The children from Reception classes excitedly taking to the field; looking out for their Mummies and Daddies, in the hope to catch a wave.  Fresh yellow P.E kits, tiny bean bags and hoops are spread around the area, ready for the games to begin, lines painted perfectly ready for the young runners to begin their races.
Children’s names being called around the field, cheers echoing across as their child nears the finishing line, louder squeals for the ones who come first, encouraging voices for the ones who come last.
It dawns on me, that some of these children are at the age of which Melody should have been, the friends she could have made, the Sports Day she was meant to be at.
Another ‘first’ that she has not done; another event from which she is missing.
Another day where life just goes on, a day for quiet reflection, thoughts to how she would have been during the day.
Would she have been sporty? Which part would she have enjoyed? She was feisty during her time she was with us; would that have led her to be a determined winner in the field?
Would she have struggled with the courses?
Would she have been embarrassed by her parents calling her name?
Or would she have loved the attention?

Another missed photo opportunity, as she would have returned to her class room all wet from sweat, hair falling out of her hair band, happy to have finished or happy to have competed.

I never thought it would be such a big deal.

 

School Report

As the school year draws to a close, parents evenings are to be had, school plays performed, end of term parties, new teachers to be met, school work brought home, reports to read.

I have kept all of their reports and as many of their pictures as I have space for, there have been a lot over the years. No use to anyone but sentimental, in the hope that one day when they get to adulthood, they can giggle over the work they produced during their childhood, you know the pictures of their parents with huge heads and stick men bodies.

This has been another thing that has dawned on me. A missing school report; a document to prove that she would have been at school this year, a story of who she would have been at school. Information about what subjects she may have been good at, or ones that maybe she’d not really enjoyed. To know how much the prematurity would have affected her. As with all very premature babies there’s a risk of slow development, at least slower than their peers, but she never did follow any text book.

All the reports and meetings with professionals; a bit like parents evenings I guess but in the NICU were all great; she was doing above and beyond expectations. I’ll always wonder, or at least this time of year, whether her school reports would have followed suit.

“Melody is a lovely addition to the class; a little headstrong.”

As I wrote about my living children in their fantastic reports and end of term plans, I realise the only new photos of her I can share are of a headstone with new flowers; with the words.

Nothing to report.

Lost celebratory words.
No acknowledgement of a girl who should have been here.
Of a girl who should have almost completed her year in Primary School.

 

Absent – Unauthorised. 
melody and me

Dream Sequence

I met her in my dreams the other night; this is something which I have not done in a very long time.

As much as you’d imagine a dream to have a happier ending it didn’t, but it also wasn’t a nightmare either – at least not the ones I had come to known in the beginning. Death had still found her, but the dream brought me a second chance.

The Dream

A phone call came. I don’t like phone calls; no idea why I am just one of those who just isn’t keen. It was the hospital, a voice I recognised with a background of an echoed reception area –  I knew the sound well; behind the voice, I could hear the long beeps from machines, the long beep which used to tell us she was on too much oxygen – that sound seems to stay.

There had been a mistake, she had somehow been left behind at the hospital; forgotten maybe and that the funeral we thought we’d had for her was just an empty box. Nobody knew how or why it had happened; I was then asked whether we’d like to see her. It was hard to know what to decide; I guess even in my dream it had been years – but we agreed, surely they wouldn’t have offered if there was nothing to see.

When we arrived the people who stood before us seemed shocked; they began to explain that she was somehow perfectly preserved like no time had passed since she had. I wanted to see. The people parted ways to reveal a baby, laid in a cot – peaceful and unmoving. I looked at her Dad and he me; I had to pick her up. As I held her she seemed a little bigger than I had remembered, but it was her, the slight tape embellishments on her cheeks, her little nose much like her siblings, and her fine strawberry blonde hair that covered her head.

Never Let Go.

When she died, we didn’t know that we could have spent more time with her or that there were still more memories to make. I knew this dream would end, but I also knew I had to make the most of it, of her. We bathed her, not once putting her down, kissed her forehead – knowing that her temperature wasn’t right, only made me feel more determined to warm her with love and kisses. I was able to snuggle her in bed, which I never got to do. To sit and choose a coffin whilst holding her in my arms – morbid I know, but it is what is meant to be done when it is one of the last things to do for your baby, we never knew about the choice of tiny coffins. Everything was to happen quickly, I didn’t once put her down. the weight of her felt comfortable in my arm – I didn’t want to let her go again.

But I did. I was able to place her into her new pink coffin, placing her gently on to cotton sheet we had placed for her. It felt all so different.

I got to hold her longer and kiss her more, her eyes remained closed.

As my eyes opened.

 

 

Dreams.

I think I speak of her so much (when I can), during my awake time; that I guess I don’t need to be searching for her in my sleep too. My brain has become so accustomed to knowing that she isn’t with me, that I guess my sleeping mind doesn’t need to search for something my awake mind has gotten used to. I have never dreamed of her as a growing child, again maybe because my brain knows she has gone. I simply can’t imagine what she would have been like.

In the beginning, the nightmares came, mistakes before she died, the most obvious one about – were they 100% sure that she had died. Those dreams faded into nothing, they all stopped. I am glad in a way that I don’t have dreams about who she could have been. I’m as comfortable as I can be with not imagining that.

 

I don’t know why I suddenly had this dream after all this time; I know there is probably the message of regret and things we weren’t able to do with her. For that night, those fictional moments I was able to hold her again.

 

dreams

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

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

The Question

A little thought

 In every day life there are many conversations, one specific question always arises. As human beings we are inquisitive about the people we meet. It is the most obvious way we communicate. It is a way of making new friends or simply as part of an individual employment role.

Questions

How are you today?
Have you been busy?
Would you like a hand packing?
How many children do you have?
Polite conversations always begins with the simple answers. Or at least in a normal world it would be a simple question; a normal world where children hadn’t died.
But you can’t answer straight away, the one question you should know, that you should be able to answer in an instant, you can’t. Then the odd looks when you don’t answer right away. The confused looks which spread across their faces, you know exactly what they are thinking. “Surely she should know how many children she has?”
How can such a question with the most obvious answer be one of the most difficult ones to answer?

Five

I am a Mum to five children; but I parent four. I speak openly about the death of Melody, particularly when I can write about her.
However when I meet new people, especially people who have no clue as to what has happened; I pause. I try and gauge what sort of person they are; of course most people judge this after a few times of meeting, but that question often comes early on in conversations, I know I quickly have to try and answer it, but not come across as completely crazy and not know how many children I have become a mother to.

White Lie. The Fantasy.

I have to admit, for a tiny moment the answer to a total stranger is that I DO have five children; but the fifth is always at home with her Dad, or Grandparent or school or anywhere but in a grave yard.
But as we all know it isn’t as simple of that, then they ask the ages and where are they all? You must have your hands full with five. It’s hard not to find yourself caught up in a little white lie. I try to imagine what it would be like with an extra little person, it is mayhem here already. If only.
The other side of it is getting caught up with the taboo, as sometimes it is just simpler.
“I have four children”

Guilt

But of course that is also a lie. Not giving her a mention; a moment of thought; leaving me to feel guilty for the rest of the day.
Living in a society where child loss is such a taboo, the first white lie would be more acceptable, than saying the truth. The ugly truth that your minus one isn’t anywhere.
Sometimes easier to avoid the awkwardness, the stuttering, and the head tilts, when all you want is a chat, to make a friend.
I am not ashamed of our story and am pleased that my friends allow me to be open.
I hate hiding her because she is my baby girl.
But Sometimes, and only sometimes it is nice not to be a bereaved parent,
Sometimes the simplest of questions are indeed the hardest.
I have five children but I parent four.

Melody and Me – The Switch.

The Switch

This last week I have made the decision to switch my family blog from normal blogging; to self hosting. As I was trying to make the final decision it dawned on me that I really needed to self host for Melody and Me too.

There is so much awareness her legacy is leaving behind, it only felt right that she had her own space, dropping any other words from the address. My relationship with grief is such a unique experience, I want to share it freely. I have some things planned in the form of books to follow on from A Mayflower’s Rainbow, which I am very looking forward to.

There is so much more I need to do; to bring the awareness of losing a baby so that it is no longer stigmatized, no longer the taboo that it is. These little children were meant to be our future, they were meant to take our legacy with them, not the other way around. So for me it felt really important to switch over, and teach the world about our little girl who only stayed for 35 days.

Learning

The switch has been a complete headache. I am sure there are still adjustments to be made…please point me in the right direction. I have learned so much within the switching process, that I can’t say how I ever managed before; it has certainly been an eye opener. There were many, many times I asked my husband, why the hell am I doing this? Is it really worth it?

I guess only time will tell.

Thank you so much for your patience with all the swapping around..writing service will resume soon.

 

 

Lots of Love

Julz

Melody’s Mummy

xx

 

April Fools Day. Why We Still Grieve the Life We Lost.

Bliss.
Everything about the life we led was normal. My second marriage, had led us to our honeymoon baby, our first together, even our rainbow baby after our two miscarriages. It wasn’t an easy pregnancy, but this was nothing new, I didn’t “do” easy pregnancies, but my babies came home.
I passed the “magical” gestations, the 12 weeks, the 20 week scan. Once we hit 24 weeks I discovered this thing in which many pregnant women celebrate, a milestone to the name of Viability Day or “V” Day. I’d hit this, and passed it, once I had passed this, we were on the home straight..right?
It’ll never happen to me.
But it did.
Everything will be fine
When she was born she fought to the best she could, the best her little body could cope with. She defied what the doctors had warned us about.
Feisty, strong willed tiniest of beings, with a huge personality, who wanted to be in the 80% survival rate. She never spoke, we didn’t spend much time with her, but I knew she wanted to come home with us. She loved a cuddle, she loved her family’s voices, her brother and sister were her people.
She wanted to join us.
As I documented her progress, announced her discharge date, jumped for joy as she hit 2lb, celebrated as my milk had arrived to feed her.
Everyone, on a daily basis would tell us, she’d be fine, she’d be home in no time.
That their baby, or their friend’s neighbours’ baby was born with less odds, they were fine.
She was a girl, she had the better odds.
Everything went in her favour.
But the odds failed her.
She died.
I relaxed.
I had allowed myself to breathe a little.
To love this tiny little miracle, who had greeted us well before her due date.
Listened to people tell me they wouldn’t buy her gifts because they’d jinx her.
We watched as people turned their heads away in disgust at her early birth photos.
The bond hadn’t come in the theatre surrounded by a sea of blue people,it hadn’t really come whilst she was inside my womb.
There was always something different about the bond I had with her, whilst I was pregnant with her.
But as the reality had begun to sink in, that our micro premature baby would come home, it was then I allowed myself to love her.
To truly know she was mine.
This tiny little person, a whole 9 inches of her was – is ours.
I fell in love with her.
Through this clear plastic box, blanketed with wires, rather than Brahms Lullaby, there was a tune of beeps, and alarms that made Melody, her.
Made her real.
I allowed myself to get excited, for the future, a fresh start.
The longing to leave the NICU behind us.
This wasn’t how we wanted to leave the NICU.  
Dying wasn’t part of the plan.
Sepsis Stole Our Baby.
April 1st 2012
We walked into NICU, parents of a five week old premature baby, a feisty, full of character little (tiny) girl.
Left heartbroken, lost and confused.
We were (are) still her parents, only we left the hospital as bereaved parents.
It wasn’t supposed to be like that.
I slammed my breast pump and hard pumped milk into the bin, defeated with no idea what the hell to do next.
I cannot even begin to describe the true feelings that appeared that day.
When people use the cliché, “there are no words”.
There isn’t.
I’ve spoken about our loss so much, how I could describe it. But I can’t.
Not the cold harsh truth, because I can’t even make sense of it, of any of it.
I cannot put into words.
I think if I tried, it would only belittle it.
The extreme pain, the intense loss.
Everything should have been different.
It really should have been.
Sepsis, snatched her.
She had a chance, but it took her.
We lost her.
Aren’t you over that now? 
Why I Still Grieve The Loss of Our Daughter.
It has been long enough.
Why do you keep torturing yourself?
Why do you keep boring us?
Stop being so morbid?
You didn’t know her very long, 
hell you didn’t get to know her at all, it wasn’t as if she came home.
She’s our daughter.
I lost the opportunity to co-sleep.
To breast feed without a tube (she actually did try to latch on, but was too little).
No chance of tasting food.
She never got the chance to leave the hospital. 
Well of course she did, just not the way we wanted.
She did have the sun on her face a couple of times, but she never felt the breeze fluff her hair or brush her cheek.
We never got to hear her voice, or an attempt at a laugh.
I cannot remember if I told her I loved her, I did when she was dying.
But when we had the best times with her, I cannot remember.
I’ll never hear the words from her, or watch her face light up as I walk in to the room. Or watch as she raised her arms for a cuddle.
I’ll never know if she would have been a Mummy or a Daddy’s girl.
Her brain scans had come back clear, but we could never have known how clear until she reached a certain age.
We saw a smile, maybe even two.
I can’t remember if I kissed her nose, my favourite place to kiss her siblings.
She never heard the Gruffalo.
Her first steps were never taken, her first words never spoken.
An empty chair in the dinner hall at school.
The missing friends.
As I spend time with children her age, I’m no longer filled with pain, but wonder; wonder who she would have been.
I grieve the life, the future we have lost.
Gone.
I grieve the 5 week old baby, who should have turned into a toddler, and an infant, into a reception child.
I grieve because I cannot comprehend what has happened, why it happened to us. 
I’m allowed.
How has it been 1826 days, since I last held her, felt her breath, her warmth?
How has it been 1815 days since we last saw her and gave her a kiss good night?
I’m allowed to be in the dark, because losing a baby, a child who we had come to love isn’t fluff and rainbows, it is black.
Time doesn’t heal, and there isn’t a reason for everything.
I’m allowed to be happy, excited about life.
But I am also allowed to scream and cry, without question or the need to be offered medication.
There is no cure.
Be patient.
Be our friend.
Be kind.
It may be 5 years, it’ll be the same in 50.
She’ll always be our baby.
We’ll always be minus one.
I never wanted to say goodbye. 

What If

On their own what and if are insignificant, tiny little words.
But together are heavy reminders of things that might have been. 
What If. 
What if is something that is engraved into a person when they lose someone they love, of course not just a baby, so many missed opportunities, occasional regrets. 
What If. 
When I lost Grandparents, a parent there were many what ifs but over time for me they have passed, my Nan had Alzheimer’s Disease, so sadly inevitable that we’d lose her at some point. She had days where we visited her, spent time with her thinking, that would her last day, but when it came her final moments she sent alone, I missed her last breath by moments. But in all honesty because the disease hadn’t taken hold for me there wasn’t really any what ifs. 
When my Dad passed, it was sudden, for a time there were the usual, What if he hadn’t taken my brother out? What if he’d been at home, or surrounded by people? Would there have been a chance for him?What if my relationship with him was better? So many what ifs, but in time they have faded, occasionally they creep up, but they never feel like a punch in the gut; like the What Ifs that come with losing Melody. It doesn’t mean I loved my Nan or my Dad any less, it just really means that the grief over the three are so different, for me incomparable. 
Even almost five years down the line, the What ifs, the questions are still as clear and as painful as the first days after she died. 
For me even her birth presents these questions in my mind.
I was ill, I felt terrible but I often question whether there was more, to go through the events leading to her birth, of course these were answered with just how seriously ill I was, moments from seizing, but still; 
What if there could have been more to be done?
What if I hadn’t had a peanut butter craving?
What if I hadn’t brought the pram in the house?
She was the only one I ate peanut butter with (or peanuts in general), 
she was the only one we had the pram in the house. 
Of course those are silly ones, to you maybe but to me they’re huge.
What if I hadn’t had the car accident in the beginning? 
I was about 10 weeks pregnant when I wrote off my car, I still see the man who caused the accident, and still wonder if that was the start of it all.
What if we had been phoned sooner? 
There were little things that we noticed that the nurses hadn’t, not all bad, not because they weren’t doing their jobs, but as her parents we saw things that they didn’t always notice, maybe we could have spotted something that night. 
What if there had been more staff?
What if we had been asked about the eye procedure? 
What if we’d refused?
These are just a few. 
So many questions that are still as clear as the day she left, some answered, some not. 
Some still cause our hearts to skip a beat at how different the outcome should have been had things been done differently. 
What If I had done more?

Why do I keep on, keep punishing myself? 
The simple answer is I’m not. 
For me it is part of my love, my journey I have with the girl who couldn’t stay. 
Our Daughter. 

I Never Wanted Just Memories.

Have you ever watched Grey’s Anatomy? 
I don’t want to say too much, for anyone who hasn’t yet watched any of the series. One of the Doctors as part of an ending to a season lost her beloved fiancee. She didn’t want to leave him at the hospital, torn away from the person she loved so much, she had to eventually say goodbye.

Once home, she placed herself on the floor, in her clothes, there she stayed, unmoved, unwashed mainly unspoken for days…


I never did the wallow, lie on the floor shut everything out thing. I couldn’t stay in bed, I didn’t want to stay in bed, I have other children. And I am thankful.
Right now as we’re nearing her 5th birthday, constant countdowns. The one thing I actually want to do is to just lie on the floor, stare at the ceiling, say nothing, do nothing. 
Shut myself away. 
My whole body feels heavy, I can at times feel myself falling, lower and lower, the strength that people assume I have is going. It is tired, it is weak.
It is meant to get easier.
Or so I am told.
I cannot help the way I feel, no pill is going to change that she died.
I’m not ill.
I know each year the run up is always the worst part. 
Those who understand know just how hard the lead up is.
I thought it would get easier.

This time 5 years ago we we’d had our 20 week scan, we knew our baby was healthy,and of course the gender. Wow, pink or blue, how exciting?! Baby’s legs were crossed. We had another 19 weeks to find out.
Five years is knocking me on my ass.  I am drowning. 
How the hell can it possibly be this long?

“Shouldn’t I be over that by now?”  
” Don’t think about it. “

I can’t erase her, I can’t forget her, forget what has happened.  
In desperation believe me I have tried.  
Only makes me feel worse for trying to forget she ever existed. 
Guilt.
Times where I have wished that I never met her, or had hope.
But at the same time, I still would have chosen her.

Times where I wished she was “the Angel in the clouds”.
Because it is easier.

I know I’m OK, I know this is normal, well as normal as speaking to other mums who are also 5 years old this year.  
So before you think in your head, I need help.  I don’t.  Empty pities.  Empty words. 

This here is all the therapy I need. It helps me. 
This year, right now I feel as raw as I did back then.
I am allowed to feel unbelievably sad.
I still never expected this.
I expected to feel OK. 
It is after all nearly five years. 
How the fuck is it five years? 
Still have 6 weeks plus another 5 weeks to go.  
So forgive me if right now I don’t have the strength in me to be OK, the mask has broken.  
To want to lie on the floor, unmoved, untouched.  
To scream until my throat hurts.  
To cry until the tears can no longer fall.  
I have no more fight left in me. 
Because this February she should have been 5. 
It is such a significant number.
She should have come home.
Her outcome should have been so different.

(Her Nanny brought this lamb, along with a balloon to congratulate us whilst we were still in the hospital. This lamb signifies her birth. A New Life, but not necessarily the one we expected).

If I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Another New Year

New Year
Another year ticking over since I last held her, smelt her, kissed her. 
Coming up 5 years since.  Five seems such a large number.  So significant. So far away. 
At times it all feels like a dream,  that she was never here, not real. 
This Christmas was the first we didn’t visit over Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. Besides being poorly,  not visiting her was actually a really difficult decision.  This year I felt unbelievably torn.  Between the love, the lives of the children who are with me and her. 
The thought of the cold and the rain, standing there blowing kisses to the air. 
Leaving her behind in the cold and the rain pains me every single time. 
That is where she is, cold in the open air.  Alone and away from her family.
This year I couldn’t face the trip.
Another guilty feeling in this shitty situation. 
It’s been almost 5 years, I’ve had enough now. What ever bad shit I have done, I’ve paid. I want her home, to complete the family we had planned.
I’m done. 
Five years of trying to keep her memory alive.
Five years of family and friends turning their backs on us.
Five years of justifying why she still mention her. 
She may have only been here 5 weeks, 35 days. But she is still our daughter.  She never had the chance to become the woman she could have been.  No celebrity status, no chance at life, just a hope taken. 
This year as we tick over into 2017, I feel confused, hurt I guess, almost raw again.
This time five years ago I was pregnant and looking forward to the following Christmas, her first. 
Why can’t I just get over her?
Because I don’t want to.