Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Guest Post: Right where I am: 9 months and 4 weeks

Nicole describes herself as "a thirty-something charity worker from the North East of England. Xander was our first baby, conceived after years of trying, and just when we were about to give up. After an uneventful 'text book' pregnancy, I was nearly 2 weeks overdue when I went to the hospital thinking I was in labour, only to be told he'd died in the 10 hours since we'd last heard his heartbeat. He was born silently on Tuesday 16th August 2011, just before midnight." 

 Where am I now? Not where I should be. My son should be nearly 10 months old. He should be here in my arms, not existing only as ashes in a tiny box. It’s a funny word, ‘should’. I often catch myself using it - it’s when I temporarily exist in the make believe land where my boy is alive and my life is whole and complete. Where our house is full of noise, and smells, and Jim stubs his toe on the baby things left on the floor. Where the cats run away from our little lovely boy, to avoid getting their tails pulled. Where we’ve had to move things off the bottom shelves and fit stair gates, to keep him safe. This land doesn’t exist. Our house is quiet. The cats undisturbed. Our lives are much the same as before, but forever changed.

 I think of him a million times a day. Everything reminds me of him. Sometimes that’s comforting. I can remember the love I felt when he was growing inside me and the joy I felt every day, and I feel warm and content in the memory. Sometimes it’s as far from comforting as it can possibly be. I miss him so much. I ache to hold him and I rush round the house trying to find something of his. But I’m thwarted at every turn. I have nothing that was his – nothing he touched. We bought a soft toy for him after the 20 week scan, and I sat with a couple of times on my bump, telling Jim I was letting them bond. This is the nearest thing I have to something of his and sometimes I sit with it, to try and be close to him. But it’s a poor substitute for a living boy. Sometimes I take the glass off the frame that holds his footprints, and run my fingers over the marks his feet made, desperate to touch something he touched. Nothing quite does it. Nothing can ever satisfy the need to see him, hold him, to mother him.

 I keep having to remind myself I am a mother. It’s hard to feel like one when the object of my affection has ceased to exist. I am a different mother to all of my friends. I can’t possible understand their reality, and they can’t ever understand mine. I feel separate, different. I am a freak in a world full of normals. The sense of isolation is enormous.

 I would love another baby. I hope that one day it’ll happen for us, but I’m not so sure. It took so many years before we had Xander. Sometimes I think he was our only chance at having a family, and I swear I can almost feel my heart breaking all over again. The road ahead is filled with danger – if we ever conceive again, will I miscarry? Will the baby be stillborn again? Will they die of SIDS? Will they die at age 2, or 5, or 15? The innocence of pregnancy is gone, and I can never feel it again. Sometimes I wish I could see the future, other times I’m glad I can’t – because if I knew more loss of this magnitude was coming my way I think I’d fall down dead. I worry about everyone in my life, especially my husband. If he has a headache, or a cough, or comes home a little late, I’ve half convinced myself he’s gone. I know that having one loss doesn’t protect you from another – there’s an unlimited amount of bad in the world, as there is of good.

 People ask me how I am and I say ‘okay’. I’m coping. And I am. I’m not staying in bed, not avoiding the world, I’ve not lost my mind and I’m not trying to kill myself. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about all of those things, many times. But I get on with life. Hell, sometimes I even enjoy it. I go out, see friends and family - sometimes I enjoy things so much, or I laugh so hard, that life feels wonderful. Other times I am so sad I can’t stop crying. I want to sit very, very still and hope the world goes away, or spontaneously ends without me having to do anything about it. Apocalypse? Deadly virus? Gigantic asteroid on a collision course with earth – bring it on! Sometimes I’m so mad, so filled with rage at the world that I want to kick things over, shout at people, punch god in the face, or scream until I have no voice left.

 So where am I now? I am coping. I get by. Sometimes I’m even living. But my reality is forever changed. Nothing and nobody can bring my boy back. I read somewhere that life goes on, but so does death. I know this to be true. I’ll carry the strength of his memory, and the weight of his loss, with me until the end of my days

12 comments:

  1. Not where I should be. That's it really, isn't it? No matter how far along the path we all get, the reality is we will never be where we should have been because our babies will never be here.

    I remember well the feeling of life being the same but ever changed. I came from the hospital with all the same jobs needing doing, the same routines needing to be followed and I hated it. Because I wanted it to be different.

    I am sorry Xander is not with you, tormenting the cats and trashing the lower shelves of your house. I truly hope that the journey towards a sibling for him is smoother than you expect it to be.

    (P.S. I'm in the North East of England too.)

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  2. I lost my daughter on August 11, 2011. I feel like I could have written your post. I live and breathe the same feelings every day. I am sending you love and hugs. I am so sorry for your loss of your precious son.

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  3. I lost my twins on August 5, 2011. They, too, were conceived after years of trying and were our first children. We've been back on he ART train again since to no avail. I'm actually trying to make peace with the thought of donor eggs, since that may well be our only hope for another pregnancy.

    It's almost amazing that we survive this, and of you're like me, it's not for trying. I had all the same thoughts you described, and I'm still here, too. Eleven months is fast approaching for me and sometimes I still can't believe this is my life, among the babylost.

    Hugs to you, Nicole...

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  4. Beautifully written and so very heartbreakingly true. Light and love to you.

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  5. Nicole, my god, I am right there with you. Right there, even down to the cats resting quietly and undisturbed beside me where my baby 'should' be. Thank you for writing this beautifully expressed post, it really touched me. I'm so sorry that Xander cannot be with you where he belongs. I am thinking of you both all the way from the other side of the world.

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  6. Not where you should be. No. And neither is Xander and that is so utterly unfair. The world has so little mercy and it is cruel that this can happen after infertility and long journeys. I am so sorry. Keep breathing. Xxx

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  7. Oh this was very close to home.
    "Our lives are much the same as before, but forever changed."
    And:
    " I keep having to remind myself I am a mother. It’s hard to feel like one when the object of my affection has ceased to exist. I am a different mother to all of my friends. I can’t possible understand their reality, and they can’t ever understand mine. I feel separate, different. I am a freak in a world full of normals. The sense of isolation is enormous."

    As a mother who also lost her first, I want to reach out to you and tell you, you're not alone in your thoughts.

    I'm so very, very sorry your Xander is not here.

    xo

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  8. "I think of him a million times a day." Sometimes I wonder how it is possible to think of one thing as often as I think of my daughter and to still be able to function to all appearances as a 'normal' person. It's mind-boggling. And "Our lives are much the same as before, but forever changed." This is the bizarre riddle of life with a dead baby, isn't it? How you come home to your old life and the sameness of it shocks: how can it be when such a monumental loss has shaken you to the core. I'm so very sorry Xander is not with you. Thank you for sharing.

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  9. Thank you so much, for all your lovely responses. It's heartening and heartbreaking at the same time to know that there are others feeling the same things. I wish none of us had lost our children, but I'm hugely grateful to have the opportunity to share my thoughts here, and that you took the time to respond. Love to you all x

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  10. Oh, that urge to touch something that they touched - I know it well. And the cruel combination of babyloss and infertility - I am so sorry you lost your beautiful Xander. Sending so much love. xxxx h

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  11. "I’ll carry the strength of his memory, and the weight of his loss, with me until
    the end of my days
    " That says it all. I'm so sorry your beautiful Xander is not with you. Hoping with you for a rainbow in 2013. XO

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  12. "I’ll carry the strength of his memory, and the weight of his loss, with me until
    the end of my days
    " That says it all. I'm so sorry your beautiful Xander is not with you. Hoping with you for a rainbow in 2013. XO

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