I guess technically it's three big words, but you get the picture. Frankly, I'm a bit pissed off that we have reached this step in our journey. Surely when your baby dies, you don't have to deal with infertility too? Whoever plans this stuff, really needs to look into that one.
IVF, hey? When we fell pregnant with Poppy, we were so glad that we didn't have to do IVF. For many reasons. One: THE MONEY. Two: The potential heartache if things go wrong and it cost us ALL THAT MONEY. And three: THE DAMN MONEY. Shit a brick, how do people manage to do more than one round? But anyway, I'll turn off being a gigantic tight ass for a moment, and get back to business.
When I had my last review with my wonderful Fertility Specialist she agreed to 3 more rounds of injections with timed IC (for those out of the know, that's, um, well, you know...). We got one real go, since the first cycle we accidentally managed to produce 8 eggs, and since I've no real desire to be Octomum, we had to cancel that cycle. The second went well, 2 nice juicy follicles, but alas no baby. And the third cycle didn't happen because, well, we ran out of time. So here we are, poised on path to, gulp, IVF. And I am truly terrified.
What if I get pregnant, and we miscarry again? We waste all that money and then walk the path we have walked so many times? What if it just doesn't work? What if?
I have tried very hard to not consider the 'What if's' but realistically, I'm a 'What if' person. I plan and schedule, and consider possibilities. It's what I do. I'd like to be prepared for all eventualities. But the 'What if's' are not helping me sleep at night.
First, the money. Perhaps if you're are a multi millionaire, and do lunch with your Toorak gal pals every Thursday, you might just say, "I won't have the caviar today girls, I've got IVF in the morning." But for a double income, no spare money, us, IVF is a hell of a lot. We would do anything for another baby, of course. We will sell the house, take out second jobs, rob a bank, whatever. Ten grand is a hell of a lot of cash to raise, especially if we have to raise it more than once. And if we need to do any specialist IVF treatments, we're looking at 15 or 20G. Holy moly. That's a car.
Secondly, I have a higher risk of miscarrying than most. I've have 4 previous early losses, plus an ectopic and a still birth. And I have Poly cystic Ovaries, another risk factor. So far we're 2 full term pregnancies from 6. Not great odds. So what if we are paying for the privilege of losing another one? Will it hurt more because we may not be able to afford to try again? I worry about that.
And, last but not least, the intervention. Getting pregnant by IVF is kind of like having some kind of bizarre time delayed threesome, in which there is no actual nooky. Just the two of us and a group of scientists who will be making the magic happen. Still a miracle, but a science driven one. Which leads me to worry; is it meant to be? I believe that life cannot be forced. Even in a petri dish, the spark of life will only happen if it's meant. But what if it doesn't? Can I handle that?
For some reason we're meant to walk this path. For some reason, Poppy was taken from us, so we could learn something else from this next step. But what? Why could we not have learnt this from her? I guess I'm a little bit frustrated because we've run this race before and at the finishing line, they said, "Sorry, false start,". Then they sent us back to the beginning again, except now the starting line is further away and in a swamp with crocodiles and sinking mud reminiscent of The Never Ending Story.
But, we've been through worse. If I've learn anything from the past 18 months, it's that we are stronger than we thought. There have been many, many times when I wondered if I could really truly get out of the black hole I was in. But I always battle back up. It's not easy, but my little family keep moving forward, pursued at times by a terrible grey cloud of despair. Realistically we can live though losing some money whilst we chase our dream of our third child. Maybe our little ray of sunshine, Miss Poppy, will lead us in the right direction. Out of the storm of our grief, to find our rainbow.
We've got the GPS ready, sweetheart, lead the way.
Monday, 10 June 2013
Thursday, 14 March 2013
I'm the man with the plan...
My name is Bec and I'm a recovering grieving mother. It's been 3 months since my last post. I went to sleep on the 31st December last year and all of a sudden, somehow, it's March 14th. Bloody hell. What a blur.
The beginning of 2013 has felt something like returning to real life from an extra long holiday. 2012 seems a little fuzzy in my memory; a long, horrific dream. This year feels kind of normal. Like life has started moving again, in our new altered post-Poppy world.
If you have a good memory you will remember that around 9 months ago we began to think about having us a rainbow baby. A child born through the storm of grief to shine brightly in a families future. Not negating the pain. Never pretending it has gone. Rather recognising and honouring that after the darkest of storms, the heaviest of rain, a rainbow can appear.
We had hoped that our luck might change, that we might be blessed with a bub quickly and without too much fuss. Who was I kidding?! Us? Have something go smoothly? Fat chance... Over the course of last year we vaguely committed to fertility treatment, but it was really hard to look forward when I was still so embroiled in the past. I guess, in short, I was about as ready to have another baby as I was to climb Everest. So in December, when my latest round of treatment ended in a chemical pregnancy, I was done. I needed to take a break and reevaluate what I could handle. And what I wanted.
Did I want another child? Could I do it all again? Was I able to put aside the fear once more and plunge off that cliff into the unknown again? Frankly, I wasn't sure I even wanted to think about it. I was scared shitless. G, as always, was flexible enough to deal with my back flipping often arbitrary decision. "I really want another baby," as I gaze at some perfect little bubba at the supermarket. "I just can't!" as I trawl the internet for new information on Poppy's medical condition. But most frequently, "I don't KNOW!"
So we look 3 months off. No meds. No medical appointments. No blood tests. Nothing related to trying to conceive again. Much to G's disgust.
Anyone who has had trouble trying to get pregnant will know what I'm talking about. How structured the....you know....gets. It's all about timing, not passion. Throw in a perpetually emotionally imbalanced women, hopped up on artificial hormones, getting up early to get to the doctors before work, and things can be a little challenging. So we needed some time to reconnect. Remember why we want more kids. Just to be in love.
But the time has come. Review appointment with my lovely fertility specialist. "Aren't you getting impatient?" she asked as I sit down in her office, "I'm impatient for you! You've been forced to wait too long." And I realise I have waited long enough. If Poppy had survived, now might be the time we would have considered trying again perhaps. It feels normal now.
So we planned a plan. Three more round of my current treatment, then some invasive testing, followed by IVF. She's determined to get us baby number 3, bless her cotton socks. So armed with my plan, I stand poised to take on Mt Everest. I am sure I'll stumble more than once, and possibly slid backwards a little. But I also know I am determined, and I couldn't be more supported. I can imagine another baby now. I can value him or her as an addition to our family in their own way. Not the fill the ache left by Poppy, but to enhance the joy in our lives.
I'm ready, I think. Well, I'm fairly sure. Mostly positive. More ready than before anyway. I'm armed with my backpack, wearing my comfy hiking boots, and I have my compass in hand. Time to start the trek. And if you've ever got a hand free, could you just give me a bit of shove upwards? Ta for that.
The beginning of 2013 has felt something like returning to real life from an extra long holiday. 2012 seems a little fuzzy in my memory; a long, horrific dream. This year feels kind of normal. Like life has started moving again, in our new altered post-Poppy world.
If you have a good memory you will remember that around 9 months ago we began to think about having us a rainbow baby. A child born through the storm of grief to shine brightly in a families future. Not negating the pain. Never pretending it has gone. Rather recognising and honouring that after the darkest of storms, the heaviest of rain, a rainbow can appear.
We had hoped that our luck might change, that we might be blessed with a bub quickly and without too much fuss. Who was I kidding?! Us? Have something go smoothly? Fat chance... Over the course of last year we vaguely committed to fertility treatment, but it was really hard to look forward when I was still so embroiled in the past. I guess, in short, I was about as ready to have another baby as I was to climb Everest. So in December, when my latest round of treatment ended in a chemical pregnancy, I was done. I needed to take a break and reevaluate what I could handle. And what I wanted.
Did I want another child? Could I do it all again? Was I able to put aside the fear once more and plunge off that cliff into the unknown again? Frankly, I wasn't sure I even wanted to think about it. I was scared shitless. G, as always, was flexible enough to deal with my back flipping often arbitrary decision. "I really want another baby," as I gaze at some perfect little bubba at the supermarket. "I just can't!" as I trawl the internet for new information on Poppy's medical condition. But most frequently, "I don't KNOW!"
So we look 3 months off. No meds. No medical appointments. No blood tests. Nothing related to trying to conceive again. Much to G's disgust.
Anyone who has had trouble trying to get pregnant will know what I'm talking about. How structured the....you know....gets. It's all about timing, not passion. Throw in a perpetually emotionally imbalanced women, hopped up on artificial hormones, getting up early to get to the doctors before work, and things can be a little challenging. So we needed some time to reconnect. Remember why we want more kids. Just to be in love.
But the time has come. Review appointment with my lovely fertility specialist. "Aren't you getting impatient?" she asked as I sit down in her office, "I'm impatient for you! You've been forced to wait too long." And I realise I have waited long enough. If Poppy had survived, now might be the time we would have considered trying again perhaps. It feels normal now.
So we planned a plan. Three more round of my current treatment, then some invasive testing, followed by IVF. She's determined to get us baby number 3, bless her cotton socks. So armed with my plan, I stand poised to take on Mt Everest. I am sure I'll stumble more than once, and possibly slid backwards a little. But I also know I am determined, and I couldn't be more supported. I can imagine another baby now. I can value him or her as an addition to our family in their own way. Not the fill the ache left by Poppy, but to enhance the joy in our lives.
I'm ready, I think. Well, I'm fairly sure. Mostly positive. More ready than before anyway. I'm armed with my backpack, wearing my comfy hiking boots, and I have my compass in hand. Time to start the trek. And if you've ever got a hand free, could you just give me a bit of shove upwards? Ta for that.
Sunday, 30 December 2012
2012...the year of picking up the pieces
It's been a year since I posted my first blog entry. I didn't know then that it would help me so much! A reborn love of writing has bloomed in me, and I get some peace from this. A small blessing, but one I'm grateful for.
2012. The year that the anaesthetic wore off, and I had to start putting things back together. I feel a bit like that chic at the end of a disaster movie who finally gets to sit down and rest; covered in blood, dirt and alien slime, and in need of someone to give her a big hug. I have been trying really hard to pinpoint the moment when I started feeling like the battle was over and I was ready to start the rebuild. But sometime over the past few weeks, I've started to find myself feeling braver. Stronger. Better.
Now, I am not saying I've regained all my sanity. I am still likely to lose my shit over stupid things, swear more than I ever have, possibly break a few more plates (I have too many anyway...), but I feel like I have some semblance of control over things again. Grief is a very weird thing, and it takes so much of you. It's not just feeling sad. Grief, real grief, consumes you. I have found that I couldn't cope with anything going wrong. I couldn't cope with changes in plans. I couldn't manage situation where I might meet new people and they might ask questions I wouldn't know how to answer. I felt like a bottle mostly filled with sand and even a small scoop of anything more was enough to push me over the edge.
I feel different now. Something has changed in me; the dam broke and some of the sand in the bottle has slipped away. I have more...space...for things. For life. For love.
The past year has been hard, and there have been times when I have wondered if I could survive it. If my marriage and my friendships and my job could survive it. But somehow, mostly through the patience of the wonderful people in my life, I withstood being swept away with the storm of my grief. I faced losing my child and I have learnt to manage the pain. I'm a bit astounded, actually.
As the year comes to an end, a year with so many ups and downs I wondered many times if I would permanently feel a bit seasick, I thought it would be a good time to take stock of all that's happened. So here goes...
SHITTY STUFF
On the eve of 2013, I make a new promise to myself. To be well again. To want to live again, and make the most of this little life I have. I'm excited for 2013. I hope we can make it a lucky one for all of us. 'Cause let's face it, we ought to be due for a good year.
2012. The year that the anaesthetic wore off, and I had to start putting things back together. I feel a bit like that chic at the end of a disaster movie who finally gets to sit down and rest; covered in blood, dirt and alien slime, and in need of someone to give her a big hug. I have been trying really hard to pinpoint the moment when I started feeling like the battle was over and I was ready to start the rebuild. But sometime over the past few weeks, I've started to find myself feeling braver. Stronger. Better.
Now, I am not saying I've regained all my sanity. I am still likely to lose my shit over stupid things, swear more than I ever have, possibly break a few more plates (I have too many anyway...), but I feel like I have some semblance of control over things again. Grief is a very weird thing, and it takes so much of you. It's not just feeling sad. Grief, real grief, consumes you. I have found that I couldn't cope with anything going wrong. I couldn't cope with changes in plans. I couldn't manage situation where I might meet new people and they might ask questions I wouldn't know how to answer. I felt like a bottle mostly filled with sand and even a small scoop of anything more was enough to push me over the edge.
I feel different now. Something has changed in me; the dam broke and some of the sand in the bottle has slipped away. I have more...space...for things. For life. For love.
The past year has been hard, and there have been times when I have wondered if I could survive it. If my marriage and my friendships and my job could survive it. But somehow, mostly through the patience of the wonderful people in my life, I withstood being swept away with the storm of my grief. I faced losing my child and I have learnt to manage the pain. I'm a bit astounded, actually.
As the year comes to an end, a year with so many ups and downs I wondered many times if I would permanently feel a bit seasick, I thought it would be a good time to take stock of all that's happened. So here goes...
SHITTY STUFF
- The feeling of being so alone and frightened, and wondering if I would ever feel part of the world again
- The physical pain that went with losing Poppy, and the fear and anger that consumed me at times
- Trying to help Xav through his own grief and understanding of death
- Hamish (my gorgeous nephew) battling cancer, undergoing chemo and losing his leg
- Nana Grace passing away
- Wondering if I could ever do my job well again
- Losing touch with some people who didn't know what to say to us
- Being hurt by people who didn't know what to say to us
- Feeling like a terrible wife, mother & friend
- The people who reached out, who didn't stop calling, who didn't stop inviting me to things, knowing eventually I would start going again
- Knowing that not everyone would forget Poppy, and she would mean something to many people
- Learning that my family would stick by us though thick and thin, and I would always try to do the same
- Hamish being cancer-free :)
- Meeting many new friends who know and understand the grief of losing a child
- Managing to work, and still do a good job
- Finding I work in a great place with great people
- Knowing I have real friends, who have been there for me
- Using the time Poppy gave me to learn cake decorating
- Beginning to try harder to be a better wife, mother and friend
- Learning to stop stressing over the small stuff.
- Being less compassionate and more compassionate at the same time
- Learning the things about myself that I don't like, but needing to know them so I can begin to be better at them
- Wanting the joy of another baby, but being frightened of having one, or replacing Poppy
On the eve of 2013, I make a new promise to myself. To be well again. To want to live again, and make the most of this little life I have. I'm excited for 2013. I hope we can make it a lucky one for all of us. 'Cause let's face it, we ought to be due for a good year.
Friday, 14 December 2012
Happy 1st Birthday, My Darling
It's been a while since I wrote a post with tears in my eyes, but if I told you that was true of this one, I'd be lying. I plan to spend today howling. Because, frankly, a year ago my daughter died. And it still hurts like hell.
Tomorrow is the 15th of December. It is a day I've been dreading for a year. It's the last of the firsts. There will be no more firsts. I will never see Poppy's first anything. No first smile. No first step. No first day of school or first boyfriend. This is the very last one. Her first birthday.
I am trying really hard to not think of all the things I should be doing today. Wrapping presents for Poppy to tear open tomorrow, no doubt with the help of her adoring big brother. Decorating a suitably ginormous princess-themed cake. Hoping for nice weather tomorrow so she can enjoy her first go on a jumping castle, like Xav did on his first birthday. But I'm trying hard not think of those things.
We've tried to do some things we might have been doing. We went and picked out a pretty dress for Poppy. We argued when the one we all liked wasn't available in a size 1, and then giggled about why in the hell does it matter? We're shopping for our daughter who will never wear it. I'm making a cake, but not the cake I would have made had Poppy been here to blow out the candles. We're having a celebration of sorts, but not a jumping castle, or balloons, or gifts. Not at all the shindig I'd been planning since I got pregnant with my baby. We're trying to capture a little bit of the magic of a first birthday. But it will never, ever be enough.
Maybe it will be a good thing, having the last first behind us. Instead of this feeling of waiting and wanting. Maybe, it's moving forward. But I just wish it were different. I wish I had been able to have Poppy here. I wish I was sitting here saying, "I can't believe how she's grown!"...
Instead my tears fall. And fall. And fall.
There is no light hearted, meaningful ending here today. I am allowing myself today for my loss. Tomorrow, tomorrow is for the joy of my daughter's creation and what she gave us. But today, I think I'm allowed to cry.
Tomorrow is the 15th of December. It is a day I've been dreading for a year. It's the last of the firsts. There will be no more firsts. I will never see Poppy's first anything. No first smile. No first step. No first day of school or first boyfriend. This is the very last one. Her first birthday.
I am trying really hard to not think of all the things I should be doing today. Wrapping presents for Poppy to tear open tomorrow, no doubt with the help of her adoring big brother. Decorating a suitably ginormous princess-themed cake. Hoping for nice weather tomorrow so she can enjoy her first go on a jumping castle, like Xav did on his first birthday. But I'm trying hard not think of those things.
We've tried to do some things we might have been doing. We went and picked out a pretty dress for Poppy. We argued when the one we all liked wasn't available in a size 1, and then giggled about why in the hell does it matter? We're shopping for our daughter who will never wear it. I'm making a cake, but not the cake I would have made had Poppy been here to blow out the candles. We're having a celebration of sorts, but not a jumping castle, or balloons, or gifts. Not at all the shindig I'd been planning since I got pregnant with my baby. We're trying to capture a little bit of the magic of a first birthday. But it will never, ever be enough.
Maybe it will be a good thing, having the last first behind us. Instead of this feeling of waiting and wanting. Maybe, it's moving forward. But I just wish it were different. I wish I had been able to have Poppy here. I wish I was sitting here saying, "I can't believe how she's grown!"...
Instead my tears fall. And fall. And fall.
There is no light hearted, meaningful ending here today. I am allowing myself today for my loss. Tomorrow, tomorrow is for the joy of my daughter's creation and what she gave us. But today, I think I'm allowed to cry.
Sunday, 4 November 2012
Grateful
I realised recently that I spend a lot of my time feeling generally peeved with life. I am at times very dissatisfied with what life has dumped at our doorstep, the path our world has meandered this past year, and the pain it has brought us. And it got me to thinking; how does one become so bitter? How do you move on from the anger that boils in your blood? How do you get back to loving the life that once fulfilled you?
I realised I find very little joy in my world. I try, I really do. There are things that make me happier, many things. But I'm always filled with this insatiable thirst for joy to come back into my life, even though it's me and my selfish pain that's preventing it.
"No more," I said to myself this morning. "Today I make the effort to be better."
Obviously I didn't say this out loud, G puts up with enough crazy from me. But I'm trying to flip the switch back to being grateful. Replace grief with acceptance. Anger with hope. Yearning for more with need for the simple things.
It may seem odd to you that someone who knows the pain of such loss can be ungrateful for what they have. But I am consumed with what I lost. The daughter I wanted so badly, and felt I had suffered so much to deserve. I feel robbed of what I worked for. After being determined to not be filled with hate and anger, for Poppy to not always equal pain, I feel exactly that. I turned her short existence into a shroud of 'It's not fair!'. And it's not, really. No death is ever fair. Someone must always suffer the pain of being left behind.
But today I decided to make her mean more. Make me see the joy in my life again, the goodness that is there. I would be grateful for what I have.
So I started by laying watching G sleep, marvelling in the fact that for some strange reason this man chose me. Chose to be in my life. I am grateful for this man.
Next, Xav came bundling in at 6.51am, and I am grateful he is well enough to bundle out of bed so early and be excited about the day. And when he whispered, "Mummy, thanks for giving me my dragon toy yesterday, I love you," and I'm grateful that he is so kind and tries so hard to be good. I am grateful I was given the job of being his mother. I am grateful for my son.
I made some breakfast, and after my cereal was finished, I was grateful at the fact that the milk was still cold and I was able to have as much as I liked. I am grateful we always have enough to eat.
I thought about seeing my friends last night, and how wonderful it is to have friends who don't treat me weird, despite my weirdness. I am grateful for them.
I got the cupcakes ready for work for tomorrow, and I am grateful that I work in a place where I feel comfortable, and there are people who are great friends and they supportive of me.
I thought about catching up with my family later today, and how great it is that I see my family so much, and we love each other, support each other and always (despite all those little arguments) end up respecting our values and differences. I am grateful I married into much an great family. I am supremely grateful for my family.
I am grateful for the beauty of the sun light streaming through the curtains, and the leaves on Poppy's tree.
I am grateful for the fact we are strong enough to bear what we have been through. I am grateful to understand to medical jargon that was thrown at us, and have people who could and would answer our questions.
It turns out I am grateful for many things. I have love in my life, all around me. I guess it's not that I am ungrateful, I am just broken. The love could not stay in a heart so broken, but not because it isn't there, just because the whole contraption isn't working properly right now. But once I fix it, once it's mended, I think the capacity for love will be more; endless.
I guess a heart needs to stretch in all directions, bear both tremendous heartache and immense joy, to help it become big enough to hold the love that can now fill our life. Poppy has brought us both: in her creation and death.
I am grateful for Poppy. I am grateful.
I realised I find very little joy in my world. I try, I really do. There are things that make me happier, many things. But I'm always filled with this insatiable thirst for joy to come back into my life, even though it's me and my selfish pain that's preventing it.
"No more," I said to myself this morning. "Today I make the effort to be better."
Obviously I didn't say this out loud, G puts up with enough crazy from me. But I'm trying to flip the switch back to being grateful. Replace grief with acceptance. Anger with hope. Yearning for more with need for the simple things.
It may seem odd to you that someone who knows the pain of such loss can be ungrateful for what they have. But I am consumed with what I lost. The daughter I wanted so badly, and felt I had suffered so much to deserve. I feel robbed of what I worked for. After being determined to not be filled with hate and anger, for Poppy to not always equal pain, I feel exactly that. I turned her short existence into a shroud of 'It's not fair!'. And it's not, really. No death is ever fair. Someone must always suffer the pain of being left behind.
But today I decided to make her mean more. Make me see the joy in my life again, the goodness that is there. I would be grateful for what I have.
So I started by laying watching G sleep, marvelling in the fact that for some strange reason this man chose me. Chose to be in my life. I am grateful for this man.
Next, Xav came bundling in at 6.51am, and I am grateful he is well enough to bundle out of bed so early and be excited about the day. And when he whispered, "Mummy, thanks for giving me my dragon toy yesterday, I love you," and I'm grateful that he is so kind and tries so hard to be good. I am grateful I was given the job of being his mother. I am grateful for my son.
I made some breakfast, and after my cereal was finished, I was grateful at the fact that the milk was still cold and I was able to have as much as I liked. I am grateful we always have enough to eat.
I thought about seeing my friends last night, and how wonderful it is to have friends who don't treat me weird, despite my weirdness. I am grateful for them.
I got the cupcakes ready for work for tomorrow, and I am grateful that I work in a place where I feel comfortable, and there are people who are great friends and they supportive of me.
I thought about catching up with my family later today, and how great it is that I see my family so much, and we love each other, support each other and always (despite all those little arguments) end up respecting our values and differences. I am grateful I married into much an great family. I am supremely grateful for my family.
I am grateful for the beauty of the sun light streaming through the curtains, and the leaves on Poppy's tree.
I am grateful for the fact we are strong enough to bear what we have been through. I am grateful to understand to medical jargon that was thrown at us, and have people who could and would answer our questions.
It turns out I am grateful for many things. I have love in my life, all around me. I guess it's not that I am ungrateful, I am just broken. The love could not stay in a heart so broken, but not because it isn't there, just because the whole contraption isn't working properly right now. But once I fix it, once it's mended, I think the capacity for love will be more; endless.
I guess a heart needs to stretch in all directions, bear both tremendous heartache and immense joy, to help it become big enough to hold the love that can now fill our life. Poppy has brought us both: in her creation and death.
I am grateful for Poppy. I am grateful.
Thursday, 27 September 2012
Filling the void
You know that big hole in my chest I sometimes talk about? I realised that I don't feel it so keenly anymore. It's still there, still a big part of me, but I've begun to find ways to...fill it? Live around it? I'm not sure how to describe the feeling of knowing it's there but not acknowledging it all the time. I guess I can control the feeling better than I could a while ago.
I've filled it with many things. My beautiful Xav, and making memories with him, learning more about what he's thinking and feeling. Work fills time, and it takes energy. Trying to make time to spend with G. Birthdays. Anniversaries. My family. Cake decorating.
But really what I yearn for is another baby. Not to replace Poppy, but to fulfil this need I have to have more living children than angel ones. But that is a long process, and may take some time to achieve. How do I manage in the mean time? This has plagued me for awhile, ever since I decided that I wasn't quite ready to embark on the trying to conceive journey just yet. I desperately want another baby, but I'm not ready for the rest of it yet. The months of attempts, which should be fun, take all the intimacy out of it. Timing things to fit in with cycles, injections, what I ate today, what G washed his jocks in, phases of the moon, and possibly applying some sort of herbal mix in my bellybutton and under G's left armpit, take all the spontaneity out of things. Since I can't even seem to remember what I'm doing between standing up from my chair and taking the next step, I figured I wasn't quite ready for the schedule of trying again. Not to mention the stressful pregnancy, and the barrage of testing I will need once I am finally up the duff. Anyway, I digress. How was I to cope with needing the baby but not yet ready?
Hamish. My sweet little nephew Hamish, who should be growing up with my Poppy, has been an endless source of joy for me. My amazing sister who lets me completely over mother him, and live outrageously vicariously through him. He's an absolute sweetheart and despite enormous difficulties in his own little life, he is a ray of sunshine for all of us. So I guess through Hamish I get a lot of the baby stuff. I change nappies. I shower him in cuddles and kisses. I watched dotingly as he cut his first teeth, tried his first foods, crawled for the first time. I even looked after him for a whole weekend, and Xav and G and I got to pretend for a little while. It was nice, and it strengthened my resolve that maybe the time had come to really start to move forward.
So with a weekend with a baby under our belts, and not major accidents, illnesses or injuries, we thought it was time to give it a go full time. So I did two things. I started back on fertility meds, and...we bought a puppy. Ostensibly, the puppy was for Xav's 6th birthday. But he is also a piece of puzzle filling the void we feel in Poppy's absence from our lives. We picked what sort of dog we wanted, I found a breeder who had a litter ready to go, and off we went.
We picked up our new fur baby on a Sunday. Ironically, I was violently ill the whole way to get him. Pseudo morning sickness maybe? I was nervous. I had the 'puppy bag' packed, the paper work ready, I'd set up a space at home for him. I read every bit of info I could find about helping him settle in.
We met the lovely breeder in a Macca's car park in Albury. Not quite the glamour befitting our newest addition, but what can you do? We presented him to Xav, who reacted with the surprise and excitement we had hoped for, and after some consideration decided to name him Thor.
My first cuddles with Thor involved me rocking him. Upon realisation that I looked absolutely ridiculous, I reminded myself he was not an actual human baby and rocking was probably not necessary, he snuggled up under my chin and promptly fell asleep. I have to say, at that point, I was hooked. This cute little puppy became another fluffy little piece in helping us heal.
Within two days we were all madly in love with Thor, despite the fact we have to get up through the night, clean up messes, shop for puppy things, live without a phone as he's chewed through the cord... We've started some basic training and Xav and I hate leaving him at home when we go out. Thor cries and snuggles and plays. All the things we'd probably be doing with Poppy about now. Our little fur baby.
It's nice have a new member of the family. But more than that, it's nice having something to be happy and excited about. Nice to share a picture of our new 'baby' and not feel pain. I am glad he's in our lives. If we have to have this void, I'm so glad he's here to help us fill it.
Welcome to our family, Thor. I can't promise a smooth ride, but I can promise endless love and support. We hope you like it here.
So, Thor makes 5. Hopefully we'll make 6, someday soon.
I've filled it with many things. My beautiful Xav, and making memories with him, learning more about what he's thinking and feeling. Work fills time, and it takes energy. Trying to make time to spend with G. Birthdays. Anniversaries. My family. Cake decorating.
But really what I yearn for is another baby. Not to replace Poppy, but to fulfil this need I have to have more living children than angel ones. But that is a long process, and may take some time to achieve. How do I manage in the mean time? This has plagued me for awhile, ever since I decided that I wasn't quite ready to embark on the trying to conceive journey just yet. I desperately want another baby, but I'm not ready for the rest of it yet. The months of attempts, which should be fun, take all the intimacy out of it. Timing things to fit in with cycles, injections, what I ate today, what G washed his jocks in, phases of the moon, and possibly applying some sort of herbal mix in my bellybutton and under G's left armpit, take all the spontaneity out of things. Since I can't even seem to remember what I'm doing between standing up from my chair and taking the next step, I figured I wasn't quite ready for the schedule of trying again. Not to mention the stressful pregnancy, and the barrage of testing I will need once I am finally up the duff. Anyway, I digress. How was I to cope with needing the baby but not yet ready?
Hamish. My sweet little nephew Hamish, who should be growing up with my Poppy, has been an endless source of joy for me. My amazing sister who lets me completely over mother him, and live outrageously vicariously through him. He's an absolute sweetheart and despite enormous difficulties in his own little life, he is a ray of sunshine for all of us. So I guess through Hamish I get a lot of the baby stuff. I change nappies. I shower him in cuddles and kisses. I watched dotingly as he cut his first teeth, tried his first foods, crawled for the first time. I even looked after him for a whole weekend, and Xav and G and I got to pretend for a little while. It was nice, and it strengthened my resolve that maybe the time had come to really start to move forward.
So with a weekend with a baby under our belts, and not major accidents, illnesses or injuries, we thought it was time to give it a go full time. So I did two things. I started back on fertility meds, and...we bought a puppy. Ostensibly, the puppy was for Xav's 6th birthday. But he is also a piece of puzzle filling the void we feel in Poppy's absence from our lives. We picked what sort of dog we wanted, I found a breeder who had a litter ready to go, and off we went.
We picked up our new fur baby on a Sunday. Ironically, I was violently ill the whole way to get him. Pseudo morning sickness maybe? I was nervous. I had the 'puppy bag' packed, the paper work ready, I'd set up a space at home for him. I read every bit of info I could find about helping him settle in.
We met the lovely breeder in a Macca's car park in Albury. Not quite the glamour befitting our newest addition, but what can you do? We presented him to Xav, who reacted with the surprise and excitement we had hoped for, and after some consideration decided to name him Thor.
My first cuddles with Thor involved me rocking him. Upon realisation that I looked absolutely ridiculous, I reminded myself he was not an actual human baby and rocking was probably not necessary, he snuggled up under my chin and promptly fell asleep. I have to say, at that point, I was hooked. This cute little puppy became another fluffy little piece in helping us heal.
Within two days we were all madly in love with Thor, despite the fact we have to get up through the night, clean up messes, shop for puppy things, live without a phone as he's chewed through the cord... We've started some basic training and Xav and I hate leaving him at home when we go out. Thor cries and snuggles and plays. All the things we'd probably be doing with Poppy about now. Our little fur baby.
It's nice have a new member of the family. But more than that, it's nice having something to be happy and excited about. Nice to share a picture of our new 'baby' and not feel pain. I am glad he's in our lives. If we have to have this void, I'm so glad he's here to help us fill it.
Welcome to our family, Thor. I can't promise a smooth ride, but I can promise endless love and support. We hope you like it here.
So, Thor makes 5. Hopefully we'll make 6, someday soon.
Xav and Thor <3
Sunday, 9 September 2012
My New Normal
Baby loss has become a big part of my world. I guess when you've lived
through something so horrific, it is our nature to seek out others who
understand. Parents with boys seek out other parents with boys, mums of multiples
seek out others with multiples. And those of us who have known the pain of our
child dying seek out others who know the same pain.
But there are days when I realise I am not desensitised to it. Every now and again I read another mums story which mirrors my own so much, my heart breaks all over again. On Friday I opened a link to one such story. Another mum who was expecting to introduce her baby to his sibling only to have to break the news that he had gone to heaven and wasn't coming home.
This mum is has chosen to write her experience down right from word go. She has scribed her journey for all to read. And I admire her for doing so. It's not always easy to jot down your inner most fears and feelings for others to see. There are times I write things I am not proud of feeling. There are times I know what I write might be misconstrued. I try to tell myself I don't care what others think. But truthfully, I do care. I don't write to offend or to cunningly indicate the things I don't like about the way others act. I write to share who I am now. Not just to let you know, but to help me know. I just want to be accepted for the new person I am. For I am forever changed, I think. I miss feeling included. It's not that anyone deliberately excludes me. I just feel apart from the rest of the world. Like an alien, but slightly less green.
If you told me 12 months ago that I would be used to seeing pictures of babies who had died, I would not have believed you. I am ashamed to say I was a little freaked out by it. But then I held my own silent, beautiful baby girl. And I realised that she wasn't scary or upsetting. She was stunning. How could I be afraid of her? What was I scared of? Now I understand that I was scared of death. I had never seen someone who had died. I was scared of seeing what I imagined death looked like. In reality, there was nothing to fear.
I am changed. I honour the births and deaths of babies who are taken too soon. I look at their pictures and notice that in this one she looks like she is smiling, and in that one he looks cheeky. Because I know the bitter pride the parents of these children feel. Proud that they brought someone so beautiful into this world. And so sad that the world will never know them.
Some days though, like Friday, when I read this woman's story, I realised how much I had changed. And the reality that I know this pain really hit me. I know how she feels. I am not the one who can write, "I can't even imagine your pain." I don't need to imagine. It's in my memory, it's what I live. That fact floored me. This is my life now. I am...this. I know the stories and names of at least 50 ladies who are also this. I know their babies names. I see their precious children’s' photos. I grieve for them and with them. My new normal includes this.
Am I better for it, or worse off? I sure wish I didn't know the pain. I wish I had a baby girl crawling around at my feet and was too busy to write heartfelt blog posts. But I guess I realised I am better for knowing. I won't be the one who avoids the bereaved mother in pain. I won't be the one who scoffs when someone posts a pic on facebook of their beloved, precious baby who was born sleeping. I am stronger now. I can be better at not being afraid of death. And maybe with time I will stop being so afraid of life. I will live in this world again. I will be less alien. Green is not my colour anyway.
But there are days when I realise I am not desensitised to it. Every now and again I read another mums story which mirrors my own so much, my heart breaks all over again. On Friday I opened a link to one such story. Another mum who was expecting to introduce her baby to his sibling only to have to break the news that he had gone to heaven and wasn't coming home.
This mum is has chosen to write her experience down right from word go. She has scribed her journey for all to read. And I admire her for doing so. It's not always easy to jot down your inner most fears and feelings for others to see. There are times I write things I am not proud of feeling. There are times I know what I write might be misconstrued. I try to tell myself I don't care what others think. But truthfully, I do care. I don't write to offend or to cunningly indicate the things I don't like about the way others act. I write to share who I am now. Not just to let you know, but to help me know. I just want to be accepted for the new person I am. For I am forever changed, I think. I miss feeling included. It's not that anyone deliberately excludes me. I just feel apart from the rest of the world. Like an alien, but slightly less green.
If you told me 12 months ago that I would be used to seeing pictures of babies who had died, I would not have believed you. I am ashamed to say I was a little freaked out by it. But then I held my own silent, beautiful baby girl. And I realised that she wasn't scary or upsetting. She was stunning. How could I be afraid of her? What was I scared of? Now I understand that I was scared of death. I had never seen someone who had died. I was scared of seeing what I imagined death looked like. In reality, there was nothing to fear.
I am changed. I honour the births and deaths of babies who are taken too soon. I look at their pictures and notice that in this one she looks like she is smiling, and in that one he looks cheeky. Because I know the bitter pride the parents of these children feel. Proud that they brought someone so beautiful into this world. And so sad that the world will never know them.
Some days though, like Friday, when I read this woman's story, I realised how much I had changed. And the reality that I know this pain really hit me. I know how she feels. I am not the one who can write, "I can't even imagine your pain." I don't need to imagine. It's in my memory, it's what I live. That fact floored me. This is my life now. I am...this. I know the stories and names of at least 50 ladies who are also this. I know their babies names. I see their precious children’s' photos. I grieve for them and with them. My new normal includes this.
Am I better for it, or worse off? I sure wish I didn't know the pain. I wish I had a baby girl crawling around at my feet and was too busy to write heartfelt blog posts. But I guess I realised I am better for knowing. I won't be the one who avoids the bereaved mother in pain. I won't be the one who scoffs when someone posts a pic on facebook of their beloved, precious baby who was born sleeping. I am stronger now. I can be better at not being afraid of death. And maybe with time I will stop being so afraid of life. I will live in this world again. I will be less alien. Green is not my colour anyway.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)