Our second son
Elliott was born sleeping on 28/10/16 at 21 weeks gestation. My membranes
ruptured and I went into labour. Our perfectly healthy baby just wasn't strong
or old enough to make it through. Now I find I'm in this huge space between his
birth and his due date that feels like limbo. A space between the ‘was’ and the
‘might have been’. It’s a space filled with watching the calendar tick over,
day after day towards what should have been a joyous time filled with exciting
anticipation, waiting for our baby to arrive safety into the world. Instead the
anticipation is rife with stress and sorrow. Although he has already been born,
that date, his due date, hasn't gone
away.
When I woke up
on New Year’s Day I didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't want it to be a new
year, I didn't want a reminder that time truly does go on. Days, weeks and
months had passed and now a new year. I felt like he'll be forever left in
2016, never to grow up through the years. I felt like the new year reflected how
I was further away from him yet closer towards the cruelty of what was meant to
be. I was supposed to be big and waddling by now like I was with my other two
by this stage. I was supposed to wear that maternity dress I bought on sale. Instead
the night before I could have a few drinks because I wasn't carrying a baby
safely inside and I could wear my pre-pregnancy jeans because he had already
been born when we were just over half way there. Having a cocktail and wearing
my jeans were things I looked forward to doing again, but now both just
reminded me of what I no longer had.
I never cared
for dates and now they meant everything to me. Every Friday echoes the day he
was born and died, the 28th of every month tells me how old he would have been
if he survived. And that date, the date that he was meant to be born healthy
and alive is looming. I won't ever happily prepare a birthday party for him
like I do for my other two. Instead we prepare ourselves emotionally for certain
dates which bring a gutting ache of milestones we'll never get to witness. I
see photos of friends who were due within weeks of Elliott’s due date and know
that was meant to be me. I can't let my husband put his hand on my belly when
we cuddle because it reminds me how he would rub my belly feeling the baby
kick. Now there's just emptiness when there shouldn't be and it feels taunting
to have his hand on it.
I had a great
week last week- I felt productive, useful, purposeful. Then I woke up one day
and couldn’t get out of bed. For three days, I didn't get out of bed until late
in the afternoon and when I got up I felt like I had absolutely nothing left.
Out of nowhere my grief had smacked me right in my face. I couldn’t stop
thinking that we would be counting down the weeks now, preparing for his
arrival. That if he was born now, even this early, chances are he'd be fine. It
feels like every week that passes closer to his due date intensifies the
thought of our baby whom we should have taken home. I began looking for answers
to my grief, to solve it, to let me pass over the thoughts of "if
only". I tried to be positive and held back from crying. Then I came to
the realisation, with help from friends including other bereaved mums, that
there are no answers and no ‘solving’ my grief. That no matter which way you
looked at it, it was cruel, terrible, awful and unfair. I broke down to my
husband and told him the things I couldn't stop thinking about. I cried that
mournful cry you can’t fake, I curled in a ball and clutched at my stomach. When
I woke up the next morning it was easier to get out of bed.
I'm now trying
to accept my grief as part of who I now am. I’m trying to understand, live with
and around it. I'm accepting that the time between now and that date will likely
have many terrible days where I am temporarily consumed by those "if"
thoughts. I'm going to let myself have those days, so the next ones are easier.
I'm accepting that sometimes its ok to not be ok and that its normal to be
angry and upset, feeling that it’s all so unfair. Because you know what, it is
unfair-completely and utterly unfair. At my worst times, I do my best to bring
myself back to the moments where I held him and remember that warm feeling of
protective love. I do something to celebrate him and his life, because he
deserves to be celebrated like every other baby. I’ve decided that on his due
date we'll fly kites for him and write on more stones to put around his tree we
have for him, like we did on a day we held for him after he was born. I know
I'll count down the days until his due date, and have no idea what will happen
after that, but I know every day before and every day after I’ll love him.
Stevie
If you require support after reading this blog please contact
Sands on 13 000 72637
Stevie Vowles
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