What a bitter sweet day it has been today. When I went through IVF I used to dream of Mother’s Day. Of cards made from tiny hands, of feeling blessed and whole. Which maybe sounds a bit idealistic for a day that’s probably more driven by card companies than appreciation of mothers. After I lost you, the pain of Mother’s Day experienced during treatment was ramped up because it wasn’t just about dreams anymore, it was about what could have been.
Mother’s Day when you have come out of IVF and lucky enough to have a baby, is an unusual experience. On one hand I feel a betrayal to my IVF days, on the other I feel sadness that you are not here and then on another hand there is some happiness at my first Mother’s Day with your brother. I have not been sure where to put myself all day.
I imagine by now you would probably be able to make a little scribble in a card with some assistance, that you would have been able to climb onto our bed and wake me up. I miss that I have not had those things. I miss that I have not heard your voice or your little words. I miss you so much today and everyday. So many mothers out there are heavy hearted today thinking of their little ones who were taken too soon.
There are no cards from heaven, no flowers or phone calls. There are only painted faces and superficial smiles, that hide the grief behind the eyes of every woman missing their angel or longing for a baby.
I tried to enjoy what I could today, to be thankful for what I have as I know that is what you would want for me to do. It just felt like there was something missing. But it feels that way each day.
Missing you so very much,
Lots of love, Mummy xxxx
today produced a beautiful rainbow which always reminds me of you. I am feeling quite low at the moment but trying to keep busy. We have been talking about the embryo that is left from your cycle and think that probably we will allow it to be thawed. I don’t think either of us could go through treatment again.
That opens up a landscape of grief that I am not sure how to deal with. I want to move on from IVF and draw a line under it, to look forward and enjoy what I’ve got. But it just leaves me feeling sad. Sad because it was a chapter you were the main theme of, a chapter that I will have to close. But how? How do I close the book never to open it again? How do I write the next chapter? No doubt I will have to work through the pain which is something I would rather ignore and bury deep down where I can’t reach it anymore. It feels too raw and with no help to process it.
While we drove out into the countryside through the arch of the rainbow, I thought about you. I thought about how I long to meet you at the rainbows end. That you are the rainbow. You are the sunshine, the wind on a spring day, the rain and the bird’s song. You are in everything which is comforting but despairing simultaneously. How do I move through it Robyn? I feel so alone. A stillbirth feels a complex grief, a baby signifies a beginning but ours came to an end.
Fly high little one, fly to the rainbow’s end.
Love from Mummy xxxx
I am missing you terribly. The theory of grief being cyclical seems to be proving true. I feel like I’ve plunged back into the coldest of water, surrounded only by darkness and strong currents. The cold water rushing up my nose, my lungs full to bursting from being starved of exhaling.
I am in the loneliest phase, knowing and accepting that you are gone but not ready for the future and moving on. I lost an important piece of you this past week. Someone who was a part of your story and your history. I have to find a way of moving forward without this person although I have no idea how when I am unable to move on without you.
Sometimes I dread the days, dread going to bed, dread being in the house, dread playgroup, dread nappy changes and feeding times. All the things I longed to do with you and I dread them now with your brother. I should be enjoying every minute when we went through so much to have him. And I do enjoy some things but it isn’t the way I envisaged.
During times like this I wish there was a map or a set of instructions to guide me through. I don’t feel strong enough to do this. All coinciding with deciding what to do with the frozen embryo we have in storage. It’s never easy to navigate something like this but it feels even more difficult when it is a part of you. Then everything will have gone, all the pieces will of passed.
Where does that leave me then, in colder water?
it seems too early for tears but that’s what I’m doing right now at 6.06am, tears streaming down my face. Maybe today is not a good day. It’s my morning not to get up with your brother too but I’ve been awake a while, just thinking, not really about anything but about everything at the same time. I slept on the sofa last night, sometimes I can’t bear to go to bed, it signifies the end of another day, a formal moving forward and I don’t think I’m ready for that.
I saw the psychologist from the team yesterday and he gave me a brilliant booklet about recovery after postpartum psychosis, it is just what I needed to give me a map for these early weeks out of hospital. But he also talked about you and about grief and whether some of what I was feeling was unresolved grief. With not having much time between losing you and getting pregnant again I guess I didn’t have much time to grieve, he said 2 years seems to be a period of time after which things gets easier. It will be two years next month but it doesn’t feel two years at all.
We have been thinking of doing something to mark your passing again, just to remember you and talk about you, to remember all the things we would have done together. I guess I hadn’t thought that I could do these things whenever and that I didn’t have to wait for a special date.
One other person who was a great part of your story is now no longer in my life in the way they once were which is kind of like grieving all over again, I’ve lost another of the few parts of you I had. I’m not sure they know or if they even care but to me it’s like losing you all over again. Still, that’s life I suppose, full of loss.
Love you lots,
I miss you so very much. There is a big hole in my heart, in my life. Nothing fills it, no amount of sunshine or rain, no light takes away the darkness. It just remains a hole. But I’m finding a way to rub along with it.
I am trying hard to look forwards. I ask myself, what do you want from life because you can have it, you just have to want it. And I do want it, I just fear I won’t be able to handle it. And that makes me sad. What if I can’t handle happiness? What if I make a mess of it?
Recovery is hard. It’s this word that encapsulates so much, carries so much meaning and yet is so hard. I wonder sometimes if recovery is as meaningful as it portrays.
I know recovery isn’t crossing a finish line and being handed a shiney medal. I know recovery isn’t time limited. I also know recovery is ongoing, it spans further than the number I can count on my hands. I know it’s about being patient and not running before you can walk.
I know it’s about being kind to myself and going with the flow of the day. I know that recovery involves tears and sadness, anger and frustration. I know recovery is either done or is not done. I don’t know if anyone is reading this, if you are reading it, or if my words are as lonely as I am in all of this. I keep putting one foot in front of the other and hoping that is enough.
The only thing I do know, is that I am looking forward to today, to your brother waking up, to getting all the toys out. I wanted to take him to the park to go on the swings for the first time but the weather forecast is for heavy rain. So instead we are going to plant some flowers, I thought it would be poignant to watch them grow as recovery evolves.
Maybe you will blossom with the flowers.
Lots of love,
P.S, your brother is 9 months old today and has started crawling! We now need many baby gates.