Right Where I Am: Three Years, Three Months

This post is in response to Angie's project, Right Where I Am. I apologise for the rambled stream of consciousness that follows...the truth is I dont really know how I feel 3 years out from the best and worst period of my life.


Sometimes it seems like a lifetime ago. Most of the time it feels like it happened to someone else. All of the time I feel like I am a different person to before.

My life now is divided into two parts. Before and After. The truth is, I can barely remember what life was like before. What was it like to live life in ignorant bliss? What was it like to not know how it felt to bury your child?

And recently all I have been thinking is: if Star had never died, Manny would never have lived. My baby's death is so closely linked with my other baby's life, the two can never be separated. This thought has been going around in my head for over a week now. The greatest joy in my life, could not have existed without the greatest sadness in my life. It hurts my brain just to think about it.

I do remember the early days. I have written about them before. About how liberating it was, the freedom to grieve openly. The freedom to hole myself up in my home and ignore the world. The freedom to lie on the floor and scream and sob at the top of my lungs regardless of who might hear me. I miss being able to be so raw - so openly bereaved.

As time marched on, and particularly after Manny's birth, the expectation was that everything was "better" now. I remember 8 months out, on the 27th of the month, my mother asked me what was wrong. I told her the 27th is a hard day for me. Her response was "what, every month!?!" I was dumbfounded. My own mother expected I should be "over it" after only 8 months.

Now, over three years out, I cry less. I think of him frequently, but I do not cry. I talk about him all the time, but I do not cry. I pull out his photos and stare at him, but I do not cry.

Some nights, late at night when everyone else is in bed, I think of him and cry. But the tears are no longer racking my body with sobs. They are silent tears that simply fall from my eyes of their own accord and soak my pillow.

Three years out, my eldest has weaved his baby brother into the fabric of his life. Every now and then he mentions his name in passing...and it reminds me. He was here. He left his footprint on this earth. He wasn't just a part of me, he is a part of our family.

We do not cry for him anymore. But we love him with every beat of our hearts.

some days I forget...and then I remember.

Most days, you would never know that my child died.
Most people, probably forget that my child died.

I don't walk around crying. I don't talk about him much. I do bring him up in conversation, but not all the time. I don't even carry my grief around with me like a security blanket anymore. It is tucked into a white box under my bed with some of my momentos of him. Every now and then I pull it out, I pull him out, I pull my grief out, and I cry. I cry, and cry and remember him. Remember how I ached for him, how I wailed for him.

But most days, most days I am not a bereaved mother. I am, but you wouldn't know it.

Some days however - like tonight - the realisation of what happened weighs me down like a thousand pound weight on my chest. And I remember. My son died. My baby died. My beautiful 3 pound 7 ounce boy died, and then he was born, and then he was buried. And we were left here on earth to muddle through the rest of our lives without him.

On Sunday, one week from today, he will turn three.

There will be no birthday cake, no balloons. No party with friends and family. No trucks to unwrap, no new books as gifts. There will be no games, no laughter.

There will be tears, and memories of love and loss. There will be pain. And more tears.

The Thirds

It has started.

All the third not-birthdays are rolling around. Which means it is only a matter of months before it is my Starbaby's third not-birthday.

To all the members of my DBMafia - whether you are here reading this or not - your babies live on in my heart. They all made a mark on me in such a profound way and they will always be loved. Those of you missing your little ones all about to "turn" three - I was there with you in the beginning, you saved me, you saved my sanity and my life - to know that I wasn't alone - to know that what I felt was ok - I cannot imagine how I would have passed those first months without you.

To my DBMafia...I remember. I love them too. Happy Third Birthdays, I wish we could see you all blowing out your candles and opening your gifts. I hope you are all partying together somewhere in the stars.

Wave of Light

My candles lit for the Wave of Light across the world for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. One for my miscarried babies, one for my Starbaby, and a multi petalled one to represent all the very loved and wanted babies of friends, my baby's special playmates in the stars.

We remember them every day, and love them every minute.

The Aftermath - part three

For part one of Starbaby's lifestory click here

This has taken awhile to publish, and there is so much I have left out. I often wish I could go back to those first few weeks. I was allowed to be a complete mess and think of nothing outside of myself and my grief. It was horrific and glorious at the same time, and I felt the closest to him that I ever have.

The week after leaving the hospital was a blur. We slept and lived curled up together on a single mattress on our living room floor. Aside from going to the funeral home to make arrangements, we didn’t leave the house. We watched a lot of trashy tv. If something was funny, I laughed. When I was sad, I cried. The nights were the worst. I would howl and cry for hours until I passed out. I started blogging again the day I got home from the hospital and I spent many, many hours devouring other DBM stories and blogs.

He was buried on a very hot day. The night before we went and had Laurie do matching tattoos of his name on our feet. I was excited to see him again the day of the burial. I couldn’t wait to hold him again. But when I saw him, I knew I couldn’t. He had been gone too long and he was too fragile. He was smaller than I remembered. We buried him silently with his music playing. I thought I would say something, but I couldn’t find the words. We only had our immediate family there. Once again, I found myself oddly calm and in control of myself. I barely cried.

We held his memorial a few weeks later. I didn’t think many people would come. But it was standing room only. We had a little party for him, and handed out his birth announcements. I made a speech. I can barely read it even now. There were many tears shed that day.

We “celebrated” every month for nearly a year. My blog and my friends on forums kept me going. I had no idea that stillbirth were so common.

We received the autopsy reports six weeks later. All my fears, all my late night terrors were laid to rest that day. I was overwhelmed by the thought that there may have been something we could do to save him. But the results were what I had always expected, and what I had found myself hoping for. Our baby boy had full trisomy 18 with a double aneuploidy. He never would have survived. I felt immense relief knowing that his fate was decided at his very conception. There was never anything we could do to change the outcome. The only thing I wish I could change is that I wish I had known some things that I know now. I wish I had known I could call a photographer in to get lovely photos of him. We have so few, and they are not great. I wish I had thought to bring in his blanket, his things into the hospital.

My greatest regret is not something that I ever could have changed though. I wish that we had known. At the time, we were so relieved that we didn’t know that there was something wrong. But now I wish we had known. I wish we could have induced while he was alive. I wish I could have seen his little eyes open. I wish my family and friends could have met him, even once. That’s the only thing I really wish I could change.

Losing my boy is quite obviously the most traumatic thing that I have endured. But it is not a horrible thing to me. Do not feel sorry for me that it happened. He is still my child and this is his story. It is who he is and I wouldn’t change it.

Little one, little one
Where have you gone?
Your going has darkened
The brightest dawn
Why did you leave us
So soon, so soon?
Where can we look for you?
Over the moon?
On butterflies' wings
In the heart of a rose?
Who knows,
who knows
Where a little one goes?
Where I have gone,
I am not so small
My soul is as wide
As the world is tall.
Wherever you look,
You will find me there~
In the heart of a rose,
In the heart of a prayer.
On butterflies' wings,
On wings of my own,
To you, I'm gone,
But I'm never alone~
I'm over the moon.
I am home.

His little face - part two

Meet my tiny baby boy, destined to be a Star xxx


click here for part one of his lifestory
click here for part three of his lifestory

His Story - part one

On the evening of the 25^th February 2008 I was almost 37 weeks pregnant. I was desperate for my baby to be born as I was feeling huge, it was the middle of summer and I just wanted him out. My first was born at 37 weeks and was a big baby (8lb 9oz). I just knew this one wasn’t as big, but I had hoped that I could somehow be induced early, the way I was with Rocket. I tried to convince the Dr at my last visit to at least re-scan me to see if he was big, like his brother, but in the back of my mind I kept flashing to the 18 and 20 wk ultrasounds where he measured small, really small. At the time I was desperately worried but all the doctors kept telling me it was nothing. I panicked over the fact that he had a choroid plexus cyst (CPC) a marker for Trisomy 18, but all the doctors reassured me, “your baby is fine!”

That day at the appointment, the doctor listened to his heartbeat and said “your baby is PERFECTLY healthy, and HAPPY in there” and told me no induction, no ultrasound. Basically told me that I was an idiot. I was still worried. I had hoped using the reason of “I was induced with a big baby before” would prompt at least an ultrasound to reassure me that the baby was ok. I had a bad feeling. It was only a few days until my fears were confirmed in the most horrific way.

But back to the evening of 25^th February.

I went to bed late (not unusual for me, especially when pregnant). I suddenly realised I hadn’t felt him move that day. I tried to think of when the last time I felt him move was. I couldn’t for the life of me remember him moving in days. This wasn’t that unusual, as I had an anterior placenta and was told that I wouldn’t feel his movements the way I did with my first baby. Now I know the real reason.

I lay in bed for an hour poking, prodding, begging him to move. I could push him from one side of my belly to the other. I could feel his weight shift easily without a single movement. I felt sick. But I decided not to go into the hospital again, as I would have to take the whole family in there in the middle of the night, and I had already done that once this pregnancy, and spent the whole night in there for no reason. As soon as they put the trace on there he bounced around madly. So I stayed in bed, convinced myself he was ok, even though I really knew he wasn’t.

Somehow I slept.

In the morning I headed into the hospital. I didn’t tell Lou any of my concerns as she was up at 5am for work and I was still asleep. I dropped Rocket at school and drove into the hospital for what I thought would be a quick check.

They took me back straight away.

What happened next was the stuff of nightmares. The midwife tried and tried to find a heartbeat with the Doppler. She got a senior midwife to try. I watched the clock on the wall as minutes passed without them finding a heartbeat. I tried to be calm but I started to panic.

2 minutes in and I was scared. 5 minutes in and I know my own heart rate went up. 10 minutes passed and I knew something was drastically wrong. They called a doctor down to perform an ultrasound.

He started scanning and was talking as he did it. “There is your baby’s head. There is a lot of amniotic fluid here” I was thinking “Oh thank goodness he must be ok. Why else would he be talking about these other things?”

Then the words that will always haunt me. He looked me in the eyes and said “I’m sorry, it does appear your baby’s heart has stopped”.

I panic just writing out those words. At the time, I think my heart stopped too. I screamed, I hyperventilated, I lost complete focus on reality. The nurses were telling me to listen to the doctor…LISTEN TO THE DOCTOR. I could see no point in listening to the doctor, my baby was dead. My baby was DEAD.

I jumped out of the bed and screamed “I have to call my partner, I have to call my LOU”. Of course my phone had no reception. They led me out to a phone in the reception area and I called her sobbing. All I could say was “they can’t find a heartbeat”. She could barely understand me. I now know she ran out to her boss in a panic and he drove her to the hospital himself, the only sounds in the car both of them swearing every time they hit a red light or a car in front went too slow. When she went back to work, every time the phone rang in the factory for months she would almost hyperventilate with fear of another terrible call from me.

By the time she got there I had already been upstairs for a full ultrasound, which I kept my arm over my face for. I did not want to see him there on the screen, lying still, not moving. It was all too much for me to bear.

I don’t remember getting back to the assessment rooms but somehow we did. We sat there in shock. I started apologising over and over and saying “how does this happen? How does this happen? I don’t understand…How does a heart just stop?”

I started crying for the first time. I wailed and sobbed while she held me and cried her quiet tears.

The doctor came back in and told us that he was very small. He guessed about 4.5lb but he was far smaller at only 3lb 7oz. There were a full range of problems showing including pleural effusions, malformed kidneys etc. There was a whole discussion on “why didn’t we see this coming”. We agreed to an autopsy. I wanted a c-section. No way did I want to go through labour and birth for a baby who was already gone. The doctor firmly told me no, that would just make things harder. I thought he was mental but I agreed to the induction. We had to choose whether to be admitted right away, or come back later to be induced. I chose to go home and have a few hours, then come back that night.

We walked out in shock. It was my mother’s birthday. I was supposed to meet her in an hour for lunch. Making that call was hard, but I steeled my emotions and called to say the baby had died and I wouldn’t make it to her lunch. We had a very strained relationship at that point because she reacted very badly to news of the pregnancy and had shown no interest in him. I think this still haunts her.

We lay around for a while in shock. Crying, asking why. We decided it was for the best that we didn’t know about all his problems sooner. We never had to make any tough decisions and he passed away (we hope) peacefully, in the warmest, safest place possible. He was never alone for a second. We were strangely calm and rational in between the fits of sobbing.

THE HOSPITAL

Arriving at the hospital was surreal. Everyone else there was getting ready to meet their baby and start their lives together. We wanted to scream at every person that passed us “Our baby died! Our baby DIED” but we sat there quietly and waited to be called up. They put us in a special room at the end of the labour ward, as far as possible from the happy families. Our lovely midwife came in and apologised in advance if we had to hear any new babies cry.

Everything that night sort of blurs together now. There are a lot of random details I remember that aren’t that pertinent now. I remember one of the doctors coming in to talk about doing an amnio (they decided not to, to wait for the autopsy). I remember he was so emotional, his voice broke and he had tears in his eyes. We were stoic and unemotional whenever someone was in the room, sobbing hysterically when we were alone.

The IV saga started (as it always does) with two nurses, an anaesthetist and then the head of anaesthetics “having a go” at it.

Our midwife brought us some literature about stillbirth. I tried to read some but quickly became hysterical. I put them aside. I never really cried when our midwife was in the room, she kept saying we were so brave. I didn’t see it as brave, we knew we had to get through it, and becoming a mess wouldn’t help anything. I became a master at controlling my emotions (ha! As if)

I barely slept. Lou never has any trouble sleeping. In the morning we stared out the window. What else was there to do? We saw two friends running in the park across the road. Lou commented that our friends are always close by, even when they don’t realise it.

I had a patient controlled anaesthesia where I could self administer painkillers every few minutes. I had contractions every three minutes but they were easily bearable. At around 2pm they started increasing in intensity. I asked for more painkillers, then changed my mind and asked for an epidural.

From there it all went like lightning. I was in so much pain that I was begging for relief, but there was no time for anything. They were yelling for an anaesthetist to at least give me a shot of something. Finally he did, and less than a minute later my tiny boy was born. My established labour was a grand total of eleven minutes. And yes I am proud that this is recorded in my patient notes.

I was so afraid after he was born, of what he would look like. They had prepared us for the worst, and I asked anxiously “Does he look okay?” Our dear midwife Olivia said happily “oh he’s perfect”. And he was.

I got to see him and hold him straight away and he took my breath away. I couldn’t understand how he could be dead, as he just looked so…alive. He just looked like he was sleeping. He didn't have a single mark on him, they think he must have only just passed away when I came in. I believe it was around 2am the night before, when I first was struck with the though "what if he has died?" Olivia wrapped him up and took him to bathe him and weigh him while Lou watched. He was a grand 3lb 7 oz at 37 weeks.

We loved holding him. Olivia commented “You two are like different people when this little boy is in the room” and it was true. He lit up our lives that day. We had him the whole day, I don’t really remember what we did, or what we said. We just WERE. We talked and laughed and everything was ok right in that moment because he was there with us. Olivia took him overnight. In the morning I asked for him back. She had washed his blanket and his gown overnight and he smelled lovely.

We had him baptised and blessed by the Catholic Father in the hospital. He asked all the angels to watch over him and his mothers. We left late that day, going home to our empty house alone, and empty handed.

For Part Two click here.
For Part Three click here.

awkward silences

It's been over two years now since my son's heart stopped beating and my world was torn open. It has become such a part of my every day life that I barely recognise how horrific an occurence stillbirth is, and that not everyone has come to the acceptance of it that I have.

At playgroup the other day someone asked quite innocently of another mum who her OB was, we started discussing it. I mentioned that we went through a different hospital than them because we wanted a specific OB - the head of obstetrics at the major public hospital in our city. I rambled on abut how great he was, how he was the one who delivered the autopsy results to us and he gave us scans at every appt with Monster because of my anxiety.

**crickets**

The room was silent. AWKWARD. Then I realised what I had said. No one commented on it, as they all know my story by now (well, except for one new mum who I am sure was sitting there thinking "WTF is this woman talking about???") and it dawned on me that while I feel completely comfortable discussing his death, to them it is a scary unknown. I can imagine how I would have reacted had I been sitting in their position only 3 years ago.

I remember when I was pregnant with our Starbaby we watched a tv show that followed a bunch of couples through pregnancy and birth. One of these couples were pregnant after a stillbirth. We were horrified. Both that "that" really happens, and by the fact that she was pregnant so soon afterwards. "How would you live with that!?!" we asked "I cannot even begin to imagine that!" we said.

Only a few months later we were in the hospital delivery our little man, and a few months later we were back there, pregnant with Monster.

These things just keep happening, me rambling on and then looking up to see the horrified expressions on people faces...I refuse to censor myself, but I am frequently surprised when I catch myself mentioning it so casually. People must think I am so callous, but the fact is, I have made my peace with it. I don't believe it ever could have happened any other way, and this was always meant to happen.

But I had a dream the other morning that they discovered his trisomy earlier and we managed to get him out alive. That he lived for a few months. I dreamt of a party we threw him, how beautiful it was to have all our friends and family there to meet him, to see how amazing he was. I woke up smiling. I wish every day that we had managed to have just a few days with him. It's my only regret about the entire story...

Stillbirth - the gift that keeps on giving...

I can't rid myself of these tears.

I have cried so many times over the past two years you would think that there wouldn't be any left. And yet, we cry.

I read a blog entry by a dear DBM friend today, writing about the bitterness she feels every time a new pregnancy is announced. About how she doesn't understand why, she has gone on to have a beautiful living baby, but the bitterness and the pain is still there.

I feel her pain, I really do. There is a pregnancy in our family at the moment. And I find myself feeling the most intense and awful feelings towards both the expectant mother and even, the baby. I do not wish ill on them by any means. But the jealousy and the bitterness are at times overwhelming. I thought that it would lessen once I had my own 'rainbow' baby. That the bitterness would lessen because I too had experienced a pregnancy that ended well. But being on the other side has not lessened the angst I feel when I hear a pregnancy announcement. I want to scowl and spit and throw things. I don't, I do have some self control you know, but I want to.

I want to scream at this BIPP (blissfully ignorant pregnant person) in my family "I hate you! For no other reason than the fact that my baby died and yours probably will not" I want people to remember my starbaby because I think part of it feels like the more babies that come into this world, and into our lives, the less important his tiny, short, brief little life was. The less people will remember him.

Fuck. I'm becoming a person I dont even recognise.

I bought the BIPP a baby gift today. She is over 30 weeks now and I have not said a word to her since she announced it. Not a word. I planned on hating her forever and never holding her baby. Never commenting on it. Pretending it doesnt exist.

Who is this person? This is not me! I love babies!

I can't do it anymore. I feel like I am drowing in my own negativity, in my own hatred and anger. Enough is enough. I have flipped the switch and I will no longer indulge myself and allow myself to feel this way. I will embrace this new child and try to begin the journey towards getting to know the BIPP and hopefully I will feel a little lighter, a little less villain-esque and I can stop invoking years of bad karma.

So I bought her a gift. Then I decided maybe I will keep it for myself.

Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

DBM Support - FAIL

There is another DBM (deadbabymom) at my work.

We didnt used to work on the same floor and I had minimal interaction with her. When she got pregnant, I had just lost my Starbaby. When she got pre-eclampsia and was rushed to hospital, I was pregnant with Monster baby.

When her baby had to be induced at 25 weeks because if he wasn't, they would both die, I was at home.

When he died in the NICU after fighting for two months, I was on leave.

When she and I were both back at work, I had a newborn and she didn't. I avoided her. When he first died, I wanted to be there for her, but I didnt really even know her. I should have reached out and I didnt.

We now work on the same floor. I went into her office to get something that was stored in there and saw a bag full of tiny tiny knitted hats. I stopped dead in my tracks. I knew what they were for. I wanted to ask her "do you knit these?" I wanted to say "its wonderful" I wanted to say "I wish we'd had a tiny hat for Starbaby's head" I wanted to say "I think about J--- sometimes too" I wanted to say "you are not alone, you are not the only one".

Instead I grabbed what I needed and fled back to my desk with tears in my eyes.

FAIL Suzy. FAIL.

Never what you had planned...

I had planned on a more lighthearted entry today, until I got a phone call from my mother. First off, an entire department at our office (we work together) was made redundant yesterday. People who had worked there for 25 years. They have always valued loyalty above all. It would appear that is no longer the case. While I want to be a full time mother and housewife, the unfortunate truth of the world is that we cannot afford that and I have to work part time. If they can wipe out an entire department, where does that leave me? I am scared for my job security for the first time ever.

She also told me her close friend passed away last night after a battle with cancer (melanoma). I just dissolved into tears. I wasnt close to her but with my starbaby's birth/deathday tomorrow, and the job thing...well it all seems too much.

Oh and it's my mothers birthday today.

Happy Birthday Mama.

If voting changed anything, they'd make it illegal...

Today I find myself a little discontent but nowhere near the pain I felt a few days ago. Of course as we are now T minus 2 days I expect I could be back in that hole at any minute.

This coupled with some seriously questionable political advertising of late, rubbing babyloss in my face, has led to just a small feeling of disquiet, and to a lesser extent, rage. On the upside it has led to many political conversations/arguments/debates (call them what you will) something I deeply enjoy. It has been nice to have something to channel my anger into. That and numerous fa.ce.bo.ok groups based around certain political parties have allowed me to vent much of my discontent to a wider audience.

***

Tonight we will fill in the forms for our little man's gravestone. How bizarre. And how slack to have left it for two years. I feel equally disconnected from the whole experience and at the same time, like it is still too raw and that taking this step will finalise his death and it will be real. How odd.

I don't have anything particularly insightful or witty to post tonight...perhaps tomorrow will be a brighter day and will provide me with something else to blog about.

Some days are diamonds...some are just lumps of coal

Rough night last night.

Cried for the first time in awhile - the ugly kind of crying, complete with sobbing, snotty nose, face smeared with tears, clutching at your heart like if you could just take it out you might feel a moment of peace...that type of crying. Ugh it is tiresome.

And here I am another day where he is all I can think of to write about. I go to all the effort of moving blogs but I guess it's like life. You can't run away from the things that are hard or hurtful in your life, they will follow you. I wanted this to be a fresh start, light hearted, not polluted with all the grief I carried for so long.

I thought I was past this! For so long I didn't even write on my blog because there was nothing babylost related to report. The rest of my life was ticking along nicely. Hence the move, hence the new blog. But then here we are edging closer. and closer. and closer. to two years (T minus 4 days and counting) and I feel myself falling further and further back into the old pattern of reading a deadbabyblog, crying for the baby, then crying for my baby, sobbing on the floor and eventually crying myself to sleep.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.

And it is tiring. It is exhausting. And it all started because I was trying to pick a photo to put in my sidebar of my Little Man.

I am filled with such strong emotions at the moment. There is so much love, but then there is also a scary amount of hatred. A disturbing amount of jealousy and envy. A general spitefulness that never existed prior to my loss. I think of all the women who pledge to do great things after their babies die. Women who say the loss has made them better people. I do not believe mine has. Or perhaps, that ever looming anniversary is just overwhelming literally everything in my life.

So I am left here today, utterly exhausted, barely able to keep my eyes open, and utterly unable to think of anything else.