Saturday, 19 March 2011
Pressure
Brokenness returned and bit me on the bum today. The periods of time between these low and dark days are lengthening but my emotional and mental stability are no better each time they hit; grief and a spiralling depression making its presence known.
I cannot think of a specific trigger for today but I’m guessing it’s a reaction to the pressure building surrounding next weekend and the weekend after.
Next weekend is the day of my brother’s wedding. I’m immensely anxious about how on earth I will cope surrounded by babies and families, anxious of the happy exterior I will have to portray when in every likelihood I will be dying inside. People have no idea how much it hurts me to see everyone else enjoying the pleasures that Jon and I were denied. Denied the opportunity to show off our baby, denied the opportunity for coos and ahhs, denied the opportunity to be parents.
Apparently this is unreasonable though; I am being resentful and unreasonable.
Isn’t it just grand that I have to take into account everyone else’s feelings when mine are so blatantly my own problem to deal with? Nevermind how much I’m hurting; as long as no-one else sees or feels my hurt too. Apparently other people don’t have to think or be understanding.
Maybe I should lower my expectations. Maybe I should’ve learnt by now how it is.
The pressure is building.
Today I went to Cardiff. I wasn’t in the mood for it. I felt irritable and tearful before I even got in my mother’s car but it was an essential trip. What I stupidly hadn’t accounted for; on top of my already low state, was the mother’s day advertising around all of the shops. Maybe I should’ve expected this – after all it is only two weeks away now.
John Lewis in particular I found distressing. Probably because it was the first shop we went into but also the “make her feel special this Mother’s Day” signs all over their store. Urgh it just makes me feel sick to my stomach thinking of Mother’s Day. I don’t know how to actually bare it right now; apart from hoping, as always, that our plan will see us through.
I came home from Cardiff and slept for three hours. I've spent the rest of the evening with an increasing headache.
The pressure is building.
Thursday, 17 March 2011
From One to Another
You will remember that in January one of my pupils died after spending her short life battling illness and critical stays in hospital. You will remember my post about her funeral in February.
Today I packaged up the last of her things in school; a blanket, photographs and her record of achievement to send to her parents. Today I wrote to her parents. For the first time since Anabelle’s death, I was the one finding the words to send to someone else, the professional to other bereaved parents.
Vastly different circumstances, same outcome; we’ve both lost our daughters.
For the first time in my career I had more insight into one of our bereaved parent’s world. A child dying is the worst part of my job; an inevitable experience when working with children with life-limiting conditions. This was the third death directly in one of my classes in the almost 5 years I’ve been teaching in special schools. Additionally I’ve been affected by a number of other children’s deaths in the schools where I’ve worked.
I knew as I sat there writing this letter that there is nothing I could say that would make it better. I know only too well that words offer little comfort, platitudes often meaningless. I didn’t want to be one of those people who wrote only what they were supposed to say. So I recounted my own daughter’s death, wanting them to know I truly understood what it was like to experience the death of your own child. I told them the small things that are precious to me, and that they had been on my mind to have as many memories of their daughter as I could send them. I hoped these things I was sending would offer a smile.
Smile may seem like an odd choice of word, but I guess in some bizarre way that is what Anabelle’s things are beginning to offer me. I cherish them. So bittersweet; painful to hold and look at but at the same time a smile because they are hers.
Her box of things; many of which she never even touched, belong to her. Recently I took the blanket out of Anabelle’s box that she’d had over her for a while in the hospital. The only thing we have that she actually used. It used to smell of Anabelle, but her smell has gone now.
But all of these things, we keep as hers, are precious. They represent everything we dreamed for her, how we imagined her to be. The pretty little girl she was going to be with all her pretty things.
I hope that my pupils’ parents are able to do to the same with all the things they have left of her. I know the action of sending memories and something tangible is far better than any words could ever be.
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
Any Children?
Do you have any children?
The perfectly innocent, reasonable and expected question to be asked at my age and newishly married.
I still stumble through my answer, not really knowing quite how to respond to the question, not really knowing how to word it. Knowing I will never deny Anabelle but knowing I’m about to make somebody feel very awful for asking me the question. After all nothing can prepare you for the response that my child is dead however softly I try to say.
Do you have any children?
Today my answer was “Yes, I had a little girl last year but sadly she was stillborn”
As expected the lady who had asked me was apologetic and mortified for me; flustered and didn’t know what to say. I went on to tell her my little girls name and how she’d been named at 20 weeks and already her little self when she died and she relaxed a bit. Going on to tell me about a friend who has had similar experiences and asked me how far along we were when Belle died.
I still don’t have a standard response. I don’t know what fits most comfortably yet. Today’s response will not be the one. I don’t like the past tense, I don’t like the “but”, I haven’t quite fitted in with it being last year and I still struggle with the word stillborn.
It’s not “had” a little girl at all – I have a little girl. She is just not here.
I don’t want to make people feel awkward but I could never reply that I have no children. That is not comfortable for me. I absolutely refuse to have a secret child, an unmentionable child.
I don’t mind being asked about Anabelle. She isn’t a secret, I’m immensely proud of her. I don’t understand what there is to hide about her. I hope my willingness to be open about her and our experiences helps people to be comfortable around me. Not so scared to mention her incase they say the wrong thing.
Yes sometimes maybe the wrong thing may be said; but I appreciate the acknowledgement of my daughter. It is better to talk about her and get it wrong than to pretend she never existed at all. The majority of people were never lucky enough to meet my girl. But I met her, I held her, I love her and she exists in every part of me, the biggest part of me. How could I never speak of her?
Do you have any children?
Yes I do. I have a daughter called Anabelle. She is very almost 9 months old and is in heaven because she couldn’t stay with us. She will always be my number one.
Always included in my answer.
Saturday, 12 March 2011
Home Alone
Today I am home alone with Fiz for company. This is quite unsual for a weekend but today Jon has gone over the bridge to Bristol to take part in some sort of photography event. I wanted to use the opportunity for a long undisturbed lie in; Fiz unfortunately had other ideas!
I’ve been thinking about the phrase “Time Heals”
6 or so months ago spending the day on my own would’ve been sure to send me into meltdown. The first day Jon went back to work was horrific, for both of us. He’d tried to go back too soon; it had only been 4 weeks since Anabelle had died. I remember crying as he left the house that first morning, totally beside myself that I was home alone. The days were long enough and hard enough to get through without having face it alone. As it was Jon didn’t last the full day and after attempting work again the next day he conceded that he just wasn’t ready and the Dr signed him off for a while longer. My safety net of having Jon at home with me was quickly resumed.
On his second attempt at returning to work we were both more prepared. Although there was still tears on that morning, we knew he could not stay off for much longer. It was time to bite the bullet. I felt so bad for Jon; so much expectation on his shoulders that were not on mine. He was expected to “heal” quicker than me; to go back to work when no-one expected that from me. Our grief was the same; what made Jon ready for work when I wasn’t? Nothing but expectation.
Now I’m used to being home alone. That part of me I suppose is healed. It doesn’t bring the fear it used to in the early days. Infact I relish the peace and quiet and me time now.
Something else has changed too; the absolute sickening fear that something will happen to Jon when he’s out. Even only a few weeks/months ago the fear was sometimes all encompassing. Convinced something terrible had happened if I couldn’t get hold of him or he didn’t reply to an email or text. Today I feel calm even though he has gone off. I know he is there safely; he’s text me, and today I can believe it will all be ok and he will be home later.
So maybe I’m getting better, maybe time is healing my irrational behaviour and crazy thoughts. Or maybe the fear and irrational thoughts have just been placed elsewhere and moved onto something new.
Who knows what “heals” really means anyway? I know I am better at things now, but the crux is always there and always the same. Anabelle is not here and never will be. That can never be healed. I am better at so many things; but there is and will always be that. Today it is 8 months, 2 weeks and 5 days since Anabelle was born an angel.
Missing you my beautiful girl.
Friday, 11 March 2011
Grief Makes A Promise
I feel like I'm going crazy.
[Grief speaks] Come sit down, let's talk.
Not you! Leave me alone! You have moved into my life and you won't leave. Everywhere I look; there you are, staring me in the face, filling my life with pain.
[Grief responds] I know. But just hear me out, okay?
I'm tired of listening to you. Tired of feeling so many things; Confused, sad, hopeless, angry, anxious, guilty, helpless, isolated, empty, alone, exhausted, lost, and fearful.
[Grief firmly] You're supposed to have feelings. You're human.
Look you don't understand. My baby who I love and care for very much has died and it HURTS-- It hurts so badly I can't stand it. Sometimes I don't even want to be here anymore.
[Grief comforting] I hear you. But if you never loved, you'd never grieve. What you feel is normal.
No, it's not. Everyone says I'm--well--they say that I'm grieving too much. They are worried about me. They say that it's time to move on. They said to me: "It's time to put closure on this". "It's time to heal, accept, recover, and get over it".
[Grief softly] And you can't.
Well, no. Not like they want me to.
[Grief speaks] Come sit down, let's talk.
Not you! Leave me alone! You have moved into my life and you won't leave. Everywhere I look; there you are, staring me in the face, filling my life with pain.
[Grief responds] I know. But just hear me out, okay?
I'm tired of listening to you. Tired of feeling so many things; Confused, sad, hopeless, angry, anxious, guilty, helpless, isolated, empty, alone, exhausted, lost, and fearful.
[Grief firmly] You're supposed to have feelings. You're human.
Look you don't understand. My baby who I love and care for very much has died and it HURTS-- It hurts so badly I can't stand it. Sometimes I don't even want to be here anymore.
[Grief comforting] I hear you. But if you never loved, you'd never grieve. What you feel is normal.
No, it's not. Everyone says I'm--well--they say that I'm grieving too much. They are worried about me. They say that it's time to move on. They said to me: "It's time to put closure on this". "It's time to heal, accept, recover, and get over it".
[Grief softly] And you can't.
Well, no. Not like they want me to.
I can't put closure on my love. My love did not die. I can't wake up one day and suddenly exclaim," I'm healed". I'll never completely heal. I certainly will not "accept" or "recover" from my baby’s death. And, I will never "get over" it, as if my grief is a problem that can be fixed.
[Grief whispers] You don't have to.
What do you mean?
[Grief takes a seat] Everyone grieves differently. And you have the right to grieve however you're going to grieve. You had an unique relationship with your baby-- a relationship that no one can ever fully understand.
So, what am I supposed to do?
[Grief moving closer] Five things.
First; grieve; feel your grief. That's why I'm in your life. So you can begin to feel again. Even though you don't like what you feel.
Second; talk it out with people who are willing to listen and not judge you. Find a way to get all those bottled up feelings out so they don't go round and round with no place to go. Find those people who will really listen. They are out there. DO IT.
Third; realize that everyone grieves differently. Respect this.
Fourth; Live. Even though at times you don't feel like putting one foot in front of the other. Your job is to live your life, despite all the changes you've gone through, despite all the pain.
And fifth; talk about your baby. Say his or her name. Tell your baby’s life story. Your baby lived a life. Find people who will listen to the stories and who will in turn tell you their stories of your baby .Your love for your baby will never go away. You will always carry it in your heart.
[Grief offering a handshake] And, finally, I make you a promise.
[Shaking hands] You? Grief? Are making me a promise?
[Grief] Yes, my promise to you is:
As terrible as you feel now, you will not feel this way forever.
There will be times that you will laugh. Times where your confusion, your sadness, hopelessness, your anger, anxiety, guilt, helplessness, isolation, emptiness, loneliness, exhaustion and fear will not feel so intense. Don't get me wrong. You will never forget your baby. And feeling less grief does not mean that you are forgetting him/her. Now, I want you to say your baby’s name.
Go ahead, say it.
"Anabelle"
[Grief] It's a precious name. Take the memories. Put them in your heart, feel them. And know that your baby will always safely be in your heart.
Always?
[Grief] I promise.
[Grief] It's a precious name. Take the memories. Put them in your heart, feel them. And know that your baby will always safely be in your heart.
Always?
[Grief] I promise.
To those in my life who understand and allow me those five things and more. Thank you.
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
My Birthday
It seems almost wrong to be saying it; but I’ve had a really very lovely birthday.
Why is there guilt involved in happiness now? There is a part of me that thinks it is somehow more appropriate to say I had a miserable birthday, after all my daughter is dead. I’m not really supposed to be happy. But the truth is I think that yesterday was the best birthday I’ve ever had.
Only one thing could’ve made my 26th birthday better and that something I can never have. Anabelle back. There is nothing I can do about it, apart from accept it. That was one birthday present that was never going to happen, the birthday family day out we’d planned once upon a time long forgotten; and so we indulged ourselves in London and my lovely Jon spectacularly spoilt me.
Yesterday morning we visited Hamley’s; and marvelled at all the toys. A big kids paradise when you’re a 30 year old man looking for a new helicopter! I enjoyed it too, was sold by the nail art kit being demonstrated and had my photo taken with the men dressed as toy soilders outside the shop. But then for a moment, on the girls floor, surrounded by the pink and pretty things I was overwhelmed by the sadness that is always so near. We can never take an excited Anabelle to a world famous toy shop. It is always going to be there isn’t it; the daily missing out reminders.
My brother and sister-in-law spoilt us with a voucher for afternoon tea in the Georgian Restaurant in Harrods; very posh and very lovely and we finished the day off in the front row of the Apollo Victoria Theatre watching Wicked. It has only taken Jon 5 years to take me theatre, but it finished my birthday off perfectly.
It was just a really very lovely day. I can only hope the rest of being 26 will remain the same.
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
The Month of March
March has traditionally been my favourite month of the whole year; even this year it appears it will be no exception. March this year is full of birthdays, weddings, memories and future.
March starts on day one with St David’s Day, the national day of Wales. I have fond memories throughout primary school dressing up, celebrating, taking part in the Eisteddfod. I was bard poet in Year 5 after writing a poem all about rainfall! Now I’m a teacher I continue to enjoy the first week of March with my class; today we painted red dragons and I took an assembly on ‘Welshness’, exploring all things welsh, daffodils, leeks, welsh cakes, music and anthems.
March starts on day one with St David’s Day, the national day of Wales. I have fond memories throughout primary school dressing up, celebrating, taking part in the Eisteddfod. I was bard poet in Year 5 after writing a poem all about rainfall! Now I’m a teacher I continue to enjoy the first week of March with my class; today we painted red dragons and I took an assembly on ‘Welshness’, exploring all things welsh, daffodils, leeks, welsh cakes, music and anthems.
Of course, Dydd Gwyl Dewi Sant is closely followed by my birthday. Or ‘our’ birthdays since I’ve been with Jon. His the 6th, mine the 7th March. As I said Monday, this year I turn 26, Jon turns 30. My sister 21 on the 9th. I’ve always been a person who gets ridiculously excited about my birthday. I love birthdays; not just my own – birthday celebrations in general. They give an excuse for a get together, to wine and dine out, to be spoilt.
I’m surprised that I’m excited and looking forward to my birthday this year. It is obviously something I’m just not going to grow out of! Feeling excitement is progress, especially since our birthday plans are so different to what was anticipated this time last year, I wasn't expecting any joy.
With Jon approaching the big 3-0 I was already planning a big celebratory family day out. Booking Jon a surprise somewhere and standing on the sidelines with our baby as he enjoyed his treat. Of course, this won’t be happening; there is no surprise for Jon planned anymore, instead we’re going to London for a few days over our birthdays; taking advantage of the perks of me now only working part-time.
At the end of 2010 I wobbled dramatically. I wasn’t ready to let go of the year that belonged to Anabelle. I feel so differently about year I was 25. Even though the year I was 25 was all things Belle I’m ready to see the back of it. I suppose, 2010 belonged to her, being 25 belonged to me. Being 25 was the time in my life I’ve hurt the absolute most; it will always be remembered as the year I became a Mummy and that is incredibly special but I’m ready for being 26 to possibly signal something different, something new, something as well as Anabelle.
Jon has big plans for his photography. http://imageryinspired.blogspot.com 2011, being 26 and 30 is the year we’re going to have our own business. It very early stage planning but we’re determined; we have a dream for it, a focus and a goal. We have our beautiful Anabelle to thank for that. Without her we’d have never have been inspired to go for it. Here or not Anabelle manages to positively influence our lives.
Here’s to very nearly being another year older, wiser and celebrate that we've 'survived' it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
- Caz
- After Anabelle - Raising Rainbows. I'm Caz, Mummy to beautiful angel Belle and my wonderful rainbow boys, Xander, Zachy and Luc. Wife to Jon. Twitter @cazem Instagram @cazzyem
Lilypie Angel and Memorial tickers
Mumsnet Badge
