After Anabelle

I've been asked a few times recently if I'm feeling as scared this time... The answer is yes. I'm utterly terrified this baby will die before it is born and we'll be burying another baby in another coffin again. Even though we have Alexander, and he lived, death still feels the overwhelming factor for our pregnancies. A very real risk. It happened before, why wouldn't it happen again? 

This time I spent the first trimester mildly obsessing about miscarrying. Almost convincing myself for a while we wouldn't get past the early stage this time. I had no reason to think we wouldn't, the end of pregnancy has been our problem area, not the beginning. But somehow it felt a real possibility this time.  With Anabelle, miscarriage was something I of course knew was a risk but didn't let myself really think about it, it wasn't a conern. With Alexander, I strangely didn't think about early loss too much either, all my effort and concern was fixating on how we were going to get through at the end. I let the first trimester wash over me a little because 12 weeks meant very little anyway. It still means very little. 

This time I seem to be winding myself up a little all the way through, at each stage. I suppose I did exactly that last time too, but maybe in a slightly different way.  There is no rest, I'm just as scared. I'm winding myself up there'll be no heartbeat at next weeks scan, even though I can already feel baby Blob moving around quite clearly. I love and dread scans with equal measure. I can't wait to see Blob again on the screen, I can't wait to find out who Blob is in two weeks, but the build up to scans is still immense. I'm feeling more than wobbly on the way in and only the flickering on the screen calms me, for a time again at least. I fear those words more than I can describe. 

Three years ago death violated me and this is what will live with me most forever. I led on a scan table and was told my 32 week grown baby daughter had no heartbeat. The third trimester, 8 weeks off due date. At a time when we're led to assume our babies are safe and coming home, my baby died. Three years on I still don't really know where to begin with processing it. There is no naive assuming for us now. 

I wasn't the one who was dead, my daughter was. My tiny baby daughter. Inside me. I carried death inside me for five days.  I managed to live and breathe, while she had gone within. Ironic as it almost is; I gave birth to death. 

There is a difference this time though. It seems to be going by more quickly! I think this is mostly a good thing, even though it feels I'm being hurtled towards the scariest bit. Those last few weeks with Alexander when I stopped coping are coming ever closer. This time I need to try and keep it together a bit more. Last time every moment dragged, I guess I'm so busy with Alexander this time it mostly hasn't had time to drag yet.  Xander is going to be my refuge as he always is. My precious boy. Tomorrow I'm already 18 weeks pregnant. Already more or less reaching my half way point. I'm breaking this pregnancy down into milestones. The next is the 25th July and naming Blob properly. 

I wonder if people question why we're having another baby, why we're putting ourselves through this again when we have a living baby already now? Are we pushing our luck?

We planned to have another baby, because mostly, we want to; we love being parents, we adore our children. Our family doesn't feel complete; although I realise it never will because we'll never have Anabelle, we need to find our version of 'complete'. We need to be brave for our 'complete'. We're being brave and adding another child to our family, another hopeful rainbow like Alexander. We're having another baby because we want Alexander to have a chance at some normality. To have a sibling he can really know. To experience play and love, not just waving and blowing kisses at a photograph of his sister and playing around her graveside. As much as he seems to be forming some sort of remarkable bond with his sister, seeming to grasp her importance in his absolute innocence, seeming to know the little girl on the mantlepiece is part of his family; that kind of siblinghood shouldn't be the only experience of having a brother or sister our beautiful boy should have. In part, we're doing this for him. 

We're having another baby because I love being a Mummy. I've got so much more out of being a mother than I do anything else in life. It fulfills me. My babies, all three of them are my life. I'm happiest when I'm with my baby boy, happiest when we're having our Mummy days and our family days. Our little family is all that really matters to me. I want our hands full. So we're being brave, even though we are very scared. We dare to hope. We dare to believe, because we have too; because Alexander came home we have to dare to trust Blob will too. 

I spent a few days beside myself. A new kind of  'not myself'. Worried husband.

Then another few days feeling bewildered and a little lost. 

Exhausted with grief in my world where no-one really understands. I felt like I was being pushed under, pushed to do something drastic, like reveal the true horror of the day Anabelle was born; share the most private and intimate parts of our grief and exactly why I fall to pieces through June. I'd reached a point where I didn't know what else to do. 

Another week on and I'm relieved I had given myself a self-imposed blogging and Facebook ban for a little while. So I sat on my hands. I'm glad I did. I'm an over-sharer in many ways, I've lived life with social media not far behind. But sharing the most intimate details of Anabelle's birth would have been a step too far, even if they would really reveal the full extent of our pain, my flashbacks and nightmares. 

Nevermind anyone else, it would have been a step too far for me, to lay every moment bare here would have hurt me. These  unshared details of 21st June 2010, are precious yet some of the horrific moments with our daughter. Our memories. They are what haunt me, but all we have left at the same time. 

Back in the thick of the storm last week I found myself questioning my state of mind. This week I'm finally going to explore that further and get some support in place while I recover from the latest low. Following an appointment with my midwife I've been referred to the Dr to access some trauma counselling. Because three years on we still live post-trauma. 

Day to day I may appear strong; what other choice do I have? Survive or constantly drown. 

But just underneath the surface is a frightened, traumatised and fragile girl still learning to live with the forever without her baby daughter.  Forever is an unpredictable and big place. 

Sometimes I drown. 

At some point, always, for the rest of my life, I will drown.

Drowning in June is a given. 

June has moved into July; it felt like an instant weight off my shoulders. 

A week into July, some timeout and although I'm still feeling emotionally fragile, I'm also feeling much calmer. Calmer is good. 

I've spent the last fortnight watching films with my husband because I've spent next to no time on the laptop. I've read a book, possibly for the first time since having Anabelle, and indeed since I've had Alexander. I've listened to lots of Emeli Sande and reflected a lot over her lyrics, as always seeming to sum me up perfectly.

Reading blogs that could also sum me up perfectly. Edspire, whose baby daughter, Matilda Mae, died a little over 5 months ago wrote this post this week. Everything about it rang true, but especially the last paragraph, because it is still that, three years on. It may still be that forever. 

In many respects this weekend I've come on leaps and bounds as it were.

It may seem small fry to some, but this weekend has been of huge significance to me. After three years of not being emotionally able enough to hold a baby that wasn't my own, I've overcome that hurdle because a friend allowed me to feel perfectly safe around her with my grief whilst I took this monumental step. This weekend I held a baby girl for the first time since holding my own baby girl. I don't think it means I could hold every baby yet but I felt safe enough to cuddle this one, and the best bit was; it felt lovely. Alexander was totally mesmerised by her too and enjoyed his own cuddles, smothering her in kisses and sharing and showing her toys; I hope that is a sign of things to come with his little brother or sister!

Not only did I overcome that hurdle but today I stood in church and became this little girls godmother. What an honour and what epic progress on our After Anabelle journey. Three years ago playing this part in another girls life, or any baby's life, would have felt impossible, too painful, too soon. I can't pretend there is no nerves at all about the emotional logistics of having a goddaughter, but her Mummy knows and is gentle about that. Specific circumstances, a specific and special friendship gave me the gentle kick up the bum to step up and be important to a different kind of daughter. 

So you see two weeks of  blogging and Facebook silence, of stepping back and re-evaluating lots of things in my life has done me the world of good, even the wobbly bits. So tonight I'm logging back on, because if I can take the leaps I've taken this weekend then Facebook in comparison, is nothing. Hoping feeling calmer remains.

It is lovely to see you all :) 

I'm going offline for a while. I'm not sure how long. At least a week or two, probably more. We'll see. 

Last night I had given myself a shake and pledged to start an upward turn, to re-engage with the world.  It isn't quite working out so far. But if nothing else my babies deserve that of me. Not a Mummy constantly on the verge of tears. Friday when I sobbed Xander looked at me with big concerned worried eyes. Climbed up on to my lap and cwtched in close. A baby boy shouldn't have to be worried about his mother. 

My grief is very real and raw, and so close. 

I've suffered with nightmares these last two weeks. Visions of Belle as her body will be now and more flashbacks than I have had in a long while. I've reacted very violently to Anabelle's birthday this year. Grief is consuming and unpredictable. 

Three years but only really yesterday for me. 

Today's flashback is walking up the aisle at her funeral, clinging to my father. Barely able to keep my legs up and my feet moving. Bleeding heavily post birth and leaking wasted milk profusely. Feeling sore. Jon carrying our daughter ahead of me in her pink box. 

These are not just memories. They are vivid bolts to the chest as I'm thrown back there. As if I'm really back there and it leaves me choked. 

But I'm becoming acutely aware, without it ever being the intention, that my grief is becoming frightening for others, offensive even. Clearly it has become all too uncomfortable. I can't deal with that anymore. Feeling responsible for others when so much of my energy is needed to put my family emotionally back together right now. 

This blog used to be my safe place. Where spilling words onto a page could heal me a little, help me process the overwhelming pain, and function. So often others have told me my words help them process their own grief. But maybe its not a safe place anymore. I don't know where to go. 

Apart from offline, for a little while. At least from here and Facebook. 

So I'm saying bye bye, just for now and sending my love to all.

C x 

Baby is born. Alive. Everyone is happy. Everyone takes pictures. Everyone coos. Everyone congratulates the new Mum and Dad. Baby comes home. Everyone visits. 

The good life. 

Its so simple right? 

Then why wasn't it? Not for Anabelle. 

Baby is born. Dead. Everyone is broken. Only a few take pictures. Mummy takes weeks to be brave enough to share just some of those pictures in case people are not very kind. Three years later there are still hundreds she hasn't shared, too precious to share still incase people are not kind. Everyone sends sympathy cards and their condolences to the new Mum and Dad.  Baby doesn't come home. No one visits. No one coos. The only people who meet your baby, meet them led in their coffin in the chapel of rest. 

The nightmare life. 

Baby doesn't come home. 

Mummy and Daddy hold their baby for a few short hours before leaving the hospital empty handed. 

Baby is taken to the cold hospital mortuary. 

A funeral director picks the baby up from the mortuary and takes her to their cold chapel of rest. 

Baby is put in a tiny pink coffin. 

The last time Mummy and Daddy see their baby she is led in her coffin, just hours before the lid is going to be put on, with her name engraved on a silver plate and then she'll be in the dark forever. 

Baby is put in deep dark cold ground. All alone. 

Our reality. 

Mummy has nightmares and flashbacks. Relives and relives again. 

Mummy knows her beautiful tiny girl is rotting and decaying. Soon to be just bones in that dark ground if she isn't already. 

Mental images no mother should ever have of her child. 

I've been feeling mentally tortured, unravelling and dark these last few days. Hurting, then hurting some more. 

Unlike other years I felt little peace on Anabelle's birthday yesterday. We lit sparklers and candles at 00:08 to mark the moment we held her for the first and short time three years ago. We visited her, we decorated her grave in pink as we have every other year so far. We visited her mountain, where we wrote her eulogy and her brother sent her a balloon. Her brother played bells for Belle, we blew out candles and sang happy birthday. We decorated our home garden with pink flowers and decorations. 

But mostly I felt bothered, highly strung and jittery. Unwell. I don't feel well at the moment. Physically, mentally. Too much turmoil. 

Hormones, still ongoing pregnancy sickness much later than I've ever had before, many an unsettled tummy this week and so tired. The physical manifestation of grief and pain.  

Today I've been obsessed with cleaning and tidying our house. Early nesting perhaps. Or maybe I'm trying to  regain some control of the chaos that my mind feels in.    Today we've been back to where we got married, where we spent so much time in the quiet in just each others company  in those early weeks after our baby girls death. At the moment it could easily be the early weeks again the turmoil I feel in. Today we're trying to find some emotional calm and peace, just as we were three years ago. 

But we've survived through to the weekend and I only hope as we pass the anniversary of her funeral next week and June now becomes July I'll start feeling a little bit more together again. 

What did you buy your daughter for her birthday this year? 

I bet it wasn't pink garden lanterns and flowers. 

That is what we've bought our daughter for her third birthday tomorrow. 

I didn't want to get up this morning. My eyes didn't want to open. Not because I was tired, or had a bad nights sleep, but because my heart is so heavy with grief and hurt. Because I didn't want to have to face today. Hurt. Today isn't fair, tomorrow isn't fair, the day after that isn't fair. None of this is fair. Why is my daughter dead? After three years I know that today, the day before, will be harder than tomorrow. I know that the day after will be harder too. I know the lows will hit either side of the 'big' day. Knowing doesn't stop the sheer pain though. 

Raw. Reliving. This time three years ago I was finally in labour after five days of trying to get me there. Anabelle was on her way. From waters breaking to her being born took five hours and eight minutes.  Those eight minutes taking her into the next day just after midnight. 

Three years later I'm not wrapping birthday presents in pink paper like I should be. Instead I'm lighting candles and making pink decorations to pretty her grave with. 

And I'm so angry. Because this isn't the way it should be. Why us. Why her. 

Three years. 

Being three should be about starting nursery class at school. 

Being three should be about a Disney Princess obsession. 

Being three should be about loving to dress up and discovering role play. 

Being three should be about learning numbers and letters and how to write her name.

Being three should be about being a threenager. 

Being three shouldn't be this. 

Having a little girl shouldn't be like this, because I don't really have her at all. 

...in more ways than one. 

Sometimes, when I feel that I couldn't hurt anymore and I'm teetering on the brink, my lovely boy is a beautiful distraction.  This week is one of those weeks, Anabelle's upcoming remember day and birthday and everything in between is hitting me hard. I'm overwhelmed by things I cannot control. I'm tired. If possible, this third year is hurting more than the years before. Is this the pattern to come? Each year feeling harder than the last? Who said time heals when my heart feels raw and broken as if she died yesterday? 

Today has seen every emotion; tears, pain, happiness, excitement. And my solace? The company of my boy. 

Today I felt relief when I picked him up from nursery.

For a little while nothing else mattered, me, my boy and playtime. Exploring his new sand and water table! He has been a delight this evening; cheeky, inquisitive and loving. My boy. Right up until bedtime, playing  boo with himself in the landing mirror; something I will have to catch on video if I can! 

We are blessed to have him. 

We were, we are blessed to have Anabelle, if only for a short time. 

We are blessed to have this baby. 

Today, three years ago, was the pivotal moment for my daughter's fate.  

On the 6th June back in 2010 I was admitted to hospital threatening pre-term labour with Anabelle. With every tightening of my stomach her heart rate fluctuated and dipped. She wasn't happy. 

The Doctors were treating me to stop the tightening's while starting to prepare for a possible section at the same time if her heart rate didn't stabilise soon. 

It did stablise, we were relieved, then we thought she was too tiny to be born, but now I look back on this as our first warning sign. I wish we had got her out then, while she was still alive. 

A change of events at this point, on this day three years ago, just might have given us a different overall outcome. I know premature birth could have also risked her death, I know she might have been poorly. But a different decision, sparking a different chain of events and our daughter might have survived. 

Instead, ten days later she died. It could have been different. I miss her.

I hate June, but love that this is her month all the same.

Today I remember Cerian, on her 3rd birthday. 
Born sleeping on the 6th June 2010.