Monday, 31 January 2011
32 Weeks
Today marks 32 weeks since Anabelle was born. Anabelle died when she was 32 weeks and 4 days grown; by the end of this week my daughter will have been dead and gone for longer than she was here and alive. I’m finding it very difficult to come to terms with it. I don’t know why these milestones and dates affect me so much.
Jon on the other hand reacts very differently to dates than me. The 21st of the month doesn’t make him feel the way I do. To him nothing changes, she is still gone, however long it’s been, the being gone doesn’t change, the hurt doesn’t change. Each day is still another day longer without her regardless of date or time.
I’m constantly aware of the next thing to work through; and even then something comes up in between and surprises me.
After today I’m aware that our birthdays are coming up in a month and that the family day out we’d planned to celebrate Daddy’s 30th will never come to fruition. My brother’s wedding is soon after and Anabelle is gone, so instead of his niece being the token flower girl she should be, other small children will play that part. And then there is Mother’s Day. While everyone else I know will celebrate their motherhood, I will be mourning my own.
And that just takes us to April.
Today I’ve spent time going through the phonebooks and making a list of local and national companies I would love to get on board to support Anabelle’s Angel Day and help to raise money for Sands. http://www.justgiving.com/anabelles-angel-day. Today I feel exhausted, exhausted that I have to know Sands at all, exhausted that we’re a statistic in this horrible life, exhausted that instead of planning a first birthday tea party with jelly, ice-cream and normal childhood things, I plan a fundraising event instead.
It is so important and I’m determined to raise awareness of the impact of stillbirth on a family’s life and to raise as much money as I can for a charity that supports families in their deepest darkest hour.
But amongst it all, it feels so desperately unfair. What made me less deserving of being a mother than anyone else? Why was Anabelle less deserving of life than anyone else’s baby?
These are the questions that can never be answered and I find so difficult to accept.
Sunday, 30 January 2011
My Grief
Today this was posted on one of my support networks in the virtual world. I've added Belle's name because this sums up more than ever where and how I am right now, and where I will be for the foreseeable future. Grief has no plan. I'm not ashamed to admit that recently things have become more of a struggle for me. The hurt has become more intense again; it is a like a new wave of reality has hit me.
Today I want to share this with you:
I will not always be grieving as intensely, but I will never forget my daughter and rather than recover, I want to incorporate her life and love into the rest of my life. She is a part of me and always will be, and sometimes I will remember her with joy and other times with a tear. Both are okay.
I don't have to accept the death. Yes, I have to understand that it has happened and it is real, but there are some things in life that are just not acceptable. When you tell me what I should be doing, then I feel even more lost and alone. I feel badly enough that my daughter is dead, so please don't make it worse by telling me I'm not doing this right.
I don't understand what you mean when you say, "You've got to get on with your life." My life is going on; I've been forced to take on many new responsibilities and roles. It may not look the way you think it should. This will take time and I will never be my old self again. So please, just love me as I am today, and know that with your love and support, the joy will slowly return to my life. But I will never forget and there will always be times that I cry.
I need to know that you care about me. I need to feel your touch, your hugs. I need you just to be with me, and I need to be with you. I need to know you believe in me and in my ability to get through my grief in my own way, and in my own time.
Please don't say, "Call me if you need anything." I'll never call you because I have no idea what I need. Trying to figure out what you could do for me takes more energy than I have. Send me a card on special holidays, Belle’s birthday, and the anniversary of her death, and be sure to mention her name. You can't make me cry. The tears are here and I will love you for giving me the opportunity to shed them because someone cared enough about me to reach out on this difficult day.
Ask me more than once to join you at a movie or lunch or dinner. I may so no at first or even for a while, but please don't give up on me because somewhere down the line, I may be ready, and if you've given up then I really will be alone. Understand how difficult it is for me to walk into events alone and to feel out of place in the same situations where I used to feel so comfortable.
Please don't judge me now - or think that I'm behaving strangely. Remember I'm grieving. I may even be in shock. I am afraid. I may feel deep rage. I may even feel guilty. But above all, I hurt. I'm experiencing a pain unlike any I've ever felt before and one that can't be imagined by anyone who has not walked in my shoes.
Don't worry if you think I'm getting better and then suddenly I seem to slip backward. Grief makes me behave this way at times. And please don't tell me you know how I feel, or that it's time for me to get on with my life. What I need now is time to grieve.
Most of all thank you for being my friend. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for caring. Thank you for helping, for understanding. And remember in the days or years ahead, after your loss - when you need me as I have needed you - I will understand. And then I will come and be with you.
Today I want to share this with you:
Please talk about my Belle, even though she is gone. It is more comforting to cry than to pretend that she never existed. I need to talk about her, and I need to do it over and over.
Be patient with my agitation. Nothing feels secure in my world. Get comfortable with my crying. Sadness hits me in waves, and I never know when my tears may flow. Just sit with me in silence and hold my hand.
Don't abandon me with the excuse that you don't want to upset me. You can't catch my grief. My world is painful, and when you are too afraid to call me or visit or say anything, you isolate me at a time when I most need to be cared about. If you don't know what to say, just come over, give me a hug or touch my arm, and gently say, "I'm sorry." You can even say, "I just don't know what to say, but I care, and want you to know that."
Just because I look good does not mean that I feel good. Ask me how I feel only if you really have time to find out.
I am not strong. I'm just numb. When you tell me I am strong, I feel that you don't see me. I will not recover. This is not a cold or the flu. I'm not sick. I'm grieving and that's different. My grieving may only begin 6 months after my little one’s death. Don't think that I will be over it in a year. For I am not only grieving her death, but also the person I was when she was with me, the time that we shared, the plans I had, the places we will never get to go together, and the hopes and dreams that will never come true. My whole world has crumbled and I will never be the same.
Be patient with my agitation. Nothing feels secure in my world. Get comfortable with my crying. Sadness hits me in waves, and I never know when my tears may flow. Just sit with me in silence and hold my hand.
Don't abandon me with the excuse that you don't want to upset me. You can't catch my grief. My world is painful, and when you are too afraid to call me or visit or say anything, you isolate me at a time when I most need to be cared about. If you don't know what to say, just come over, give me a hug or touch my arm, and gently say, "I'm sorry." You can even say, "I just don't know what to say, but I care, and want you to know that."
Just because I look good does not mean that I feel good. Ask me how I feel only if you really have time to find out.
I am not strong. I'm just numb. When you tell me I am strong, I feel that you don't see me. I will not recover. This is not a cold or the flu. I'm not sick. I'm grieving and that's different. My grieving may only begin 6 months after my little one’s death. Don't think that I will be over it in a year. For I am not only grieving her death, but also the person I was when she was with me, the time that we shared, the plans I had, the places we will never get to go together, and the hopes and dreams that will never come true. My whole world has crumbled and I will never be the same.
I will not always be grieving as intensely, but I will never forget my daughter and rather than recover, I want to incorporate her life and love into the rest of my life. She is a part of me and always will be, and sometimes I will remember her with joy and other times with a tear. Both are okay.
I don't have to accept the death. Yes, I have to understand that it has happened and it is real, but there are some things in life that are just not acceptable. When you tell me what I should be doing, then I feel even more lost and alone. I feel badly enough that my daughter is dead, so please don't make it worse by telling me I'm not doing this right.
I don't understand what you mean when you say, "You've got to get on with your life." My life is going on; I've been forced to take on many new responsibilities and roles. It may not look the way you think it should. This will take time and I will never be my old self again. So please, just love me as I am today, and know that with your love and support, the joy will slowly return to my life. But I will never forget and there will always be times that I cry.
I need to know that you care about me. I need to feel your touch, your hugs. I need you just to be with me, and I need to be with you. I need to know you believe in me and in my ability to get through my grief in my own way, and in my own time.
Please don't say, "Call me if you need anything." I'll never call you because I have no idea what I need. Trying to figure out what you could do for me takes more energy than I have. Send me a card on special holidays, Belle’s birthday, and the anniversary of her death, and be sure to mention her name. You can't make me cry. The tears are here and I will love you for giving me the opportunity to shed them because someone cared enough about me to reach out on this difficult day.
Ask me more than once to join you at a movie or lunch or dinner. I may so no at first or even for a while, but please don't give up on me because somewhere down the line, I may be ready, and if you've given up then I really will be alone. Understand how difficult it is for me to walk into events alone and to feel out of place in the same situations where I used to feel so comfortable.
Please don't judge me now - or think that I'm behaving strangely. Remember I'm grieving. I may even be in shock. I am afraid. I may feel deep rage. I may even feel guilty. But above all, I hurt. I'm experiencing a pain unlike any I've ever felt before and one that can't be imagined by anyone who has not walked in my shoes.
Don't worry if you think I'm getting better and then suddenly I seem to slip backward. Grief makes me behave this way at times. And please don't tell me you know how I feel, or that it's time for me to get on with my life. What I need now is time to grieve.
Most of all thank you for being my friend. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for caring. Thank you for helping, for understanding. And remember in the days or years ahead, after your loss - when you need me as I have needed you - I will understand. And then I will come and be with you.
Saturday, 29 January 2011
Anabelle's Garden
Up until the New Year we had visited Belle almost every weekend without fail. Right in the beginning, when she was first buried we had been to the cemetery more regularly again, every few days, sometimes a couple of days in a row. But after the initial shock that our baby was in a grave we fell into a routine of visiting her garden every weekend.
Since the New Year we’ve not been. Not once.
I’m feeling so increasingly guilty about it. I know it will be looking uncared for and unloved. I know I’m letting her down.
I can’t blame our poor attendance on not having the time or other things getting in the way; our opportunity is there like it ever was. I’m just finding it so hard to go. I push it to the back of my mind. I don’t know why but suddenly it seems so much harder, but everything is. 2011 has put me in a very difficult place.
We’ve been living this reality for 7 months now, it is not new; so why now is it too hard to go and visit my daughter’s little place in this world? Why am I suddenly avoiding the cemetery? I guess I’ve stopped finding any comfort there. It used to make me feel close to Anabelle somehow, but I guess throughout December it began to hurt just that bit too much.
So another Saturday has passed and we haven’t visited. Tomorrow I need to go, I’m not sure I want to go in all honesty, but know I need too. Because I won’t be able to handle the guilt if we don’t and January then turns into February.
I wish I knew how to stop the hurt, to stop this feeling of falling apart at the seams. It’s all getting too much. I thought and keep being told that “Time Heals” and on the surface I suppose it does. I’m functioning well on a day to day level, but deep down, my head is feeling more screwed up and the pain feels overwhelming.
Overwhelming, that I’ve still a long way to go before I’ve learnt how to live this forever.
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Seven
Over the last week I’ve become more involved in the blogging world. I’ve begun to realise it is a venture that has quite a following and community behind it; and so after hearing about British Mummy Bloggers, I decided to join up. Networking; reading about others experiences and hoping that they read about mine.
Today I’ve been tagged in mumsarcade’s blog http://gigglingatitall.blogspot.com/ to reveal seven things about myself that my readers will not know. What a refreshing change! I cannot promise that some of my readers won’t already know some or all of these things but I hope at least some of them are mildly interesting!
ONE: My middle name is Elizabeth. As children it was not uncommon for my Dad to fondly refer to us by our middle names; Lizzy being his shortened version of choice for me. It sometimes made me wonder why it wasn’t my first name! He is still known to do it today.
TWO: Jon and I almost share a birthday. He celebrates his on the 6th March and me the 7th. He is 4 years and 1 day older than me.
THREE: Jon and I met on a website called faceparty which was popular before facebook. He sent me a random message one day just telling me we had gone to the same secondary school. This turned into a penpal type relationship and his persevering for a year before I agreed to meet him. We finally met for my 21st birthday and the rest, they say, is history.
FOUR: My favourite verse in the bible is Phillipians 4 v 13. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” It often pops into my thoughts, which is just as well because I always need reminding of it. Especially when I’m reaching breaking point; which is often these days.
FIVE: My TV crush is David Boreanaz. Also known by Booth in Bones and the famous Angel vampire! Just lovely!
SIX: I can play the piano. I used to be able to play very well but I am considerably out of practice these days. I used to play classics, but these days the most I play is a few hymns in school assembly and of course for Christmas concert; the highlight of the school calendar year! I wish I could play like I used to and would love my own piano at home!
SEVEN: My first doll was called Cherry. I’m still strangely attached to her and will keep her forever. I’m not sure I could even pass her on to my children; although she currently sits in Anabelle’s room amongst her things.
That was nice for a brief change of focus! Anyone visiting feel free to ask me something about myself that you still don’t know!
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
Conned
Well today we were expecting to be sitting in the audience of the Britains Got Talent auditions in Cardiff. Jon had an email before Christmas asking him if he would like to apply for tickets; so we applied, appeared to be successful and were allocated what we thought were two tickets. Only it transpires today, when we arrived an hour early that this ticket allocation got us into a standby queue and we were not guaranteed seats at all. This had not been obviously stipulated beforehand in any of the emails we'd recieved. (Although I expect it will be in some teeny tiny small print somewhere...)
Neither of us were particularly feeling in the mood to be stood outside in the cold and damp weather; especially when it had just started to spit rain! Even more so that we could’ve spent a long while getting cold and damp and still not got in. From people on facebook I’ve discovered this is quite common practice with TV shows. We had no idea! Needless to say I don’t think we’ll be so trusting of TV ticket allocations again!
We feel quite conned, but then isn’t most things in life a con?
I know; I’ve become cynical. I’ve next to no trust left in the things that are apparently good and just.
What was just about my daughter dying? As a society we’re conned into believing achieving 12 weeks of pregnancy takes us out of the risky period. I’d stupidly believed this, trusted in my body to keep Anabelle alive, took it for granted in fact, only to be conned. Which leaves me where I am now; and I’m not even sure where that is.
Today I’m having yet another crisis of confidence, what is my purpose in life? Where am I and it supposed to be going? Supposed to be doing?
Professionally it seems all figured out. I love my job, I have purpose there. If I achieve nothing else each day, it feels successful if I have filled a profoundly disabled child’s day with happiness, given them a good day and above all else made them smile. Smiling, clapping and celebration of self is important in my classroom.
But in my personal life? That’s not so figured out.
Next week Jon and I will have been married for 18 months. Our whole marriage so far has revolved around having a family. We tried for a baby, we had a baby, our baby died, and now we’re grieving for our baby. Some days, like today when I’m in a dark place and the hurt feels fresh and new once more; I feel no closer to realising the dream of our family than I did 18 months ago.
I know fundamentally this is untrue. We are a family. We are parents. We have a daughter. It just wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Today I think “tormented” just about sums it up.
Monday, 24 January 2011
Fiz
We brought Fiz home on the 20th June 2007. Ironic really that Fiz became part of our family almost three years to the day Anabelle was born. 
We brought Fiz home on the 20th June 2007. Ironic really that Fiz became part of our family almost three years to the day Anabelle was born. We’d bought our house three months previously in the March and one day Jon came home and asked if I wanted to get a kitten; somebody at his work had a litter, the mother had died and they needed homes. I was a bit “meh” to begin with, I’d not grown up with pets and up until the day we got Fiz I really did not understand the pets being part of the family thing. But I said if you want to, and off we went to meet the kittens and choose one.
We decided we wanted one of the girls and went through a long list of pet type names until we settled on Fiz. Inspired by one of the Tweenies! Fiz suited her name from day one, she has always been a little bottle of fizzypop. But what I didn’t expect was how quickly I would fall in love with this little furball we’d bought home to be part of our family.
Fiz was tiny and only just over 6 weeks old. Because her mother had died she had only known human contact and quickly assumed I was her mother. She seemed to only want to sleep if she was snuggled against me and was always very close to our sides. Now at 3 and a half, she isn’t really that different, she still likes to snuggle up close to me to sleep; I quite often wake up with her cwtched right into my tummy, or into the crook of my arm. Fiz still thinks I’m her mother and she is most definitely my baby.
Fiz has a delightful personality. She is a little bit crazy, affectionate, playful, cheeky, answers back when she’s told off. She is an important member of this household.
When I look at Fiz now, I still see the little kitten in her that we brought home; I think she’ll always be a kitten to me. Is that what parenting is like? Do our parents look at us and still see the tiny newborns and small children that we once were even though we’re grown now? I’m fairly sure that once your baby, always your baby, no matter how old they get.
Anabelle will always be my baby, quite literally because she was never given her chance to grow.
We had worried how Fiz was going to react to a new baby. I’ll admit she’s been a hugely spoilt cat! We spent weeks getting her used to not sleeping in our room anymore, put down scratch pads to protect the carpets, felt guilty as she cried about not being allowed in.
And then Anabelle died. There would be no baby for Fiz to get used to.
The not being allowed to sleep in our room anymore instantly went to pot again. Fiz is back into the habit of sleeping close to me. You see; Fiz has been a huge comfort these last seven months. There is something about a purring Fiz that is so soothing, warm, relaxing. Fiz enjoys her cuddles with me, and I enjoy my cuddles with her. Fiz makes me feel needed. Although I am under no illusion that to her I am her servant and she is very much the queen of this castle!
And so, I understand why pets are such a huge part of people’s families. There is no such thing as “just a cat” or “just a dog”. Fiz has shared in our grief, she may not understand what has happened, and that the baby she felt move in my tummy never came home. But she has been aware something has been terribly wrong, her behaviour changed. She has become a lap cat even more and seems to understand that we want her close.
I’m so glad we have Fiz. She has made our home and lives seem less empty. She’s let me mother her and smother her, she comforted us and been a welcome distraction. I hope one day we can bring a playmate home for her, another little human for her to get used too.
But for now, I’m going to go and have a cuddle, give her some fuss, and be comforted by her purr.
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| I'm a big girl now! http://imageryinspired.blogspot.com/2011/01/sleepy-creamy-cat.html |
Friday, 21 January 2011
Another 21st
Another 21st; another month without our Belle. 7 months without our little girl.
In all honesty, it has crept up quietly on us this month. Calm I suppose, accepting that whatever I do the 21st will always arrive. Does that mean things are changing? Am I getting better? Whatever better is going to be. It’s difficult to say, just because I feel calm today doesn’t mean I’ll feel that way on the 21st February. There is no consistent pattern to grief.
I’ve also been poorly this week so my focus hasn’t been on the impending date today. I’ve been sofa bound most of the week feeling sorry for myself; suffering with a particularly bad bout of tonsillitis. I think my body made me take a break and realise how run down I am.
So it’s the 21st January and we’re almost a month into the new year now. I guess I’m feeling more together about it than I was three weeks ago. I’ve spent time thinking about what we would like to achieve this year, some things to focus on, some plans made to know what to expect from the year ahead.
February, March and the first weekend in April are particularly busy months. We have two pre-wedding parties, a family wedding, a friend’s wedding, Jon’s 30th Birthday. I’m going to work hard to genuinely enjoy these occasions, because they are happy and they’ll never happen again. I cannot let them pass me by while I struggle with version 2 of myself, especially my brother’s wedding. I cannot let my misery tarnish his day. So that is my first goal; to enjoy a happy occasion without feeling guilty or heavy about it.
Anabelle’s birthday is going to be positive. I refuse to be hurting so much that her day passes by without celebration of her short life as well as the sadness. Her fundraising angel day is coming together, a venue will be booked as of tomorrow and generous raffle prizes are starting to come in. People are getting on board. Already we’ve raised £183 of our £1000 target for Sands! A wonderful 1st birthday for my daughter is my second goal.
And then there are the small things I’d like from the year for example our bedroom to be re-carpeted and decorated.
I think being able to think ahead like this is a massive positive step even if it doesn’t stay this way, today I’m looking forward more than I have before. I’m feeling bothered enough to be bothered by the bedroom and want it to look better.
And then there is our hope for 2011. Our hope that sometime this year we’ll be expecting another little bundle of joy and adding to our family; making Anabelle a big angel sister. Our hope that next time we’ll get to bring our baby home. I can’t call this a goal – it is merely a hope and a massive leap of faith. A dream that next time things will be different for us.
2011 is still as huge as it ever was.
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- 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
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