After Anabelle

Let's call this post 'A Tale Of Two Birthdays'. 

This week we celebrated our biggest rainbows 4th birthday. On Day 14. So it made sense that my expression of heart would be what birthdays are in our family.

I can hardly believe my boy Big is already four. This last 12 months he has done some serious growing up; his third birthday of course he seemed like a big boy but still so small really, still a baby really. This year he has started half day school in Nursery class and his world has got so much bigger. He is so much bigger; but that is all for another blog post. 

The boys birthdays are so precious. Joyous beyond words. 

Those boys that came home and have birthdays the way they are supposed to be. Birthdays where there is a birthday party, an enormous fuss, huge excitement about their 'new birthday number', a birthday tea, at least two birthday cakes, sometimes three; what with party cake, birthday tea cake and school/nursery cake! A birthday with photographs and an annual message in a birthday book and an annual video made. A birthday with toy shop visits, new toys, presents, wrapping paper, mess. Beautiful happy mess. 

Alexander had a birthday this week. It looked like this. 

Currently my living room is littered with his new toys and at least 30 birthday cards sit on our windowsill. Saturday he had a beautiful busy party full of friends and fun and laughter. Sunday we had an awesome day out at Legoland, a birthday treat for our boy. Wednesday evening our home was chaos as family members joined us to celebrate his day. Wednesday evening I published his annual video; the snapshot of the year past of all the memories made and beautiful photographs of my boy when he was three, just as I have done every birthday past. Just the way birthdays should be. 

I know I could be accused of going over the top with those boys birthdays. But the simple fact we have those precious days with them makes me want to give them the world, the absolute best birthdays, memories to last my life time, because I've already been robbed of so many for one of my children. 

Every one of their birthdays I feel so overwhelmed that we got to keep them, that we still get to keep them, that they lived, and live and I've watched them grow for another year. My boys. 

Anabelle had a birthday in June. She was five. Or she should've been five. 

There was no party, no excitement. There were no new toys. There was no party or big family birthday tea.  There was no big birthday day trip. There was no birthday book or video to snapshot her last year. 

Instead of visiting toy shops we visited the florist and a garden centre. Instead of buying toys we ordered floral decorations, fairy ornaments and a wishing well planter for our front garden. Instead of a party and presents her brothers released balloons at her grave, chased bubbles in her garden and helped plant flowers in ours. Instead of birthday cards we chalked messages onto stepping stones. 

On yesterdays post regrets were supposed to be joined with triggers. 

June is my trigger. 

Her birthday is my biggest trigger; a month long downward spiral where my mental state of mind suffers the most.  Her birthday is painful. We try to make it beautiful, full of love, but it never feels enough, because little girls are not supposed to have flowers and ornaments for their birthdays. This little girl should've done huge amounts of growing up this last year too. She should've finished Reception class and started Year 1. I always wonder who she would've been, what she would've known, what she would've loved, who her friends would have been. What would her favourite things have been at five. 

But they both had their big birthday number balloons. And they both had cake. 

In six weeks we'll do it all over again for Small. 

This is a tale of two kinds of birthdays. 

 

Day 14. Capture Your Grief. Express Your Heart. 

So now I'm two days late with these posts, but it doesn't really matter. My rainbows birthday took precedence yesterday, as it should. His day. 

I've blogged about my regrets before. 

Regret that I didn't hold her more, didn't keep her with me longer. 

Twelve hours is no time at all to spend with your so wanted firstborn child. Twelve hours. I wish it had been longer. Without a cold-cot twelve hours was the right time to let her go; her little body couldn't withstand the warm June day anymore. She needed to go somewhere cooler to keep her safe. And I knew that, and I know that. But twelve hours was not long enough, not really. How could it be? Trying to fill so many memories, what should've been a lifetime of memories into twelve hours. Handing her over to go to the mortuary was the bravest, hardest, more painful thing I have ever done. My tiny beautiful daughter who should've been with me beyond my lifetime. 

Regret that we only went to the chapel of rest once. Once. Sometimes I irrationally feel like we abandoned her for those days, alone in a mortuary, alone in the chapel of rest. A tiny newborn baby should never be alone. Sometimes I wish we hadn't left her side for that week between her birth and burial. I know it was not possible, not really, but oh I wish we'd seen her every day. 

Regret that the last time I held her was in that room where she was born before we handed her over. I should have whipped that beautiful girl out of her coffin and rocked her in my arms that hour we were there at the chapel of rest. I was scared to move her, to disturb her when she was there all ready for her goodbye day. I didn't know what we were supposed to do. I didn't know what to do. So I sat there and held her hand. It doesn't feel enough, not now. 

Regret that I hadn't kissed her one more time. There should've been so many 'one more times'.

Regret that we didn't take a photograph of her in her coffin. I know its not the done thing, but I wish we had a photograph of where we left her. Her tiny delicate pink coffin. She looked so comfortable, led on the blanket her Nana had made for her and surrounded by things she was keeping with her forever. 

Regret that she wasn't wearing socks. What a small thing to bother me these years later. But I wish we had thought to make sure she was wearing socks. The tiny premature babygro she was wearing was footless; I guess for ease of access for medical staff for babies in SCBU. But for our girl, I left her with cold feet. I wish there were socks. 

I wish we had taken a pause the day of her funeral. It felt so rushed, the journey from the church to the cemetery. Before I knew it she was in the ground before I could touch her coffin just one more time. I wish there had been a pause. Just five minutes, ten minutes just Jon, I and her sat in the car. Just for a moment, to gather those thoughts, so say some final private goodbyes before we handed her down into the ground.  Regret that she travelled in the boot of that funeral car instead of on our laps in the back. I regret that we had no space that day. 

I know regrets are futile. None of this can be changed.

We did the best we were capable of doing in that moment when we were not really capable of anything at all.

That baby, my girl, was surrounded by love, and love is bigger than regret. Love it what matters. 

I hope she knows she was loved and is loved and will always be loved. 

Day 13. Capture Your Grief. Regrets. 

I hated her absence on our greeting cards as much as I hated her absence in our world. Something as small as writing names on birthday cards, congratulations cards, christmas cards felt like a physical punch in the stomach. It didn't feel 'socially acceptable' to write Belle's name on our cards but neither did it feel acceptable to me not to write her name on our cards. Back in those early days receiving cards without her name on was just as gut wrenching. 

That first year we didn't send many cards and I completely boycotted Christmas. I just couldn't do it. I hadn't yet figured out how to do cards. 

Then her second Christmas I had this stamp made. Her angel. It felt just right; being able to include her beautifully. It became our way of writing her name in our cards without writing her name in our cards; bridging the gap between the societal norm and what I needed to do for us. 

Unfortunately that stamp is already suffering from wear and tear. Today I use it less and less for fear of it breaking completely. These days I mostly write Belle's name into our cards; I realise for some that will make them uncomfortable but even in her absence she is part of this family and our love and best wishes is extended as a unit. 

You see there is nothing normal about your baby dying; but everything we do in grief is normal and necessary. Continuing to include Anabelle in our cards for me is necessary. 

Day 12. Capture Your Grief. Normalising Grief. 

I'm a day behind. Yesterday I didn't manage to post because we were having a wonderful day at Legoland, celebrating our biggest rainbow boy with a family fun day trip for his 4th birthday this coming Wednesday. 

Today (or yesterday) we are talking about those people, those organisations, that held us up and kept us going in those very early weeks after our loss. People and organisations that hold our hands along this journey; even now these years down the line. Our Glow In The Woods. 

I thought for a while on this subject and of course there are the close family and friends who have been a constant support throughout this journey. It goes without saying how much I value their love and ongoing hand-holding through those hard times of the year. Everything I said on my Empathy post is true here; I've been lucky to have been touched with much kindness and wonderfully thoughtful people. And all of that is my 'Glow In The Woods' in moments to moments. 

But I want to take this opportunity to highlight three individuals; one organisation and two people, who have been my constant. 

Sands 

Right there in the beginning I firstly turned to the online forum. The virtual world is where I immersed myself for so long. It was where I felt safe, chatting and posting with other bereaved parents, who had also very recently lost their babies. No stiff upper lip was needed here; here all those raw emotions spilled out, bereft grief, anger, fear, intense love.  There was a local Sands group, but in the beginning I didn't feel brave enough for 'real world' support groups, so hidden behind my computer screen I was connecting with people who really understood me. Before I could blog I was sharing about Belle, I was telling her story and that in that moment was 'healing' - even though I didn't know it yet - talking about her was what I needed to do. I stayed on the forum for around 18 months, after this it wasn't quite the support I needed anymore. There were more and more new faces all of the time, the rawness and newness of grief was tangible, and although I was still very raw, I wasn't in that place anymore and I realised continuing to immerse myself there wasn't healthy.  Some of those ladies on the forum I'm still in contact with via Facebook and those connections are still important, still supporting each other when we can, if we're needed.   

I pulled away from the forum and met up with local Sands ladies instead - going along to the Rainbow Babies meet up group while I could, still going along when I can but not as regularly due to working days. This group has been very dear to me, the ladies, those very special siblings of angels and the link between grief and beautiful colour. 

Sands as a charity does a wonderful work; supporting families through the very worst that can happen to them; providing support networks online, on the telephone and groups locally, providing boxes to hospitals for those incredibly short, limited but important moments to make memories, hosting memorial events throughout the year to remember our babies, funding research to lower the number of stillbirths in the UK and continually raising awareness. 

This charity is one that I will always hold near. 

My Husband 

This man must really love me. He has seen me at my absolute worst of worse, the most broken parts of me, the ugliest side of me. I've been horrible and emotionally pushed him away and still  he has stuck by me. 

We've grieved differently, not one of us more, or one of us less. Just differently. We've coped differently. And it took me a while to accept that. At times I almost resented him, so apparently 'together' while I felt like I was losing my mind. 

Where grief could've torn us apart he has patiently seen me through, seen us through. 

In those early weeks when I was practically pushing him to leave me, when I couldn't understand why he wanted to be with me; a wife that hadn't kept his firstborn baby alive. In those months, and times since when he took the rawest thrashings of my grief and just quietly held what was left of me in place, bruised and battered, holding me there until I was ready to 'be' again. A grief where the support is entirely unequal, where his grief can be largely forgotten from the outside, and indeed even from the inside with me leaning on him to keep me afloat when I can't do it myself anymore. 

And I couldn't survive this journey without him. The only person in this entire world who feels this pain like I do, because he is her Daddy. 

This man is the real uncelebrated champion of our family, the steady constant rhythm we rely on while I ride and crash the highs and lows of my grief journey. The steady constant rhythm that keeps me on an even keel. 

In April 2016 we'll have been together for ten years and married for coming up to seven in the August. Jon has consistently been my Glow In The Woods. In our very first year of marriage, boy did we live those vows. We meant them then, we mean them now. Better, worse. 

My Best Friend

The most unlikely of best friends. Sorreya was not somebody I was close to before we lost Anabelle. We worked together, she was one of the teaching assistants in my class. We got on really well in school, enjoyed group meals out together with a number of other colleagues on occasion, but that was as far as our relationship was. Friendly work colleagues. 

I've mentioned many times about how relationships change in the wake of such life changing loss; and this one was one of those, one of those that grew. 

In the weeks after Anabelle died it would've been so easy to lose all contact with anyone at work, or even anyone in the world. As I isolated myself deeper and deeper into my black hole Sorreya was one of those 'Glow In The Woods' that kept reaching out to me, reminding me she was there, that she hadn't forgotten, that she was still thinking of us. 

In those early months this lady text me almost daily and visited me weekly; popping in for cups of tea and getting me out of the house too. She has cried with me, laughed with me, been angry for me, with me, allowed me to talk endlessly about Anabelle when I needed to, she's grieved Anabelle with me, not forgotten any of those important dates, has allowed me to use her as my safe space for venting, for sharing my fears with, my worries with. Sorreya has been 'just right' - somehow knowing where to balance sympathy and gentle (or sometimes not so gentle) kicks up the bum when I need to stop winding myself up so much with my habit of the 'what ifs', or knowing just how to pitch a different perspective, or pick up a few pieces for me. 

This is the honorary member of my family and the boys Godmother.   She has continuously held my hand; through another two rainbow pregnancies, through all those other bumps in the road and celebrated those boys with me.  Another person in my life that has seen some of the worst of me and still wants to be my friend anyway.  We get much less time just the two of us than we used to now we've both got little boys, different working patterns and busy schedules but we still text practically daily and I know she is only ever a call away. 

Tuesdays and 'baby club' with her and the other girls is my favourite day of the week, not to mention our regular 'Mum's only' meet ups; we've got a really lovely friendship group and all of them deserve a little shout out! I really do love you all. 

Day 11. Capture Your Grief. Glow In The Woods  

To the moon and back.

Everything you need to know about my Words today are over on this post; written the day after Anabelle's first birthday. The words in her storybook, the words on her headstone and the words on our living room wall. 

Day 10. Capture Your Grief. Words. 

Today we're talking about family. What is our family today, what does it look like today? It was difficult to choose between photos today, so I'm going to share them all. 

This was us a week ago. 

This is the day we became a family with two rainbows; the day our smallest was born. This was the first photograph of 'the four of us together'.  I love how adoringly Xander is studying his new baby brother. How gently his hands rested on Zac. 

This was our first 'official' of 'formal' family shoot after Zachary was born. This photo is the central piece on the storyboard frame from that shoot. It is one of my favourite photographs of 'the four of us'. 

For a very long time I struggled to call photographs like this family photos. I struggled, and still sometimes do, to say 'of the four of us' because that number should be five. I love these photos. I love having photographs of the four of us; this year my little 'project' as it were has been take a photograph of us on the 1st of each month - making an effort to get more photographs of us altogether. 

As altogether as it can be. 

Sometimes in our photographs I can almost see her. I see the space where she would be. A week ago I could see her space would've been on her Daddy's lap. The day Zac was born she would've been stood right next to Xander, in an identical pose, looking just as adoringly at her newest small brother. In that studio photoshoot she would've been sat on my other knee, snuggled in close, helping me hold our new baby Small. 

She is the missing person in all our family photographs, and I always feel it.  

We're the family of five that look like a family of four. We're five. 

I wish she was here. 

Of course I wish she was here. It is my biggest wish of all. 

I wish I could turn back the hands of time and change our fate, to save her. 

If I could I would go back to the 6th June 2010 when I was threatening premature labour and her heart rate dipped with each contraction; only this time I wish instead of me hoping that they kept her in, I would hope that she was born. I thought she was safer kept inside, still cooking. Oh how wrong was I? 

I realise if she had been born there is a very real chance she might have died anyway. Premature and tiny. But at least the Doctors could have had a chance to save her too.  The 6th June was the first chance she might've been saved.

If I could I would go back to the 15th June 2010, when I first started to feel that maybe something wasn't quite right again. When the midwife said her heart rate was a little faster and outside the boundaries of normal range at my appointment that afternoon. But not enough to worry. But that day she had been quieter than normal, and as the day went on I couldn't feel her. I thought I was being neurotic.  So we listened in on the heartbeat monitor we had at home. We had so been enjoying listening to her a few times a week on it; our special time. But this night we listened in because I was anxious. We listened in and we heard her, a heartbeat far to fast too be my own. 

And this was MY failing. I thought I was being neurotic so made the fateful decision to wait until the morning to ring someone if I still didn't think things were right. 

That night I slept on the sofa. Fell asleep after 11.00pm and that night she died. Sometime in the early hours of that next morning my little girls heart stopped beating. 

I should've gone in that night.  Maybe, just maybe if I had not waited until morning the hospital could've saved her. I missed MY chance to save her. 

The next morning I knew, I knew it was too late before I made that phone call. I was so utterly terrified, clinging on to hope, but I knew, deep down, before we were told. 

I wish she was here. 

But I can't have any of those wishes. 

So instead I need to make wishes for the future. 

I've worked so hard these last two years to heal parts of my mind and make more pieces fit in this Grief Life puzzle.  

I've worked on my irrational fear around other baby girls. Two years ago I held someone else's baby and indeed a girl for the first time since since Anabelle had died; it had taken me three years to reach that point. That little girl is now my Goddaughter; something else I never thought I could do. 

Last year we worked really hard to change the pain surrounding Mother's Day and Father's Day. We had a new plan, a new healing plan that honoured all of our children on these days. We were more successful with Mother's Day than Father's Day; being so close to Anabelle's birthday, with the memories of me labouring all evening on Father's Day that night she was born, missing Father's Day by eight minutes past. Father's Day may take some more practice, but we're working on it. 

Last Christmas time was the best Christmas since Anabelle died. A magical month of daily festive activities with the boys. December didn't feel painful and I was working so hard to get myself through Christmas with that pain and my mind more intact than ever before. I even felt excited! In the end December threw me an unexpected curveball and I didn't make it through the month without my Christmas meltdown, but I tried. And this year I will try again. 

June I felt peaceful as my new nephew arrived just five days after Belle's birthday. Peaceful after months of agonising about his due date. Peaceful because my family showed me kindness and empathy. 

Since June I've been in a really good place. Maybe the best place I've ever been since June 2010. We had the best summer; just many many beautiful days with my boys with a summer of themed weeks, learning fun and experiences. Making memories. 

And that is my motivation for healing. My boys. 

I don't want those rainbow boys to grow up feeling the weight of my grief. I want my mind to be well. I want them to know rainbows hold us up and wraps our family in happiness. That they made us happier than they'll ever know. I want their memories of their childhood to be full of magical times and a family that was full of love. That missing their sister wasn't the same as them not being enough. 

So my wish for the future is this; to keep working towards acceptance. I'm not sure what acceptance will look like for me. But I know it needs to include acceptance of what was, what is and what will be - my agonising of the past and my agonising of the future needs working on. 

I can't promise I will get there quickly, or if I will get there at all. But I can promise I will keep working at it, because my present is those beautiful babies and I'm so lucky to have them. 

My wish for the future is memories of a beautiful life.