When the hurting eases

Posted in Grief over child loss by Robyna

There have been times in my grief that I have been jealous of the way others are grieving. People who could forget for that split second before they fully woke that their lives had been shattered. That little tiny window of innocent bliss. That has never been my experience. I would wake, every morning, fully aware of Xavier’s absence. My dreams bereft of his presence. There was no sharp blow each morning, there was a dull and continuing ache. And then one morning I awoke, maybe two or three months after his death, and I felt nothing. I probed at memories, like a child wiggling a tooth, coaxing the tears and the emotion back. Nothing. Not even an emptiness. Just a complete absence of emotion. I was perplexed. Was this it? Was I “over” my grief? Was I “better”? It was not until a few weeks later, after the tide of grief had pulled me back in, that I realised this was my mind giving my heart a rest. Grief is incredibly exhausting, hard, tiring work. It leaves little energy for other things and eventually, my body claimed the rest it so craved. At the time, I couldn’t conceive how my intense grief had simply disappeared. And it made me uncomfortable. The tie to my son severed. Yet another thing taken from me – another silent thief in the night. I found myself jealous of those who were clearly in the dark depths of pain. I knew how bitterly that hurt, but at least it kept my son close. I was not okay with this version of okay.

Now, I find myself in an entirely different phase of my relationship with Xavier. And, surprisingly, it is okay. It’s never going to be what I want it to be – but that goes without saying. But, I can genuinely smile and laugh, without guilt. Increasingly, I feel Xavier in the love and laughter of my family. He has become one with that love – woven tightly into its fabric. Christmas Day, my husband and I visited Xavier’s grave. I waited for the inevitable rush of emotion. Being thrown back to the day we buried him. Wanting to hurl myself into the earth to be with my son. That emotion didn’t come. And as I stood, tinsel around tiny graves glistening in the sunshine, relentless heat searing the little christmas trees, I realised, Xavier was no longer there. Xavier was back with my family. He was around the Christmas tree. He was the joy in the season. He was the hope in shiny, little eyes. He was the promise in chubby little hands tearing at wrapping paper.

Is this healing? Is this the resolution of grief? Can I close a chapter or wrap everything up with a big, shiny bow? I think it is healing – I think it is a changing relationship with my son and I think that’s a positive thing. But I worry – how is that perceived? Do people think I am okay with the fact my son died? Do people think that I am stoic and brave? I am okay. But I am not sure if I am okay with being okay. I am not okay with how being okay might be perceived.

We wade through grief, waiting desperately for the day when peace will be restored to our hearts. But are we ever prepared to give up what might lead to that peace?

Little Xavier, as I think of you this Christmas season, I feel your comfort around our family. I try not to think of you, eighteen months old, tumbling around the Christmas tree. For that is not you. That memory belongs to someone else’s child and motherhood. To think of you that way is to invite pain. Instead, I catch glimpses of you in the twinkling lights, in the shining eyes of your brothers, in the embraces of family and friends and the very essence of Christmas that I once thought was lost forever. Merry Christmas little one.

15Dec2013

And so this is Christmas….

Posted in Grief over child loss, Parenting after loss, Uncategorized by Robyna

Against all odds, it is December. Mid-December at that. The post that I had wanted to write since December first has been sitting on a shelf in my mind – perhaps accompanied by that ubiquitous little elf – whilst the world has spun around me. The season of festivity. The season of good will. The season of busy, busy, busy.

Last year Christmas felt quiet. There were things that we had previously done each and every year that were left undone. Things were done that will probably only belong to Christmas 2012. Each day, I did some small thing for Xavier. An advent calendar in his memory. Each day of December I spent time with memories, time with my cherished son. I dedicated myself to him, to keeping his memory alive. It seemed the only way I would live through Christmas.

This year is so different. As if trying to make up for the traditions lost last year, we have immersed ourselves in Christmas. There has been carolling and Christmas lights. Decoration and present making. There has been Christmas shopping at the actual shops (last year it was mostly done online). There have been Santa photos taken. Our house is full of singing. The christmas tree seems more joyful. Even the place in our house dedicated to Xavier seems a little brighter than last year.

And Xavier himself seems a little further away. I do not want to repeat the latter months of 2012 – sometimes it is only in reflection that I can appreciate how truly dark those months were. But, that pain did serve as a connection to Xavier. The wound was open and weeping and he was there in such a visceral way. He is still here, but his presence is quieter. Perhaps overshadowed by the hustle and bustle. He is in no way forgotten, but at times it feels like in leaving my pain behind, I have left him also. There are times I imagine a tiny “mummy, what about me?” as I laugh with Elijah on my lap at Isaac singing carols at the top of his lungs. And I have to remind myself, that Xavier is there – in Elijah’s smiles and Isaac’s giggles.

This Christmas I think of those facing their first December after loss. It is truly one of the hardest times of the year. The world around you so seemingly happy and you so sad and lonely. Those that put on a brave face and continue in Christmas traditions for the sake of their living children – when all they want to do is hide and wake up in January. Those that said good-bye to their only baby, confused and hurt, looking at “My First Christmas” onesies with tears in their eyes. Those that have years of memories of Christmases with their child taken too soon – who feel their world shatter once again with each toy ad, every Christmas card, every department store Santa.

My first Christmas without Xavier was tear-stained but connected to him in a way that no other Christmas will be. Even without him physically here, it truly was Xavier’s first Christmas. It perhaps belonged to Xavier more than any of us. If last year was almost exclusively about Xavier, this year is about our family. Our three boys and each of their places in Christmas traditions.

For Christmas is a time of year when we can reflect on our loved ones – here and far away. Each Christmas card I have received has acknowledged Xavier and the ones I (eventually!) write in return will also bear his name. There are three stockings hung in our house – one for each son. There are baubles and decorations for each of my babies hanging on the tree. It is not a dedication to Xavier this year, but rather a family Christmas. And Xavier is and always will be a part of our family.

Some of the ways I remembered Xavier last year.

6Nov2013

The hearts that surround us – educating those that support the bereaved

Posted in Grief over child loss, Helping those in grief by Robyna

Within the support groups I am a part of, whether in person or online, a common topic of discussion is insensitive comments and actions made by loved ones. It seems every bereaved parent has at least one story (most many, many, many more) about being deeply hurt by the words, actions or inactions of someone they hold dear.

But just as there is no definitive guide book on how to handle your own grief, there is no ‘Support 101’ for friends and family to rely on. The unfortunate fact is that it often falls to the grieving to instruct those around them on what they need. An almost impossible task, particularly in the earlier days when you don’t know what you need, aside from the one thing no one can give – your baby back.

Whilst it seems momentously unfair, it is often a choice between losing friendships or being open and honest about the support needed. Personally, I could not fathom further losses. But I know for others, certain friendships had to be let go.

So how do you educate those around you?

As callous as it sounds, work out who is worth the effort. For me, it was all of my friends but if you have one of those people in your life who only ever take, it might be time to let them go. You have nothing left to give.
Consider telling people about the positive things that remind you of your child. Through telling people about seeing Xavier in the sunshine, they often refer to “Xavier’s sunshine” and will send me pictures of beautiful sunsets and sunrises. It’s a way to share him and have people remember him that feels joyous. It makes people feel comfortable about sharing in his memory and helps them realise that as much as his death makes me sad, his life makes me happy.
Have a forgiving heart. People are going to say hurtful things they don’t even realise are hurtful. Try to see the intention rather than focussing on the content. If the intention seems pure – explain to them why what they said or did caused you pain. Do it sooner rather than later. There is no point in holding onto hurt and leaving your friend completely unaware of the pain they unintentionally inflicted. If you think the intention was hurtful, see point 1.
Share articles and blogs that resonate with you with your support network. Not only are you educating your friends and family, you often feel validated – a sense of – “see, other people who have lost a child feel exactly the same”. It helps the non-bereaved to understand that what we imagine “healthy” grief to look like and what the reality is are often very different.
Realise that the person who has stayed silent may have nearly rung a dozen times, had a half-written email filled with good intentions, verged on texting and then second-guessed themselves and thought their words would bring more pain than relief. It’s not an excuse – if that person is dear to you they need to know that silence is often the most painful of reactions. But don’t assume their silence immediately means they don’t care or aren’t thinking of you. The opposite is the most likely scenario.
If it’s your baby’s birthday or anniversary and you want people to remember with you, let them know that in advance. For Xavier’s anniversary, I had ribbons made with his name on them and asked people to wear them. Others have asked loved ones to reflect on how their child has touched them. If you’d rather be left alone, let people know that too. But please don’t get to the end of the day and feel wretched that nobody remembered your baby. Some people may have forgotten, others may have remembered and been unsure what to do and so opted for silence as the safest bet, particularly if you haven’t mentioned the day in a public way. With the exception of close family, I don’t expect others to have Xavier’s dates engraved on their heart as I do.
Lead by example. People are so scared of doing the wrong thing – they will look to you as an example of how you want your baby remembered. If you talk often about your child, they will hopefully also feel comfortable to do so. Let them know you like talking about your baby (if you do).
As a bereaved parent, you sometimes ended up supporting others through their grief over your child. This isn’t okay. This is pretty much the best advice I have ever read relating to support – Ring Theory. Share it.
If the thought of explaining how you want to be supported to all your friends and family seems overwhelmingly daunting, enlist the help of your dearest and closest friend or family member. Get them to help you educate those around you. This also works well when returning to the workforce. Having a trusted colleague talk to your team mates on your behalf can help avoid awkward conversations. If you still feel quite lost and unsupported, you can ask friends and family to talk to SIDS and kids. Their counselling service extends to all of those touched by child loss. A dear friend often rang SIDS and kids in the early days as she wanted to learn ways to support me as best she could. I am so grateful for that.
Unless a person has lost a child, they will never fully appreciate the depth and breadth of your grief. That’s okay – we want as few people as possible in this “club”. However, it’s important to connect with people who do know that pain and can offer a different kind of support. Whether online or in person, child loss support groups are incredibly important and will relieve some of the pressure on you and your friends and family.

There is nothing fair about losing a child. It’s not fair that this burden of education falls on the people who already have such a heavy load. But the reality is, it does and the way we carry that load has a significant impact on how well supported we will be during this journey. By assuming people know what to do, or seething without saying anything when they try and fail, we break our fractured selves just a little bit more. The best advice I received when we said good-bye to Xavier was to “go gently”. Go gently on our own hearts, and the hearts that surround us. Go gently.

1Nov2013

When Awareness Hurts – what we can learn from Capture Your Grief

Posted in Grief over child loss, Helping those in grief by Robyna

My photo from Day 5 – Memory

October was infant and pregnancy loss awareness month. It was also breast cancer and Downes Syndrome awareness month. I had always intended to post something today about those causes, how they intersect and the importance of supporting each other through the curves balls that life throws at us. Perhaps I will still write that post.

But something happened during October. Life threw one of those curve balls and left a lot of people I do not know personally, but feel intensely for, hurting. During the month of October, the beautiful and inspiring Carly Marie hosts a photography project called “Capture Your Grief” online and in particular on a Facebook event. You can learn more here. Basically, each day is given a subject and we let that provide inspiration for a photograph that documents the grief and healing journey for that month. It is a beautiful and healing project that I have taken part in twice now. It serves two purposes. Firstly, it allows people to share their grief in an accessible way – it has lead to conversations and understanding between the bereaved and the people that surround them. Secondly, it increases awareness about child loss. The event is public and purposely so. It’s about breaking the silence and bringing light to something that has remained taboo for too long.

On the 30th day of the project, the silence was shattered, but in a terrible way. One mother made the brave decision to share a photograph of her precious son. Her son was still born at a gestation that would not support life. Perfect little proportions sheathed carefully in an oh-too-tiny blanket. To begin with, that mother received amazing support. But as the comments and likes began to climb to viral proportions, the comments started to get nasty. The image was seen by millions of viewers on Facebook due to it appearing on news feeds of those with friends who liked or commented. Of the over 40K comments that were eventually posted, the majority were hateful. The vitriol then spread to the Capture Your Grief page itself, with people insisting photos of angel babies shouldn’t be on Facebook, that they didn’t want to see them, that such photos be kept private, that people were only posting them for attention and that doing so was disrespectful to their angel babies. The irony of making a disrespectful comment whilst telling people how to grieve respectfully seemed lost. I did not read all the hate. I believe it’s easier not to let negativity in then to do so and then have to release it. But people would have. Bereaved mothers and fathers would have read every one of those hateful comments and felt them like a knife. Many people were hurt. Bereaved parents responded with understandable anger. The comments escalated to a point where there was no choice but to shut down the project. One day before it’s completion.

The silence was broken. And it illustrated just how far there is to go before still birth is openly discussed and shared in our community. It also made me ask some hard questions of myself. I have seen many photos of babies – living and in the arms of the angels. When I see a photo of a baby born too soon to survive, I see a daughter, I see a son. I know there is grieving mamma. I know there is aching father. I know there are siblings, current and future, that have been robbed of a play mate. I know that this photograph is one of the few precious momentos that family has. It provides proof of their baby’s existence. I hold the precious privilege to view those photographs carefully. I know this because I know bereaved parents who have lost children to still birth due to prematurity. But if I didn’t know this, if the first time I ever saw a photo of a premature stillborn child was through a facebook image that I did not request to see, what would my reaction be? Would it be love and support? Or would it be confusion? I don’t think I would leave a message of hate – I think I understand a parent’s love of their children too deeply to do that. But I think I may have been confused as to why a parent would share something I would have then considered intensely private with the faceless world.

It is not until you are in grief yourself that you understand that the privacy that surrounds death is not for the comfort of the mourning, but rather to protect those around them. Those that would rather believe in a world without death, and particularly one without infant loss. It is not until you lose a child that you realise the importance of sharing their memory and insisting on their existence. It is how you mother a child gone too soon. It is not until your own motherhood is shaped by loss that you understand the need to scream to the world “I AM a mother still.”

I don’t want to see photos of still born babies only because I wish that still birth didn’t exist. I wish that SIDS didn’t exist. I wish child loss didn’t exist. But to reduce the numbers of babies and children who do not survive, awareness is necessary. To provide the necessary support to parents with broken hearts, awareness is necessary. I wish that all pregnancies ended with healthy babies that lived long lives. That’s not the world we live in. I don’t want to see images of war torn countries, of broken bodies belonging to innocent children. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t know what’s happening in Syria. What we want to see and what we should be aware of, are often very different. For change is not possible without awareness preceding it.

I do want to see photos of the children mother’s hold dear. Whether in their arms or their hearts. I do want each and every mother and father to have their parenthood respected and recognised, whether you can see their children or not. I do want to live in a world that recognises life in all its beautiful forms, that is kind, that is peaceful, that brings joy and light rather than hurt and darkness.

Which brings me to a choice. I can join in the angry escalation of voices, I can let hatred breed hatred or I can let go. I can be the peace and the kindness I yearn to see in the world. I can keep speaking about child loss and try to bridge the chasm between the bereaved and the non-bereaved. I can try to help people understand.

To view Carly’s response to the events surrounding the closure of Capture Your Grief and what we can learn, see below .

24Oct2013

The spaces that define you

Posted in Grief over child loss, Parenting after loss by Robyna

“Is he your first?” “How many children do you have?” “Does he have any brothers or sisters?”. Innocuous questions. Until you are grieving mother. Then they become the questions you dread. The questions that can leave you gasping, even when you have a well rehearsed answer.

“He is my third son,” I answer with confidence and hope and pray no more questions follow. But of course they do. Because the natural thing to ask is how old. To comment on the chaos three little boys would inevitably bring. And then I have to share Xavier’s story. And suddenly a superficial exchange has been thrown somewhere entirely different. Somewhere uncomfortable. They make apologies. I make apologies. I have shifted in their eyes. I have exposed a tender wound. I have become to object of pity.

Before losing Xavier and learning a great deal about myself, I used to think I had come to a place in my life where I was no longer jealous. In my early twenties, as I watched friend after friend get engaged, jealousy consumed me in an entirely unhealthy way. I believed that by the time I was thirty, I had let that go. I watched dear friends build the houses of their dreams and I was so happy for them and surprised at my own lack of envy. After Xavier’s death I learned some things about who I truly was. I was not jealous, until they had something that I truly wanted and didn’t have – two living sons. I did not tend towards jealousy, but I didn’t mind one bit if people were jealous of me. In fact, I believe I courted it. And to be object of the flip-side of that – to have people pity me. To have people think “Thank God that wasn’t me”, was foreign and uncomfortable. I am still not comfortable with it. And, at least in my mind, it is a natural reaction to Xavier’s story.

When someone learns for the first time that we lost a son to SIDS, I am thrown right back to the beginning again. As they absorb what I have said, I watch their face change. They have not accompanied me in the past year’s journey. They don’t know where I am in this grief. It has hit them anew, and I am taken back there with them.

I am proud to be Xavier’s mother. I always will be. I am happy to be defined as his mother. I sometimes struggle to be defined as his grieving mother. It feels like a terrible betrayal, but I am yearning for spaces in my life where I am not recognised as a grieving mother. Spaces where I can pretend, even for a short while, that I am just as everyone else is. People ask me how many children, and I find I am now being more evasive – “I have a four year old at home”.

But this presents me with a challenge. Am I betraying a greater truth by not always proudly owning the mourning mamma persona? Do I add to the taboo around talking about child loss? Am I blindly perpetuating the myth that we are all happy, shiny people? So often when I do open up about Xavier, people tell me something they are struggling with. That window of opportunity would not exist without my first revealing my greatest hurt.

What is my responsibility to Xavier? To the community of grieving hearts? To the wider community? To my own soul and what I need? How much do I always need to reveal? I am still working through these questions.

But this I know – even as mother to living children, I need spaces aside from the mummy persona. Spaces to create, to think, to be. Recuperative space where I am nothing more or less than the bare bones version of myself. And perhaps, this is what I yearn for when I say I need space away from being a grieving mother.

3Oct2013

What TO say to the grieving

Posted in Grief over child loss, Helping those in grief by Robyna

When we lost Xavier, we were incredibly lucky with the support we received. Very few people said “the wrong thing”. And whilst I know most of our friends and family were lost for words, we felt their support, their prayers and their love. This is not everyone’s experience after losing a child.

There are plenty of excellent blog posts about what not to say to a grieving parent. I wanted to talk about why these things are hurtful and some alternatives. Grief is different for every single person, but at the same time there are commonalities about what gives comfort and what does not. If you cannot find the right words, that’s okay – just say that rather than relying on trite platitudes. The sweetest sound will always be my baby’s name.

At least you have your living child/ren.
A bereaved parent is highly aware of their blessings – it may be the only thing they are holding onto. They don’t need you to point them out. They did not gain those living children as part of this loss and those children are also grieving their sibling. In addition, grief is time consuming and tiring work – it can make looking after other children very difficult. The slack that would be given to a mother of a newborn baby is not afforded to a newly bereaved mother, even though she needs it just as much.
Instead say “I am sure that your living child/ren are a huge comfort right now but I can also see that you need to spend time with your baby and your grief. Can I help you out by baby sitting?”

You can have more children.
Firstly, you don’t know this nor do you know what the parents have decided regarding have more children. Secondly, it’s actually irrelevant. This grief is about their child that has passed away – children are not replaceable or interchangeable.
Instead say “I am so very sorry that (say their baby’s name) couldn’t stay longer. I will always remember him/her with you.”

It could have been worse – your husband / wife /older child might have died.
You play head games in grief. You think of people you would have rather lost than your baby. Don’t second guess what the result of that horrible game might have been. Besides, this comment is never going to be comforting to a person who is now suddenly terrified that loved ones can be snatched away without cause or reason.
Instead say “I can’t understand why this happened to you. It’s just not fair.”

There are in a better place / this happened for a reason.
This might be your belief. But I can tell you now, the only person that gives comfort to is the person that hasn’t lost the child. The best place for any child to be is in their parent’s arms and there is never a good reason for a child to die. This just isn’t helpful and I think we only say it because someone taught us to say it when someone dies. Perhaps it has it’s place when an elderly person dies, but not an infant.
Instead say “I don’t know how the world works and why such terrible things happen. I wish your child was still with you and I will remember them always.”

It was only a miscarriage / thank goodness you lost them now, rather than when they were older.
There is no “only” in child loss. Every person deals with things very differently and there is no right or wrong. There are no measures in child-loss grief, there are just different circumstances and the same aching longing to hold our babies. If you have children, ask yourself – would you prefer to lose them now or later on? It is an impossible question and trying to answer it gives no comfort.
Instead say “I am so very sorry for your loss. I am here if you need me.”

I couldn’t get out of bed in the morning / I couldn’t be as strong as you are / The Lord only sends you as much as you can survive – you must be so strong.
The truth is, if this happened to you, you would be getting out of the bed in the morning. You would be trying to make things work. Your family and friends would still need you. Your heart and head would have stopped and life would keep moving around you. Whilst it is probably not what you mean, when this is said to a grieving parent they can hear the intimation that the speaker loves their baby more – that the loss of their baby would render them incapable and therefore their love must be greater. Strength comes to you because you need it, not because it existed prior to loss. Extra pain is not allotted to those with extra strength.
Instead say “The days must be really difficult and I want to help you. When can I bring dinner around for you?”

My sister/friend/mother/aunt lost her baby, and she didn’t carry on this way. You need to get over it.
Every grief journey is different. Some are intensely private and you actually wouldn’t have a clue what their heart really looks like. Others need to express their pain publicly. Some have never been allowed to express their grief. The pain of losing a child doesn’t go away, it dims with time but often flares up. A bereaved parent will need to talk about their child. Will have bad days, even years after loss. A grieving parent learns where their grief is accepted and where it is not. You need to decided which kind of friend you want to be – the one that can live with the discomfort and be there, or the one that would prefer your grieving friend wear a mask for your benefit. Think about why you want them to “get over it”. Do you just miss the person that they used to be or are you genuinely concerned for your friend’s emotional wellbeing? If you are concerned about their wellbeing, then you need be there for them. Whatever that might look like.
Instead say “I know that you will miss (say their baby’s name) forever. Do you want to talk about her/him?”

If you are genuinely concerned that their grief is overwhelming them to a point where it is unhealthy – that is they aren’t taking care of themselves or their family or they seem suicidal, say,

“I know you will miss (say their baby’s name) forever. I miss them too. I am worried about you. Is there anything I can do to help? Do you want to talk? ”

Educate yourself and contact your nearest SIDS and Kids. They have counsellors who are experienced in consoling the grieving and they can help you understand what your friend needs and how you can help.

Ever since you lost your child, I have been terrified of losing mine. Being around you makes me uncomfortable.
Fortunately, child loss isn’t contagious. But you do feel terribly, terribly alone. Having people move away from you because they see their worst fears realised in your life adds to that isolation. It is natural to fear something that has suddenly become real in your world, but that’s something you need to deal with – not the parent that has lost their child. Think about the level of your friend’s discomfort and compare it to your own. It’s not that bad is it?
Instead say “I am so very sorry that (say their baby’s name) isn’t with you. They should be in your arms. Please let me know if being around my baby/bump makes you uncomfortable. “

I don’t pretend it’s easy to find the right words. I don’t pretend it’s easy to go out of your way and really help the grieving. I don’t pretend that it’s easy to step out of your comfort zone. But, at the end of the day, if you think any of it’s really hard, it’s nothing compared to losing your child.

24Sep2013

Dear Mummy

Posted in Grief over child loss, Parenting after loss by Robyna

I have had a rough week. Plagued by doubts about my ability as a mother. Many episodes of being convinced that Elijah will die. Watching each breath as though its his last. Missing Xavier more acutely as I am reminded exactly of what I missed and time takes Elijah further away from Xavier’s little life.

When it all gets too much, I imagine what Xavier might tell me if he could.

Dearest Mummy,
I have seen you struggle these last few days. Seen the tears fall and wished I could wipe them away.

When you watch over Elijah, so convinced this breath will be his last, I am watching over him too. I promised to keep him safe. Trust.

Why do you think yourself a poor mother? You have been told so many times you could not save me. You have been told so many times you are a good mother. Those that you know that have suffered loss, those you have cried with, do you judge them poor parents? Do you think them anything but beautiful and wonderful parents? Turn some of that kindness to yourself. You are a good mother. Believe.

I know you hold him in your arms and ache for me. I know that having a newborn has made what we missed so much more real. I know that connecting on a spiritual level comes a poor second to touching, kissing, breathing in sweet baby scent. I wish things could have been different too. But this is what we have. And I need you to still nurture it. I still need you. Love.

These days shall pass. Too quickly. Enjoy them. Enjoy the moments that will eventually draw us together again. Cherish.

I love you mummy.

16Sep2013

The New Me

Posted in Connecting with Angel Child, Grief over child loss by Robyna

The baby loss community is an especially beautiful and supportive one. When a new member joins this terrible little club, they are extended love and understanding. When I joined this group that no-one would ever want to be a part of, that support was invaluable.

In the wake of Xavier’s death, I found comfort online but I needed to see someone who had lost their child and was still living and breathing. I met with a gorgeous lady who had lost her baby son many years ago. At the time, I was in a strange robotic stage of grief. Not entirely sure what I should be doing or feeling but fearing the future. I was acting from a script I had to re-write myself from day to day. In so many ways feeling liking a passive observer – watching myself from a distance and fascinated that this was the way I was handling things. I felt like I was edging along the huge abyss of time that separated me from Xavier and any mis-step would see me fall right in. Was this my life from now on? Was it even possible to sustain? How would my life look in the months and years to come? So, I looked to this lovely stranger who shared my devastation and she told me how her son had changed her – how her grief had reshaped her into a very different person. A better person.

I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want Xavier’s loss to make me into a better person. I was entirely fine with the person I was before he left. I needed no extreme makeover administered by the hand of fate. And this empty vessel, clinging to life, battered on the shores of grief? I didn’t want to be her. I looked in the mirror and I couldn’t recognise myself. I had become a stranger. This was not some better version of myself. This was a shadow, an echo. A leaf on the wind, without substance or purpose. I didn’t want to get out of bed and be strong each day. I didn’t want to be looked at with pitying admiration. I had no interest in being an inspirational story. All I ached for was my son. I would think “this grief thing has been interesting, I have learned a lot but I will have my son back now please”. Hoping against hope that someone would come to the door, Xavier in their arms, and apologise for a dreadful mix up.

In that early time, I was convinced that Xavier had been taken from me to teach me a lesson. To show me that life couldn’t be perfect. Until that point, my life had remained untouched by tragedy and was rich with blessings. I thought I had been spared fate’s cruelty. And then it was as though fate noticed me, said “Ah yes, she’s had it easy for far too long, now, what’s the worst thing I could do to her?” And this conspiracy by fate to teach me a lesson – I wanted no part in it. I would not be taught – I would not allow a reason for Xavier’s death. If grief had gifts to give, I didn’t want them. Accepting them felt too close to accepting Xavier’s death.

Could I not simply go back to who I was after a period of grieving? Did I have to lose who I was as well as my son? Where did the losses end?

But grief becomes a gentler companion with time and it was inevitable I would change. Perspectives alter when your world shifts. What is important becomes crystal clear and you begin to see that it is possible to gain in the midst of loss. I began to realise that the person I was becoming was a way of honouring Xavier’s life rather than giving some sort of credence to his death. Began to appreciate that treasuring every moment was a gift he had given me. In the early months after Xavier died I struggled with the idea that the happiest moments of my life were behind me. That no beautiful moment could ever be perfect. Whereas I may have had plenty of those perfect moments prior to Xavier’s death – did I realise them? Did I treasure them? Did I truly realise the full precious weight of those moments? And so now, even though the moments are dulled by sadness, I appreciate them in way I never could before. There is more beauty in my life because I pause to notice it. I invest more in friendships because I know how valuable they are. I love more because I have seen just how much I am loved. I take each moment as a gift. Each of those moments, strung together and stitched into time. Those moments that rather than separate me further from Xavier, will eventually bring me back to my son. And that is something to treasure.

30Aug2013

Grieving Fathers – a Poem

Posted in Grief over child loss by Robyna

As Father’s Day approaches I wanted to share a poem I wrote about men in grief. The strong and silent grief that bears the weight of supporting a fractured family. The grief that rarely speaks, but is just as important, just as real and just as painful as the grief of a mother.

A Baby and His Daddy

It’s very early morning,
The clock is nearing one,
And the tears are finally falling,
For himself and for his son.

The girl beside him sleeps,
He doesn’t want to wake her,
For when the morning breaks,
The grief may overtake her.

In these still and silent hours,
He can let himself feel,
He can let himself be broken,
He can start to heal.

For those still and silent hours,
Before the sun lights up the sky,
Belong to a baby and his daddy,
The time that he can finally cry.

24Aug2013

1, 2, 3 – Loving all my children

Posted in Connecting with Angel Child, Grief over child loss, Parenting after loss by Robyna

When I was pregnant with Xavier I worried that I would not be able to love him as much as I did Isaac. How could I love anyone with the same intensity as my firstborn, my little buddy, my constant companion? We had been each other’s world for so long.

What I had not been prepared for is that the all-encompassing love you feel when your first is born hits you all over again when your second enters the world. I had thought this love bomb had already been ignited when Isaac was born, but here was this intensity once again. The love you feel right to your bones and takes a hold of your soul. A thousand loves impacting you all at once. The only thing vaguely comparable is the obsessive love you feel in the first throes of a relationship when every thought is occupied by your crush. Take that feeling, deepen it and multiply it by a thousand and you still won’t come close. This is the all-consuming love that is born with your baby. Your first, your second, third, fourth – it doesn’t matter, that love remains just as powerful.

Xavier became the centre of my world, just as surely as I was his. Everyone else just orbited the peripheral edges. Including my darling Isaac. He came to see us in the hospital. His three-year old body ridiculously large. His hands and feet preposterously enormous. For a split second, as he shifted in my mind from baby to big brother, he seemed a stranger. I had not expected this. My heart expanded and swelled and there was more love for both of my boys. But my focus had shifted to the child who needed me more.

When Elijah came into our lives I was prepared and I knew that my relationship with Isaac would change again. I also knew that my relationship with Xavier would change. Early in grief I had decided not to relate to Xavier as a newborn – he had a different role in our lives. I disassociated pictures of infants from Xavier – I tried to avoid imagining what he would be doing as a baby and instead focused on the more abstract ways we experienced him. The sunshine, butterflies, nature’s beauty and the kindness of others. It was a way of protecting my heart.

But when Elijah lay on my chest for the first time it was impossible not to think of Xavier. To remember what was and what might have been. But in that moment, I didn’t feel an aching sadness, I felt gratitude for this new life and Xavier’s part in protecting his little brother. My relationship with Xavier continues to shift and grow. My need for a baby in my arms has been soothed by Elijah. This portion of my grief – the fact a newborn was ripped from my arms like the severing of a limb, has been begun to be healed by littlest boy. But my need to still love and mother my middle child has not eased. The fact I miss just him remains – that has not lessened. My relationship with Xavier has become more uniquely about who he is and what he means to me, and less about regret for what we will have never have with him. The way I mother him will change accordingly. Each of my boys with their special place in my expanded heart.

Isaac with Eljah

Isaac with Xavier