The New Me

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.

15Sep2013

Reclaiming Motherhood

Posted in Parenting after loss by Robyna

The other day I was enjoying a beautiful brunch outing with some other mothers. They had their first children in their laps – from newborn to 18 months. We talked about the things mothers talk about. Sleeping, eating, toilet training, breast feeding, weaning, husbands, careers, having more children, facing bikini season. As the only one with more than one child, I fell into advice giving. It’s not something I am very comfortable with. No-one likes a mummy-know-it-all. Besides, I have always, always believed that mothers who trust their own instincts never go too far wrong.

Until one does. I trusted every instinct with Xavier and he didn’t survive. You know those Facebook memes where the mother hails her day a success because she’s kept all the children alive? You can’t imagine how much they hurt. The old adage that you don’t need to be a perfect mum, you just need to be enough, that stings as well.

And so sitting and dispensing advice makes me feel fraudulent. I can’t help but wonder, why would these women want advice from me? They have their beautiful children surrounding them, loving them, touching them. Do they nod politely and inside think “at least I can keep my child alive.” I know my friends, and I am sure that this thought wouldn’t pass into their heads, but it could and I would understand if it did.

When I expressed these feelings to N, he hugged me gently and said “What happened to Xavier and your abilities as a mother have absolutely nothing to do with one another. You are the best mother I know.” Coming from the best father I know – that did restore my faith somewhat.

Isaac is a beautiful boy of nearly five. Boisterous but as well-behaved as you can expect any five year old boy to be. He is full of life and colour and imagination. He is fun to be around. He cares for those around him. He is a credit to his father and I. He is proof that I can mother.

Elijah is adorable and wonderful. Every moment I spend with him is precious. I love everything about taking care of him. Even at 4am in the morning, I cannot help but be filled with excitement that this precious little baby is mine! He is proof that I can mother.

Xavier remains an integral part of our family. I talk about him fearlessly. I love him through space and time. I try to make his memory accessible to other people in a positive way. He is proof that I can mother in the most extraordinarily difficult of circumstances.

I lost my baby to SIDS and I am still a good mother.

12Sep2013

Are You OK?

Posted in Uncategorized by Robyna

Today is Are You OK? day. A day that reminds us of the importance of reaching out to those around us. A day where we should go beyond a casual, throw-away “How are you?”

That question has become an empty courtesy – like “Hello” and “Good-bye” but how often do we expect or want a real answer? We are taught to reply “well” or “fine” when we may be anything but. When we first lost Xavier I learned to distinguish between the sincere “How are you?” and the concessions to politeness. Indeed, there were many who avoided asking all together, I can only imagine for fear of the answer. It’s a brave thing – to ask “Are you okay?” or “How are you?” and be willing to truly accept the responsibility of a honest answer. In our time poor, meme rich lives, how often do we engage in real conversation that reveals the heart? We have become used to a few words on a Facebook status to describe “How are you feeling?” But our hearts and souls need more than that. We need time and conversation and nourishment. How often are we willing to invest that time in one another?

In the first few weeks after Xavier died, when strangers asked “How are you?”, there were times I responded with a completely honest answer. The poor clerks at the check out saddled with an answer that they did not expect. But I needed to tell someone. I needed to say “Not so well – I am hurting today”. And sometimes, the only person that asked was a stranger who was paid to be polite. Most times, however, my beautiful family and friends asked that question in a genuine way. I have two very close girlfriends who are lights in my life. When I would reply “okay” they would respond “no, really – I want to know how you are going today.” And it gave me permission to go beyond our societally regulated responses to the question “How are you?” We need to give people around us that permission – we need to let them know that we genuinely care. When my lovely boss asked me how I was a few weeks after Xavier died, I replied with my standard “okay”. She shook her head and said “You aren’t – you’re not okay, but you will be and right now it’s okay that you’re not okay”. Sometimes we just need to hear that too – sometimes it’s okay not to be okay. I value every time someone genuinely gave me the opportunity to talk about my feelings, particularly in the days, weeks and months following Xavier’s death.

I think that’s what “Are you OK?” day is about – it’s about creating the time and space and love around someone to allow them to talk about what they need to talk about. It’s being completely unselfish and completely genuine when asking the question “Are you OK?” or “How are you?”

So today, ask someone “Are you okay?” and be truly engaged in the answer. You never know the impact it will have on someone’s life.

3Sep2013

Holes in our hearts … but we carry on

Posted in Parenting after loss by Robyna

I don’t often cry over Xavier. Even in the early months, I didn’t sob as often as I would have expected. During support groups, I would be amongst the few whose cheeks remained dry. For a little while this worried me – was there something wrong with me? Was this unhealthy grieving? Would the dam burst one day and floods of un-shed tears finally overtake me? Was I in denial? I began to realise that my way of grieving was simply more cerebral. I analyse rather than cry, think rather than sob, write rather than weep. And that’s okay. It doesn’t mean I miss or love my son any less.

However, there is one thing that unleashes the tears. Music unlocks something in my heart and the tears flow in sweet release. When I was teenager, music played an important part in my life. I would see my own feelings reflected in song lyrics all the time. It has been a long time since I have sought solace in the same way. Nowadays my life means that I tend to listen to music in the car, when a random song on the radio can unexpectedly send me reeling.

There are certain songs I simply cannot hear – Beautiful Boy by John Lennon, Small Bump by Ed Sheeran, Last Kiss by Pearl Jam. Then there are snatches of lyrics that never meant anything to me before that suddenly carry a profound weight. Songs about loves lost and the inability to live without them. The song “Holes” by passenger hits home at the moment.

Well sometimes you can’t change and you can’t choose And sometimes it seems you gain less than you lose Now we’ve got holes in our hearts, yeah we’ve got holes in our lives Where we’ve got holes, we’ve got holes but we carry on

I have gained so much since Xavier died. Learned more than I could have conceived. But I would give it all up in less than a heartbeat if I could hold him again. You gain less than you lose . The gifts of grief can be hard accept – you never want to regard their origin with anything approximating gratitude. Yet they are there – they exist. And yes, they never amount to the same weight as the life of a child, but they are what you are left with. We carry on – life carries us on her relentless tide.

We’ve got holes but we carry on.

31Aug2013

Fathers Day

Posted in Uncategorized by Robyna

It’s Fathers Day in Australia. A time to celebrate the wonderful men in our lives – our fathers, grandfathers and husbands.

Nearly eight years ago I married one of my closest friends. I married the best man I know. Someone who knew all my secrets. Someone who would always put me first. Someone who made me laugh. Someone who understood me. Someone who fell just shy of perfect but someone who was perfect for me. Being friends for years and years before we became more meant that I knew him. Truly knew him before we wed.

The one thing i didn’t know was how wonderful he would be as a father. N is a natural. There is a smile that you only see when he is holding his newborn. A complete pride and contentment. He changes nappies willingly and without being asked. He holds his babies for hours. When Xavier and Isaac were born four and a half weeks early, he instinctively provided skin to skin contact to help them regulate their temperature. The first six weeks at home with a newborn are often described as the hardest. I have never found that and only because of N. He takes over four weeks leave each time. Each night, he spends between 9:00pm and 2:00am with Elijah, giving him an expressed feed and me a good, uninterrupted, sleep. When necessary, I can leave the house with absolute confidence that the boys will be more than okay with their dad. N never babysits – he parents. When Isaac was about 18 months we were struggling with daycare options as I returned to full-time work. N took about four weeks off to be a stay at home Dad. He was wonderful – he went to mothers group, he played with Isaac – at no point did he treat it like a holiday – he treated it as an amazing chance to bond with his son. Even now, he’ll take Isaac to rhyme time at the library when he can (generally noting with quiet pride that he was the only male). He embraces fatherhood in all it’s glory. When Xavier died, I felt acutely that it wasn’t fair to rob such a great dad of his son. My ability as a mother doesn’t feel exceptional but his as a father is. Today I wish my darling a very happy Father’s Day – from all three of his sons.

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.

29Aug2013

Xavier’s Sunshines

Posted in Uncategorized by Robyna

If I wasn’t blogging about life and parenting after loss, I’d likely be blogging about craft and/or fashion. Both are things I love and both seem trivial in the face of losing my son. However, they do remain a part of me. I cannot let the greatest loss of my life take away the little things. Craft and creating allows me a closeness to Xavier and tonight I wanted to share a little project with you.

I recently made a little felt sunshine for Elijah and it hangs in his daytime cot. It feels like a manifestation of Xavier looking over Elijah. I liked it so much that I made a few more for friends’ babies. Sharing around Xavier’s sunshine.

If you would like to make one too, here are the instructions:

You will need

50cm of yellow felt (you can use other fabrics, but as felt has no nape, you don’t need to worry about finishing the edges)
A collection of different yellow & orange ribbons
Orange or yellow thread
Black thread
Polly-fill for stuffing
Scissors, a sewing machine, needle, pins

To Make

Cut out two yellow felt circles exactly the same size. You can use a compass to create a perfect circle, or cut freehand for a more organic shape. Make sure you place a marker, I have used a pin, to show where the two pieces match up.

Cut small strips of ribbon, approximately but not exactly the same length.

Randomly place the ribbon, folded over, around the circumference of one of the yellow circles. Pin in place.

Machine stitch around the circle, securing the ribbons in place.

With the black thread, embroider eyes and a smiling mouth on the other piece of felt. I did this freehand, but you could trace it first in pencil or chalk and then stitch over it.

To add a little blush to the cheeks of the sun, I used make-up (specifically benefit benetint)

Machine stitch the two pieces of felt together, leaving a small opening.

Stuff the sun with the polly fill.

Machine stitch the opening closed.

Thread a longer piece of the ribbon you have used through one of the loops so that the toy can be secured to a cot, pram etc.

You can make this into a crinkle toy by cutting circles out of an empty baby wipes toy and placing inside the yellow circles prior to stitching them together.

(These wipes are the BEST by the way – you can get them here – Aussie Wipes)

Part of the inspiration for this little cutie came from this blog post – Rainbow Sunshine Plushie

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

22Aug2013

Ladders in Loss

Posted in Uncategorized by Robyna

There is an unwritten ladder of grief that bereaved parents seem expected to adhere to. An expectation by society that a miscarriage hurts less than a still birth, a still birth less than a neonatal loss, a younger child less than an older one. And the length of time allowed for grieving contracts the younger your child was at the time of loss.

The truth is, that ladder is a lie. There is no “more than” or “less than” in grief – each story holds its own tragic weight. A weight that defies categorisation or comparison. For as much as there is no “less than” there is also no “the same as”. My grief over Xavier is different from the mother who lost her baby at birth, different from the father who lost his son to an accident at three years old, different from the parents who learned at their thirteen week scan that their baby had no heartbeat, indeed, different from another family who lost their son at two weeks old to SIDS. But it is not “more than” and it is not “less than”. We are different but bound by the common devastation of holding a child in our heart, rather than in our arms.

There is no finite amount of grief that needs to be shared amongst the bereaved. Each journey is different and each journey is valid. How someone else grieves their child is their business – the intensity of their sadness does not somehow invalidate my grief over Xavier. There is no competition. There are definitely no prizes.

When we first lost Xavier at just two weeks old to SIDS, I wondered whether it would have been easier if he had born still. Would that have hurt less? It is an impossible question. I am so grateful for the two weeks we spent with our middle son. I would never wish it away. I would rather have loved and lost him, than to have never had him at all. Every parent treasures the time they get to spend with their child. And yet those that didn’t get to spend any time with their living baby outside the womb are expected to hurt less. It defies logic. A baby is a baby to their parents the happy moment they find out they are pregnant. Hopes and dreams for that child often formed before that. Every baby is a miracle. Whether you grieve the memories you made or the memories you never got to make, that grief is real and cannot be contained within imaginary boundaries. Parents need to grieve, without judgement and without ladders.

20Aug2013

Darling, I hope so – Pregnancy after Loss

Posted in Pregnancy after loss by Robyna

Pregnancy Shoot

In the moments after we were told Xavier would not live, N and I clung to each other – a pain that only we would fully understand drawing us to each others arms. Between tears, I whimpered “no more children. Isaac is enough. I can’t ever do this again”. Through tears, N agreed.

However in the days following, as my arms ached to hold a baby and the milk that should have been Xaviers leaked uselessly from my body, I knew I wanted, NEEDED, to have another baby. These feelings of intense longing – a sense of “if I can’t have my angel child I need his brother or sister” – are common in the bereaved. N needed more convincing but eventually he too felt there was another living child in our family. In the months following Xavier’s death I did everything I could to prepare for pregnancy. I lost baby weight at a speed normally reserved for celebrity mothers. I worked on my heart and my head space. I got fit. I had acupuncture. I wrote. I cried. I talked. I learned how to laugh again. I reached out to others who had lost and embraced those that reached out to me.

Four months after we lost Xavier we decided it was time and we were incredibly blessed to fall pregnant immediately. I remember looking at that second pink line appearing on the pregnancy test and crying my thanks to Xavier. At no point did I take for granted what had come to us so soon.

My pregnancy was wonderful but anxious.

It was also incredibly precious and something I kept relatively private. My Facebook page remained bereft of pregnancy news. Aside from wanting to keep this precious secret, as a bereaved parent I had a new appreciation regarding the hurt a throw away line on a Facebook status can inflict on those who are struggling. I held off telling many friends for several weeks after the traditional twelve. I was overjoyed but also so incredibly anxious – a part of me felt that telling other people was tantamount to a promise I couldn’t keep. And whilst many might have attributed a special dimension to the pregnancy I couldn’t help but think it was less real, less valid than other peoples. When your eyes are opened to the horrific numbers of babies that are born still, you take nothing for granted. When you have been the one in a thousand statistic, you don’t assume you will dodge any bullets. When you know stories about multiple losses, you have no comfort in the promise that lighting doesn’t strike twice. Gradually, as I came to accept the fact that life holds no promises, my “why me?” turned into “why not me?” At times I almost felt guilt about this fear of stillbirth – that I was appropriating someone else’s story and turning into my own when I had no right to do so. Yet, every mummy I know who has lost to SIDS and has become subsequently pregnant has struggled with similar emotions. Anxiety remains, but now when I check if Elijah is breathing, my relief is immediate.

During my pregnancy, Isaac kept asking, hope in his little voice, “this baby is going to stay isn’t it?” To this moment, I can only answer “Darling, I think so – I really hope so.” But the conviction in my voice is growing stronger by the day.