Holding onto baby

Baby Elijah is a hesitant walker. At eighteen months old he still prefers to shuffle along the floor, one leg extend out the back to provide momentum. He is surprisingly fast. He took his first hesitant steps at around sixteen months and we expected him to start running shortly thereafter. That hasn’t happened. The doctor says it’s okay – that at least he IS walking and if doesn’t move to predominantly walking within the next few months we will look at it further. We are cautiously watching. There is a part of me that is worried. There is a part of me that doesn’t mind at all. A part of me that aches to keep him a little baby. When I see him on his unsteady feet, cautiously placing one foot in front of the other, my heart catches. Another milestone Xavier never had a chance to reach. And a reminder that Elijah is leaving behind a babyhood that Xavier is forever frozen within.

When Xavier died, I ached for him and if I couldn’t have him, then another baby. I wanted my arms to be full of dimpled skin, baby scent, peach fuzz hair and helplessness. I wanted my arms to be full of baby. Then Elijah arrived, and my wish was finally granted. The aching arms finally had someone to hold. But my arms are not quite as full anymore. Life is yet again beckoning in a different direction. My days are no longer completely full of tending to a little one. Elijah is in daycare two days a week, allowing me time to set up and run a new little business. Isaac is back at school and taking to grade One like a duck to water. I am faced with new challenges and once again redefining myself.

After Xavier died, I had to figure out who I was – it was a difficult thing – to become someone I hardly recognised. But slowly the pieces came back together and we were gifted hope when I became pregnant with Elijah. I became someone else again as I emerged from the darkest parts of grief, the hope and the happiness of a new baby coaxing me from under that heavy blanket. I found a new purpose in bringing up my youngest son. He consumed me where once grief had consumed me. And now, things are changing again. Chapters in life close and new ones open. The poignancy of that seems to be sharper when you have left someone behind.

The other day, I felt the turning of that page keenly. I dropped Elijah at care. He did not cry and he happily played with a toy as I left. I went into town and met with people and for the first time I spoke about my new business like it was a realistic proposition. The wheels started to turn. I caught the bus home, feeling confident and excited, rather than scared and deluded. The lady next to me started chatting about the weather and it led to other things. She asked if I had any children. These days, I say “I have one at primary school and an eighteen month old” and then I whisper “and one in heaven” to myself. I asked her the same question. She looked at me sadly “I have one son. He died two years ago to the day and I am feeling very lost today. He was my only child. The love of my life and he died of cancer at not even forty years old.” She had no grandchildren. Her son and his wife had chosen travel over babies. She told me about her son and I asked her questions. I was going to tell her about Xavier, but she didn’t need my story. She needed to tell hers. I got to learn about her one true love and I was reminded, yet again, that each of us has a story to tell. No-one lives the perfect life. We need to be kind and mindful of each other – for every one of us has shards of glass in our hearts. And how blessed am I, that I get to see my baby Elijah grow up.

And so I will smile and clap as he shakily walks, letting go of my hand.

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The Truth about Rainbow Babies and Sleep

Sleeping BabySleep and babies is a complex issue that we often make light of. We laugh in public with our friends about how hard it is and we cry in private over how hard it is. Having a baby after loss has added another dimension to an already fraught subject.

My second son died in his sleep. He died doing nothing more dangerous than taking a nap. Babies need sleep, so do parents, and yet how could I trust it? When I was pregnant, I would say, “I just want a baby that doesn’t need to sleep.”  Of course, that would be ideal if I didn’t need to sleep. In those early weeks, when I was so very sure that Elijah would be stolen away in the same way Xavier was, I did not sleep very much. But it was okay. I could handle it with my husband home and the sheer exhilarating joy of having a living baby in my arms. But it wasn’t sustainable.

Up until Elijah was five months old, he slept in a cot beside my bed. He would stir and I could comfort him. When my heart starting beating fast at the thought of losing him, I could place my hand on his and be reassured. He stayed in that cot for longer than he should – he too large for it and me not ready to let it go.

Then we moved him into his own room, with monitors and sensors and a deep-seated fear. I would hesitate before entering his room, steeling myself for the worst. He didn’t enjoy the move and at seventeen months, he still rarely sleeps through the night. He would cry, and I would immediately go to him. How could I not? How could I deny this precious little one anything? What if his life was cut short?

When Isaac was very little, and I was completely innocent of loss, I would breathe a deep sigh of relief when he finally settled. Mothers know that feeling – when your baby is finally silent and relief sinks into your bones and meets the tiredness that lives there.  When Isaac’s cries finally gave way to softer breath and sleep, I would lean back into my own pillows, exhausted and fall into oblivion. I could not do that with Elijah. He would settle and a new set of anxieties would begin. A crying baby is a living baby. A silent baby might not be. And so whilst he had the sleep he desperately needed, I lay awake with terrors I could not silence.

My fears for Elijah have lessened as he has grown older. I no longer go to bed convinced I will wake to tragedy. But terror still flares. When he is unwell, I imagine the worst. And some days, for no reason at all, I will hold him tight, fearful for his future.

I have pretended that surviving on four to six hours of sleep a night is perfectly normal. That is perfectly possible. That it doesn’t effect me. It does effect me. There have been times when I have driven and I shouldn’t have. There have been times when I have placed myself and my children in danger by doing so. Yet, somehow, the possibility of an accident is distant and improbable. Whilst the possibility of Elijah being stolen away in his sleep is plausible, and for the longest time, even likely.

Someone once described managing the sleep of a rainbow baby the following way: imagine losing your child in a plane crash. Now imagine having another child and being forced to take a plane trip with that child, several times a day. The risk of Elijah dying by SIDS is not significantly greater than any other baby. Yet, for me, it seems so probable. For the first few months of his life, I was sure his plane would crash.

We now have a child that cannot settle himself to sleep. It feels like a failure on my part. We have had to exercise some tough love and let him cry it out. Every sob is a dagger to my heart. Every single fibre of my being wants to go into his room and comfort him. I am terrified that he will not wake in the morning and his last memory will be of crying out for me and being ignored.

Elijah brings immeasurable joy to my life. He has brought healing when I thought I would never be healed. But there will always be cracks. There will always be the whisper of life lost. There will always be doubt. And I think I will struggle with his sleep for a long time yet.

Mothering a Rainbow

For the most part, I believe I am mothering Elijah in much the same way as I did Isaac and Xavier as babies. But there are moments. Snatches of time where everything is different. When it becomes truly apparent I am mothering a rainbow child.

Whilst pregnant, every twinge, real or imagined, sent me to the darkest of conclusions. Every time I caught his heartbeat on the monitor, or felt him kick, my breath would catch with gratitude. I get to carry this baby. I will get to hold this baby. I will get to keep this baby. How could I fathom such a blessing?

A few days after giving birth, a cocktail of postpartum hormones running through my veins, holding him tight as a newborn baby and begging him not to die. My heart aching at what was lost and the unbearable thought of further pain. Then his little fingers curled around mine, reassuring and real. He was staying. Staying.

Looking into his new but wise eyes and asking in a whisper if he met Xavier, if he knows how he is. Searching the deep blue seriousness for a flicker of recognition. Some sign of communion. He is not his brother. Yet a reflection of his brother. His brothers’ blood running through his veins.

He is softly sleeping, shallow breaths making his chest rise and fall almost indiscernible. I watch fervently, hand on his little body, willing each little breath to come. I am the guardian of his sleep. If I leave him for a little while in the hands of rest, I feel guilty and panicked. I come back to find him safe and feel like I have cheated fate. Every morning when he wakes, I am elated and overcome with gratitude. Sleep, that silent thief, has stayed faithful and not turned on us again. I am so blessed.

Sometimes I will pause before I check on him. For if he has entered a realm I cannot, I want to hover in the innocent happiness of the moment before knowledge. Then I start and I wonder if that moment would represent the chance to save him. All this inner turmoil and when I finally check on him, he is peacefully sleeping. No care in the world. He is peace, he is calm. He is balm to my wound-up heart.

Parenting after loss is a double edged sword. On one side is the almost unbearable knowledge that your child can die. On the other a level of gratitude that reaches deep into your heart. I have known the depths, so I will appreciate the heights. We have been through the thunderstorm, we have seen the rainbow and we are flying with the sun.

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