The things that stay the same – Mothering after loss

Motherhood is a strong bond. Not even death can sever it. And there are certain things about mothering a child no longer here that are exactly the same as mothering a living child. I wanted to write a list of them. To provide comfort to those also missing their children. To let those that surround the grieving know how important this most invisible of motherhood remains.

1. You love them a little more each day
The first moment I held Isaac, I could not imagine my heart could accommodate any more love. I was bursting with it. But each day went on and each day I woke up surprised to find I loved him a little more. It was the same with Xavier and now with Elijah. But loving them a little more daily does not cease with death. Every morning after Xavier left, I loved him more than the day before. In particularly that first year, where the mounting love seems exponential is its growth. That love that begins when you learn you are pregnant, expands with each scan, each kick, swells when you hold them for the first time, grows each time you even think of them. It does not go away. I do not miss him less each day, I miss him more. I do not love him less each day, I love him more. And this is perhaps the crux of why it takes a very long time to arrive in a place of peace after losing a child. The passing days do not take away the hurt. For the first few months, they only added to it. Just as I do his brothers, every day I love Xavier a little more.

2. You worry about them
I worry about Xavier. Worry if he is happy. Worry where he is. In the early days of grief I felt that if I just knew where he was, just knew he was okay, the pain would be so much more bearable. I worried about burying him. That he would be alone at nights. I worried about leaving him in the hands of the funeral home. Worried that they would treat him tenderly. I worry that others won’t treat his memory as gently as I do. As he has grown, and my understanding of him has changed, I worry less. But, just as I do with his brothers, I will always worry about him.

3. Sibling rivalry and jealousy still exist
Whenever I make Xavier something, Isaac wants me to make him one too. The Christmas after Xavier died, I made him a stocking and Isaac immediately wanted one. If I buy a toy or ornament for Xavier’s grave, Isaac wants one for himself. There are some things that bind brothers, no matter how far apart they reside. They will always be brothers, and they will always demand the fair share of my attention.

4. You get mother guilt
I often feel that I am not a perfect mother to Isaac and Elijah. I sometimes watch other parents and I am concerned that I am not measuring up. I have guilt about certain decisions. I watch other bereaved parents and they way they honour their children. Through amazing creativity. Through inspirational fund-raising. Through words and deeds. And I wonder if I am doing enough. But how can we ever feel we are enough for our children? I will never reach it for Isaac or Elijah. And I won’t for Xavier. Because I want to be perfect for them, and I am imperfect.

5. You are proud of them
Every parent is proud of their children. I so love watching new parents with their firstborn. The absolute pride is tangible. They are walking a well-trod path but they act like the first people to discover how amazing starting a family is. I know we did. Parents want to share photos, tell stories about their children. It is no different when your child lives somewhere you cannot go. I share photos of a beautiful, living Xavier. But there are those whose only photos of their precious ones are after they had passed. How privileged I feel when I get to see those photos and share not in that parent’s grief, but in that parent’s pride. I feel proud of what Xavier has accomplished through his journey. Each of my boys will do amazing things that will make my heart soar with pride – the two on earth and the one in heaven.

I parent each of my boys according to who they are and what they need. But I will always be mother to each and love them to eternity.

26Dec2013

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.

21Nov2013

Making the rainbow connection

Posted in Parenting after loss by Robyna

I am not the first loss mother to be consumed and confused by the place of a rainbow baby in her family. This beautiful gift that I have paid the highest of prices for. I think the crux is the confusion is this: you learn things in grief – precious, beautiful things. We sometimes call them the gifts of grief. But every angel mother I know would gladly give each and every one of those gifts back to hold their baby again. There is nothing you can gain in loss that tips the balance in favour of saying good-bye. And then another child comes into your life. Suddenly, there is something borne of loss that is so precious that it gives you pause to reconsider.

No one is going to knock on my door and offer my Xavier back in exchange for Elijah. I am never going to have to make that choice. And yet there is still guilt surrounding the presence of Elijah at the expense of Xavier’s absence. My love for Elijah will always be tinged with a longing for Xavier. His milestones, more so than Isaac’s, paired with wondering if Xavier’s would have looked the same, been met at the same time. And as I am granted longer and longer with Elijah, my feelings for him intensify and evolve in a way that they never had time to with Xavier.

In the weeks following Elijah’s birth I would look at him and could not fathom how I survived the loss of Xavier. Each feeling was intensified in those weeks – the joy, the love, the fear and the grief. Even now, I think I could not survive if we lost Elijah. And that thought feels traitorous – could I survive the loss of one child over another? Am I, in some way, choosing one son? Loving him more?

Of course, it would be possible to fall pregnant four months after Xavier was born had he lived. Just terribly, terribly unlikely. I was breast-feeding and two children had always been our plan. Whilst now I look at photos and think of Xavier as missing, in a way that’s disingenuous – in reality it was never the way our family would look.

And yet, how often do our families end up the way we planned? Those that had sworn to no children may end up with a family of six. How many third children are born in the hopes they might be a different gender to the first two? Accidents occur frequently. Do the mothers in those families agonise over the children they had not initially planned on and wonder at their place in the family? Or do they not even pause to think it over – just accept the beautiful gifts bestowed on them and the fluid shapes of family over time?

When I think about the shape of my family – my boys – this is what I picture: Two boys, one much littler than the other, their faces turned towards the sunshine. Rays of light gently settling around them, and both of them with an understanding that this light belongs to their middle brother.

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.

28Oct2013

Welcome to the world little rainbows

Posted in Parenting after loss, Pregnancy after loss by Robyna

All over the world, new parents are gazing with untold love, adoration and awe at their newborn children. Of these, a small percentage are filled with just a little more wonder, just a touch more disbelief, slightly more gratitude that their sweet little baby has arrived and done so safely. They are the ones who do not sleep, but watch over each breath. The ones who marvel at the sound of little cries, not quite believing they are real. The ones that have to pinch themselves that so much joy has finally come into their lives. When a midwife assures them that babies are less fragile than they look, they are the ones that regard that advice with suspicion. Experience has taught them differently.

They are not first time parents but the baby they held first was without breath. And at painful times, without recognition. Midwives, doctors and friends might refer to them as first time parents, as new mums and dads. Not necessarily because they are ignoring the baby who came before – the baby that didn’t take a breath or only snatched the smallest amount of life. But because our language has no word for a parent that loses a child, let alone to describe a parent who has lost a child and then welcomed a living baby into the world. These mothers and fathers have had to parent in the hardest of situations. They have had to find ways to love and connect with a child that they cannot see. They have had to nurse aching, empty arms. They have had to find strength they never knew possible. They have had to fight for their motherhood, for their fatherhood. They have kept memories alive. Their hearts have been broken and yet swelled to accommodate the most amazing of loves.

And now these parents face a new and alien set of challenges. How to bathe this little one. How often to feed. How to soothe cries. How to tell if he’s too hot, is she’s too cold. But there are other things they already know. That the love for your child is all consuming. That you love them a little more dearly each day. That being a mother or father is such an awesome and beautiful responsibility. They know the full precious weight of their baby. They know every breath is a treasure. And they know that this little one has a big brother or sister, looking over them. Keeping them safe. They know that their family looks a little different from others, but their first child or children will always have a place within it. They have loved and loved and loved. And now they get to love a baby that demonstrably loves them back.

With much love to all the parents who have recently welcomed rainbow* babies into their families, but particularly those who are welcoming a child after losing their first.

*A rainbow baby is the term used by the loss community to describe a child conceived after loss. It refers to the hopeful rainbow that appears after a storm. The storm does not refer to the child that did not live. But rather the very dark place that inevitably follows after loss. Nor does a rainbow signify the end of grief. A rainbow baby brings hope and light into a shattered family, whilst they still miss and grieve for the child they hold in their hearts rather than their arms.

13Oct2013

The Narrow

Posted in Parenting after loss by Robyna

Have you ever noticed how often we use words associated with death and dying when we describe how babies sleep? Dead asleep, dead to the world, sleeping like an angel, out like a light, in another place, dead weight, gone, out to it, passed out. People sometimes say these things when describing Elijah sleeping. Then they realise and look at me with momentary horror as they register the meaning of their words. It’s okay. It doesn’t worry me too much. But there is a reason we use those descriptors. The space between a baby sleeping and a baby never waking is narrow. Narrow in a way that terrifies me.

When Elijah is deeply asleep, his body still and his breathing almost undectably shallow, I panic. I place my hand against his stomach until I feel sure that he is okay. Even though I know what a baby without breath looks like, I am still terrified. That moment that severs them from life is instant in most SIDS cases. One moment of this earth and the next beyond it. I imagine two lines branching out from single one. Two lines travelling in very different directions, but at their origin, separated by only the slightest of degrees. When Elijah is deeply asleep, it’s not a stretch to imagine him taking the darker of those two paths.

I used to say “babies bounce” and be part of the confident parenting brigade that espoused the deceptive toughness of newborns. It’s conventional parental wisdom – you are afraid of breaking your firstborn and treat them like china. You realise that they are tougher than they seem and relax on your second. And it’s true – babies survive so much. It’s hard to hear tales of babies surviving starvation, abuse, tragic accidents and medical difficulties when your own baby couldn’t even survive a nap. I love a miracle story as much as the next person, but there will always be that lingering thought “where was my miracle?” Why was Xavier the antithesis of a miracle? He had a 999 in 1000 chance of living and he did not.

When my first son, Isaac, was born I expected to feel an immense love. I had read enough to know that would happen. I was surprised by the ferocity of that love. That feeling that I would not only take a bullet for my son, but that I would have no problem pulling the trigger if I needed to, to protect him. That there was absolutely nothing I would not do for him. A lioness with her cub. When Xavier was stolen by SIDS, I had no chance to fight for Xavier. We were given a day in hospital, which is so much more than so many SIDS families, but it was immediately clear that this was a chance to say goodbye. There was to be no fight. There was no rollercoaster of “will he make it or not”. There was just a little life snuffed out. He had no chance to change his world whilst he was a part of it. He was here and then no longer here. The space between those realities too narrow. No space for me to squeeze between and save my son. Two weeks. A sliver of time, too short to seem of consequence. And yet his impact is indelible. He changed lives. Mostly for the better, but now fear is written on my heart.

The chances of Elijah dying are narrow. So close to zero that it would seem impossible. But Xavier fell into that narrow crack, beyond all reason and sense.
As Elijah gets older, the smiles and gurgles more frequent, he feels more of this earth. It feels as though his place is permanent. And every time he wakes again in the morning, the gap between him and the unthinkable narrows.

5Oct2013

The burden of gratitude

Posted in Parenting after loss, Uncategorized by Robyna

Elijah, like all babies, goes through periods of not sleeping, crying jags and general grumpiness. On the whole, he truly is a “good” baby, but even good babies have their off days. Good mothers have them too.

But I won’t tell you about those days. Not because I am trying to hide behind the image of a perfect baby and mother. But because it would seem too close to ingratitude. When you are robbed of your child, you feel robbed of your right to complain about anything other than that loss. How can I complain about transient things? Everything becomes insignificant in the face of such giant loss. All other problems dwarfed. And to complain about a child, the very thing that I lost, that would be an ingratitude too great.

Grief teaches you things. Teaches you to to appreciate each moment. You begin to understand the enormous privilege it is to bear and bring up a child. You start to glimpse the compete preciousness of it all. You meet those that are desperate to have a baby to hold in their arms, not just in their hearts. And you realise, even though you have had the most horrible thing to occur, how truly blessed you are to have children. You cannot help but wonder if you needed to lose in order to learn that lesson. You hang onto appreciation as a kind of insurance. If I am grateful for each moment, then Elijah can stay. If I consciously appreciate every single second of him, I can protect him. Conversely, if, for even a moment I lose sight of that, maybe he will be taken from me. I must not complain.

After Xavier died I would see Facebook posts or hear whinges about babies that wouldn’t sleep or were fussy. I would wish, wish that were me. I would wonder how people could be so blind. I would vow never to be so unthinking. But does the pendulum swing both ways? Is all this thoughtful gratitude and gushing presenting an unrealistic image of life? Am I expecting too much of myself and pressuring others? Is it just as unthoughtful of me to be posting photos of a picture perfect, content baby all the time?

After all life does goes on and it continues to be challenging. I wish that Xavier’s death had solved all my problems. All the problems of my friends and family. But it didn’t. Perhaps it offered some perspective, but it didn’t eradicate all other pain and it didn’t magically make our lives easy.

After Xavier’s death it took a little while before friends and family would once again discuss their problems with me. I was glad when they did. Glad that they thought my perspective would be useful. Glad that they thought I could cope. But I know even then they were careful not to complain, not to give any inference that they weren’t completely grateful for their blessings.

Perhaps the answer lies in living with grace, rather than finding limitless gratitude for every moment and a moratorium on complaints. Living with the grace that I know no matter what life throws at me, I will handle it. Living with the grace that I know I can see beauty, even in the darkness. Living with the grace that problems still occur, to me and to others, and that listening and talking about those things doesn’t make me ungrateful. It just makes me human.

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.

26Sep2013

The Inside and the Outside

Posted in Parenting after loss by Robyna

Every Saturday my little family heads down to the local coffee shop and I wonder what we look like to other people. Beautiful four year old running at the front of the pram, cute little Hugo, our cavalier puppy, on his heels. N or I pushing the pram, lightly touching each other around the waist. It must look idyllic. It must look like the perfect family. What it looks like and what it is are so very different.

I felt similarly when pregnant. I wondered if people who had recently suffered loss or infertility looked jealously at my growing bump.

I know in the weeks after Xavier died I wanted to rush up to mothers of newborns and say “Do you know? Do you know how utterly privileged you are?” I wanted to talk to those heavily pregnant and ask “Do you know? Do you know the precious weight of what you carry?” I didn’t of course. But what if I had and she had returned the pain in my own eyes. If she would have said, with a heaviness another loss mother would recognise, “Yes”.

We go about our daily battles and it seems like everyone else’s battles are being easily won. But we don’t know. We don’t know how much pain lies before apparent happiness. Each of us are icebergs, only revealing the tip of our lives. Carefully constructing the image we allow the world to see. We know this of ourselves – why do we presume that everyone around us does any differently?

My personal Facebook feed is filled with photos of Elijah on different outings – parks, various beaches, numerous cafes. As my parents are currently overseas, I am posting daily pictures so they can watch him grow. This no doubt gives the impression of a terribly confident mother – happily out and about with a perfectly behaved newborn. This would be a generous assumption. In truth, I am not a homebody and will always prefer out to in. When I am at home alone with Elijah, the darker thoughts creep in. It’s when I hold him close and beg him not to die. Do I prefer the facade of a mother breezing through parenthood? Of course, but it masks a darker truth.

I never want to be defined by my loss – although I am happy to be shaped by it. But sometimes, I want to scream “Getting here wasn’t easy – the road to this seeming perfection was paved with tears and still, always, there is someone missing”.

But that’s not the image I have chosen to present to the world. There is a large element of choice here. Could I fall apart? Of course I could, in a heartbeat, in an instant. But I hold myself and my family together. Is this a form of lying? Would it be truer to myself to let more of the pain show? Would it ease the pressure on those around me if I was to be more “real”? I am not sure. So much of how I coped with Xavier’s death was “fake it until you feel it”. When faced with something that cleaves your heart in two, people really don’t want to see the full ugliness of it. I didn’t want to be the full ugliness of it. For all our talk of being real, there comes a point of too real. And so I have been play-acting for some time now. Not just for those around me, but for me. I have been play-acting for so long that it might be difficult to tell where the reality and where the acting meet. And perhaps this simply is my new reality.

Being grateful for each and every moment, striving to live in the now and taking advantage of every possibility can seem unbearably Pollyanna-ish. It can seem fake and impossible. But my alternative is impossible and so I take this path and I will smile through the pain.

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.