Month: January 2014

Together

Yesterday I was reminded of a beautiful conversation with a four year old girl. This little conversation happened a couple of days after Theodore was born.

To give it a bit of background: after the miscarriage which happened in 2012, I struggled to think of the baby as anything more than a miscarried pregnancy. After all, we had never even seen him. Though we had decided to call the baby Jeremiah, we never referred to him as such. Rather, I thought of him predominantly as “the miscarried baby”.

The four year old I had the conversation with knew about Jeremiah. All through my pregnancy with Theodore, each time she saw me she would pat my tummy and say, “The other baby died. But this one’s not dead.” It was really funny and actually refreshing to have things stated so plainly.

On this occasion, two days after Theodore’s birth, sitting in church (because being at home without a baby two days after giving birth is surreal and awful), this girl was sitting on my lap.

“The baby died.”

“Yes, that’s right, Theodore died.”

“The other baby died too.” (As she is patting my arm.)

“Yes, he did.”

“Now they are both in heaven together.”

Wow. I wish I could put into words how that last sentence made me feel. It was like comfort was poured into my heart and like my whole world lit up with the joy of thinking of them together.

Two brothers, together.

One of my midwives said to me that maybe part of Theodore’s purpose was to help me heal after the loss of Jeremiah, and I think that is true.

Since having Theodore, Jeremiah is no longer referred to as “the miscarried baby”. Now, he is always referred to by name.

And whenever I close my eyes and picture them, they are always together.

Most Days

Most days, it is not too hard.

Now, nearly five months after Theodore was born still, I sometimes do not even think of him until something reminds me.

Like, seeing a picture of a baby or a young child. Or hearing the name. Or hearing of someone who is pregnant or who just had a baby. Or seeing the painting of his feet on the wall or the toys that were bought for him.

Daily things, really.

Sometimes the reminders are not too bad. Maybe a little sad. Occasionally relieved that my baby will not have to suffer through what another baby might.

Sometimes they hit so hard. Like suddenly you’re carrying a rock in your stomach and another on your heart. The heaviness and ache and pain and heart-brokenness of those moments cannot be understood by someone who has not experienced it.

Does that mean I have more understanding – that I “get” grief better?

No.

I do not know the pain of watching parents separate. I do not know the pain of losing a parent. I do not know what it is like to lose practically all my belongings in a housefire.

I can imagine, and I can sympathise, but I do not know.

The pain I know is the pain of losing children. Jeremiah was miscarried. Theodore was stillborn.

I know the pain of burying my baby. Of standing in a cemetery, looking at a plaque with my son’s name on it.

But, the pain is not constant. It is not all day, every day.

It is moments throughout my day, most days.

The First Post

Starting a blog is always a bit scary. It is the first step – the easiest step – of a journey which you know will only succeed if you put in the effort to make it do so.

And so, my aims:

– to share my personal journey after pregnancy loss

– to be real and honest

– to share the good bits and the hard bits

– to create and foster a place of support and understanding and care

 

Let’s see how it goes.