The worst thing about this is how it turns you into a downright bitch. Oh, i know it. I don’t know if there is any way round the raging bitterness that leaks out into the most ordinary of moments. The happy moments.
Unexpected announcements. Hate them. Photo contests. Hate them. Talking about how long it is until all the children in the house leave home. Hate it. Knowing Freddie will never be the 7th grandchild, not properly, not really. That maybe we’ll never say “that’s my son over there.” Even if we do, it will never be for him. I’ll never know, not ever, if he was from the winter or the summer side of our family. His due date fell just on the cusp of birth dates and personality splits in the house. How ironic.
Raging at everything, even the people i love, because even though i am one of the luckiest women on the planet, everyone is going to say something that hurts. And they can only avoid that by ignoring me, which would be awful and unbearable and how can i possibly avoid driving people to exhausted insanity with the impossibility of that?
“I’m a bitch, I’m a lover
I’m a child, I’m a mother
I’m a sinner, I’m a saint.”
The aptly (for me) Meredith Brookes.
Keeping the lid on my temper. Coping with the flicked glances from my children when anything happens they think might upset me. Upset me. When they’ve lost their brother and are doing so very much better than i am.
Being patient. Being brave. Being strong. Being plain fucking angry all the time with no-one to lash it out at.
Going to baby loss services and someone taking their beautiful, gorgeous 2 1/2 month old boy to it.
Service being lovely and thoughtful and just right if you are anyone but me. The forgotten remembered, the obvious forgotten. My own unmentioned ignored even by me because i was too slow to alter my mind set and make it something bearable.
The unnecessary tyranny of circumstance meaning the neonatal transfer team turned up at the door of the hospital just as i was walking in and wheeled a baby in a travel incubator (just as Freddie did) past the chapel while i was stood outside sobbing at the baby boy inside.
Candles and Flowers and the space that got left next to Freddie’s, the only space on the display, that i could have lit another candle in and didn’t because i’m ashamed. Of myself. Of having to scratch off the scab from all that again and try to seal it back down over another baby.
This is just the most enormous mountain to climb. And still, STILL, i keep stopping in mid thought, mid-sentence and thinking. “Oh Fuck. My baby died.”