Heaviness

I first notice it in December, when the birthdays begin. Little children turning three. We were pregnant at the same time, their mamas and I. I thought our children would grow up together; I remember waiting to hear their names and hoping none would share a name with our baby. I remember laughing as one was given a name we had seriously considered and I was so glad we had chosen a different one. I didn't realise just how sacred her name would become. 

I notice it again at Christmas, in the glaring absence of one precious little girl. There's silence where her laughter should be and her present being opened by her brother...not her. 

It hits once more on New Years Eve as I remember the joy and hope of NYE 2012. We welcomed in the year on the beach, laughing with friends and trying to find someone with matches so we could light our sparklers. 2013 was a year filled with hope and anticipation. Until it wasn't. 

And then the end of January draws near. The heaviness that has been lurking since December gets stronger. Darker. Suffocating-er. I didn't realise grief could be so physical. 

I cannot breathe.

Because, next week. 

Next week is the Australia Day public holiday. The day we found out she had died. The date changes but the memories don't. 

Next week is her Heaven Day, when our sweet baby girl arrived in Heaven. My sad day. When the heaviness is as heavy as heavy can be. 

Next week is her birthday. The day I felt a rush of love I had never felt before but also a sorrow I had never felt before. The day I caught her as she was born and smiled because she was indeed a she, just as I had suspected. Next week we'll picnic on the beach and write her name in the sand. Because the day she entered our lives is worth celebrating. 

 

Next week she'd be three. 

Love Matters

Today, in a Facebook conversation about breastfeeding and formula feeding, I read a comment that said something along the lines of "if your child still lives and is healthy, you did your job as a mother". Occasionally I see pictures implying that the one thing a mother needs to do to be successful is keep your children alive, like this one:

From someecards.com

And every time it's like a stab in the heart.

Because I couldn't keep my child alive.

But that does NOT make me a failure.

I believed for too long that it did, but I refuse to believe it now. There is not a single baby loss mother I know who has failed her baby...because every single one of them loves that baby with their whole being. For those who haven't lost a child, allow me to let you in on something...most baby loss mamas blame themselves in some way, at least initially. We feel like we have failed our babies, our partners, our family. We don't need comments implying that (intentional or otherwise).

But it's not just about keeping your child alive, success should not be defined by having a healthy child either. I cannot speak from experience, but I don't think my friends whose children are unwell or have a disability would be comforted by the idea that a healthy child is what defines a good mother. It's not.

Motherhood is about more than "keeping the kids alive" or having a healthy child. Motherhood is about love. If you do the best for your child, with the knowledge you have, and you do it out of love, THAT'S what matters. That's a mother doing her job.

From carlymarieprojectheal.com

I Never Knew

I never knew it would hurt this much. That almost 13 months later the pain would be just as raw even if the tears don't always flow so freely. 

I never knew it would be so hard to use basic terminology. That words like dead, funeral and grave would be replaced by stillborn, service and special place because my broken heart can barely cope with using the others in connection with my daughter. 

I never knew that I could feel so much guilt for something that wasn't my fault. That I would have to battle so hard against the lies of the enemy in order to simply glimpse the truth, yet alone believe it. 

I never knew how desperately I would wish that I could visit Heaven. That a beautiful sunset could bring me to tears as I wished the clouds were stairs. 

I never knew how frequently I would get asked if Levi was my first child. That at least once a week my heart would begin to pound as I worked out what to say. 

I never knew that sometimes I would answer yes to that question. That I would deny Ariella's existence to protect my heart from breaking or even just to save a stranger from feeling awkward.

I never knew I could miss someone so much. That my heart could be so full and so empty at the same time. 

Sometimes I'm scared

Sometimes I'm scared to say what I really think. Because if I say "I would give anything to be able to kiss her perfect little cheeks again", I just know someone will say "one day you will." But it's not about that; it's not about the future. It's about now. Right now. It's about the aching hole in my heart that I have to live with every. single. day.

Sometimes I'm scared to talk about how long it has been since our sweet girl was in our arms. Because no one else is as aware of each passing day as I am. Because people assume I'm talking about something else. And it says to me that they have moved on.

Sometimes I'm scared to say just how much I miss her. Because sometimes it feels like people don't want to hear about her anymore.

Sometimes I'm scared to meet new people. Actually, I'm always scared to meet new people. When they ask if I have kids or if this is my first pregnancy, how will they react when I tell them about Ariella? Will they be awkward? Will they literally back away? Or maybe, will they ask me about her? But sometimes I'm too scared to take that risk.

Sometimes I'm scared to be honest. Because if I'm honest, it often means I'm blunt at the same time. And I don't want to hurt others; I feel like I should be considerate of them. But honestly? I'm tired of making excuses for others. Of qualifying everything I say in order to lessen the chances of offending someone. I wish I could scream from the rooftops that this is my grief. Mine and my husband's. Stop comparing yours with ours. Stop trying to make it better. Stop trying to fix us. This cannot be fixed. Just be with us.

From A Bed For My Heart's facebook page

Sometimes I'm scared that people think the hope I have in Jesus is the answer to my pain now. It's not. A fellow Christian said the perfect thing to us the other week - "while you would be comforted in knowing she is with our Heavenly Father, you must miss her terribly here on earth." Yes. We do. And the comfort we have in Jesus does not mean we miss her any less.

Sometimes I'm scared to finish blog posts where I want to finish. I feel like I should end on a positive or at least on a hopeful note. But some days just aren't like that...

Dear newly bereaved mother

Dear newly bereaved mother,

I couldn’t help but see you today at the cemetery. I saw your slow walk from the car to his special spot, I noticed the pain in your eyes as you loving tended to your boy’s grave and the way you lent on your husband for support. Emotions so familiar to me were painted on not just your face but on your whole being. I wished I could have jumped out of my car and offered you some comfort. I desperately wished there was something I could do. But when it’s been one month since your baby died, what comfort is there to be had? What answers could a stranger possibly have, especially when you are standing at the exact place you said your final goodbyes to your precious son?

Sweet mumma, I know what it’s like to be so overcome with the need to go to your baby’s grave but so overcome with pain when actually standing there. I know how wrong it is to place flowers on a grave when you should be placing your baby in the cot. The need to have everything perfect at your baby’s special place is one I am well acquainted with and one that hasn’t yet gone away. I know what it’s like to mother a memory, rather than mother a cooing baby. I know how hard it is.

My story is no doubt different to yours, as each of us travel along a similar but unique path. But newly bereaved mother, it’s only nine months since I was you; nine months since my daughter was born silently and still. To those further along this road than me, I am still newly bereaved. But even nine months along, I want to offer you hope. Going to the cemetery (or holding your baby’s ashes) won’t always be so painful, one day it might bring you peace. The walk from the car to your baby’s grave will get easier, and while your husband’s support is always there, you will get stronger and be able to do more on your own.

Dear mumma, I know you worry that letting go of the intense grief and pain is somehow the same of letting go of your little one. But it’s not; nothing will take away the love you have for them. I know you think about them every day and feel a flood of guilt if there is one day when you don’t. I want to encourage you that even if you don’t actively think of them, their memory is always with you, actively remembered or not. I know the outrage you feel when someone says something that implies your little one is unimportant. Don’t listen to them – your gorgeous baby matters, they are and will always your much loved child. You have every right to walk away from people who believe otherwise, but I know that sometimes walking away takes more strength than you have. My prayer is that there will always be someone alongside you to either help you walk away or comfort you in the pain of other’s words. Not everyone understands this pain, dear mumma, but some of us do. Even though you feel it at times, you are never completely alone.

Your baby is precious, and I’m so very sorry you don’t have them in your arms. It isn’t fair.

Sincerely,

The other mum at the cemetery

Bloom where you're planted

I couldn't help but notice the lone purple daisy next to the driveway. I didn't even know there was a daisy plant there, I thought the only daisy bushes were further down. I took a second look to confirm that yes, this flower was indeed part of a small plant, hidden by some weeds and other bushes.

How odd, I thought to myself, one lone flower, so far from where I thought it belonged.

And then I heard something that stopped me in my tracks.

Bloom where you're planted, whispered the still small voice of God.

What? I asked. Bloom? Here? In a place of sorrow and pain? In a community that no one wants to be in, because the only way to gain membership is to lose a child?

The answer? Bloom where you're planted.

The flower was not where I thought it belonged. It was not where I would have looked if was to go searching for a purple daisy. I am not where I thought I belonged; I'm not where I would have looked if I was looking for somewhere to bloom. I argued with God for the next little while.

How can I possibly bloom here? I don't want to bloom here, I want to be somewhere else, somewhere that isn't a result of my daughter's death.

God's gentle reply was becoming familiar, bloom where you're planted.

So I guess that's what I'll do. I have my bad days, the days when I want to yell and scream at others, at myself, at the world. Days when I sit down to write and all that comes out are words of confusion and hurt; those are the posts that get labelled as "drafts", to be shared on a later day when I'm not feeling so vulnerable or afraid to be honest. The bad days are when the closest I get to blooming is being "blooming angry" that my daughter isn't here and the world has moved on. As the nine month anniversary approaches, those days are becoming more frequent. And it was on one of those days when I heard God's voice: bloom where you're planted.

So Deeper Still is me trying to bloom where I'm planted. Writing on Still Standing is me trying to bloom where I'm planted. Even simply getting out of bed each day is me trying to bloom where I'm planted.

This is not how it should be

This is not how it could be

This is how it is

And our God is in control

-Steven Curtis Chapman-

Do you remember? Do you know?

Do you remember my first baby?

Do you remember that it's only been nine months since we said goodbye?

Do you remember that I still miss her?

Do you remember that my husband misses her too?

Do you remember that no matter what happens with this pregnancy, my first baby died? 

Do you remember that I am a mother?

Do you remember?

Do you know that grief isn't linear?

Do you know that me sleeping in some mornings is my way of coping; that it is not a "luxury" and I wish it wasn't an option?

Do you know how much it means to me, to us, when you speak about our daughter?

Do you know stillbirth isn't something you can catch by talking about it?

Do you know how much it hurts when people act as though it is?

Do you know that my continuing grief doesn't mean I am not trusting God?

Do you know?

The tree of grief

There's a tree outside my house that, all year long, has represented my grief. Before Ariella was born, its branches were full of leaves and it was beautifully green. It looked so full of life. Soon after her death, the leaves started to die and then they all dropped. The tree entered into a long winter before tiny shoots of life began to show. It is now spring and the tree has much more life in it. It's branches are no longer barren and dry, they are covered in vibrant green leaves. Seeing the tree's leaves start to come back gave me hope that perhaps my joy would come back. A few days ago, I went out to the tree and saw this:

Capture Your Grief: Day 20

A cross. 

In the middle of this tree was a small cross. I couldn't believe my eyes! I wouldn't have seen it if I hadn't looked closely, but nevertheless it was there.In the middle of my "tree of grief" was a cross; a reminder to me that God has been with me throughout my grief journey. I had always thought this particular tree represented my grief and now I realise just how much it does. When I look at this year from a distance, it can be hard to see God in it. But when I look closer, He is there. Right in the centre. He always has been, even at the times when I didn't notice. 

I took a photo, just because I wanted to. I then realised that the prompt for Capture Your Grief day 20 was hope and knew this was the perfect photo. My hope is Christ, that in the chaos, confusion and pain of this year, He is always with me. Through Him, and Him alone, can I be sure that my daughter is safe and that I will see her again.

Grief has cycles, just like this tree goes through the seasons. It just so happened that the tree's cycle was the same as my grief's. My true hope is not the hope that my spring will come, rather, my hope is in Jesus Christ, who is with me throughout my journey, even if He is hard to see sometimes. 

Hope in the darkness

I live near a park, so it's common to hear birds chirping away throughout the day. I hear them first thing in the morning, and it can be so lovely to open the doors or windows and hear them as I go about my day. But last night, they were chirping as I went to sleep. Since when do bird chirp (continuously) at 11, 11:30 at night? It was very strange, but it made me smile. The birds sounded so cheerful, even in the pitch black of night.

And that made me realise something:

Day 1 of Capture Your Grief: Sunrise.

Some days feel like the night; they seem dark and you just want to sleep through them. And I have to confess, yesterday was one of those days. I couldn't think of why, as it wasn't a significant date. A friend suggested that maybe it's due to the emotions that doing the Capture Your Grief challenge is bringing to the surface. I think she might be right. For whatever reason, yesterday was a dark day.

But just as the birds were singing in the darkness, there was hope in yesterday's darkness. A friendly older man to chat to while waiting in a line. An overseas friend who "happened" to not be able to sleep and was therefore awake when I needed to talk through some things. Another friend with good news to help me look beyond myself. Winning a fuel voucher. A cute maternity top for only $9. An email that I think contained some incredibly exciting news (although I'm just waiting for confirmation before I know for sure). A night spent with some wonderful friends. Knowing my husband would have today off work. Knowing it's just a few more days before a week long holiday.

Some days seem pretty dark. Yet there is always hope.

The one with the surprising back story

There are a few TV shows that I love. Gilmore Girls would have to be at the top of the list, no doubt about it. But I also like 30 Rock, Whose Line is it Anyway, and Friends. And it's that last one that I wanted to write about today, hence the title of this post...any other Friends fans out there and get it? :D

In one episode, Joey realises he doesn't have a present for baby Emma's first birthday, so on the spur of the moment he decides to give her a dramatic reading of the children's book that happened to be sitting near Joey. The book was Love You Forever, by Robert Munsch. From what we see of Joey reading it, it's a very sweet book that includes the refrain:

I'll love you forever

I'll like you for always

As long as I'm living

My baby you'll be.

Isn't that sweet? I happened to see that episode while pregnant, and thought it sounded like such a sweet book. I would love to have a collection of children's books and hopefully instill a love of books in our children. And I thought this one would be a good book to add to the collection. I looked it up on Google, and found the words for the whole book...and it was hilarious! It's all about a mother who rocks her baby to sleep while singing the refrain. But the baby, "it grew and it grew and it grew". It became a two year old, a nine year old, and a teenager, whose behaviour would prompt his mother to say "this kid is driving me crazy"! But nevertheless, at the end of each day, the mother would go into his bedroom, pick him up and rock him, while singing the short song. Even when he was a "great big man"! It's quite funny the scenarios that are given; I mean, a mother sneaking into her adult son's house in order to rock him and sing to him? At the end of the book, the roles are reversed, and the son is the one rocking his elderly mother and singing the song to her (with the last line reading "my mother you'll be"). To hear Munsch reading the book, click here.

I thought it was a sweet book about the unending love a mother has for her baby. But that's all I thought it was.


Now for the surprising back story:

Love You Forever was Munsch' personal tribute to his two stillborn babies and his way of remembering and honouring their little lives. 

Wow. When I discovered that this morning, I was blown away. It was one of those moments of realising that baby loss really does affect a lot of people. I never got around to buying the book when I was pregnant last time, and I'm more determined than ever to find it this time. I love the last two lines of the refrain: as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be. Because that's how I've felt about Ariella this whole year. It doesn't matter that she isn't living anymore, I am, and she is still my baby. Even though I will have other children, who will (hopefully and most likely) grow up, she will quite literally be my baby forever.

And I'll love her forever, I'll like her for always.

(To read the full back story of Love You Forever, click here.)

Church and Grief

I haven't written on here a lot lately, in fact, this is only my second post for September. I have about 10 half-written posts in draft form, but for various reasons (that I won't go into) I haven't finished them. But when I heard a particular song yesterday, it struck a chord with me and I wanted to write about it.

I've written before about the relationship between faith and grief, but I haven't written much about what it's like to actually go to church after baby loss. I think that's mostly because people from my church will read this, and I don't want them to think that they've done something wrong or that I am picking on them. I also don't want extra looks or glances at each service. But I want to be honest:

While Ariella's death hasn't really shaken my faith, it has made going to church incredibly hard.

You see, there are plenty of things that make being at church hard. Babies born in the months before and after Ariella, including one who was born the week before. I see those babies growing up while knowing that I won't see my girl grow up. Women who were pregnant at the same time as me and with whom I had plenty of baby-related conversations. Those women have their babies in their arms, I do not. Advertisements for the two mothers groups that I had planned on attending, but now cannot do so. Seeing people get prayed for and healed (and rejoicing for them), while knowing that my baby girl wasn't healed.

I knew those things would be hard, but I underestimated how hard one other aspect of church would be: worship. In the 32 weeks since Ariella died, I've only managed a couple of weeks without tearing up (or bawling!) during worship. You see, so many songs that we sing talk about how Jesus has defeated the grave. I am so, so grateful that Jesus has done so, as it gives me the assurance of seeing Ariella again. But singing about the grave being defeated when I have literally lowered my daughter into her grave? Ouch. That hurts. Yes, I believe that Jesus has defeated death - one day it will be no more. But in the present day, death is all too real to me.

Then yesterday I heard this song:

I'm Still Yours - Kutless

If You washed away my vanity, if you took away my words, if all my world was swept away, would you be enough for me? Would my broken heart still sing?

When my life is not what I expected, the plans I made have failed, when there's nothing left to steal me away, will You be enough for me, will my broken heart still sing?

If I lost it all, would my hands stay lifted to the God who gives and takes away? If you take it all away, this life you've given, still my heart will sing.

Even if you take it all away, You'll never let me go. Take it all away, but I still know that I am Yours, I'm still Yours.

I like how this song doesn't say that my heart will sing in spite of what happened; it's about making the choice to praise God and sing to Him and about Him even when we have nothing left. When bad things happen, you do have a choice. You could walk away from God or you can choose to praise Him even if everything is taken away. I've seen both happen and it makes me so sad when I see people walk away from God and/or the church in the tough times. It's understandable but it does make me sad. On the other hand, when I see people who have been through the unimaginable and yet their faith is stronger than ever, that's inspiring. That's who I want to be like. No matter what happens, I want to be able to stand and worship God throughout the week and each Sunday in church.

A friend told me at the start of my grief journey that sometimes we just have to go through the motions until it becomes real again. For me, that means going to church and doing my best to worship even though my heart breaks at the sight of a small baby or the sound of their cry. Some weeks, it means acknowledging my weakness and staying at home. It's been 32 weeks, and sometimes I still feel like I'm just going through the motions at church. But I'm convinced that's ok. If I didn't do that, I'd never go, and that's no good either. Going to church is hard, but worthwhile. Even if it's only to stay in the habit until I'm no longer just going through the motions.

When hard times come, the choice is yours. If everything you have or long for is taken away - what will you do?

Flashbacks

(Trigger Warning - In this post I'm sharing about my experiences of flashbacks, including flashbacks of a car accident I was in. Please only read further if this will not cause you any flashbacks. I don't want to hurt anyone.)

My first introduction to flashbacks came a few years ago, after I was in a car crash on a country highway. I wasn't injured too badly (which was a miracle) but emotionally I was a mess. It was a long time before I could travel on country roads without flinching or crying, especially if the intersection we were approaching resembled the accident site. It was worse if I was a passenger, as I had been a passenger in the crash. Sometimes all it took was the bump of a car tyre hitting the curb to make me jump. And sometimes I could smell the accident - the rubber of the tyres, the smell of the air bag, etc. It was awful. And while I'm mostly ok these days, I do still struggle at times, especially when travelling on highways.

This year I'm having flashbacks of a different kind. 

Flashbacks of leaving our daughter in our hospital room, of the nerve-wracking drive to the ultrasound where her death was confirmed, of having to tell family that our baby had died. Sometimes I remember the Saturday...day 3, when baby-blues normally set in. Curled up in a ball on our couch, crying the most I'd ever cried and thinking I must be going crazy, only for my midwife to remind me that day 3 is always the tough one, and that of course it was going to be tougher for me. I flashback to the agony of laying our baby girl into her coffin, and walking out of the room.  Of feeling like I'm a failure because I didn't deliver a living baby. 

Flashbacks. Flashbacks. Flashbacks. 

Why is it that I rarely flashback to the better memories? Of seeing her for the first time, the two days we spent with her, or the hilarious moments during pregnancy when she made my belly into all sorts of crazy shapes? What about eating pizza with my husband and our pastor, a nice distraction during early labour? Or the ultrasounds when we could see her happily wriggling about? Why can't I remember THOSE moments? 

Instead I hear a song that was of great comfort in that first week, and instead of being comforted I am confronted by flashbacks of raw grief and empty arms. I drive past the hospital going to and from work, and flashback to just how scary it was to drive there on the Monday not knowing if our baby was alive or not. I see newborns in  their parents' arms and flashback to walking out of the hospital room and funeral home with oh-so-empty arms. 

It's hard. So very hard.

I assume I'm not the only person who struggles with this. So if you also struggle, I want to offer you some encouragement - it is possible to get through the flashbacks.

A few months ago I was really struggling with guilt; I was feeling as though it was my fault she had died. And that is ridiculous. It's not. For me, every single test that was done came back saying her death was unexplained. But that didn't stop the guilty thoughts from creeping in. There's a verse in the Bible that I valued a lot at that time. In 2 Corinthians 10 it says that we are to take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ. When the guilty thoughts came in, I had to take them captive and make it obedient to Christ, which for me meant lining it up against what I knew to be true of the situation and God (He did not say it was my fault, nor did the tests). When I did that, I was able to move past the thoughts of guilt and not get stuck in them.

I think the same applies for the flashbacks. If I take them captive, I am not letting them control me. If I take them to Christ, I can trust Him to comfort me and replace them with better memories.

It's not just positive thinking. That relies on our own strength, and I know for sure that I do not have the strength for that. I'm as weak as can be. But my God is strong. And by taking my thoughts to Him, it is possible to overcome. 

Struggles

I read an article on the Still Standing website today that was quite good; it was called Letting Death be Your Teacher. It's somewhat confronting to read my own thoughts, but written by someone else in a much more eloquent way than I would be able to:

I know death has changed me when prayer is war. How do you love and praise Someone whom you feel so deeply betrayed you? Or, perhaps worse, seems to have forgotten about you?

I know death has changed me when life seems like the exception, and death seems like the rule.

I know death has changed me when I choose to fight with God in prayer. I give Him my pain. My betrayal. My anger. And I place my bruised, bleeding heart into His perfect hands. He doesn't heal my hurt. But He does always hold it for me.

The author lists a number of things, but these three are what got me. Sometimes I worry that I come across as not having any issues with the fact that God didn't heal Ariella. That because I say "his love is deeper still" or "God is still good" that somehow I'm this perfect Christian, even though I've been through the worst thing a parent could.

It's not true.

I struggle. A lot. More than I care to admit sometimes. I've never once doubted that God is still God, or that He is still good. He is. And that's why I have problems. If He wasn't good, I could not have expected Him (or even asked Him) to re-start Ariella's heart. But He is good. Therefore, I (subconsciously) expect Him to do what I say is good. 

And that's why I have to fight with God in prayer, just like the quote above says. Because I am in pain. I do feel betrayed. And I do feel angry. My heart is bruised, and sometimes I worry that it will never stop bleeding. But the reason I can do that, the reason I can come to Him, is because He is still good. He is bringing good out of this situation. And I'm thankful for that. For example,  the makers of Return To Zero - the movie I blogged about here - were hoping to reach 50,000 pledges before the meeting with Hollywood. They reached 56,000+!! Ariella's death is helping to break the silence surrounding pregnancy loss. I'm grateful for that. I'm grateful for the friends who have told me how their life has changed since January 30, because of Ariella's story. I'm grateful for the people I have connected with in ways that I probably wouldn't have otherwise. Sarah. Heather. Brittany. Annika. Marsha. To name just a few. Precious friendships God has brought into my life (or deepened) because of Ariella. 

Don't get me wrong, when it all boils down, I'd rather have my daughter in my arms still. I don't have that, but I do have God, who, despite my pain, anger and betrayal, is still good. 

A New Morning

My friend Annika wrote a beautiful poem yesterday, and I wanted to share it with you all. She dedicated it to our Ariella, as well as all the other babies lost too soon. Part of me wants to comment on which bits I find particularly applicable, but I will restrain, and just let you read this beautiful poem.

A New Morning - Annika Pearce

The dawn of a new day breaks

The horizon a hewy peach

The sun peaks over the mountains

Igniting the first morning without you

It feels like you were with me for a lifetime

It feels like you were never really here

Not ever mine to keep forever

A precious gift to look after for just a short while

Maybe God chose me because I am strong

I used to be strong and now I feel like I will crumble

He chose me to grow and nurture you

And now he has the most precious angel

The sun is sitting high in the blue

Surveying the landscape before me

Its light will never touch your face

Nor warm the coolness that overcame you

My love for you makes me cry

My smile is lost in a deep empty ocean

The jealousy stabs my heart a thousand times each beat

My arms ache and my heart is heavy without you near it

The sun falls, the blue is darkening

The world is preparing to sleep and I wish for it to never come

Sleeping stillness, that silence has defeated me forever

On that first day without you

Guilt

I often hear about "Mummies Guilt" - the thing mums feel when they realise that their child is eating chocolate while some other mum has home-baked goodies on hand for her children all the time (which are, of course, sugar-free, fat-free and delicious). Or when their child is watching their third episode of Play School for the day, while next-door's children are doing Tot School and can already read and write, despite being only two years old. Etc. Etc. There always seems to be someone doing "a better job" and that leads to guilt. 

I think there should be another version: Bereaved Mummies Guilt. It's the thoughts that pop into your head that you need to fight. Thoughts like "maybe she died because I ate chicken from the deli section once" or "if I hadn't had that soft-serve cone, he'd still be here". Of course, it doesn't matter that you had the soft-serve before you knew you shouldn't, or that the chicken was the only option and it was better than skipping lunch altogether. 

Or there's the even more ridiculous thoughts: if I'd gone into labour earlier, my child would still be alive. Although (probably) true, it's ridiculous. You can't MAKE yourself go into labour, so it can't be your fault.  "But" says the voice in your head, "your midwife told you various things to try and bring on labour. If only you'd tried all of them, instead of just one or two. If only you'd listened..." But even those aren't guaranteed to work. And you shouldn't feel guilty about something that you couldn't control.

But I do.

I feel guilty often, even though I know it wasn't my fault. 

I don't think people can truly understand it unless they've been through it. Expecting parents know they can't protect their children from everything once they are born. But surely you should be able to protect them while they are still inside of you. Pregnant mums take vitamins, watch their health and avoid danger foods thinking that by doing the "right things" their child will be protected. But then you find out your child hasn't developed as they should, and will only live a few hours after birth, if they make it that far. Or you find out that your child died inside of you, in the one place they should have been protected. You feel violated, that something so horrible should happen in you. And then you feel the guilt; like somehow you weren't a good enough mother, because you couldn't protect your child in what should have been the safest place of all. 

I think there's an added layer of difficulty for Christians. "If I'd prayed more, she wouldn't have died" or "if we'd told more people, they could have prayed, and she would have been healed". Or how about "God saved their child, not mine. He must favour them".

I know that is theologically wrong. That God isn't like that. But knowing something doesn't stop the initial thoughts from creeping in. Bereaved Mummies Guilt is teaching me the importance of 2 Corinthians 10:5...

We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ. 

It's a battle, and it's tiring. But no matter what, God's love is deeper still.

Guest Post: Early Pregnancy Loss

Since Ariella died, I've had a number of friends open up to me about their pregnancy losses. Today I have the honour of sharing with you something that a dear friend of mine wrote about her pregnancy loss. I hope you'll take the time to read this, as her words reveal a struggle that is so often overlooked by society. 

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Before I had a miscarriage I didn't really know what an impact it would have on someone's life. Being a paramedic, we often get called to woman experiencing a miscarriage and the first thing you notice is the fear in her eyes and pain on her face. But you don't exactly know how she feels. I think we all know what it feels like to have a loved one die but this is different. There is no physical human being that we, as the outsider can see. We can't associate any feelings with this unborn infant because to us it is invisible. Of course we feel sad for those women but what do you say? There is nothing you can say to take her pain, pain that we don't understand, away from her.

Even in stillbirth we can understand the pain a little bit more than a miscarriage. With stillbirth, there is a physical baby there, for the world to see. I think seeing a perfect baby, born sleeping forever creeps into the depths of our hearts and would make the toughest person break down. The baby is there, there is proof of its existence, there is a funeral to attend and a grave site to visit. Somebody died, a baby died.

But with miscarriage, nobody physically died. Not for anyone else to see. There was no "somebody". In most cases there is no physical evidence that there was a baby at all. So when a woman experiences a miscarriage, it is all silent and secret, just like the miracle that was meant to be growing inside of her.

When I had my miscarriage I was six weeks pregnant. We had been trying for six months and over that six months the love for my unmade baby was already starting to grow. When I saw those two little pink lines my heart exploded with six months worth of love. Despite us knowing for only two weeks, it felt like a lifetime of love and hope and excitement had built up and was nestled in my heart.

When I had my miscarriage I was only six weeks. We had not even had an ultrasound performed. We never even got to see our baby's heart beating. 

At six weeks, the embryo is the size of a pea. It looks like a tadpole with a big head. It's ugly and alien. But its tiny heart starts beating. What a miracle. But to an expectant mother, that little alien is a baby. A baby. A chubby cheeked, fat fisted, dribbling baby, a child, a daughter or a son.

At six weeks, a miscarriage is described as an "early pregnancy loss". A lot of doctors dismiss it and speak harshly about bleeding and D&Cs and when you can try again. There is no recognition for your hopes and dreams which now lay, crushed on the bottom of that hospital floor.

I was devastated. My precious baby. My child had died. Gone. Forever. And there was nothing I could do but watch as my baby was literally ripped from inside me in a painful and bloody way. There was nothing anyone could do. No baby, not anymore.

When I started to share my grief and the devastating news with the few family and friends I had told about the pregnancy, the responses were mixed. Some said "how sad, how awful. I am so sorry" and that was nice. And some said "at least you knew you could get pregnant" or "it was for the best, obviously something was wrong, and the baby would probably have had down syndrome" or "it wasn't as if you lost an actual baby". That hurt the most. No, I didn't physically lose a fully formed baby. But in my heart and mind my embryo was a baby. It was a person, a somebody to me. Even if it wasn't a somebody to others. As the weeks went by I found that I craved recognition for my baby. While others guard the loss in the depths of their souls, I wanted to tell the world that "I had a baby, and it died".

A dear friend of mine only a month before my miscarriage had a still born baby. I was devastated for her. Her baby was incredibly beautiful and it was an incredibly unfair, unjust, unexplainable loss for her and her husband. I began to feel so ashamed at myself for feeling so sad for my loss when hers was so much greater. My baby most likely never had a beating heart while hers beat for nine months. How dare I be so selfish at being sad for me, when she lost an actual baby.

Suddenly I found myself feeling what others had felt for me. That it wasn't like I had actually lost a baby. All I lost was a little pea. My sweet little pea.

But I can't shake the devastation for how I still feel about losing my baby. For having an "early pregnancy loss". I joined a still birth and neonatal death Facebook support group SANDS. This group also supports woman who have experienced a miscarriage. But those woman were much further along in their pregnancies than I was. Again, I felt the crushing weight of guilt and shame for being a phony. For pretending to be a mother who lost an angel. For what was my loss next to the losses of these women? I was torn between grieving the loss of my child and feeling ashamed at pretending I lost a child when I didn't, not really.

Doctors, friends, strangers, they had dismissed my loss. It was just an "early pregnancy loss". But out of everyone in the world, it was the women who I believed to have lost so much more were the ones who comforted me.

They were the ones who recognized my little pea as a baby. They understood the grief and loss I felt. It was my dear friend who reassured me, told me that I wasn't a phony, wasn't pretending to have lost something more valuable than it actually was. That even though I had an "early pregnancy loss" I still lost a baby. That hers was just a bigger baby. And it was a baby. I need to realize that I lost my child. I lost my son or my daughter. My child died. It doesn't matter how far along the pregnancy was. It doesn't matter if you, as an outsider don't understand or think that it isn't the same as if somebody actually died. My baby was a somebody to me, my baby was a somebody to my husband.

When I would have been twelve weeks I announced my pregnancy. I wanted my baby to be recognized. I wanted to feel like my baby had existed. It was like the more people knew about my baby, the more my baby's existence and meaning couldn't be taken away from me.

So if somebody you know has gone through or is going through an early pregnancy loss, a miscarriage, a regretted abortion or a stillbirth, please acknowledge their baby's existence. It isn't about what you think. It isn't about how you think. It's about recognizing that a mother and father have lost their child, no matter how far along the pregnancy was. Say "I'm sorry you lost your baby", and that is all that is needed. Allow time for the parents to grieve, for as long as they need. It is not about how long you think they should grieve for. Don't try and explain it, or try to make them see the silver lining. Just be there for them. And every now and then ask how they are going and really listen if they choose to actually tell you. Because their baby was a somebody to them.

I was six weeks pregnant when my baby died. I was six weeks when I had an early pregnancy loss, but it is more than that. I was six weeks when I became a mother to an angel. My Angel. And nobody can take that away from me.

Sitting at her grave

I sit here at my daughter's grave and the sun is shining. There's a slight breeze. It's lovely. You can tell it's rained recently, as the grass is wet, as is the bare ground where 2 day old twins were buried just days ago. 

Another parent arrives and for the first time ever, a short conversation takes place. Just a few words are spoken and then we leave each other to our thoughts. I like seeing other parents there. It makes their precious babies more real to me. 
Marco, Sibella, Hope, Ava. 
Four little babes whose relatives I have seen. 

People sometimes ask me how often I come to her grave. The answer? Often. I drive past the cemetery almost daily, as it's on a road I travel on frequently, so I pop in a few times a week. I love arriving to see flowers that people have placed there, and I actually find it a peaceful place. In one direction are the hills, a constant reminder to me that my help comes from the Lord, the maker of Heaven and earth (Psalm 121). In the opposite direction is the ocean. I love water. Ariella was born in water. It always has a calming effect on me. 

Next to Ariella's section are some of the war graves. I like that. I know that Ariella isn't really in the grave, that it's just her body and her spirit is in Heaven. But I like the idea that brave men are near her, almost as if they are guarding her and the other babies.

I'm sitting by her grave and the sun is shining, the birds are singing.

I'm sitting by her grave, and I feel at peace.

God is good. His love is deeper still.

Late night thoughts

The main thought that is popping into my head lately is it's not supposed to be like this. I'm doing a whole lot better than I was 14 weeks ago, but it's still hard. It's not supposed to be this hard.

Driving home after seeing people set up for a mum's group at church, and driving past the cemetery where Ariella is... it's not supposed to be like this.

Feeling horribly anxious and occasionally physically ill when certain events, groups or people are mentioned, simply because it reminds me of what I don't have? It's not supposed to be like this. 

Regretting having a tidy home, washing up to date and baking done, because I should be too busy or tired to care about a neat house...it's not supposed to be like this. 

And it's true. It shouldn't be like this. That's why Jesus came; it's why He gave up His life so that we don't have to. He rose from the dead as evidence that one day, we too will rise.

One day there won't be death anymore.

One day there won't be pain.

One day I'll be too busy worshiping my God that nothing else will matter. 

Death is swallowed up in victory.
O death, where is your victory?

O death, where is your sting?

1 Corinthians 15:54-55

God's home is now among his people. He will live with them, and they will be His people. God Himself will be with them. He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.

Revelation 21:3-4

THAT'S how it is supposed to be.

Remembering them

Today is International Bereaved Mothers Day. I'd never heard of it until recently. The story behind it is basically this: Mothers Day (the traditional one) was started by a woman named Anna, in honour of her mother Ann, who had lost seven babies. Somewhere along the line it's shifted from being a day that lovingly celebrates all mums, to a day that makes card companies and florists a ton of money. Have you ever tried finding a Mothers Day card for a bereaved mum? I have, due to a card exchange I'm participating in. And it was ridiculously hard! Two different shops (including a newsagency that had heaps of cards), and I found one that was just good enough. Mothers Day was founded by someone honouring their own bereaved mum, and now they aren't really catered for at all. Hence, International Bereaved Mothers Day was founded.

In honour of that, today I'm thinking today of these precious babes that I'll meet one day in Heaven.

And the precious babies gone too soon, whose names I do not know but whose short existence I will always remember.

Practical ways to help

People have told me that they don't know what to do to help when a baby dies. This picture, from Life:Rearranged sums it up pretty well:

I really liked this picture when I saw it, because it's SO accurate. I think 2 and 3 can go together a lot of the time: know when the baby was born, and be aware that it could be a hard day each time that date pops up. For example, Ariella was born on the 30th, and I've found the 30th of each subsequent month hard. I also find the 28th hard, because that is when we heard that she had died. 

Number four is also important. The support is most obvious soon after the baby's birth/death, and slowly tapers off. I am very thankful that people are still continuing to check in on us, three months down the track. One thing in particular that makes me smile is getting notes in the mail. I absolutely LOVE opening the letterbox to find a card, letter or note in there. 

Number six is perhaps the one that people find most difficult. It's easy to say "do something" - but what exactly to do? Here are a few ideas:

• Make a meal. Be aware of any allergies, intolerances or strong dislikes. It's easiest if it can be frozen, as it means there is no rush for the parents to eat it. If it can't be frozen, arrange a date to drop the meal off. That way the parents know they will have a meal that night, and won't have something already prepared. If there is a person or church who can collect meals, that's great, as it means the parents aren't having lots of people on their doorstep wanting to chat. On that note, if you do drop a meal off in person, be considerate in terms of how long you stay. We never had anyone overstay or linger, which was brilliant. Also, if you have children, please be aware that the parents may or may not be comfortable seeing them. It's worth checking with them, even if that feels awkward.
• Offer to do the grocery shopping, or arrange some food deliveries. For a few weeks after Ariella was born, going to the shops was terrifying. Not only is it likely that there will be babies around, you might run into someone you know. The idea of unexpectedly seeing people was too confronting for me, and it actually did happen once. I'm not sure if that couple even knew we'd had a baby, as I hadn't seen them since early pregnancy (before I had a bump). To make it worse...they were carrying a baby in a capsule. A group of friends got together to organise 5 weeks worth of fruit and veg deliveries for us - it was amazing. Not having to think about going to the shops for fresh food quite literally took a weight of my mind.
• Consider giving financially. We were overwhelmed by people's generosity when it came to finances. It's slightly different if there was a miscarriage, but once a baby is over 20 weeks, the law requires them to have a proper burial/cremation, which can be quite expensive. You could offer to help pay for that, but don't be offended if the parents say no, they may feel like it is something they need to pay for themselves. The Dad may be taking time off from work, and depending on the job, it might be unpaid leave. 
• Send flowers - I know of mums who didn't like receiving flowers, because flowers eventually die (and they've already dealt with more than enough death). Personally, I loved receiving flowers. The brightened our lounge-room, and smelt wonderful. 
• I've mentioned this briefly above, but send a letter, card, or short note. Text messages or emails are great, but to post something takes a little bit more time and thought, and I love knowing that someone has been thinking about us and Ariella. Plus you get to keep cards and read through them whenever you want, without worrying about things like if your phone's memory is full. 
• Offer to do jobs or chores. If the loss was due to stillbirth, the mum will be recovering from birth, which has all sorts of physical implications (whether there was any damage done during birth or not). Please be aware that the mum's body will be acting as though her child is still alive - bleeding, milk, contractions, joints and muscles still loose...they're all the same. Housework may be too physically demanding, and it is almost certainly to emotionally demanding. Offer to help out (but don't touch the baby's things unless asked).

That's probably a long enough list for now, but I want to say one last thing. Please do not be offended if your offers for help are not taken up. Marcus and I had offers of help from dear friends, and it wasn't until weeks later that I realised I never took them up on it. The parents are going to be a fog, and chances are they may forget about your offer! This doesn't mean they don't appreciate it, because they do. It just means that they may not have needed that offer at that point in time; don't hesitate to offer again a few weeks later :)

If you haven't read my other posts about what to do after a friend loses a baby, you can find them here.