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.

Life Update

It occurred to me recently that a lot of people don't actually know what I'm doing this year, so I thought I'd take the chance to fill you in on what life looks like at the moment for us.

Me:
I'm working two days a week, homeschooling two lovely girls. They are 13 (year 8) and 10 (year 5), and are such a pleasure to work with. I never imagined ever doing something like this but when I was asked if I would do it, it seemed like I had no reason to say no! It's been the perfect job to get me up in the mornings, and starting to re-enter "normal" life (whatever that it)!

I'm also volunteering at church on Mondays, helping our wonderful Children's Pastor with all sorts of things related to children's church. It's been great! It's nice to have something to do on Mondays, but it's also flexible, so if I'm having a bad day, I don't have to go. 

I have my final exam for my Hebrew class next week, and then the semester is over. I don't think I'll be studying next semester, as it's actually been quite a struggle to focus and remember things.

Marcus:
He's working two days a week with a friend from church, mowing lawns and doing general gardening. The other days he is doing maintenance and grounds-keeping at College. God has been so faithful in providing work.

Ariella:
Four months today since I went into labour. One of the things that I love hearing from others is that they miss her too. It's been four months, so I can understand that people are mentioning her less. But hearing people say "I miss her too" is really special to me; I love knowing that others loved her too and wish she was still here with us. 

I saw this photo on The STILL Project's Facebook page, and it definitely sums up how I feel. It was created by CarlyMarie, who does a lot of art and writing in the baby loss community.

No matter what I've been through in the past four months, despite the pain, agony, grief and despair, I would still choose Ariella. She's my daughter, and I love her. I would still choose her.

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.

I am not okay

It's been almost four months since our precious Ariella died and was born. Four months. It's been both the slowest and fastest four months for my husband and I. On one hand, it feel like longer than four months since we held our sweet girl, saying hello and goodbye too close together. And yet we can't believe that we've managed four months without our girl...how could that much time have gone past already??

I cry less in public these days. I make it to more social events than I used to. I even manage to work two days a week. I volunteer in the Children's Church most Sundays. I sometimes bring baked goodies to events. 

I am, somehow, getting through this year. But I want you to know that I am not okay. 

Crying less in public doesn't mean I cry less. It just means that I'm tired of always being so vulnerable in public, and can better hold it in until I'm in the safety of my home.

Making it to more social events than I used to doesn't mean I make it to as many as I did before Ariella's death. It just means that I've learnt to put on a brave face and attend at least some things.

Working two days a week doesn't mean I've conquered the anxiety of going out. It just means that I've found something  not too confronting to do that makes me feel like I'm making a difference and that I'm useful.

Volunteering in the Children's Church in no way means I'm alright to be around children. It just means that I needed to get back to some sort of "normal", and since Children's Church was normal for me before Ariella's death, I can normally hold myself together for a few hours each Sunday. Just because I can be in the Children's Church does not mean I can be in the creche. I can't. 

Bringing baked goodies to events doesn't mean I can always cook. It just means that on that particular day, I was able to convince myself to go into the kitchen, as opposed to the days when the mere thought of cooking leaves me in tears, unable to physically make myself do it. 

Just because I'm still here, still standing four months after Ariella's death, does not mean I am okay. I'm not.

I am not okay. 

I get angry - when people do something insensitive, when they expect me to be "moving on" (whatever that means), when people forget that my husband lost his daughter too. I'm not the only one grieving, he is too. And I get angry and hurt when people don't ask how he is going. I am not okay with people focusing on me to the exclusion of my husband. 

I get sad - when people take it for granted that they will have kids, when people complain about the children they do have. I understand that sometimes children can be tiring and frustrating, I've looked after them enough to know this is true. Just don't complain in front of us. We would give ANYTHING to have Ariella alive, even if she was a screamer who never slept or let us leave the room without a tantrum. Please think about what you say about children in front of us, and please remember that if you have a living child, you are blessed. No matter how frustrated or tired they make you.

I get overwhelmed - at the thought of getting up, going out, cooking dinner. But I'm also blessed, by a friend who made us a meal "because we might want a break" and by a friend who willingly agreed to make us a meal when I asked.

I get tired - of crying, of being vulnerable in public, of feeling like I don't fit anywhere except bereaved parent support groups. 

We miss Ariella more than we ever thought it was possible to miss someone. It's been almost four months, but please don't expect us to be okay yet. We're not. 

Don't do it

I try not to post when I'm angry or upset. But right now I'm both. So I just want to say one simple thing:

If you are considering doing something, and are worried it is going to upset a bereaved parent...don't do it. Please. Especially if it's something that will cause ongoing pain. There's almost always an alternative that either won't hurt at all, or will hurt less. 

Please, I beg you. Be sensitive. 
It really is that simple.