Journal post 1 from October 2010: Time is a healer…

I wrote this when I had my first miscarriage in October 2010. It is a series of journal posts I wrote beforeIi was introduced to blogging!
This is the first one.
Maybe this will help some of you who have also been through or are going through loss:

Today is exactly six months on from losing baby Miriam. With time it’s got easier to say her name. I’d like to say the loss gets easier with time too. But it hasn’t. It actually gets harder.
With every person who announces their new pregnancy, next milestone, gives birth, there’s me. Empty. Wondering if I will ever get to experience those joys again. And I’m happy for those people. And I accept and understand they are happy and excited. And they should be. It’s the most amazing, joyous, miraculous thing two people could ever do. That is what makes it hurt so much. I lost that. Will I ever get to have it again?

To anyone who has lost a child, whether it be after a few secret weeks in the womb, or a few hours after birth, or a few weeks or years into life, you all know that you never forget how it feels. The saying goes ‘it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all’. How bitter sweet. How achingly true but how it fills me with anger!!! When I have to ask the question why did I never see my child or hold her? Or why only a few hours? Weeks? Years?
So time goes by and life returns to normal and you ask why? And wonder if anyone remembers that child that you carried?

Well in the midst of this pain and sorrow God spoke directly to me this week, and in my emptiness and longing I found peace and joy and strength and HOPE!

In October my good friend Esther bought me some snowdrops and I decided to plant them in memory of Miriam underneath Maisie’s Rosebush. As January came and went the snowdrops did not flower. With a little hope I thought maybe they’d be late and flower in February? Nothing. With the last bit of hope maybe early March? Its rare for snowdrops to flower late March or April so was this the only hope I had? Nothing. I knew they were only symbolic so I accepted that this year I would not have a flowering reminder.
Spring now fully in the air and new life all around, my life takes some changes too.
On Monday God showed me Hope is not lost. There underneath Maisie’s sprouting Rose is a single beautiful delicate snowdrop. Pure white against the stark earth. Shooting out. New life. To most unnoticed in my garden. To me it screams of HOPE! It’s unheard of to flower in nearly April. And this week of all weeks. Six months on and with new life starting again in me I realised that in the emptiness, brokenness, tears, exhaustion and confusion, that God really does care. And in Him He brings new life. He smiled on me. And though my hope had faded in the natural my Hope in God never fades. It may flicker and fade and get forgotten at times but it is never snuffed out.
So time may not be a healer. But Hope in God the Almighty is.

A different kind of Motherhood

Disclaimer: please don’t read this if you are squeamish or can’t cope with brutal honesty. Also if you are thinking you’re miscarrying or going through it yourself right now this may not be good for you to read, so please be mindful before you read any further.

Forgive me for wallowing in self pity for a bit. I fully intend to grieve and accept and come out the other side of this chapter of my life just fine, scarred but fine. But for now I am going to get out all this messed up emotion and anger.

Yesterday I was told our 10 week little baby, (we decided a boy and called him Bud) snuggly held inside my womb, had no heartbeat. Nothing. Tiny fingers and toes, slightly large head compared to its body, still with a little tail and two huge eyes, but no heartbeat. My baby. Our baby. I was told to go home and wait. WAIT.

I’ve been here before. Waiting. I’ve been pregnant 4 times and have 2 beautiful children as a result. I waited on each occasion.
That’s what pregnancy is – Waiting – To wait – And I am still no good at it.
I hate being pregnant.
I hate waiting.
Maybe that’s why.
I get bad morning sickness, I am hormonal at the best of times and pregnancy just makes me more unpredictable than normal. My poor husband!!
And yet I desire the product of waiting. A beautiful, perfect, (ok maybe not quite perfect) little baby at the end of it.

This time is different.
It’s a different kind of Motherhood.
Because I am pregnant, but I am carrying a dead baby.
I am waiting, but I won’t get that beautiful bundle at the end of this pregnancy. I won’t get anything but pain and blood loss and a little lifeless grape sized baby that never had his first breath, never opened his eyes, never knew who I was.

And it’s killing me.

I have miscarried before, so I know what’s coming. I was 12 weeks last time and I birthed my baby just 3 days after finding out that she had no heartbeat. I had already had significant blood loss by the time I was scanned, so the process seemed quite quick. I didn’t really have time to think about what was going to happen to me, I’d not been through it before. I was in shock.

This time I know what’s coming.
And I’m waiting.
And it’s taking its time.
It’s making me wait.

My body is such a bitch. I’m carrying a baby I love yet I know I must lose. I want the baby to slip away and let me get on with grieving. Because I don’t feel like I can until he’s been birthed. How messed up is that?!? I can’t grieve my dead baby whilst I’m still pregnant with him!
And I am still pregnant, I’m still feeling sick, I’m still exhausted, I’m still carrying my baby. And yet I don’t want this baby to leave me. I don’t want to endure the contractions, the gush of blood, the clots, the silent screams. I want to hold this baby in my womb as long as I can. Somehow hoping that maybe it will be ok. That maybe he will have life breathed into him somehow. Surely my love is enough to do that? Surely I can love him back to life?

But deep down I know that won’t happen.
And I’m torn.

Please body hurry up and get on with it.
Please body don’t let my baby go.

This waiting, knowing what is to come, knowing it will only bring tears and pain and anguish, it’s crushing.
I’ve no pain. Yet.
I’ve no more blood loss. Yet.
I’m still feeling sick.
I’m still hormonal.
I’m still pregnant.

And then I will still wait.

If it’s anything like last time it’ll take 3 months for HCG hormones to leave my body. I won’t have a period in that time. I will still have ‘morning sickness’ and be hormonal and tired.
For 3 months or so.

And then I will wait again.
Wait to try again.
And the process will start again.

And I hate it even more every time I have to go through it.

But I will go through it.

Again and again and again.

Why?

Because I look at two beautiful children that are breathing life into me at this time and I know, in some crazy, heartbreaking, inspiring and overwhelming way, that it is worth it. That every baby is precious and I will endure anything for them.

I WILL WAIT.

(But I’ll be pissed off about it ok?!?)

Break point. Of the sleepless kind.

Today I hit the wall.

I broke.

Breaking point.
A mothers worst nightmare.
Why?
Because being already racked with guilt over every little decision you make as a mother, you now have to add the guilt of not coping!

There I said it. I am not coping. The worst words to utter as a Mother. When you feel like every nice comment or helpful tip some well meaning person gives, is silently uttering ‘well you wanted children!’

One child was a breeze, she was a textbook baby. Two is hard. Add in 8 months of sleep deprivation, the last 8 weeks no more than an hour in a block and maximum 4-5 hours a night (mostly in 45 minute blocks) then you have one Mum rocking slowly in a corner in a fog of hysteria.

And I hit it.

Breaking point.

I sat crying uncontrollably whilst my 2 1/2 year old daughter comforted me with a ‘don’t be sad mummy’ and my 8 month son tugged at my hair and chased my tears with his hands.

Enough is enough.

I admit it.

I am so exhausted I cannot cope. Not indefinitely, just at this moment in our sleep deprived and exhausted season of life. I am not giving my children my best. I am irritable, teary, disorganised, short tempered and sullen. This is not me. And it is not fair on my children. My children should not see me cry daily. Or have to comfort me. (and I feel guilty that they do, will it cause them some sort of issue in older life?) Or have me snap at them just for playing or not doing as I ask straight away.

So I decided the best thing was for me to have a break. Mother in law is having both children all weekend. That’s 2 full nights sleep! I can sleep all day if I want. To be honest I may actually clean the house seeing as I’ve been putting it off in favour for sleep for the last few weeks. It’s the first time I’m leaving the boy. The thought is agonising but the reality is I need to do it. I know he needs me, but he needs me well and functioning more so.

And the guilt kicks in.

I should just keep on keeping on.

But I can’t.

So I’m deciding to get some sleep, gain perspective, recharge, so I can be at my best for when my children return on Monday morning.

I feel like its a cop out. That I’m a bad Mum for letting my children go to Grandma’s so I can sleep. But I also know I need a rest so that my children can have their normal, sane (apparently) Mummy back. So that my daughter doesn’t ask ‘are you sad today mummy?’ at some point in the day.

As for the guilt. Well I’ll just have to deal with that. Like all us Mums (and Dads) do.

In another blog post…

Why the Nurture Nut

Hi, my name is the nurture nut and I am a social networking addict.

I first started with social networking back in 2005 on the now antiquated MySpace. With aspirations of being the next Lilly Allen but with less swearing and urban edge, I uploaded my photos and recordings and added ‘friends’.

And so it began….

As I *ahem* matured my aspirations of stardom paled and I deleted my MySpace account, jumping ship as it sank into the ocean of uncool, and in 2007 I focused on my real\fake life on Facebook. I began filling my page with status updates and photos at every opportunity, being ‘liked’ and ‘liking’ back. By 2009 I was hooked and my newly purchased iPhone meant I rapidly became addicted to social networking.

Now don’t get me wrong. Facebook has been a great tool at keeping in touch with long distance friends who I would’ve otherwise lost touch with, reconnecting with friendships that had dwindled in the busyness of life and keeping my parents integrated in my rapidly growing children’s lives. But it also became a place of feeling inadequate.

I am not a satisfied person. I have so much to be grateful for and yet I am never satisfied. I always want more. I am also a bit of a nut. Not your general nutcase more like your crazy friend who’s a bit highly strung nut.

This meant that Facebook became a place of great connection with friends and family, uploading pictures of my life and including all those dear to me in it when they were hundreds of miles away, but it also became a battle ground. I looked at my page and felt it was not as good as other peoples page.

Basically my life sucked.

Wrong.

My fake Facebook life sucked. And more than likely so did everyone else’s fake Facebook life.

I’ve always been a realist. I’ve always been very open. I’ve always said what I felt and tried not to be fake. I hate liars. Facebook was only telling half the story. And that is not for me. So I started to use it in a way that just meant those who cared would look at it and I wouldn’t care who that was. I stopped being fake and started being real. I started writing those little notes on my phone and posting them on my wall. It was a great sense of release. And I didn’t care what people thought. I just wrote. And it felt good. I was just me. And I didn’t care if it sucked or not.

So I culled a load of so called friends and use my Facebook for staying in touch with real friends and uploading photos for my parents to keep up to date with my children’s adventures.

Then I discovered the community of tweeters; and bloggers; and instagramers. (I am and always will be a photo addict, more on this later)

So I am an addict through and through. I can’t get enough of tweets and blogs and photos put through a filter that make it look much more amazing than it ever really is! It’s not been about how many friends or followers I have or about boasting about where I’ve been, what I’ve done or how much I’ve got. Now I know there are still elements of this for some but for me I’ve learned my lesson. It’s about connecting with people, some family, some friends I’ve known for years, some I’ve met in person, others I’ve only twittered with but I would consider friends. It’s about being me.

So after much consideration I decided to be a blogger. I hate being like everyone else and after my Facebook experience I wanted to be real. What could I add to a saturated blogging market of very good mummy bloggers who could say what I could but ten times more eloquently and with much more flare.

Fact is I don’t add anything. Hurrah!!!

I’m not blogging for fame and fortune. Nor for the egotistical satisfaction of having lots of followers; or great stats; or even that some person somewhere being remotely interested in what I’ve written.

Honestly? *drum role*

I’m blogging for me.