On the eve of Bear's anniversary

So much is going on at the moment. New job, mid-house, changes everywhere. And amidst the madness, my heart still knows that Bear is what really matters.
He might not be here, but his presence is everywhere.
How can we have lost our little boy?
How did this happen?
I still don't have answers.
I look at myself, sitting at my new desk at work, and I seem to be completely composed. And yet, on my own, when I see beautiful things, when I hear about sad stories, when a gust of winds catches me the wrong way around, I'm broken. Tears, confusion.... Just in a cloud of Bear. And nothing else matters.
My two-dimensional life is very confusing. I can no longer predict my emotions. It's as though there is a Bear steam train always waiting to chug out of the station, taking me with it on the saddest journey of my life.
I sound like an utter wreck. And yet I can seem completely normal. That's the thing about this crazy, tragic story. Nothing is as you expect it. And I still don't know where the spirit of my darling boy rests.

Thinking of you

Thinking of you, my darling boy.
Wishing so much that you were close. And alive.
I have cried oceans these past five months.
And every drop is for you.
My darling boy.

I like this, because I like flowers

If I had a single flower for every time I think about you, I could walk forever in my garden. ~Attributed to Claudia Ghandi

Boxes and bubble wrap

We're in the midst of moving. I am in a zone, and so when people ask how I'm feeling about leaving, I'm more consumed with whether my vases will smash, rather than anything overly sentimental.
In my head though, I'm crying.
I'm crying, because soon, I'm not going to be able to say, 'Oh, put it in Bear's room.' Or, 'I'm just going to sit in Bear's room.'
Because we're leaving Bear's room....
We still have his things, his chair, his pictures and keepsakes, but there is something about him also having a physical space in our home that I find hugely comforting.
I know he's coming with us wherever we go. And that really, his room is no more special or poignant than anywhere else on this earth, I just like being able to refer to it, like a normal Mummy, in conversation.
It sounds crazy I expect, but everytime I see his little chubby Bear face, I feel a surge of love. Love, and then sadness.
This journey, with all its twists and turns is so unbelievably cruel.

Bewildered

I am still standing in the wake of all the stillbirth craziness from last week. I feel whacked in the head.
In one sense, it's been amazing. We've stood on the roof tops and sung his name. We've loved having the public space to revel in our boy.
Toby felt as though the marathon was a big long day out with his son. Together the ran and soaked up the attention and heard their names said together with excitment.
I loved seeing both of their faces running through the crowds spreading the word and giving our cause more publicity. I felt proud and that was nice.
I also feel confused.
Confused about how my life is changing. New job. New home. Less time to sit and stare at Bear.
I know it's good. I know we're moving forward and he is still with us. Stronger than ever, in some senses.
But as we creep towards five months since I kissed his toes, I feel heavy.
He will never be here. I know that now.
But he is still my lovely, gorgeous, perfect boy. I just wish it was all simpler and more joyous.

Stillbirth mania

It has all kicked off since my radio4 interview this morning. The Times, my old employer, is running a big piece on my story this Saturday. The BBC want to do more live radio work, the photographer has been over.... I'm kaput.
I feel strangely honoured to be thrown into the limelight and be able to tell my story. After all, it's the only thing I want to do, anyway. If I could sit and talk about Bear all day, I would be a happy woman. It makes him feel close. And now his gorgeous face is going to be in a national broadsheet, and I am going to feel so proud.
I am going to be a proud Mummy. And I never thought I would get to say that.
It is lucky he's such a handsome boy.

I have noticed this recently; I am quieter

"Light griefs are loquacious, but the great are dumb." — Lucius Annaeus Seneca.

Bear will be famous

Tomorrow, I am going to be interviewed live (eek) for radio 4's Today Programme. The opportunity has come through the SANDS charity, following a report published today that states that among developed countries Britain comes a very poor 33 out of 35 in terms of its stillbirth rates. I am shocked.
I am waiting for all the details, but I should be on air between 7 and 8am. Early, but worth it. You can listen on the radio or online at www.bbc.co.uk/today
Other Mummies who have lost their babies, send me your thoughts about your care, so that I have a nice rounded view.

Quotes

I am reading a very lovely book, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society. It is pure, gentle escapism. Yesterday, on the plane, I got through a hefty portion, and there were a couple of short passages that rattled in my heart.

'When my son Ian died, visitors offering their condolences, meaning to comfort me, said, 'Life goes on.' What nonsense I thought, of course it doesn't. It's death that goes on; Ian is dead now and will be dead tomorrow and next year and for ever. There is no end to that. But perhaps there will be an end to the sorrow of it. Sorrow has washed over the world like the waters of the Deluge, and it will take time to recede.'

'Have you ever noticed that when your mind is awakened or drawn to someone new, that person's name suddenly pops up everywhere? My friend Sophie calls it coincidence, and Reverend Simpless calls it grace. He thinks that if someone cares deeply about someone or something new one throws a kind of energy out into the world, and 'fruitfulness' is drawn in.'
I can't keep count of the number of unrelated Bear references I've bumped into these past four months.

'Jane had no more strength than a cat then, but she knew her mind. She wanted Eli to go. Other ladies were dithering, and they were frantic with talk, but Jane told Elizabeth to keep them away. 'I don't want to hear them fuss', she said. 'It's bad for the baby.' Jane had an idea that babies knew everything that happened around them, even before they were born.'

Silence

I'm skiing again. I've started writing a couple of posts, but my heart wasn't in them.
Bear was meant to be here this week.
He even had his little baby ski suit waiting.
That's all I've got to say really....

Post script

And just as easily as I am angry, I am appreciative of all the support that comes flying towards me everyday.
I've had a glass of wine.
I'm feeling more mellow.
And I want to say thank you for all the texts and the emails and the love and the blog comments that I receive everyday. It is amazing and it keeps me going.
That and Toby, the best boy in the whole world.

Rage

One of the least attractive facets of grief is anger.
I am consumed by the total, gut-boiling fury that this has happened. That this is now part of the fabric of our lives.
I am angry that people can stand outside my hotel room and sing with joy, unburdened by the knowledge of the sadness lying on the bed upstairs.
I'm annoyed at people I don't even know. Families who relish in their happy children. Couples who coo over their newborns. Dad's picking their little ones up from ski school.
The whole thing, the whole indignity of these feelings, it makes me mad.
I could find a reason to scream at every single person I know. And it takes a mammoth amount of will to keep my lid closed.
I do not want to be here. I do not want to be this mean-minded, envious, grumpy, broken person. I want to be the old me. The one who was always up for a laugh. Who knew how to share a joke and would quite happily waste as much time as humanely possible just having fun. I want to be the me, who (I hope) everyone enjoyed being around.

(Un)happy mother's day

The end.

Ramblings in my mind

I am having so many sad thoughts at the moment, here they are in no particular order:
1. I went to get the washing from Bear's room. I had used the same Fairy softener I bought when I was washing all his clothes. The room smelt like him. He rushed up my nose and made me giddy. And then I realised how tragic it is to think that's the only smell I have for him.
2. I am crying a lot. All I need is the mention of his name and I'm off. Four months, he should be gurgling and laughing at me, not staring out (with closed eyes) from his gorgeous photos.
3. Toby and I used to be big trees in the centre of our forest of friends. Now we are on our own tiny island. People can row over. But they can also row home again.
4. Every laugh, and there aren't many, is succeeded by a quiet pause - The Realisation.
5. I don't want to leave his room behind.