Today I found out I am 5 weeks pregnant with baby number 5.
After 2 miscarriages, 1 stillbirth and 1 live birth you would think I would be ready, aware, prepared for another pregnancy.
This baby was not 'planned', if you like. We had talked of more children. But financially, emotionally, we had decided to wait until at least December 2012 to start actively 'trying'.
Best laid plans of mice and all that.
A drunken, laughing fumble in Blackpool appears to have given us a most unexpected surprise. Not a bad surprise, just a bolt from the blue. Ironic given how many months during 'trying' to get pregnant have resulted in negatives, there really is truth in 'not thinking about it'.
I am so grateful and scared at the same time. I feel I have betrayed Georgia, and yet I am excited to meet our new creation. It is early days and so much can change so very swiftly, which makes me anxious. But I really want to enjoy this new life inside me. Lets see what happens next.
Sunday 8 April 2012
Sunday 22 January 2012
Bubbling away under the surface
It has been a very long time since I have written here. I don't expect anyone reads here anymore, it is a waste ground of emotion.
All I can say is my grief is still there, bubbling away. Sometimes I suppress it successfully, and speak of Lucy in light and matter of fact tones. Mainly to save the feelings of the person I am talking to. Why? I don't know. I guess I just don't want to lose the people that still listen because I am the lady that talks about her dead baby over 2 years down the line. The important people will ALWAYS listen. But I am encountering these days the Fools Gold friends. The ones who seemingly let me grieve, and speak, and weep endlessly during the first year. But now seem to think that I have moved on, and have relegated her into my 'one of life's sad experiences' drawer in my mind. I find them hard to deal with. People I trusted who now suddenly say if I touch on her in conversation, "Oh - do you still feel sad about her?" in a surprised tone. Often they have children themselves and I want to scream at them. I mean, if their living 8 year old had died 2 years ago, would they think it would be acceptable for me to ask the same question? As if 2 years suddenly was a magical turning point and they were like a bad memory, or a bad relationship break up? Her short life does not make her any less of a person. I find myself wanting to tell people about her. But I am torn between being seen as honest and open, and being seen as the insane harbinger of doom. I lead a double life, more often now I am the 'me' that was before baby death. The me that people want to see. But I am also the mother of a baby that died inside me, I felt her dying, although I did not know at the time. When I talk about labour I feel I have to say, "despite knowing the sad outcome, blah blah blah" rather than just relaying my experiences. I cry when I read about other losses. I cry when I read about a baby stillborn, I cry when I read about a 3 year old that has drowned. And I don't mean I just shed a tear, I sob, wail, the pain bubbles up from my inner soul and I can't control it. In some ways I feel it has made me a better person, in the sense that I truly can empathise with parents going through a loss. No one will ever understand, appreciate, or vocalise the raw, dark, physical pain that engulfs your entire being after losing a baby. Unless you are a member of this dark club.
All I can say is my grief is still there, bubbling away. Sometimes I suppress it successfully, and speak of Lucy in light and matter of fact tones. Mainly to save the feelings of the person I am talking to. Why? I don't know. I guess I just don't want to lose the people that still listen because I am the lady that talks about her dead baby over 2 years down the line. The important people will ALWAYS listen. But I am encountering these days the Fools Gold friends. The ones who seemingly let me grieve, and speak, and weep endlessly during the first year. But now seem to think that I have moved on, and have relegated her into my 'one of life's sad experiences' drawer in my mind. I find them hard to deal with. People I trusted who now suddenly say if I touch on her in conversation, "Oh - do you still feel sad about her?" in a surprised tone. Often they have children themselves and I want to scream at them. I mean, if their living 8 year old had died 2 years ago, would they think it would be acceptable for me to ask the same question? As if 2 years suddenly was a magical turning point and they were like a bad memory, or a bad relationship break up? Her short life does not make her any less of a person. I find myself wanting to tell people about her. But I am torn between being seen as honest and open, and being seen as the insane harbinger of doom. I lead a double life, more often now I am the 'me' that was before baby death. The me that people want to see. But I am also the mother of a baby that died inside me, I felt her dying, although I did not know at the time. When I talk about labour I feel I have to say, "despite knowing the sad outcome, blah blah blah" rather than just relaying my experiences. I cry when I read about other losses. I cry when I read about a baby stillborn, I cry when I read about a 3 year old that has drowned. And I don't mean I just shed a tear, I sob, wail, the pain bubbles up from my inner soul and I can't control it. In some ways I feel it has made me a better person, in the sense that I truly can empathise with parents going through a loss. No one will ever understand, appreciate, or vocalise the raw, dark, physical pain that engulfs your entire being after losing a baby. Unless you are a member of this dark club.
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