tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6834523007452779402024-03-05T05:46:13.320+00:00Tiny Big FeetBlogging from the heart about losing my daughter, chasing rainbows, and my new life as a Babyloss Mummy and an Earth Mummy.
"Even the smallest of feet have the power to leave everlasting footprints on the world" - Lisa ClarkeAmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-9606229515378399652013-04-16T13:53:00.002+01:002013-04-16T13:58:36.043+01:00Autumn again - the publishing of an unpublished post<i>I though if I was leaving this blog then I should at least publish some of the posts that got left, waiting for when I could formulate better words to describe how I was feeling..but I'm not sure I ever will. How do you put into words a life missing? A void in your family that only you can see? Impossible to vocalise.</i><br />
<br />
The temperature here has dropped several degrees, and the leaves have lost their grip on branches. Those that remain are taking on the hues of fire, so autumn is suddenly tangible again in England. The low sunlight is bringing back familiar memories, and suddenly I find my emotions are stirring.<br />
<br />
It still hurts, even 3 years on.<br />
<br />
I will never get used to the fact she isn't here.<br />
<br />
I have taken on a begrudging acceptance of what happened 3 years ago. "It is what it is" is a sentence I hear myself saying these days. I have lost the desire to shock people with my tale, to force my tragedy down their throats then watch them as they uncomfortably shift from one foot to the other, wondering what to say.<br />
These days I pity their discomfort, and so I often say nothing to refer to my dead daughter.<br />
<br />
These days.<br />
<br />
These busy days, full of toddler tantrums from my little diva who is now the most amazing personality, cheeky and mischevious but lovable and caring.<br />
<br />
These days of being 28 weeks pregnant, carrying a new life - this time a boy - and being thankful that he is active and always making his presence known to me, unlike Georgia who seemed so quiet.<br />
<br />
But no matter how busy my life is, more obvious to me is that these are the days three years ago when Lucy was still alive.<br />
<br />
I miss her.<br />
<br />
I'll always miss her.<br />
<br />
I feel like I am moving on, and I don't like it.<br />
<br />
I feel like Lucy is just a ghost on the edges of our family.<br />
<br />
I imagine her Peter Pan-esque, returning to the window of her home only to see her parents that once lamented her daily, laughing and playing and shouting at their new children.<br />
<br />
And she is forgotten.<br />
<br />
It's a funny thing this grief business.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-25170717068522565252013-04-14T22:42:00.000+01:002013-04-14T22:42:03.266+01:00Leaving this blog...This blog has been sorely neglected of late, but I've decided to leave it kind of hanging in hyper space. I don't want to delete it as it contains so many memories, as painful as some are, so I'm just going to leave it.<br />
<br />
Waiting.<br />
<br />
I may need to write on these pages again someday.<br />
<br />
My journey isn't over.<br />
<br />
But nearly 4 years on my journey and my pain are so different.<br />
<br />
I will be blogging sporadically over <a href="http://littlelucyintheskywithdiamonds.blogspot.co.uk/">here</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-64405551229175998922012-04-08T22:42:00.001+01:002012-04-08T22:43:17.790+01:00Number 5Today I found out I am 5 weeks pregnant with baby number 5.<br />
<br />
After 2 miscarriages, 1 stillbirth and 1 live birth you would think I would be ready, aware, prepared for another pregnancy.<br />
<br />
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'.<br />
<br />
Best laid plans of mice and all that.<br />
<br />
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'.<br />
<br />
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.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-6346433091328706132012-01-22T23:18:00.000+00:002012-01-22T23:18:57.014+00:00Bubbling away under the surfaceIt 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.<br />
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 <i>still</i> 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.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-8421850501518288132011-09-06T19:49:00.006+01:002011-09-06T20:16:20.109+01:00Autumn<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">It has been a long, long time since I last blogged. I think if I am honest I have completely exhausted all my sadness. Or maybe it is that I am completely exhausted these days? By the time I have finished at work, prepared for the next day, done bedtime, made tea, washed up and sat down it is normally about 9 and then my eyelids are drooping and I can't really think rationally other than to flit about on Facebook and write perhaps a frothy status update to keep everyone happy.<br />
In England the Summer is bowing out and the low sun beamed days of Autumn are slipping in. It will be two years this month since I bore my little Lucy so silently into the world. More and more these days she is becoming a distant memory, a dusty photo on the mantle piece. Less and less I look at her pictures. This isn't to say I am forgetting her, I think of her every day. In fact her presence in my mind makes me so more emotional and I feel more empathy towards others. Where before I could not picture or imagine a tangible grief other than "That's sad", I now find stories on the news, or read, or told by friends move me to tears. And not just a silent trickle but more often a heavy sobbing as I feel the heaviness inside their heart.<br />
I feel I keep a tight lid on my emotions relating to her these days but then I will hear such awful stories, as the ones I am hearing at the minute on the anniversary of 9/11, and it opens Pandoras box - a torrent of grief pours out for me, for Lucy, for all of you who have experienced loss, grief, pain, death. I continue to miss what she would have been, what her personality would have been like. If I am honest I am constantly tormented about her death, she was so helpless, how can she have faced the enormity of death on her own without me to protect her? If I let these thoughts take hold like they threaten to then I would be a dysfunctional mess. Georgia keeps me sane, the gorgeous monotony of every day living keeps me sane, and keeping that lid tightly shut keeps me sane. I seem 'over it'. But my God I am so far from that. I feel like this is the only place I can be honest these days as people get 'worried' if I ever dare to show these continuing feelings in public. I think I may write more as the anniversary approaches as for some reason I feel more sad about this second one. I don't know why. And to finish my brief post, a song by one of my fave artists just currently making his rise to fame. The lyrics are beautiful and are about his friend that lost her baby at five months. I think we can all relate to the promises and unspoken sadness in the music.<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Small Bump - Ed Sheeran</b><br />
<br />
You were just a small bump, unborn for four months, then brought to life.<br />
You might be left with my hair, but you'll have your Mother's eyes,<br />
Oh I'll hold your body in my hands, be as gentle as I can,<br />
But for now you're a scan of my unmade plans,<br />
A small bump, in four months you'll open your eyes...<br />
<i><br />
</i>And I'll hold you tightly, I'll give you nothing but truth.<br />
If you're not inside me, I'll put my future in you...<br />
<i><br />
</i>'Cause you are my one and only,<br />
You can wrap your fingers round my thumb, and hold me tight.<br />
Oh you are my one and only, you can wrap your fingers round my thumb,<br />
And hold me tight, and you'll be alright.<br />
<i><br />
</i>Oh you're just a small bump, unknown, you’ll grow into your skin,<br />
With a smile like hers, and a dimple beneath your chin,<br />
Finger nails the size of a half grain of rice,<br />
And eyelids closed to be soon opened wide,<br />
A small bump, in four months you'll open your eyes...<br />
<i><br />
</i>I'll hold you tightly, I'll give you nothing but truth.<br />
If you're not inside me, I'll put my future in you...<br />
<br />
'Cause you are my one and only,<br />
You can wrap your fingers round my thumb, and hold me tight.<br />
Oh you are my one and only,<br />
You can wrap your fingers round my thumb, and hold me tight,<br />
And you'll be alright.<br />
<br />
And you can lie with me - with your tiny feet - when you're half asleep, I'll leave you be,<br />
Right in front of me, for a couple weeks,<br />
So I can keep you safe....<br />
<br />
'Cause you are my one and only,<br />
You can wrap your fingers round my thumb, and hold me tight.<br />
Oh you are my one and only,<br />
You can wrap your fingers round my thumb and hold me tight.<br />
And you'll be alright...<br />
<br />
<i><br />
</i>'Cause you were just a small bump, unborn for four months, then torn from Life.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">And maybe you were needed up there, but we're still unaware as why...<br />
</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/Npp7ZFOgpyM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
</span></span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-80318707182491633202011-05-01T20:30:00.000+01:002011-05-01T20:30:27.364+01:00Lost myselfSo I started to write another post, but it actually became so self centred that I was ashamed to post it. This blog has always been about my dead and my living daughters. And that's the way I like it. I may post the other entry one fine day, but until then it can rest in the computer generated crypts.<br />
<br />
I love being a Mum. I never thought I would get here, and here I am. I am doing things I never knew were possible. I hold my sweet baby close to me and kiss her head and smell the milky, sweet, talcum powdered stench and it makes my soul glad. I have finally slipped into that feeling of complete, unconditional love. She is amazing, and her little soul is beautiful and makes my heart leap and sing and I cannot be thankful enough.<br />
And then at the same time I have this incredible guilt. I am guilty for not thinking about Lucy enough. I feel I am forgetting her. Some days - most days in fact - I forget the terrible traumatic thing that preceded Georgia's birth. And other days it is all I can think about. I miss my dead daughter so much, and that is strange because I never even knew her. But I miss the personality she would have been, and I can't help but be saddened at the waste of life. I am thankful for having a beautiful daughter in my arms, that I can hold and kiss. And I am sad, but thankful that I had the chance to hold and meet my sleeping daughter Lucy. She has taught me so much, and I hope that one sweet day we will hold each other again.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/1fdbblQ2HMc?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-170438525332420652011-03-25T18:14:00.000+00:002011-03-25T18:14:03.959+00:00Please say a prayerA fellow Babyloss Mama has been hit by another tragedy. She lost her son at 40 weeks in July 2009. She married her sweetheart, her Sons Daddy, in September 2009. And her sweetheart has just been killed in Afghanistan, 6 days before he was due to come home to her. I have spent the last 2 days trying to make sense of this loss, and I can't.<br />
<br />
So please, hug your loved ones a little tighter tonight and say a prayer for Leanne, Mark and Archie. I pray she finds the strength to carry on without her two boys and that her future holds nothing but happiness, as her present is too dark to even contemplate.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-26929729659592194342011-03-12T16:32:00.044+00:002011-03-13T20:44:09.291+00:00Mind blockSo my last few posts were a joy to read. I have been going through a strange old time, with the resurfacing of feelings that I thought had been put to bed. I am still angry with the world. I see a lot of suffering in the world. Suffering I was not aware of before. When I walk down the street now I wonder about the stories behind the faces. I often think it would be good if people that have suffered a babyloss had a little icon above their heads, like in The Sims. So then I would know who I could approach and share my grief with without scaring them off. Because they would understand, and I could not feel bad about talking to them and seeing the look of horror on someone's face when I tell them I gave birth to a dead baby.<br />
<br />
But it's not all bad. I am very lucky, I have Georgia. I am lucky that I have battled through that horrific time after the loss, through TTC again and then through the rainbow pregnancy. And Georgia is here in my arms. I have dwelled a lot on the dark things, the sad things. A lot of my time has been taken up with such things over the last 18 months. I think and talk a lot about my dead daughter, who slipped away before we even got to know her. But I neglect to talk about my rainbow, who is here in my arms and bringing joy to me the way I had always hoped.<br />
<br />
It hasn't been easy, she was a difficult baby to say the least. Not through any fault of her own but it was the cursed reflux that meant we had many sleepless nights, and harrowing days where she cried inconsolably. It is distressing to see your baby in pain and be powerless to help them. But with the help of the right combo of meds, and I think just time, she seems to finally be on the up. We are coming out of the dark clouds, albeit with a few bad habits (we are still feeding to sleep and co-sleeping, it's very difficult to break the cycle!).<br />
She is wonderful, and I love her so much. She is giggling and smiling and growing every day from a helpless newborn into a little girl with a personality all of her own. At one point I really doubted I would ever get to be a mum, so everything she does is beautiful to me. When she meets my gaze and smiles it is the most golden feeling. Being a mum is a lot harder than I thought it would be. There is a lot to think about, a lot of worry and responsibility. As everyone does, I want her to grow up to be a well rounded individual. I want her to be able to play video games and be good at sports, but to also be artistic and academic. I want her to love Disney and princesses, but also be interested in cars and be the worlds first Formula one female driver. Just the usual stuff everyone wants for their baby.<br />
<br />
To be honest, I am stuck at the minute for things to write about. I have thought about making a new blog, all about Georgia, but it doesn't seem right. I feel that I would be abandoning Lucy. But I feel I have lost my voice at the minute. Writers block, if you can call the endless ramblings of my thoughts writing. The pain is no longer so raw and the words don't come so easily. The mundane things that my life involves don't seem enough to write about on here. I am not an interesting enough person, I don't bake, sew, or abseil down buildings. I just enjoy being a family, walking the dog, eating good food, dieting, drinking, cuddling Georgia, arguing with John, playing board games, watching crap TV. I have lost my Blogging Mojo.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-73588759636262011032011-02-26T23:10:00.002+00:002011-02-26T23:12:19.496+00:00Point of demiseI guess this is what they call a bad patch. My last post was a little over dramatic maybe. I'm feeling a bit that way at the minute. I am grateful to this blog as it allows all my outpourings of grief, whilst on my social networking pages I can be more upbeat. I don't want to keep making my status updates all about my loss of Lucy. I am worried people will tire of it and think me self indulgent. So here is where I come to pour out my darker thoughts. I think I'd go mad if I couldn't. I am just dwelling on so many dark things right now. I feel like two people, the happy me on the outside with the dark me bubbling just under the surface.<br />
<br />
I am consumed at the minute thinking about when Lucy died. It is haunting me in a bad way. I know exactly when she died. The doctors tried to tell me otherwise, but I am not stupid. I know. I didn't know at the time, because I was uneducated. I was still in that happy land where babies don't die before they are born. I thought she had hiccups, even though they felt different from her normal hiccups. I was grateful to feel her move to be honest. Now I know with hindsight that those fast, repetitive kicks were her dying inside me. That is why they started so frantically, and also why they got weaker and weaker. And why I didn't feel her move again after that. So although the doctors have tried to tell me that she wouldn't have suffered, in my heart I know differently. I do not know that she felt any pain, but I do know that she realised she was in trouble. I have been thinking over and over it lately, and I don't know why. It makes me feel sick to my stomach. I want to be oblivious to when she passed. To know that I felt it but dismissed it as something else makes me feel like the worst mother on earth. I generally think about this happy subject in the middle of the night, when I am feeding Georgia. I am terrified of waking up and finding Georgia dead too. I have morbidly imagined this scenario a few times now. I guess this is a new level of the grief process.<br />
<br />
I am also consumed with grief for a new angel daddy. He lost his partner Sara in a terrible accident, and despite attempts to save his unborn daughter Miranda, she also passed. His incredibly moving blog can be found <a href="http://sadandchara.blogspot.com/">here</a>. It's all I've been able to think about since I came across it. I want to jump on a plane and go and find him, and hold him, and cry with him. It's given me a new perspective on grief. It makes me want to do something to help people. I just don't know what I can do though. I am still thinking on that. I just want to reach out to him, to others, in some way. I feel grief so much more keenly since Lucy. I am definitely more empathetic than I ever was. I find it easier to put myself in peoples shoes, to try and glean a small snap shot of that place they are in, to enable me to connect with them.<br />
<br />
Reading back it all sounds a bit twee and jumbled, I am not expressing myself well today.<br />
<br />
I guess I just want people to know that I cry with them. My heart bleeds for hundreds of little babies that I have never been able to meet, but who I feel like I already know so well thanks to the loving words of their grieving parents.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-88278537677677861742011-02-24T23:02:00.001+00:002011-02-24T23:05:56.716+00:00Confused state<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A jumbled post, so bear with me. My brain is tired from sleep deprivation.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It is hard to carry on life without Lucy. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I can no longer say "I lost a little girl last year", as time has relentlessly marched on. It takes me further away from my little sleeping beauty. Some days I almost wish I was back in the aftermath when my memories were not hazy, and the house was filled with flowers and cards and it was 'OK' to talk about her non stop. I am amazed that I made it this far. A friends status made me think, she is also a BM and I'm not sure whether this was her own sentiment or just one she had read and admired but to loosely quote, it said "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;">You'll be surprised to know how far you can go from the point where you thought it was the end". </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I have recently left some of the pregnancy loss boards that I was a member of after she died. I just feel I don't belong there any more, now I have Georgia. They are full of women at a different stage of this journey and I am not sure I was helping them by being there. I am also not sure it was helping me. I am torn between wanting to live in the past so that I am close to Lucy, or moving on with her in my heart. I know it will end up being the latter, as it is expected of me. I expect it of myself. And yet I can't let go at the minute. I find myself wanting to pore over my blog posts from when I lost her, I want to look at her pictures endlessly. I regret not seeing her again in the hospital chapel. I regret not taking more pictures. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Some days I want to be pregnant again. In fact some days I ache to be pregnant again, almost as though being pregnant and 'doing it right' this time will heal my heart. I know in my head it won't, I know a million babies won't bring Lucy back, won't undo what is forever written in my history. I think a lot about what Lucy would have been like. And I just feel sad that she lived such a short life. People often speak of feeling the presence of their loved ones, they find hope in butterflies, feathers, birds. I feel sad a lot as I don't have this with Lucy. I am always waiting, hoping, looking for a sign from her that she is OK, and watching over us. But I just don't feel anything, and believe me I have tried so many times to find some tiny signal from her that she is near.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I truly feel alone. I think she has gone forever.</span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-48055086669213879742011-02-06T13:13:00.000+00:002011-02-06T13:13:47.309+00:00'Count the kicks' - another heartbreaking reminder<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Yet again the public eye is on a celebrity pregnancy for the worst conceivable reason.The devastating news of Amanda </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">Holdens</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> loss has touched the hearts of many, myself included, for obvious reasons. However it also provides an opportunity to raise the public profile of baby loss and in doing so may just save lives. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYFArYkxYnL429XXWmisERXzXwHik0ulIgzVyZqC-ySBLZHYwOWb676W1THdtyIb_xDkn_Rbs9Dk6d3ZH2bVpwmNQqCx8qpGw5K3SnaRsP-9Huj24A6c5VYWAxTegpUThMTdUSwx8vrsk/s200/count+the+kicks.jpg" width="138" /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzD67-pLh8yblPgDUCpMygMxfIK50ZHw6YsAtMtLSA-gQfRgMvfC1-kbZtKTU8VFIVCTmnrWkRp3HluCT9go-ZktPT6xulriwxLldVZ68xhbzTya3STJZ6bWM7QLyptkkdQWvRW84I3Os/s320/count-the-kicks.jpg" /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">Chloe's Count the Kicks campaign is working towards empowering expectant mums by giving them the facts and information they need to monitor their babies movements and help keep their baby safe, <a href="http://countthekicks.org.uk/">visit the website here.</a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">God bless baby boy Holden, sleep tight little man, another star in the sky.</span></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-39682972485787788522011-02-01T17:32:00.001+00:002011-02-01T17:32:35.236+00:00Lesson learntI was trying to clear my very neglected email account today. Over time my email address has been entered onto all sorts of random websites so I now get spammed every day to within an inch of my life. As I was deleting the majority of the irrelevant rubbish in my account I happened to click into my sent items. Almost immediately one email leapt out at me, mainly because of the date - 22/09/09, the day before Lucy died and two days before she was born. It was to my friend in Scotland, and was entitled 'Why I love pregnancy - NOT!!'.<br />
<br />
For about five minutes I sat looking at the subject heading and the date and my heart was pounding in my chest.<br />
<br />
An email sent to a pregnant friend, about my pregnancy - the pregnancy where I was carrying <i>Lucy</i>. Did I dare open it?<br />
<br />
I knew in my head and heart that it would be better to leave it unopened. It was a relic from a different time, written by a different person as I was then. But like a scab that needs picking I eventually gave in.<br />
<br />
A lot of jumble, a lot of rubbish, but then the words that smacked me in the heart, typed by my own fair hand:<br />
<br />
<i>"...I am soooooo sick of being pregnant! I want this baby out NOW!!! I have had enough, I should be thankful I've had such an easy pregnancy but to be honest I am bored now - enough already!! This is BORING BORING BORING!"</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
I have read and re-read that sentence so many times this afternoon. I can't stop reading it. It takes me back to the person I was at that point, I remember so clearly where I was when I typed that.<br />
<br />
What a stupid, stupid immature little girl. Selfish. Ungrateful, urgh HOW UNGRATEFUL was I?!? Reading that sentence makes me want to cry (and has several times today) and also makes me want to smash my head into the wall.<br />
<br />
Sometimes (a lot of the time actually) I wonder if God was trying to teach me a very hard lesson.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-82818564706852555292011-01-16T11:27:00.000+00:002011-01-16T11:27:45.394+00:00Another angel mummy...Please show your support to her <a href="http://anangelneverdies.blogspot.com/">by visiting her blog</a>. <br />
<br />
Devastating. Every new angel I hear about just breaks my heart.<br />
<br />
xAmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-65068355064498404392011-01-02T21:01:00.066+00:002011-01-30T22:34:07.115+00:00How a Rainbow came to be (or Georgia's Birth Story)Happy New Year! Belated I know. My blog has been sorely neglected of late.<br />
<br />
So 2010 is behind me. What a difference a year makes. This time last year I was heartbroken and despairing. This year, I am...well still heartbroken as a Rainbow baby doesn't change the tragic course of events that preceded their arrival, but I'm counting my blessings too because Georgia made it safely into the world. I am very lucky and unlucky at the same time.<br />
Losing a baby does make you appreciate the simple things, but it doesn't make dealing with a demanding newborn any less, well, demanding. Georgia takes up a lot of my time now. I don't have much time to blog, or email, or even grieve for the little girl who broke my heart. The road with G so far hasn't been an easy one as she has terrible silent reflux which she is now on medication for, and as a result we have not routine to speak of yet. We co-sleep, breastfeed, anything for an easy life. We are currently in the grips of a constipation epidemic as I tried to introduce a few bottles of formula so we could combined feed for a month or two, as a result we are now enduring several marathon crying and whinging sessions whilst she desperately tries to get her bowels moving! All exciting stuff!<br />
<br />
I thought I had better at least make a note of some of the details of her birth, whilst they are still fresh in my memory. So this is kind of a birth story post, of sorts.<br />
<br />
I guess I will skip straight to the big day, and save the boring stuff about my precursory hospital stay for another time maybe.<br />
<br />
On Thursday 21st October I was awake at 6am. To say 'awake' insinuates I had been to sleep, which is an impossibility in a busy hospital let alone when you are in there waiting for the arrival of your Rainbow baby. But that is when the nurse came to check my blood pressure and run another CTG. At 8am John arrived, he was so excited, I remember feeling scared I was going to let him down again. Shortly after the Doctor came so I could sign the forms for the anaesthetic, and explain what would happen. I was due to go down to theatre at 9am. We sat chattering about what was happening, scarcely believing that today we would meet our little Baby Girl. I could feel her kicking and moving around, it seemed so strange, almost impossible to think that in a few hours she would be in my arms. 9am came and went. At 10 am we asked when I would be going down, we were told that a lady was in labour with twins and they were waiting for them to be safely born in case an EMCS was needed. So it was just a waiting game. We watched TV as much as we could concentrate on, then I took to pacing the ward like a caged animal, willing the lady having twins to push with all her might!<br />
Finally at 11.30am a midwife came to take us to Theatre. At this point I started shaking with nerves and shivering with cold and fright. We went down into the bright, sterile theatre. I was told to sit on the table whilst they put the spinal in - my most feared part. John was taken to scrub up.<br />
It seemed to take ages to put the spinal in, my spine has a natural curve in it so they initially had problems putting the needle in, there were several attempts made and by this point I was feeling incredibly sick and shaky (I hate needles with a passion). John had rejoined me by this point and was trying to talk to me to take my mind off it. My canula was put into my hand and the spinal anaesthetic given, I was immediately laid down and prepped for surgery. I remember them asking me what music I liked and I really didn't give a shit at this point about music, so in the end I think Kylie Minogues new album was put on the stereo. I remember them spraying me with the aerosol to see if I was numb and my right side hadn't worked so they tipped the table to get the drug flowing through that side, at this point I started to feel light headed and really sick, I was retching into a bowl and they realised my blood pressure had dropped so started pumping fluids into me and I felt better within minutes. They said they were ready to start and I realised in horror I could still just about feel and move my toes, I told them this in blind panic but they said this was normal and most people could feel their toes during a spinal. As I was processing this bit of information the first cut was made - "Did you feel that?" I was asked (!) well no, I hadn't so they started to cut further. I now was feeling very out of it and still a little sick, I just remember needing to chatter to John about total rubbish so my mind wasn't on the operation, I felt no pain just a lot of pushing and pulling, people leaning on me. Suddenly the midwife said "Baby is nearly here" and my attention was suddenly back on the gaggle of people at the foot of the bed. "Here is your baby", the curtain lowered and a little purple, scrunched up person came into view. A few moments silence then the most wonderful sound, the sound I had waited to hear for over 18 long months - a tiny baby squeak and then a full on cry. I started to cry with her, as did John. Big sobs that turned to laughter as total relief washed over me. John was still crying with joy, I was straining to look at my baby who was having a few checks her APGAR score done. When they were satisfied that she was breathing OK without help she was finally placed on my chest, still crying but simply delicious. John was still crying and asking me what we were going to call her. I was looking awestruck at this wrinkly, squawking being that had emerged from my belly. Now I could put a face to those little feet that had been wedging themselves under my ribs. We deliberated for a few minutes over her name, unable to make our brains function properly in the absolute relief and happiness that was taking over us. We decided on Georgia May. A name that had been on her shortlist. As we said it out loud I was uncertain, I wasn't sure that name suited her. Now I couldn't imagine her to be called anything else.<br />
As we gazed at her I became aware of a commotion at the 'business' end. I had just had the drug to help them deliver the placenta, so at first I thought it was just them pulling it out. Then the surgeon closest to my head looked over to his colleague and said, very matter of factly, "I think we will have to deliver the Uterus as well - we can't stop the bleeding from this vessel".<br />
<br />
Bump.<br />
<br />
That was me coming back to reality. At this point, had I had full use of my lower half I would have jumped up and shouted "WHAT? You can't be SERIOUS!". This has always been one of my fears as it happened to a friend of mine, she woke up to be told her Son was gone and so was her chance of carrying another baby - a full hysterectomy.<br />
I panicked. I was trying desperately to see what was happening at the end of the bed, John was still oblivious to this as he was busy with our daughter. I felt sick, the room swam and then they casually said, "It's OK we've stopped the bleed, can I have suction here please?". As though they had been discussing last nights TV. This sadly is my lasting impression of the section, absolute panic and belief that I would be unable to carry another baby. No explanation of the bleed, it just says on my notes it was due to a 'thick vascular area'. Given that I bled profusely after the placenta was delivered with Lucy I am now scared to death of the next time - if there is a next time - that I am pregnant. I have yet to discuss this with anyone medically as once you have your rainbow baby the hospital want you out the door and do not want to know. I am also wondering if this tendency to bleed is somehow related to what caused Lucy's death. And I am scared of it happening again. I wonder what would have happened had I tried a normal vaginal birth this time. I wonder. It frightens me that this has happened twice now. I am genuinely frightened and I don't think anyone will be able to tell me the answer to this and many other questions.<br />
<br />
But still, Georgia is here. I kiss her sweet head a million times a day. I love her dearly, fiercely.<br />
<br />
But Lucy, I still miss you. Out of no where something will happen and remind me of you and I will start to cry. I wish so much that you were here. I wish so much that you didn't have to suffer and die inside me. I hate that you have had to face death baby girl, I pray every day you were not scared, or in pain. I cannot bear the thought of that. I still cannot get my head around the fact that you were inside me so alive one moment, and then gone the next. I still wish I had acted sooner when I felt you slow down.<br />
<br />
I love you.<br />
<br />
I don't want to be this person that has lost a daughter. I want be a mother to both of you, here on Earth where I can smell your sweet heads and kiss both of you a million times a day.<br />
<br />
Sleep tight. I hope you will be a guardian angel to your Sister.<br />
<br />
xxxxAmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-55535994704927400062010-10-31T20:53:00.000+00:002010-10-31T20:53:13.066+00:00Honestly? It's hard.Here is our little rainbow, Georgia May. Born by elective C section, 21st Otocber 2010 at 12.14pm weighing 4lb 14oz:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEj1tC74eps3TVnLYwZ93nuYkTRB0oNzhFS51nwtHEK-fCTaWS7mYdE8Dt7EB6wooczIn8aH0vBeqa9Q-yPq8R8O8YpSYFEw-JWM0MPJJ9BhLMEUFZmMYeMpiTrnbKH2cn1bZBTa3I_o74/s1600/SDC10299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEj1tC74eps3TVnLYwZ93nuYkTRB0oNzhFS51nwtHEK-fCTaWS7mYdE8Dt7EB6wooczIn8aH0vBeqa9Q-yPq8R8O8YpSYFEw-JWM0MPJJ9BhLMEUFZmMYeMpiTrnbKH2cn1bZBTa3I_o74/s320/SDC10299.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEeeTYJVJPQY5HSYcUlDstLHsre9ES12Fh-nb-oHwx2LMiwxVtiUocBjo1x7ShG2fMiktivDgjaILQu-BGLqZvh4MCkILuUkCRPJ8MHLTcn2Lnb_NwprDdweHdBg9uNA_SeakpYTGKeORG/s1600/SDC10291.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEeeTYJVJPQY5HSYcUlDstLHsre9ES12Fh-nb-oHwx2LMiwxVtiUocBjo1x7ShG2fMiktivDgjaILQu-BGLqZvh4MCkILuUkCRPJ8MHLTcn2Lnb_NwprDdweHdBg9uNA_SeakpYTGKeORG/s320/SDC10291.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYkoQ-JgC38EAJ4V7YSxpyME8Ye-CTrL2WTzlr-4nI20K4LtI-yfHc5oZ3yX4_s_lTzMkRT7uPhuKKakamTZ3jCp1oJ0IQ_Ch0gk4wNaJ-jj2xgZCII7g5jEw2I91NLVjkqOPJ7ZyQqHAR/s1600/SDC10288.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYkoQ-JgC38EAJ4V7YSxpyME8Ye-CTrL2WTzlr-4nI20K4LtI-yfHc5oZ3yX4_s_lTzMkRT7uPhuKKakamTZ3jCp1oJ0IQ_Ch0gk4wNaJ-jj2xgZCII7g5jEw2I91NLVjkqOPJ7ZyQqHAR/s320/SDC10288.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>It goes without saying that I love her fiercely. She is precious. When I am feeling more 'with it' I will write her birth story, sadly (except the outcome) not a positive experience - I am not a big fan of C sections I have discovered.<br />
At the minute I am lost in a exhausted haze. This is so hard, so much harder than I imagined it. I spent so long on worrying about her getting here I never really thought or planned for when she was here.<br />
Her being so tiny and slightly premature has been a worry, but she's been a little star and was able to stay on the ward with me, rather than going to special care. I naively thought when she was here my stress and worry would dissipate, however my heightened sense of anxiety has simply transferred from bump to this little delicate person now in my care. Is she breathing? Does she sound snuffly? Has her jaundice gotten worse? Just check, is she breathing? Why is she choking? Why is she so sleepy? Does she seem jittery to you? Do you think her blood sugar is low? Is she getting enough food do you think?<br />
At the minute I am trying to breastfeed, which I am finding hard work. I think I have said every day so far that I am going to quit. She only feeds for 5-10 minutes on one breast each feed, sometimes I am having to wake her every 3 hours because she is sleeping through feeds, other times she is waking herself every hour. I am constantly worried she isn't getting enough to thrive. I can hardly eat, I feel so anxious all the time. I feel guilty for bringing her so early, maybe we could have just pushed on for one more week? I seem to have baby blues, I cry lots. I feel overwhelmed. I feel like I can't cope, I can't handle the worry and the responsibility. I feel there is danger everywhere. Above all there is this guilt, after all I finally have what I have wanted for 3 long years and yet I'm not enjoying it, not one bit. Don't get me wrong, I look at her sleepy face and kiss her soft skin and my heart melts. I love her with every bone and sinew in my body. But this makes my anxiety uncontrollable, I worry like every other first time mother but times a thousand. I feel that I cannot rest, I have to protect her at all times. Sleep deprivation makes me irrational, but even when I have stolen a few hours I wake up just as worried. And reading this back I sound like a crazy woman! I really do! I sound ungrateful and I'm really not. I am thankful I have been blessed with her, holding her little warm body in my arms, holding her to my breast as she feeds - they are the most blessed and contented feelings I have ever experienced. But I can't help but feel sad. I look at her sometimes and she looks so much like her sister. And I can't help but wonder about what sort of mother I would have been to Lucy. Before my trust in the world was shattered, and my heart and mind embittered and exposed to the reality that bad things happen to people you love. I want to be <b>that</b> mother, not this crazy, fraught human being I see now in the mirror. I am sure I would have worried, but not to this extent. Now I know bad things happen and they are all I can see. My mind races with what terrible thing can happen next, to claim this fragile little creature in my arms. I am hoping that with time and confidence I will start to relax and enjoy her a little more. Until then I will just keep muddling through, trying to do my best. But it sure is hard.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-27092523531118775192010-10-18T09:26:00.000+01:002010-10-18T09:26:47.589+01:00I think the time has come......to check myself into hospital.<br />
<br />
Firstly, thank you to my wonderful angel mummy friends who posted and messaged during the Wave of Light to say they were remembering Lucy along with their own angels. It meant a lot to us both, I am sorry I haven't thanked via FB personally but I am avoiding the place at the moment as I can't handle all the enquires from my well meaning non baby loss friends whose optimism I just can't share about this pregnancy. We quietly lit our candle on Friday and shed a few tears, always such a poigniant moment seeing that golden light and thinking about the millions of candles burning brightly around the world and each little life that they signify.<br />
<br />
So it's Monday morning, my section is planned for Thursday morning. I have tried and tried to hold it all together, taking it day by day. But I have reached a point where I just can't cope anymore. Every single day I am gripped by fear about her movements, despite now having daily CTGs for reassurance. Is she moving too much? Too little? Was that panic I felt in her last kick?<br />
<br />
And so I asked myself this morning, what exactly am I trying to prove by staying at home? Well, I wanted this to be as 'normal' as possible towards the end. I wanted to spend one last night with John in our own home as a a couple before we realised our dream of becoming parents. I wanted to be in my own home with my own possesions around me. All very idyllistic of course, and at what cost? My own sanity? How many more nights can I lay awake for hours, or crying to myself through fear? The nights are long, lonely and suffocating. Bad thoughts creep in, negative emotions and they destroy any hope and positivity I have. For the sake of a few days I may as well take the hospital up on their offer of a bed and reassurance.<br />
So I am going to my last scan today, and I am going to request to be admitted. It feels like a surrender in some ways, a defeat. I feel I have given in to the fear. But as long as in a few days time my little girl is safely here and in my arms I really don't care. Just 3 more days. Praying, hoping, dreaming of my 'happy ending'.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-1743224643437884882010-10-12T22:05:00.000+01:002010-10-12T22:05:19.373+01:00WaitingAnd waiting and waiting. 9 days left.<br />
<br />
The end of this pregnancy is approaching. One way or another. I have run out of things to say really, I feel drained and empty. I am turning into a recluse at the moment, I can't bear to be away from the safety of my own little house. I don't want to see people, or speak to people. I just want time to pass, quickly and without any problems.<br />
I feel like I am slowly going out of my mind. Every single day feels like nine months in itself. I get up in the morning and it is all I can do to stop myself getting back into bed, pulling the duvet over my head and crying and sleeping until it is the next day. Rinse, repeat.<br />
I can barely sleep, I am so fearful of losing her in the midnight hours. Each night seems like a long and terrifying battle to get through, clock watching. One o'clock. Two o'clock. Prod, poke. Doppler out. Toss and turn. Stifle sobs with my pillow to not wake husband. Half Two. Three o'clock. Quarter past three. Listen to the dog drinking from his bowl. Imagine life with a baby. Imagine life without a baby. Imagine having to tell everyone we've lost her. Four o'clock. Half four.<br />
Endless worrying. So much responsibility. Desperation for her to come home with us. I think I may be getting the the point where I admit myself into hospital. I am trying hard not to. But I just don't know how much longer I can cope with this. What if something happens now? Before my c section date? So close now, so close.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-44376966084364450042010-10-06T09:01:00.001+01:002010-10-06T09:03:47.609+01:00October 21stThis is the date for my planned C section. This is the date that hopefully all the tears, all the frustration, waiting, guilt, panic and every other emotion I've felt in this pregnancy will pay off and so many peoples hopes and dreams are realised.<br />
<br />
A section is not my ideal by a long shot. I am not sure I am entirely at peace with my decision to go for it, rather than an induction. I have spent the last 2-3 months thinking about how my little baby might make her appearance into the world. Deliberating. Weighing up the pros and cons. I had hoped the hospital might have felt strongly one way or another, and the that decision was taken out of my hands. However it seemed they wanted me to choose. And when it comes down to it, I just don't have the faith in them to go for an induction. They have told me that as I am delivering at 35 weeks there is a high chance my inducton will fail and end in a EMCS anyway. I asked which was safest for baby and they told me a section was, but it wasn't safest for me. I have spent hours reading on the internet and in books about both. I have truly been torn.<br />
On one hand I wanted the induction, I feel hopeful that I would react favourably to it. I don't want my only vaginal birth experience to be pushing out a dead baby. I want that romanticised birth, where I push out my screaming newborn and she is placed on my chest wriggling, and John and I gaze at her and each other adoringly. I ache for that experience. But my head is full of things that can go wrong in Labour. What if my placenta (that currently *touches wood* is working as it apparently should be) cannot handle the stress of going into labour and takes that moment to fail again? Will they monitor me enough? Will there be enough time to get her out? Would I be able to forgive myself if something happened? The answer being no, of course I wouldn't. She is too precious to take any chances with.<br />
So, as I sat in the doctors office in tears trying to make my decision the doctor took pity on me and advised if I was even in two minds about it then I should go for the C section. So the decision was made. When it comes down to it, I want my baby here, alive, in my arms and screaming. With a planned section it will calm, collected, all the unknown elements that would come with an induction are removed - she will be out within ten minutes and we can all breathe a sigh of relief. For now. Yes my recovery will of course be slower and more awkward, yes there are risks to my own health. But there are with any form of delivery, and when it comes down to it how many women actually get that romanticised birth I am imagining? Because of my situation we are talking about delivering prematurely a 35 week baby, in this case there is no 'ideal' option because the ideal would be for her to stay put and cook a bit longer but this isn't going to happen becasue of the uncertainty of my placenta's ability to function at the end of this pregnancy. So there really is no 'right' or 'wrong' way of getting her here, but the less risky way is a section. Hence my final decision.<br />
<br />
So with all this in mind, why do I still feel unsure? Why do I still feel that pang, that longing to just push out a baby that is alive? I keep trying to focus on the bigger picture, that I want her here alive and how she gets here is a very small and insignificant part of what I hope will be a long and happy family life together. But still I have this wistful longing. Maybe it's just that longing for normality, a 'normal' pregnancy, the normality that was forever stolen from me last year when the tragically 'abnormal' happened. Maybe. It's such a big decision to be left with, I was grateful when the doctor finally intervened.<br />
<br />
But anyway, we have a date. I am dragging my ass slowly through each day. I am trying to be hopeful, but I still can't bring myself to get anything ready. I refuse to talk about, or make plans for Christmas. I won't pack my hospital bag, even though I know I will need it one way or the other. I won't entertain getting the pram or car seat out. I refuse to buy a single baby item. The only thing that I have bought are maternity pads. I just can't get enthusiastic. I just can't get the belief that the happy ending is round the corner. John is so excited, and it makes me nervous. I feel the pressure, his happiness is reliant on me. He has excitedly changed the chalkboard that we have been counting down on from weeks to days. <i>15 days</i> he has scrawled. Please let this be so.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-30199401748014945742010-09-30T10:45:00.003+01:002010-09-30T10:49:11.356+01:0032 weeksI am glad that Lucy's anniversaries have been and gone. The anticipation of the day lead to many tears. The anniversary of the day she passed was heartbreaking and I was terrified that this baby was going to die as well. Being pregnant on that day was just too familiar, the weather was even the same, every second of that day I held my breath waiting for tragedy again.<br />
<br />
Thankfully it didn't come. On Lucy's birthday we spent the day shopping, we met with friends for tea and then when it went dark we let a wish lantern off and toasted our firstborn with pink wine. We held each other and cried hard. There is a little girl who should be here, and she isn't. She should be teething and walking and my windowsill should be full of changing pictures of her beautiful self, when instead there is just a solitary picture of her tiny, still body being cradled by two ashen faced grieving parents.<br />
<br />
I am now on maternity leave. I crept away, silently. Last time we had cakes, food and celebrations - a big presentation and baby gifts. I was made a fuss of and everyone had well meaning advice about labour and birth. We laughed and talked and I was so, so excited. This time I didn't announce when I was leaving. I just left. Only a handful of people knew it was my last day. I felt ungrateful but I just couldn't face the big celebrations. I felt like a fraud after losing Lucy, I couldn't put myself through it all again. I don't want to count my chickens. How can I celebrate, how can I be excited when I don't know the ending of this story yet? I want, hope, try so hard to believe it will be the happy ending that we have waited nearly 3 years for. But that is such a long time, and so much loss and heartache. I feel embittered by it all, cynical, pessimistic.<br />
So now I play this waiting game. Waiting, waiting for the end to come. And I know that one way or another I will be birthing this baby into the world, be she alive or dead. I feel terribly guilty for even considering the latter, but as nothing is certain I can't rule it out. I want so, so much to be a mummy to a living child this time. I cannot bear the thought of letting everybody down again, so many people are depending on me to make their dreams come true.<br />
<br />
<i>The Turn. (</i>Ben Johnson)<br />
<br />
It is not growing like a Tree<br />
In bulk, doth make Man better be;<br />
Or standing long an Oak, three hundred year<br />
To fall a log, at last, dry, bold, and sear:<br />
A Lily of a Day,<br />
Is fairer far, in <i>May,</i><br />
Although it fall, and die that Night;<br />
It was the Plant, and Shower of Light.<br />
In small proportions, we just Beauties see:<br />
And in short measures, Life may perfect be.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-21572411893311914932010-09-23T08:22:00.001+01:002010-09-23T08:23:05.166+01:00One Year AgoOne year ago today I was already up, awake, and worrying about my baby's movements.<br />
<br />
In three hours time I would feel her last movements. Her struggles before she passed.<br />
<br />
In four hours time I would ring the Labour ward in hysterics, knowing something was going terribly wrong with my perfect pregnancy.<br />
<br />
In five and a half hours time we would walk into the scan room, for 'that' scan. You know the one. The one where your dreams are crushed and your heart torn from your chest by those three words - "I'm so sorry".<br />
<br />
In eight and a half hours time - at four thirty in the afternoon - I was given my first pessary to start labour.<br />
<br />
At ten thirty in the evening my waters were broken and I was 5 cm dilated.<br />
<br />
But we wouldn't meet my little princess, my angel, my joy, my love, my sleeping beauty until tomorrows date.<br />
<br />
So I will leave it there for now, except to say that I love you Lucy. You are always in my thoughts, you are always spoken about, and always will be. We miss you and we ask you to help keep your little sister safe, your poor, broken mummy and daddy could not bear to lose her as well as you.<br />
<br />
Sleep peacefully my angel xxxxxxxAmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-19746824321160336702010-09-16T08:52:00.002+01:002010-09-16T08:58:53.843+01:00Happily ever after?That's what I keep wondering. Will I get it? Of course, it won't actually be totally, 100% fairy tale style happily ever after, because my first little girl will always be just a ghost. The rest of my life will be governed by what ifs and how old would she be nows.<br />
<br />
Over the last few days I have started to bond more with this little person in my belly. The middle months of this pregnancy were clouded by conflict, my poor, emotionally charged brain struggled with the comprehension that this pregnancy was not Lucy, this baby was not my second chance at <i>Lucy</i>. Even my friends and family had trouble, and sometimes referred to my new bump as Lucy, which was normally followed by a sharp intake of breath and rushed apologies. But I don't mind them saying it, I liked that her name was spoken out loud. It seems so rare these days I get to hear it.<br />
Anyway, back to bonding. Yes I have found it hard to split the pregnancies in my head, and I found it almost frustating when baby behaved differenly to Lucy, it confused me, why was this pregnancy so unfamiliar to me when I'd been here before? Why is baby awake now? Lucy never used to be awake now. Why does baby not like to kick much? Lucy used to kick all the time. Why does baby <i>do this</i>, when Lucy used to <i>do that</i>? But suddenly I seem to have accepted that this is a new entity, a new little soul kicking and flailing and wriggling around inside. Lucy's Sister, but not just Lucy's Sister, my new daughter whom I love fiercely already and have imagined her life with us, despite trying to keep my distance as a 'self preservation' thing. And suddenly my whole being is focused on getting her here safely, getting her here alive. It doesn't leave much time for grieving anymore, and I don't feel I have the time to spend on thinking, grieving, mourning and pining for Lucy right now. This is hard in itself, as I feel terribly guilty. What kind of a mother am I if I can only give my attention to one daughter at a time? A year barely passed and already I am trying to push my dead daughter to the back of the picture, a shadow on the peripherals of my world. <br />
The anniversary approaches. This time last year I was at a midwife appointment. All seemed very well with both of us, I commented that baby was a little quieter and had the standard 'not enough room' response. The midwife cheerily told me that no matter what happened I would have my baby in my arms in 6 weeks time or less. Well, I guess she wasn't wrong. It's just she neglected to warn me that a week later my baby would be lying silent and lifeless in my arms, rather than the pink and wriggling cherub I had imagined.<br />
Would this this first anniversary be so much easier if I had my longed for take home baby in my arms? I don't know. Probably not. I have to be content that she is in my belly, and growing big and strong ready for her early appearance. Praying, hoping, wishing, bargaining, pleading with the gods, karma, anyone who will listen that in 5 weeks time I will have that squawking, live baby in my arms.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-85677462669513615092010-09-03T21:10:00.002+01:002010-09-03T21:14:39.311+01:00Her feetHer feet, again. Those 'little' baby feet that are abnormally big and almost comical on a baby. There on the scan screen. Her beautiful feet. She has her Sisters feet.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgItouxIezU0NruM6zR2D11ULvnUSfJj5ZQfsoED66sAVxh9WM9BpFOa_6XDoRRobeLe5iZLoC1oP33QZSkZ9U1pORCj5xuKDAcPYBOEoXTWkl2vHSO6By3xxJivTqTaqlXDgp0bJtLfbwq/s1600/45989_460804463581_689318581_6486792_1388936_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgItouxIezU0NruM6zR2D11ULvnUSfJj5ZQfsoED66sAVxh9WM9BpFOa_6XDoRRobeLe5iZLoC1oP33QZSkZ9U1pORCj5xuKDAcPYBOEoXTWkl2vHSO6By3xxJivTqTaqlXDgp0bJtLfbwq/s400/45989_460804463581_689318581_6486792_1388936_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEAF3gRaT8mF6itJohULhHjuEYONzm5Ovb2xjXr1Mb1pe-lt6WklBfMeXpDk7GGXMiSUYF1Zp94sXU02jm0w2YS4byOQcIXAzAXeWG0-P8X7vZt6VQCgkcoVVOcoGIn5B3-z2vWt3kOaDk/s1600/45782_460803913581_689318581_6486754_2445127_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEAF3gRaT8mF6itJohULhHjuEYONzm5Ovb2xjXr1Mb1pe-lt6WklBfMeXpDk7GGXMiSUYF1Zp94sXU02jm0w2YS4byOQcIXAzAXeWG0-P8X7vZt6VQCgkcoVVOcoGIn5B3-z2vWt3kOaDk/s400/45782_460803913581_689318581_6486754_2445127_n.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
I am so tired of worrying. I am exhausted from it. I feel that I have this terrible burden, this burden I have to carry. I am talking about the responsibility I have. This little life in my belly is relying on me to keep her alive and safe. The same way Lucy did. But I let Lucy down, and I am terrified my body will do the same again.<br />
If I had written this post a few days ago i would have been full of confidence, happiness and joy. I believed the strength of my own words, that everything will be OK this time. Seeing my little girl, Lucy's little Sister, on the scan screen yawning and moving (and being a bit stubborn). I laughed, I smiled and I felt almost normal.<br />
<br />
<br />
But today, I have crumpled. The fear, the fear that I have been waiting for, has returned. It never truly went away, but I didn't expect it back like this until much nearer to 'crunch' time.<br />
<br />
<br />
7 weeks to go.<br />
<br />
What if my placenta fails earlier this time. What if I lose this little one too?<br />
<br />
We are so, so close.<br />
<br />
So close I can almost imagine her baby soft skin against my own, almost picture the joyful calls from the hospital when we tell everyone that we did it, we got our little girl here safely. I can't tell you how much I want that reality for us this time. <br />
But then again we are so far away. I couln't bear it if anything went wrong this time, not when we have come so far and are so close. Not when we could just get her out early. Is 35 weeks going to be early enough? I keep saying to John that I want her out now. I know that I am being stupid with that statement in many ways, I know she is (supposedly) in the best place. But I feel like I'm living with a ticking time bomb. The thing that was supposed to nourish my daughter, ultimately, killed her. It stopped working. And my consultant doesn't have the answers for me if it will happen again, and if it may happen earlier. He <i>thinks</i> it won't. He says the chance of a reoccurence <i>could</i> be as low as 10%. But he doesn't really <i>know</i>.<br />
I get no rest. I fret all the time. I spend the day on autopilot, silently counting her movements. If she doesn't move for an hour I jiggle my bump. I prod and I poke. I drink freezing water until my head aches with brain freeze. Anything to keep those little movements ticking over. I need to know she is alive. Sometimes I am busy, and I forget to pay attention. When I realise I have not been paying attention, I panic. I lie on the floor, whereever I am, and pray that I feel her little kicks. Pray that she hasn't gone still in those few minutes, few hours that I wasn't 'listening' to her. I know how quickly that change can happen, life to death. And I know how powerless I am to stop it happening.<br />
I can't remember the last time I had a full, restful nights sleep. My nights go like this:<br />
Get in to bed. Lie there with my hands on my bump until I have had at least 5 or 6 strong movements.<br />
Roll over and go to sleep.<br />
Wake about 2 hours later needing a pee.<br />
Get back into bed. Wait for her to move.<br />
Nothing.<br />
Roll onto my left side, waiting for a movement.<br />
Nothing.<br />
Panic.<br />
Lie awake waiting.<br />
Panic.<br />
Then I will either get my doppler and listen to her <i>swooshswooshswoosh</i>, or she will give my a sleepy little movement.<br />
<b>Relief. </b><br />
And only then will I go back to sleep, only to wake an hour or so later and basically repeat all of the stages above again.<br />
<br />
But I have to do it, I can't not do it. I have to do whatever it takes to get me through these next weeks.<br />
It is exhausting. I am exhausted.<br />
<br />
This is so hard. I can't bear to think of the alternative ending. It has to be the happy one this time. It just has to.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-92104752903043835962010-08-07T11:15:00.000+01:002010-08-07T11:15:13.856+01:00V day and conversation stoppersSo, Thursday was 'Viability' day as all my pregnancy books tell me. 24 weeks.<br />
<br />
V day with Lucy meant I breathed a sigh of relief and grabbed the baby catalogues to start buying things with a vengeance. My baby was a sure thing. No question.<br />
<br />
Now I know differently, and V day seems hollow and a lie as I know that a baby born now would be very, very poorly indeed. In my naivety with Lucy I put my total faith that the miracles of modern science would be able to save my baby if she was born too soon. But nothing is guaranteed, and miracles are scarce in this harsh world. Even healthy, born at term babies can die.<br />
<br />
But still, 24 weeks is an achievment and I am grateful that we are here. Only 11 more weeks until baby is delivered. <br />
<br />
With Lucy I hit this mark around the day my Sister got married and I was Bridesmaid. I was so, so happy that day. It is only recently that I have been able to look at pictures taken then and feel OK about it, rather than feeling sorrow. I had everything I wanted that day, life was perfect. I truly radiated happiness and contentment.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEkLYgYiRg_-rtHQkZLnGt8TxLBlveX1SdnV_YVXr22BUKDO8djyKbJhVykfp0yUmnT3O9qb0Zo3SsXUbcJESevcIYORIpEA0v0rN5XaCBZvDzMFBpzHuHWvs3yZ5-dLCJaUOQoqlITSea/s1600/wedding+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEkLYgYiRg_-rtHQkZLnGt8TxLBlveX1SdnV_YVXr22BUKDO8djyKbJhVykfp0yUmnT3O9qb0Zo3SsXUbcJESevcIYORIpEA0v0rN5XaCBZvDzMFBpzHuHWvs3yZ5-dLCJaUOQoqlITSea/s320/wedding+1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Comparing bumps with the other guests. 20.06.09</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
Baby Girl is getting stronger every day, her kicks are more forceful now and I have started to feel her turn and stretch out more. I love it, I love that private communication between us. But with it also comes the worry - I feel I have to be 100% tuned in to it all of the time, I am fearful I will miss a key change, a vital clue that all is not well. This means that quite often I will be working, talking, on a phone call or in a shop and suddenly my brain will ask "When did you last feel her move?". I freeze and hold my breath as I wait to feel something. The panic will rise in my throat and I will prod and push my bump, I zone out and everything starts to go blurry, I am taken back to that fateful morning last September and I feel physically sick. Eventually I will get a little movement or a kick and I will be brought back into the real world, but not before the tears are stinging my eyes and my heart racing.<br />
Always thinking of the worse case scenario. <br />
Never relaxed.<br />
Because of this I am not sleeping well, when I wake up I am always waiting for that reassuring sign of life in my belly, if I do not feel something within five minutes I am wide awake and panicking. Poor baby rarely gets any rest as I am always pushing and prodding and trying to make her move so I know she is not dead.<br />
<br />
Occasionally I venture onto baby forums. These are full of expectant women all gushing about which pram they will buy, to BF or not, baby names, sex lives during pregnancy. All of the usual trivial crap that fills peoples minds when they haven't lost a baby. I read through what people write on there and I am split between feeling envious of their unrelenting optimism or feeling an amalgamation of disgust, dislike, intolerance at their mindless ramblings and petty worries. On the odd occasion I feel the urge to join in, to get get carried away with their bouncy, happy, baby scented gushings. As if it will somehow 'normalise' me. I want to be like them, and my dislike only stems from jealousy that I'm not. So I write something, trivial, fluffy, a piece of advice or an anecdote from my pregnancy with Lucy.<br />
And generally one of a few things happens. What predominantly happens is my comment is ignored. The women all talk and gush around me, their idle chat carries on as if I have never spoken. No one acknowledges me.<br />
I don't know what I expect really - I guess to be engaged in their happy world in some way. But their chit chat carries on and I am left standing there, silent.<br />
Sometimes what happens is my comment will end the conversation. Stopped dead in its tracks. I can almost see the tumbleweed blowing across the plains after I've said my little piece. Step away from the dead baby woman.<br />
Very occasionally a few pitying women will reply to tell me how sorry they are for my loss, how they can't imagine what it must have been like. And whilst that is nice and very kind I don't want to be reminded of that, I want to be part of the 'in crowd'. I want that naivety back and the gushing joy, the unshakeable belief that I will be having a baby in a few months time. I want to be able to chat about my pregnancy experiences like any other second time mum, comparing cravings and sleepless nights and niggles.<br />
So I don't post very much on those sites anymore as I come away feeling sad. I feel robbed of my pregnancy with Lucy, in more ways than one. Why have I lost the entitlement to talk about my experience? Do they see me as a failure? I feel they don't want advice from me, because my baby died. <br />
I feel like I am in the playground, trying to get in with the 'popular' girls, whilst they bitch about me behind my back. <br />
<br />
"Don't talk to her she couldn't even get PREGNANCY right! (and have you seen her shoes?)"<br />
<br />
So I am finding out even more that the loss of a child cuts deeper than ever imaginable. I am not even allowed to discuss my memories with the other mummies. I am the outsider.<br />
<br />
I have my wonderful baby loss friends to fill that void. To laugh with, cry with, and talk and talk as much as I want about Lucy, and my pregnancies. The ups, the downs, the cravings, the weight gain. We have our own select club.<br />
And as I talk with them I feel their character and strength and it shines like gold. It makes all of those empty, vacant, gushing mothers on the forums and chat rooms seem like Pyrite in comparison. Every memory shared is more precious, every tear, every laugh is filled with more sorrow and more happiness than could be imagined. And this isn't lost on me. <br />
<br />
So, some more pics as I document this little Rainbows journey with me. <br />
<br />
24 week bump (looks a lot smaller in the mornings, after my day is spent eating cake it seems to stick out a LOT further):<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt0R-UvhmsCzo2_2NR6ICnVNIGoLu7IpUyXIW9tSwUxE6X40R1Foq4ApQGglmecswQGQt6b6tgxBqmn2-hwexrZHXbQp52rbLLUCCU2e5fm6UAI9u3UlK0tG53CVvypvzVw3BVNQpmWcXP/s1600/SDC14073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt0R-UvhmsCzo2_2NR6ICnVNIGoLu7IpUyXIW9tSwUxE6X40R1Foq4ApQGglmecswQGQt6b6tgxBqmn2-hwexrZHXbQp52rbLLUCCU2e5fm6UAI9u3UlK0tG53CVvypvzVw3BVNQpmWcXP/s400/SDC14073.JPG" width="236" /></a></div><br />
And our nursery, which hasn't changed since we prepared it for Lucy (apart from the addition of another rug):<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9BmaxdQxtqxzEi4yemjScQlDXctVzhJDefob0OFUmxrpxCuEs-HixZJUUj2bLplAv0Y2jxg-830C78Keq36aRgeqyyMvAJDSbGrfmZKpShkaCWxEMmoLF0LAXtX5C85Fr1YsHZjHfsifA/s1600/Nursery.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9BmaxdQxtqxzEi4yemjScQlDXctVzhJDefob0OFUmxrpxCuEs-HixZJUUj2bLplAv0Y2jxg-830C78Keq36aRgeqyyMvAJDSbGrfmZKpShkaCWxEMmoLF0LAXtX5C85Fr1YsHZjHfsifA/s640/Nursery.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-71367611619204503432010-07-20T17:49:00.006+01:002010-07-20T18:40:28.184+01:00Kicks and baby stepsBeen a little while since I last blogged! I guess I haven't had a lot to say. Well that isn't strictly true, I have a lot to say but it's mainly the same things over and over again. How happy I am to be pregnant again. How scared I am of losing another child. How much I miss Lucy. How confused I am about this pregnancy.<br />
<br />
Things have been busy here, I'm trying to make the time pass quickly. We had our SANDS launch even, it went really well and raised over £2000 for the local group. I was very proud to be part of that. <br />
<br />
Other news, hmm I am 21+ 5 today so have 14 weeks and 1 day until I hopefully meet my baby girl. That sounds like a long time, it seems to have taken forever to get here but here I am. A long way to go it feels, lots of things that could happen between now and then. I am just having to blindly stumble on and hope it's going in the right direction. Baby is kicking now, but my placenta is anterior so I don't feel as many kicks as I did with Lucy at this stage. I go through regular cycles of being concerned baby is not kicking, to feeling her kick and being happy, to then going to the other extreme of panic that she is in distress and kicking me to let me know. This part was always going to be hard, mainly because I know exactly when Lucy died -I know those 'hiccups' I felt were her struggling inside me, and they got weaker and weaker. And I didn't feel her again after that. So with that horrific thought in my mind the movement part is a scary thing for me. I love it, but it terrifies me. I am scared my baby will try and tell me she is dying and I will not act swiftly enough.<br />
It won't come to that this time. Surely not. I can't lose another, can I? I try and be positive, as hard as it is.<br />
<br />
Lucy is always close to my thoughts. I try and imagine what she'd be like, what she'd be doing now, but I find it impossible. I simply cannot picture how she would be as a chubby toddler, as a little girl. I just see her how she was when we first held her. Even though it was only ten months ago it seems like a lifetime ago. Was that me? Did I really go through that? Was I that pale, sobbing girl in the pictures? Is it time to 'let go' of that pregnancy with Lucy and start living this one? I don't know. I can't erase what had happened, it is always with me. I am forever changed. I feel foolish getting excited. I can't think past October. I make no plans in my head with baby, I don't imagine pushing my pram, or changing nappies. I am still planning holidays that 'just the 2 of us' can go on next year. Just in case. It's not even that I think i will jinx it, it's just what is the point in getting my hopes up? My hopes were soaring this time last year and nature dragged me back to earth and smashed me over the head with her cruel blows. So I just can't muster anything other than cynicism. That isn't to say I'm not happy though - I am overjoyed to be given another opportunity. I'm just doubtful anything will come of it. Pregnancies for me don't = babies. But then our little Miss will give me a wriggle and a kick, and I will smile and stroke my belly and share our secret moment the way I did with her Sister. And I have just that little glimmer of hope. And I say to myself, "It will happen this time. You will be a Mummy". And for just that moment, I believe the hype.<br />
<br />
So here is me at 18 weeks, and 20 weeks:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQlfkojYCtbU_VBts9hdoCR-dE6lc6RAAnjDNMcBiUml5ea2xw19a13Y0wYMcgXAFT7C7It8i-FA-8Bjee7pTKCsCDlLXkGYzJrWq2YCjgWTjj6ZGq4EXI8g9vvo8eRMWAm6E3J1x202Ss/s1600/DSCF4007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQlfkojYCtbU_VBts9hdoCR-dE6lc6RAAnjDNMcBiUml5ea2xw19a13Y0wYMcgXAFT7C7It8i-FA-8Bjee7pTKCsCDlLXkGYzJrWq2YCjgWTjj6ZGq4EXI8g9vvo8eRMWAm6E3J1x202Ss/s320/DSCF4007.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipMAW1BrhSvnALZKYwOe4Noi_v928uw2vff8wgeVfOYTADTaCgo1fvaOOiTYypepl2TbVXx4C4XIeLVwfn8PclWXb2JUdn6WRUarOvves19xF_dJbLVzUCNm8ZTDSHZfWJzfX_nux9BVRe/s1600/20+%2B+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipMAW1BrhSvnALZKYwOe4Noi_v928uw2vff8wgeVfOYTADTaCgo1fvaOOiTYypepl2TbVXx4C4XIeLVwfn8PclWXb2JUdn6WRUarOvves19xF_dJbLVzUCNm8ZTDSHZfWJzfX_nux9BVRe/s320/20+%2B+3.JPG" /></a></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-683452300745277940.post-70426202580527382332010-06-20T10:01:00.001+01:002010-06-20T10:02:12.734+01:00Happy Fathers Day<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span><br />
<div style="color: purple; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Thinking of all those special men who have a heavy heart today. </b></span></div><div style="color: purple; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><span style="color: purple; font-family: Arial,Helvetica; font-size: small;">It must be very difficult<br />
To be a man in grief,<br />
Since "men don't cry" and "men are strong"<br />
No tears can bring relief.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Arial,Helvetica; font-size: small;"><br />
It must be very difficult<br />
To stand up to the test<br />
And field the calls and visitors<br />
So she can get some rest.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Arial,Helvetica; font-size: small;"><br />
They always ask if she's all right<br />
And what she's going through.<br />
But seldom take his hand and ask,<br />
"My friend, but how are you?"</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Arial,Helvetica; font-size: small;"><br />
He hears her crying in the night<br />
And thinks his heart will break.<br />
He dries her tears and comforts her,<br />
but "stays strong" for her sake.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Arial,Helvetica; font-size: small;"><br />
It must be very difficult<br />
To start each day anew<br />
And try to be so very brave --<br />
He lost his baby too.</span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03675756313028180009noreply@blogger.com0