One year ago today I was already up, awake, and worrying about my baby's movements.
In three hours time I would feel her last movements. Her struggles before she passed.
In four hours time I would ring the Labour ward in hysterics, knowing something was going terribly wrong with my perfect pregnancy.
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".
In eight and a half hours time - at four thirty in the afternoon - I was given my first pessary to start labour.
At ten thirty in the evening my waters were broken and I was 5 cm dilated.
But we wouldn't meet my little princess, my angel, my joy, my love, my sleeping beauty until tomorrows date.
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.
Sleep peacefully my angel xxxxxxx
Thursday, 23 September 2010
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Happily 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.
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 Lucy. 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.
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 do this, when Lucy used to do that? 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.
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.
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.
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 Lucy. 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.
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 do this, when Lucy used to do that? 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.
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.
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.
Friday, 3 September 2010
Her feet
Her 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.
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.
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.
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.
7 weeks to go.
What if my placenta fails earlier this time. What if I lose this little one too?
We are so, so close.
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.
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 thinks it won't. He says the chance of a reoccurence could be as low as 10%. But he doesn't really know.
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.
I can't remember the last time I had a full, restful nights sleep. My nights go like this:
Get in to bed. Lie there with my hands on my bump until I have had at least 5 or 6 strong movements.
Roll over and go to sleep.
Wake about 2 hours later needing a pee.
Get back into bed. Wait for her to move.
Nothing.
Roll onto my left side, waiting for a movement.
Nothing.
Panic.
Lie awake waiting.
Panic.
Then I will either get my doppler and listen to her swooshswooshswoosh, or she will give my a sleepy little movement.
Relief.
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.
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.
It is exhausting. I am exhausted.
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.
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.
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.
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.
7 weeks to go.
What if my placenta fails earlier this time. What if I lose this little one too?
We are so, so close.
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.
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 thinks it won't. He says the chance of a reoccurence could be as low as 10%. But he doesn't really know.
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.
I can't remember the last time I had a full, restful nights sleep. My nights go like this:
Get in to bed. Lie there with my hands on my bump until I have had at least 5 or 6 strong movements.
Roll over and go to sleep.
Wake about 2 hours later needing a pee.
Get back into bed. Wait for her to move.
Nothing.
Roll onto my left side, waiting for a movement.
Nothing.
Panic.
Lie awake waiting.
Panic.
Then I will either get my doppler and listen to her swooshswooshswoosh, or she will give my a sleepy little movement.
Relief.
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.
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.
It is exhausting. I am exhausted.
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.
Saturday, 7 August 2010
V day and conversation stoppers
So, Thursday was 'Viability' day as all my pregnancy books tell me. 24 weeks.
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.
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.
But still, 24 weeks is an achievment and I am grateful that we are here. Only 11 more weeks until baby is delivered.
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.
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.
Always thinking of the worse case scenario.
Never relaxed.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I feel like I am in the playground, trying to get in with the 'popular' girls, whilst they bitch about me behind my back.
"Don't talk to her she couldn't even get PREGNANCY right! (and have you seen her shoes?)"
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.
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.
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.
So, some more pics as I document this little Rainbows journey with me.
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):
And our nursery, which hasn't changed since we prepared it for Lucy (apart from the addition of another rug):
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.
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.
But still, 24 weeks is an achievment and I am grateful that we are here. Only 11 more weeks until baby is delivered.
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.
 |
| Comparing bumps with the other guests. 20.06.09 |
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.
Always thinking of the worse case scenario.
Never relaxed.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I feel like I am in the playground, trying to get in with the 'popular' girls, whilst they bitch about me behind my back.
"Don't talk to her she couldn't even get PREGNANCY right! (and have you seen her shoes?)"
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.
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.
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.
So, some more pics as I document this little Rainbows journey with me.
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):
And our nursery, which hasn't changed since we prepared it for Lucy (apart from the addition of another rug):
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Kicks and baby steps
Been 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
So here is me at 18 weeks, and 20 weeks:
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.
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.
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.
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.
So here is me at 18 weeks, and 20 weeks:
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Happy Fathers Day
Thinking of all those special men who have a heavy heart today.
To be a man in grief,
Since "men don't cry" and "men are strong"
No tears can bring relief.
It must be very difficult
To stand up to the test
And field the calls and visitors
So she can get some rest.
They always ask if she's all right
And what she's going through.
But seldom take his hand and ask,
"My friend, but how are you?"
He hears her crying in the night
And thinks his heart will break.
He dries her tears and comforts her,
but "stays strong" for her sake.
It must be very difficult
To start each day anew
And try to be so very brave --
He lost his baby too.
Sunday, 13 June 2010
This is my heart
So here in my hands is my heart. I have taken it from where it has been hiding from all the pain, the worry, the happiness and the excitement. I have dragged it out from its safe place, the place it couldn't get damaged again, the place no possible harm could come to it. It came out kicking and screaming but my baby kept pulling and tugging, and wouldn't give up.
So here now, it slowly beats in my hands.
Open and exposed to the dangerous world.
It is very scarred from previous battles of love and loss, but the biggest and deepest cuts of all carve out four letters.
Lucy
But still it beats on. For my baby. For my babies. For the little girl I held in my arms nearly nine months ago.
And now for the little girl who is wriggling around inside my womb. I have fallen for her, there is no going back now. I have opened my heart to her. I love her.
So here now, it slowly beats in my hands.
Open and exposed to the dangerous world.
It is very scarred from previous battles of love and loss, but the biggest and deepest cuts of all carve out four letters.
Lucy
But still it beats on. For my baby. For my babies. For the little girl I held in my arms nearly nine months ago.
And now for the little girl who is wriggling around inside my womb. I have fallen for her, there is no going back now. I have opened my heart to her. I love her.
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