Mumble jumble

The Boy and I have enjoyed the nice long bank holiday weekend. We saw good friends on Friday and Saturday, and then had Sunday and Monday together as quiet time. We've worked out that we need a balance of public and private time to help us along, to ensure we stay strong, and to keep us on more of an even keel. The weekend was mostly enjoyable, but the Boy and I have both lost our way a little bit at times and my mind is a bit of a 'mumble jumble' today.

Sunday was a difficult day for the Boy, and I felt really sad yesterday and slept terribly as a result. I think I managed about three hours of kip in between nightmares and worry. I was never that great at remembering dates and appointment times during the (short) pregnancy, but now I seem to have an internal calendar that peeps up and reminds me of our loss on our regular basis. Dates and anniversaries feel so painful. Yesterday it was a month since our tiny, tiny little baby Beans was delivered in hospital. I seem to have aged many years since then. As I've said in previous entries, in some ways it feels like a lifetime ago and I struggle to remember a time we weren't pregnant or thinking about the baby, at other times the wounds still feel so fresh and raw that it could have happened yesterday. I wonder, since then, how many other women have had their miscarriages managed in that same room in St Thomas's Hospital I was in, and how many other couples have had their dreams shattered and experienced the painful loss.

Tuesdays I find especially difficult as they remind me that our baby - if it had lived - would have been another week older, and we would have been another week closer to meeting him or her. Today our baby would have been 18 weeks old. Almost halfway there... I try not to dwell on what might have been, but I think it's natural to remember, contemplate and imagine. I'm sure I would have had a bump by now; I might even have felt a kick. The stronger, negative and dark feelings like my anger, envy and resentment seem to have dissipated and ebbed away over the last week or so, but there remains a terrible sadness. It's underlying all the time, but in a quiet and unassuming way. It's only when I let myself remember and indulge myself in thinking about what has happened that it begins to roar again. And it's right that I stay with that feeling for a time, for as long as I can manage. I need to, to ensure I can go forwards and be able to bear and live with what has happened. I don't want to be someone who months and months down the line bursts into tears at the news of a friend's pregnancy or a baby advert. I want to do my best to process what is happening and allow the feelings I have about what has happened to be a part of my life that I can tolerate and absorb.

I think it's difficult now that we have definitely decided to try again. I have some guilt about moving on and that fact that I do feel ready to do this, at what I perceive to be quite an early stage since our baby died. I know my baby meant the absolute world to me and the Boy and we couldn't have loved it anymore than we did, but I don't want to take anything from our baby's memory or its importance to us. I fear that if we fall pregnant again people will think we are 'over' what happened and that somehow it wasn't that bad or painful. We're certainly survivng, and I believe we're doing really well, but it's been a very dark experience that I wouldn't wish on anyone and I hope all my friends and family are shielded from it. It has been a really horrendous time and a future baby wouldn't be a replacement, it would be a younger sibling for the baby we lost. We'll never forget. But we can forgive what has happened and allow ourselves to let go - we have no choice.

There is also some anxiety about how my body will work again. As I say, it's been a month now since our little tiny baby arrived. We were told my normal cycles would resume in 4-6 weeks, so I await my 'lady' with both trepidation and optimism. There is fear because I haven't had a period since January, and it will be another physical confirmation and reminder that I'm not pregnant and we must beging the 'trying' process again. But also optimism because hopefully my body will have settled back into its normal routine and we have every reason to hope and believe I can get pregnant again and this time the outcome could be different. We go into trying for another baby wiser than we were before. We know when is the best time to be intimate, and we know the road ahead to be a bumpy one. We're aware our dreams may not be realised, but we are also aware that it's worth the risk of being blessed with a child, and the alternative for us isn't really an alternative.

So I feel a little out of sorts still today. I am a 'mumble jumble' of anxiety, guilt - but also hope. There are going to be new feelings for me over the coming weeks and months and there will be more reminders, more dates, more sadness. But also I'm sure more happiness - and more hope.

Girls just wanna have fun

Last night two of my closest girlfriends, who were both bridesmaids for me at my wedding last year, came round to Empire Towers. It's the first time I've seen friends of an evening since the miscarriage, and it did me the world of good - although I am paying for it now! 

The three of us are very close, we all met while working together at a children's charity. It was fantastic to see them and talk properly in the safety and security of my own home. It's been a fair while since the three of us were together so there was a lot of news to catch up on. I had been nervous about how I wo

A month on

It's hard to take in, but today it is a month since we found out our baby Beans had died. I'm not sure where the time has gone, although in some ways it feels like it all happened longer than a month ago. At other times it feels like it was only yesterday.

It's been quite a month, with lows that I never could have imagined I would feel, a sadness I didn't believe was bearable, and a depth of pain I didn't realise existed. There have been moments when I've wondered how the Boy and I would survive, days sat in front of my computer at work using all my energy to keep the tears inside, and nights riddled with nightmares and unrest.

At first I felt the wound so keenly - there was a real physical pain inside of me that throbbed and burned, and I couldn't escape it as much as I wanted to. It needed to be felt. My arms ached to hold a baby, my whole being wanted to smell, sense, and feel a baby, our baby. I felt so angry and frustrated at what we had lost, wanting someone to blame when there was no one. Wanting to make sense of a situation that lacked any logic. Envious of those who had children or were pregnant, not through any malice but so desperately wishing things were different for me and the Boy. It was very difficult to begin to let go - to stop torturing myself with 'what ifs' and 'if onlys'. A month on I still feel myself at times wanting to go down that path, but I can generally pull myself back. The detours are unhelpful and cause me undue grief - the journey ahead is already difficult with hurdles and obstacles enough without being sidetracked.

But we have also had some good times, and yesterday brought a sense of closure to the process for me. As painful as it has all been, I feel able to start to move on. I am haunted by the image of the Boy carrying our baby's coffin - a sight I never imagined I would see, and an experience I wish the Boy had never been through. But at last we are all at peace. Our baby is buried with other lost babies for company, and won't be moved any more. We can all rest now. And the boy and I can be brave and strong for our baby, and begin to live our lives again.

The baby has left us quite a legacy - only with us for 13 weeks, but from its death we have learned many things. We know how loved we are by family and friends, and what sympathetic and kind colleagues and employers we both have. We know we can make a baby, and we know I can deliver one. We know how much we want a family, and how any sacrifices we make for this will be so worth it and so much better than the alternative. But most of all, as I've said so many times in these entries, I have a renewed, heightened and more intense love for my husband. In the short time it was with us, the baby awakened a new side of me, and I have a greater capacity for love than before. And that love has gone to the Boy. He has shown himself to be every bit the man I knew he was, but also a whole lot more. I've been there with him in a dank, dark place when we've been tested and tortured, and we've walked out of that dark place together, stronger, braver... somehow just 'more' than we were before.

Going forwards will take time, I know from my work as a bereavement counsellor that there will be many difficult days ahead. We will be reminded of our loss when we least expect it; a word, conversation, experience, picture, date or song can transport us back to that dark place with the click of a finger. And that will be hard to deal with. More tests lie ahead, as friends announce their pregnancies and extend their families, and we must find the courage within ourselves to separate their happy news from our loss, and to be joyful and proud for them. And the greatest challenge of all I suspect will be if we find ourselves pregnant again - how will we cope with the nerves and anxiety, and manage our fears? Will it bring back all the memories of our first dear baby? What will we do if we find ourselves here again? Can we live through another loss as well as we have this time? Is our relationship strong enough to be tested again? I think I know the answers to these questions, but we won't know for sure until we are in that position.

I know I have so much more work to do. I'm not yet able to read back through the posts on my blog to when I was pregnant. It's still too upsetting for me to recall how happy and excited I was. That will come with a bit more time I think. But I am sure it will come. I have hope and faith in the future, and I have sublime love. And I am reminded of the Corinthians reading we had at our wedding and I take heart and strength from the words: "And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love".

Rest in peace

So today we laid our little baby Beans to rest. It was a very surreal, but also a very gentle and peaceful, day. And once again the sun beamed down on us. The Boy and I were anxious as we approached the funeral directors - not sure what to expect and fearful that we could contain our emotions.

We arrived early so spent some time in the memorial gardens before it was time for our service. It felt sad looking at all the plaques and plots, but I have never seen a garden so well tended or a burial area with so very many flowers. The place felt calm and quiet, but full of love. Reading the tributes that had been left I felt sure our baby would be safe here. The Boy and I felt a small sense of comfort in finding people buried there with our surname - perhaps they will look out for our baby for us. It was interesting to see Jade Goody, the Big Brother celebrity, was also buried there. Perhaps she too can take care of baby Beans while we cannot.

When we were greeted at reception we were taken to a private room to wait for the minister. The lady asked us if either of us would like to carry our baby's coffin which caught us both by surprise and I immediately felt the lump in my throat form and the tears prick at my eyes. The Boy without hesitation said he would and I looked at him, once again bowled over with pride and love at the strength and honour of the man I married. He is immense.

The father came to greet us and asked if we had any readings. The Boy and I had settled on Little Snowdrop and I felt I wanted to at least attempt to read it. I was unsure if my emotions would get the better of me. Slowly we made our way outside and the Boy was given the coffin to carry to the memorial garden. A beautiful white box with 'Baby Gibson' written on it. We made our way steadily and soon arrived at our plot, on the north side of the garden. The funeral director handled the box with such care, wrapping it in dark red velvet while the father read the blessings and prayers. I managed the reading, and felt very proud of doing it - I was proud of us. Our baby leaves this world carried by its father and honoured by its mother. We will miss baby Beans very much. The minister blessed the coffin and the Boy and I stroked the box, saying a last tender goodbye, before it was gently placed in the plot.

It was a very gentle service and the Boy and I - so far - feel it was very beautiful, and a perfect and apt way to say a final goodbye. I liked the memorial garden - almost next door to where Michael Caine grew up - and I will go back and see our baby from time to time, on special dates. Wherever we live the fact it is so near central London means we will always be able to visit our first born Beans. We feel a sense of underlying sadness and loss that I imagine will be there for some time, but we also feel a sense of peace. It feels like we have now left baby Beans to rest, and while we will never ever forget, we can all begin to sleep a little more easily.

Poetry in motion

I feel a little thrown as I write this, as the father who is conducting the funeral tomorrow has left me a message asking if there are any special readings we would like at the service, and if so to bring them along. I hadn't thought of preparing anything, which leaves me feeling a little guilty and I'm concerned what else I might have forgotten. And while I'm impressed with the hospital's level of care for us, I'm a bit overwhelmed by the detail that is going into the funeral. I'm not sure it's entirely appropriate for the Boy and I - but perhaps it may become more so in time.

There are two poems that I have read since we lost baby Beans, which have made me think about our lovely baby in a happier light. Perhaps we can use one of them for the reading. I will discuss this with the Boy this evening and see what we would find the most useful. My heart aches with sadness and loss when I read the poems in my head, so I am fearful how hard tomorrow will be. But I suppose it must be thus, to let us mourn, say goodbye, and begin to walk out of the shadows and into the light once again.

Little Snowdrop
The world may never notice if a snowdrop doesn't bloom,
Or even stop to wonder if the petals fall too soon.
But every life that ever forms or even comes to be
Touches the world in some way for all eternity.

The little one we longed for was swiftly here and gone,
But the love that was then planted is a light that still shines on.
And even though our arms are empty, our hearts know what to do.
Every beating of our hearts says that we both love you.

Gone Too Soon
This was a life that hardly begun.
No time to find your place in the sun.
No time to do all you could have done.
But we loved you enough for a lifetime.

No time to enjoy the world and its wealth.
No time to take life down off the shelf.
No time to sing the song of yourself,
Though you had enough love for a lifetime.

Those who live long endure sadness and tears,
But you'll never suffer the sorrowing years.
No betrayal, no anger, no hatred, no fears,
Just love, enough love for a lifetime.

Reading

I feel a little bit thrown as I write this, as the Father who is conducting the funeral tomorrow has left me a voice message asking if there are any special readings we would like, and if so to bring them along. I hadn't thought of preparing anything which leaves me feeling a little guilty. I'm concerned now what else I might have forgotten. And while I'm so impressed with the hospital's level of care, I feel a bit overwhelmed by the detail that is going into the funeral. I'm not sure it's entirely helpful for the Boy and I - but I suspect it may become more so in time.

There are two poems I have read since we lost the baby, which have helped me to think about baby Beans in a happier light. Perhaps we can use one of them for the reading... I will discuss this with the Boy when we are both home from work tonight and see what we would find most useful and appropriate. My heart aches with sadness and loss when I read the poems in my head, so I am fearful how sad tomorrow will be. But I suppose it must be thus, to let us mourn, say goodbye, and begin to walk out of the shadows and into the light once again.

Little Snowdrop

The world may never notice if a snowdrop doesn't bloom,

Or even pause to wonder if the petals fall too soon.

But every life that ever forms or even comes to be

Touches the world in some small way for all eternity.

The little one we longed for was swiftly here and gone,
But the love that was then planted is a light that still shines on.
And though our arms are empty our hearts know what to do,
Every beating of our hearts says that we love you.

Gone too soon
This was a life that hardly begun
No time to find your place in the sun
No time to do all you could have done
But we loved you enough for a lifetime.

No time to enjoy the world and its wealth
No time to take life down off the shelf
No time to sing the song of yourself
Though you had enough love for a lifetime.

Those who live long endure sadness and tears
But you'll never suffer the sorrowing years
No betrayal, no anger, no hatred, no fears
Just love, enough love for a lifetime.

Tomorrow is another day

More sunshine caressed our faces as we walked the three-mile journey into work this morning, and the week is going well so far for the Boy and I. We both feel stronger and brighter, and more like our old selves. The weekend away certainly did us the world of good. I feel tougher, braver and more able to face the world. I can talk about our baby without faltering, and think of our baby without breaking down. While the memories are predominantly painful and sad, I can also think back with a tiny sense of happiness that the Boy and I made a child together and what joy that brought us for 13 weeks.

I feel more positive about the future and after long discussions we've decided to start trying again for a family straight away, as soon as my lady has arrived. It's been three weeks now since I had the operation so that should be in the next few weeks. Hopefully it will show that my body has settled down and we can start trying to conceive again. I'm sure that will be an even more emotional process this time, riddled with doubt, hope, anxiety and optimism for a different ending. The Boy and I are able to be physically close again regularly now and that has helped me feel more settled and secure. He really is my world and being close to him gives me peace and courage.

But before we get to that point, there is tomorrow. Our darling baby Beans will be buried in Rotherhithe tomorrow morning at 8.30am. I can hardly bring myself to think about what it will be like, and how sad it will be to say a last goodbye to our first, beautiful and beloved child. I can take heart from the fact that the Boy and I go into tomorrow well prepared physically, as rested, together and united as we can be. I can also take comfort from the fact our baby will be buried in a memorial garden that we can go and visit whenever we like. I have been wondering how I can feel close to our baby on its due date, that memorable date of 1/11/11... and I think a visit to the garden could be helpful.

While I am scared and distressed at what the new day will bring, I hope tomorrow will provide a sense of calm and closure - and even relief - and that our baby can sleep peacefully in the garden and in our hearts, and we can begin to walk away and face the future and the next chapter in our lives together.