tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50035992540388284002024-03-22T02:13:47.820+00:00Defining Moments...Life After Stillbirth...
Dealing with loss, infertility and learning to be foster carers to vulnerable childrenAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.comBlogger98125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-65651619828114601632017-09-27T07:19:00.001+01:002017-09-27T07:19:11.444+01:00Our Lips are Sealed This weekend someone who was very well meaning told me that I need to move on from Emilie's death and stop dwelling on it. They pointed out that it will be difficult for John and the kids when I get upset around Emilie's anniversary and that it may be easier for them if I didn't.<br />
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... If I didn't get upset ...<br />
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Today is her anniversary - six years.<br />
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The advice I received from this well meaning person this weekend got me thinking about the way I handle grief and emotion. I believe that as parents we have a responsibility to show our children healthy ways of managing emotion. Samuel misses Emilie - whether he fully understands what he misses or not is another matter but when her anniversary comes around we talk about her. We go away as a family and make new memories together, we have cake together, we celebrate her life and sometimes we cry.<br />
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This weekend I cried in-front of my children. When I discussed this with Sam and asked him if he understood why I was upset, he simply replied 'because Emilie was your daughter and we all miss her.'<br />
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When the above advice came through in email form my initial reaction was panic. Old anxieties surfaced and I worried that by showing emotion and grief in-front of my children I was reversing the parent/child relationship and inviting them to care for me. I didn't want them to see my weakness. I wanted to pick myself back up, dust myself off and carry on regardless of what was going on. Emilie died six years ago and really I should be over it by now. Right? Life moves on and we don't mention bad things that happen - it's not the British way.<br />
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And yet this felt so wrong. I was reminded of the hours after Emilie was born. She was wrapped up in her hospital cot and was lying next to where I was sitting. I was doing ... well I can't really remember. She didn't need feeding and she didn't need changing yet the normalcy of having given birth carried on. I had still undergone a hugely traumatic birth. I had lost blood, I was exhausted and my blood pressure was dangerously high. Everything ached terribly and I had been given medication to lower my blood pressure and medication to stop milk production. I had a terrible headache which is associated with pre-eclampsia. I was seriously ill. I couldn't just leave and carry on - I had to stay where I was until I was well enough to go home. This sense of having to stay where I was was probably a positive thing as my default is to do just what I've described about - to get away from the pain; to push it away, to get rid of it, to put a lid on it and move on. Because I had to remain in hospital I had the opportunity to clean and dress Emilie. I had the opportunity to hold her, to cuddle her and to kiss her - to take precious photographs. These were not things I wanted to do. My initial reaction was to get rid of her. I did not want the pain of seeing her and I did not want physical proof of her existence. I wanted the excruciating pain gone from my life. In short, I wanted to move on. <br />
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The hospital staff, our friends who were with us, and John were hugely supportive of me over the two days we spent with Emilie. Our friends Dave, Jenny and Carol held her and commented on her beauty. They cradled her like any other newborn baby and they loved her unconditionally. For this I will always be grateful. And then something amazing happened; a midwife - a stranger - came into the room. She wasn't my midwife and I never saw her again. I can't even remember why she came in, but remember her being there. She walked straight over to the cold cot where Emilie was lying and looked into it. She turned to me and said 'she is beautiful, and looks just like you'. I remember being taken aback - what was the correct response? At that moment the only response I could think of was a snappy 'you do know shes's dead, don't you?' (In a strange way this memory has always made me laugh - I often think of that poor woman!). She replied that yes, she did know that Emilie was dead yet it didn't change how beautiful she was or the fact that she was our much wanted, much adored daughter. The kindness of strangers can be amazing and form the whole two day nightmare this is one of my most vivid memories.<br />
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She was still our daughter. <br />
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Someone told me yesterday that a life so short is no less precious - and how true those words are.<br />
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So I will carry on remembering her. I will let myself feel this emotion at anniversary time and will not push it down. I will show the emotion - where appropriate to my children - as I believe it is as healthy for them to see my vulnerabilities as it is to see my strengths. And maybe - just maybe - children seeing the emotional strength and the emotional vulnerabilities of their parents, and being able to use healthy and appropriate language to discuss these emotions, is a step in the right direction towards not having children who grow up believing that emotion is bad; believing that putting on a strong front is the best way to be - and descending into mental health problems later in life.<br />
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We need to talk about these things.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-91901252874743076482017-09-27T07:17:00.000+01:002017-09-27T07:17:50.544+01:00With September progressing I feel my anxiety levels rise, triggered by the back to school chaos with a child with Autism and my husband away in South Korea for the first couple of weeks of the month amongst other things. This is a post that has been in progress for a couple of weeks and has undergone change, development and rejection but is one that I felt needed to be written.<br />
Six years ago our daughter, Emilie, died. It is her anniversary in less than two weeks. It is the event from which this blog grew and is a defining moment of my life – the point at which ‘before’ became ‘after’. My life bears no resemblance to that which it did before Emilie’s death and I am completely changed as well. <br />
She changed me and her death made me into the person I am today.<br />
But that is not especially what I am writing about now.<br />
Four days ago my dad died. He was probably ‘dad’ in name only. I did not know him well and had not seen him for over a decade. He made huge mistakes when I was growing up - which are not for this blog – and at the age of 22, after his separation from my mum, I made the decision to protect myself and withdraw from him. It wasn’t really a conscious decision at the time but became a conscious decision over time. I did not like the person I became when I was faced with the prospect of seeing him. I did not like the panic attacks, the anxiety, the obsessions and the lies and when I had my own children I realised that my priority had to be to my own family. I had to learn to be a parent and work out what that looked like for myself.<br />
But now I am faced with fresh grief – and with decisions that are really hard for me to make. At this anniversary time I am struggling to isolate one grief from another; the grief of Emilie’s death from the grief of the death of an absent parent. How should I feel and what is the right way to respond? If the past six years have taught me anything it is that grief is hugely personal. There is no right or wrong way to grieve and the social norms and rituals that surround death can often make personal grief hard. <br />
I have spent the past few years thinking that I have finished grieving my (lack of) relationship with my dad yet the news of his death hit me much harder than I expected. Maybe this is because of its close proximity to Emilie’s anniversary, maybe it’s because I have dealt with it alone while John is away or maybe it’s because grief is actually cyclic and, as I have said before, time does not heal all wounds. <br />
Right now I am firmly rooted in the Anger stage of Kubler Ross’ Grief cycle and I’m happy here – it’s easy to wallow in my own self pity rather than having to deal with the acceptance that I will never receive the answers or apology(ies) that I have so longed for. <br />
Yet I feel like a fraud.<br />
The majority of people who know me well will know about the difficult relationship I had with my dad and my grief feels like a lie. It becomes something I believe I don’t deserve to feel and the hurt, pain and disappointments of the past 35 years are coming back to haunt me. Is there a correct way to mourn the death of an absent parent and how is it possible to reach a position of acceptance and forgiveness when it is now totally one sided?<br />
I don’t have the answers and I possibly never will – it is something new that I will have to learn to process and I don’t want anger and hatred to surface as I learn to process things.<br />
And then there’s September ... Samuel picked up a conker this morning and I struggled to share his excitement. They will forever be a seasonal reminder that we are drawing closer to the anniversary of Emilie’s death. Her death came at such a significant time in the year – that change of season from the heat of summer to the beauty of Autumn and then my grief led me into the barrenness of winter where I genuinely hibernated with the warmth of the air until spring came round again. And as I enter this new wave of grief I feel myself ready to hibernate again whilst I process everything that has happened.<br />
Hopefully with the promised change of season from winter to spring that seems so far away at present, I will enter a place of forgiveness and acceptance and will be able to move forward. For now, after days of agonising and wrestling with guilt, grief and anger, I need to be able to be with my immediate family as John returns from South Korea and make choices and decisions that are best for us. I need to be ‘ok with not being ok’ about this particular situation and that is something that is not easy for me.<br />
But who ever said that grief was easy ...?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-55623253929701896862016-06-15T20:46:00.001+01:002016-06-15T20:51:52.736+01:00Time is the Best Healer <div dir="ltr">
This post has been brewing for a few weeks having just watched a couple of friends suffer recurrent miscarriages. </div>
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I have been thinking a lot about the term ‘time is the best healer’ and wondering whether it is actually true. One of the things that spurred me on to wonder this was seeing a post on Facebook about Rainbow Babies. For those of you unfamiliar to the term, “<i>a rainbow baby is a baby that is born following miscarriage, stillbirth, neonatal death or infant loss. In the real world, a beautiful, bright rainbow follows a storm and gives the hope of things getting better. The rainbow is more appreciated having just experienced the storm in comparison.”</i> (www.kickscount.org.uk). </div>
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Oh how I longed for my rainbow baby. </div>
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This year marks 5 years since Emilie’s death and 4 years since my last miscarriage; 3 years since we decided enough was enough. We felt like we had exhausted every path and had continued to experience loss. We have 2 beautiful children; one birth child and one adopted child and we felt that continuing to pursue our rainbow baby was unfair on them due to the huge risks for me during pregnancy. But the desire didn’t go away and I sometimes wonder if that can be misunderstood.</div>
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We did not have a rainbow baby. We are one of the families who people can feel uncomfortable talking about. Our happy ending was different to that which we had expected and that which women longing for children want to hear about. I have been one of those women; I know the score. When I was longing; when every fibre of my being was crying out for a baby to hold, I did not want to hear about couples who had made their peace with not being able to have any other children (or any birth children full stop). I did not want to hear about couples who had adopted children and moved on. I wanted a baby. I wanted MY baby. I heard inspirational stories of couples who had held strong in their faith in spite of their prayers not being answered in the ways that they had hoped and therefore not receiving their rainbow baby in the way, or timing they had expected. And sometimes not at all. </div>
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But that wasn’t going to be me.</div>
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I was going to be different and was going to have my rainbow baby. Except I didn’t. I never got the opportunity to announce the healthy pregnancy of my rainbow baby on Facebook. I didn’t get to share the scan photos, announce their birth or share anecdotes about sleepless nights. There is still a void left where those experiences should have been and, nearly 5 years on from our biggest loss, I think that that is something that gets forgotten. Not in us as a couple, per se, but in couples who have experienced infertility and loss as a whole. </div>
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For couples who have experienced repeated loss, the pain does not diminish each time. There is no sigh of “oh well, it’s happened again, I kind of knew what to expect anyway ...”. The pain is still there. Deep rooted and festering. The hormones still kick in, the miscarriage (or for couples who have experienced repeated late loss – the birth) still has to take place. The physical pain still has to be endured, sometimes surgeries still have to happen, and the emotions still have to be experienced. </div>
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Watching my friends go through miscarriages recently has been like watching a mirror image of myself . To a certain extent I knew what they were feeling. I could anticipate what emotions would come next and knew that when they were feeling it was all too much they would ultimately be OK. Not that day, and not for a long time afterwards; but eventually they would be OK, even if they didn’t know it themselves at the time. Being ‘in’ that pain, however, is excruciating and sometimes you just need someone to come alongside you, not to say ‘it’ll all be ok’, ‘count your blessings’ or ‘at least you know you can get pregnant’ but actually just to say ‘it’s crap. I’m sorry’.</div>
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I have friends who have experienced loss and have had their rainbow babies and friends who have experienced loss after loss as we have. I can only imagine what it must be like to bring home your rainbow baby and often wonder whether having a baby after a miscarriage reduces the pain. I’m sure it must to an extent but the lost baby will never be replaced and that alone is one of the most painful lessons I ever had to learn.</div>
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By the same merit I can only imagine the pain of experiencing loss and not having any birth children as a result. My heart breaks for people in that situation and I wouldn’t want to add any more thought to this as I can’t comprehend how that must feel.</div>
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My children are such an amazing gift. There are times when I am so overwhelmed with love for them that I actually fear losing them and how I would cope ... but that’s another post altogether. My love for them does not, however, diminish the pain that I feel at losing Emilie. Neither does it take away the pain of not being able to have another birth child – of not being able to hold my rainbow baby. That is something that I believe I will always have to deal with regardless of age or life stage.</div>
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So, back to the theory that ‘time is the best healer’. </div>
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With time, my capacity has increased, as has my acceptance of the situation. My pain has become more manageable and my understanding greater. But things still hurt. Pregnancy announcements and birth announcements still carry a sting with them regardless of my joy for the people involved. That’s hard to say and it took me a long time to realise that that did not make me a bad person. There are still bad days, low days and days where life feels bitterly unfair. </div>
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And then there is the fear of sounding like a broken record.</div>
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And that alone encompasses what I’ve learnt about recurrent loss. I do sound like a broken record but it will stay with me forever. This is not the way things were meant to be; this was not my ‘life plan’. I did not set out to experience great pain and feel a hole in my life. </div>
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But that is what happened. </div>
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And for those friends, who know who they are, the pain is also very real and very raw. I would love to be able to put together a wonderful ’10 things you can do to support your friend who has experienced recurrent loss’ or ‘things not to say to people who’ve experienced recurrent loss’ but would not know quite how to word it without causing offence!</div>
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So instead I’ve borrowed someone else’s! This is something I came across that I believed was too good not to share. </div>
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1. ‘Make sure you listen more than you speak. This conversation isn’t about you or your opinions but about supporting your friend’</div>
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2. Know your audience when talking about your own family</div>
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‘If you talk about your kids all the time you’re talking about the one thing they don’t have in common with you’</div>
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3. Be sensitive about telling your friend you’re pregnant</div>
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‘Tell your friend first before you announce it publicly… Don’t tell them in person (a text, email or letter gives them time to process the news)… Don’t show them your scan photos…’</div>
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4. Bite your tongue</div>
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‘Most people have a story about someone who couldn’t have children and then did… There’s always some weird herb or drug people have taken…’ In short, go easy on advice-giving</div>
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5. Stop trying to find reasons why</div>
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‘Faith doesn’t always resolve, we may never have our ‘answer’ and this is the complex journey you need to walk with your friend’</div>
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6. Infertility doesn’t always go away</div>
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‘It may be years since a diagnosis and your friend may seem much stronger, but this doesn’t mean they’re no longer experiencing loss’</div>
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7. Talking helps</div>
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‘You need to let your friend get angry, complain, cry and say what’s on their heart… help them let it out, then give them tea and cake’</div>
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8. Have fun</div>
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‘Organise some fun activities with them, get some dates in the diary and have a laugh. It gives them a break from obsessing over baby stuff and helps them remember there are still some good things in life to enjoy’</div>
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9. Be an advocate</div>
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‘At work, in friendship groups, church communities and family gatherings you can change the conversation when it’s been dominated by child birth stories and cracked nipples for the last half an hour…’</div>
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http://saltwaterandhoney.org/supporting-a-friend-struggling-with-childlessness</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-36853399278131497732015-12-28T14:30:00.000+00:002015-12-28T14:31:08.323+00:00Comparison is the Thief of Joy ...Yesterday I shared a meme on my Facebook page. I had stolen it from someone else but it rang very true for me. It said "<i>the life you see here on social media isn't reality. It's everyone's highlight reel."</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgOkMuB7XBouinlyITVKGFc-KYeeYCmd5mRVwMhqONmgrmUrcMuBbIrPED3wibu8wJqpZqucY_zkGwLN9dsCbocYW9GaTpysPPuVbHrvN6cu2XpgXEN8zTQH9DFXn4oP6uhS0wuu0kDkA/s1600/10407707_10153332993570886_8575748018728318933_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgOkMuB7XBouinlyITVKGFc-KYeeYCmd5mRVwMhqONmgrmUrcMuBbIrPED3wibu8wJqpZqucY_zkGwLN9dsCbocYW9GaTpysPPuVbHrvN6cu2XpgXEN8zTQH9DFXn4oP6uhS0wuu0kDkA/s200/10407707_10153332993570886_8575748018728318933_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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After I posted it and gave my reasons for doing so I received a lot of feedback both in the form of comments and private messages which led me to believe that I am not the only person who struggles with the lives portrayed on social media.<br />
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Unfortunately, comparison is something that I have always struggled with. In my late teens and early twenties I had an eating disorder. Although this grew out of a need to regain some control in my life rather than out of comparing myself to slimmer girls, it did lead me to a point of comparison. At the time, I was never fully aware of how thin I was but during my time of recovery (in which I include now; as with other addictive behaviours I don't feel that eating disorders ever fully go away, but instead need to be managed) I began to become much more aware of my size. Naturally, I needed to be a much more healthy weight and began to compare myself to other women of different shapes and sizes. For the first time I became grossly aware of my appearance and was not happy with this. Friends would look different to me. In my eyes they had a better figure, better hair, better teeth, nicer clothes and better fashion sense. They had better lives - and I often based this purely on how they looked and what they wore.<br />
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Social media did not exist (as it does now) when I was in my late teens and early twenties and I am hugely thankful for this. I based my views, and built my insecurities, on those I could see around me, on how they looked and on unrealistic images of women in magazines. Had I had social media to add to the equation I can only imagine where my insecurities and issues with comparison would have led me. I have younger sisters who grew up with social media being the norm and I am aware of how difficult it must be for them and for teenage girls to see unrealistic images popping up on their news feeds all day. For me this would have hugely fired my need to compare myself to others.<br />
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Don't get me wrong; I'm not slating Facebook, <strike>not really, anyway</strike>. I have tried a number of times to come off Facebook - to remove the comparison to other people's lives in this way from my own. But I have friends all over the world. I enjoy being able to keep in touch with them and see how they are getting on. I enjoy being able to see how their children are growing when I'm unable to see this in person. It is an amazing tool for keeping in touch with people. However, who ever REALLY posts the whole truth and nothing but the truth on their Facebook page. <strike>I know I don't</strike>!<br />
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I'll give an example - and I don't mean to offend anyone by doing so.<br />
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As an adoptive parent (read more here http://definingmomentshope.blogspot.co.uk/search?updated-min=2014-01-01T00:00:00Z&updated-max=2015-01-01T00:00:00Z&max-results=33) I have two separate privacy settings on my Facebook page. Those for people who I may not know especially well in 'real life' but still want to be able to keep in touch with and those for people who I 'do life with' and see on a regular basis and have a deeper relationship with. With the latter I share more personal anecdotes, photographs and information. My reasons for this are not to exclude people from my life, rather as I feel that not everyone would want to know the nitty gritty stuff. I also do not fully trust privacy settings and would not share information about my daughter widely for fear of it somehow reaching her birth family. In all honesty, unless I've had a particularly horrendous day, I share my best bits to both privacy settings. Even if I've had a horrendous day I don't think I'd ever really say EXACTLY how I was feeling on my Facebook. <br />
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I like to post <strike>boast</strike> about my running on my Facebook. Did I mention that my half marathon personal best is 1 hour, 46 minutes and 55 seconds? No?! Well now I have. I was delighted. However, two months later I was injured and couldn't train. I began to compare myself unfavourably to other people's run times and before I knew it I had lost my joy. Running is a big thing for me. I do a long run every Saturday and if I am happy with my time I will post this on Facebook. If I am not happy with my time I will either remain quiet or simply post a map of my distance and keep the rest to myself. Maybe it is a bit proud and boastful. I would certainly think so if I read it on a friend's timeline. However, what I don't post is the tears I will have cried the day before. The fact that I broke down, once again, on the way home from the school run because my daughter, who has learning difficulties and sensory processing needs, has once again sat down in the middle of the pavement in a puddle and refused to move ... and I'm not strong enough to carry her the 1.5 km home myself so have had to call my husband to come and rescue us. I do not post that she has, once again, lost her sense of danger at a level crossing and has stepped out onto a busy dual carriage way only to have me tug on her hood/arm/reins/<strike>hair</strike> to stop her stepping into the line of a car and that this has caused her to have a meltdown leading me to handing my son over to a neighbour to take to school and calling my husband to come and rescue me and my daughter. I do not post, alongside my running photograph, map and time, an anecdote about running being what keeps me sane; what stops me from lashing out and busting into tears of frustration. That I look forward to my runs ALL WEEK and my husband and I both realise how important it is for me to fit them in. I post my best bits.<br />
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I blogged a few months ago about returning to work and what a big step it had been for me. I helped to set up a nursery which is something I've always wanted to do. However, I have recently had to take a step back from my role as it wasn't working for my family. Everyone was getting half measures. My daughter took a turn for the worse and struggled to settle into pre school. Her sleep disorder worsened. My son realised that my attention was further split and, as he's only 6, began to act up too. He has an intermittent stammer which worsened dramatically and his behaviour massively deteriorated. Our marriage received whatever scraps were left. I felt relief at making the very difficult decision to step down until I saw on Facebook the number of my friends who manage to juggle children, marriage, life and amazing jobs and still have time to paint their nails! And my relief and joy was stolen and I became a failure. The rational side of me knows that these friends will also have their struggles and, like me, will not share them all on Facebook. But when I'm feeling less rational, that's when the feelings of failure creep in and everything I had accomplished in helping to set up the nursery becomes diminished. I post my best bits - and so do they.<br />
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During the summer we were planning on having some work done on our house. However, the planning permission fell through. I began to lose contentment in what we had and began to covet all of the amazing houses I was seeing flying round the internet. It was at this time that I was listening to a podcast entitled 'Comparison is the Thief of Joy'. I felt like the podcast was speaking straight at me and God was saying 'this is for you'. As a response I deleted the Rightmove app off of my phone and tried to focus more on what we had rather than what we didn't have. At this time, we won the appeal for planning permission and the work started shortly after. And, of course, I began posting photographs of the work on Facebook. I did not post that a matter of months earlier that refusal of planning permission had made me feel so sorry for myself that I began to question why 'nothing ever went my way'. I added the refused planning permission to a long line of tragedies including our daughter's death and the infertility we later suffered. Talk about losing perspective! Funnily enough, this did not make it to my Facebook feed (although I did mention it to some trusted friends who smiled, patted my arm and remained as patient as ever with me). I post my best bits.<br />
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So this brings me back to my original point: "<i>the life you see here on social media isn't reality. It's everyone's highlight reel ..." </i>And once again stealing someone else's words - <i>"<span style="background-color: white; font-family: minion-pro, Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 24px; line-height: 33.6px;">We use social media to plaster the highlights of our lives because why share the ugly parts if we don’t have to? We don’t get to see the unattractive pictures. We don’t get to hear about the fighting that goes on. We don’t know that they are charging all of their luxuries on a credit card and they’re in debt. WE DON’T KNOW. Instead, we post the things that make our lives look f****** fantastic…even when it’s far from it."</span> (http://thoughtcatalog.com/jessica-dentith/2015/02/highlight-reels-vs-reality/), </i>I'm calling to mind a scripture.<br />
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As we move into a New Year (following a very difficult year) I plan to try and focus more on what I have, what I have been given and what I've achieved rather than comparing myself to others ... or at least I will try and take what I see on Facebook with a pinch of salt! ;-)</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-7562232990787336882015-09-23T11:39:00.001+01:002015-09-23T12:02:04.650+01:004 Years ...<div dir="ltr">
4 years ago I was sat at a friend's house enjoying a little tea party with our children. I was 32 weeks pregnant and John was away with work. I had been feeling exhausted all week and had been resting as much as I could. I remember my stomach was starting to tighten but nothing that I hadn't experienced in my pregnancy with Sam 2 years previously. I wasn't exactly blooming - I was puffy and bloated and looked just as tired as I felt. Samuel had been born prematurely 2 years earlier and was significantly growth restricted. This pregnancy was very high risk and I wasn't expecting to feel wonderful. I was starting to brew a headache and a slightly upset stomach and felt a bit fed up. On returning home with Samuel I gave him a ridiculously early night, ordered myself a take away and curled up on the sofa. John was home the following day ...</div>
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Today I have been at hospital with Samuel. A very small and routine operation that we have been putting off for a couple of years. As soon as he found out he was going to be in Alder Hey for the day he groaned. You see, Sam spent much of the first year of his life in Alder Hey for various appointments; to see paediatricians, dieticians and gastrentriologists. This was following a month long stay in special care when he was born prematurely and months of feeding difficulties following this. Samuel does not really make a fuss but he was not happy at the prospect of returning to his least favourite place. And neither was I. </div>
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The Doctors talked through the procedure with him and he begged for no needles - another phobia. As a result of this they used gas to put him to sleep and only put his canula in after this. His precious toy, Wotsit, also had her hand bandaged up which caused giggles when Sam came round and realised.</div>
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Watching him drift off to sleep was awful and brought back so many memories of seeing him weak and poorly in his incubator, hooked up to umpteen wires. As bereaved parents nothing is without stress. The innocence attached to such small procedures was taken away 4 years ago and was replaced with a huge sense of anxiety; with a fear that something will go wrong. Waiting to hear those dreaded words again ... 'I'm so sorry Claire, but your child has died'. As I write it I appreciate the drama but for other parents who've experienced grief, loss, illness and trauma they will understand where I come from.</div>
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I watched him drift off to sleep and tried not to show my panic, my dread. The staff, knowing our history, were very supportive and careful to reassure me. 'We will look after him,' I was told by the anaesthetist as I left the room. I was led through to the parent's room and given a cup of coffee as I waited. A wait that seemed anxiously long. I sat thinking about the other children throughout the hospital who were 'really' ill. Who were having life saving procedures and who, in some cases, we're experiencing terminal illnesses and felt embarrassed at my anxiety for such a small operation. And then I remembered I have been 'that' parent twice. I have been the parent who sits next to the incubator that houses their child's tiny body whilst machines monitor every pulse, every gas and every breath throughout the body; whilst tubes sustain them and the smallest and most taken for granted reflexes like sucking, swallowing and breathing don't happen as they should so the baby is tube fed, causing untold later feeding problems and oral trauma.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Samuel</td></tr>
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I have also been the parent who sits in a room in shock having been delivered devastating, life changing news. I have been the parent who sits cradling their dead baby not wanting to let go and knowing that, when that happens, it will be forever. That there will be no more photographs, no more cuddles, no more kisses and no growing up.</div>
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And ... I have been the parent who has had to accept, through devastating circumstances, that they can't have any more biological children. That the risks to mother and baby are too high. </div>
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The innocence has been snatched away. I know what loss is and I know what death is. I know what it feels like to mourn the loss of your own child. That feeling that parents can't bear to think about; that is too painful to verbalise or even consider - I know how that feels and I know that life is never the same afterwards. </div>
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Yet Samuel returned. He is dozing next to me with a very sore head but no adverse side effects. The whole experience feels like a huge anti climax and I feel my stress levels lower.</div>
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4 years ago I was 32 weeks pregnant ...</div>
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This weekend marks 4 years since Emilie's birth. Since her death. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emilie - Rose</td></tr>
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I can't comprehend where those 4 years have gone and know that 4 years ago I would never have imagined that life could have regained this sense of normality. A new normal, yes, but still normality. </div>
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I get up each day and care for my children. I work when I can and in 2 weeks time will be returning to regular work 2 days a week. I cook tea; I bake cakes; I bake bread. I like to run and enjoy anything crafty. </div>
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And I adore my children.</div>
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4 years ago our world came crumbling down around us. Everything echoed with the deafening sound of grief and emptiness. Everything felt surreal. Unreal. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emilie - Rose</td></tr>
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This anniversary season is hard. Filled with so many memories - the anticipation and excitement followed by the panic, disorientation and grief. And yet we still stand, with Sam nearly 7 years old and just awaiting the final court date that tells us our adopted daughter is legally OURS.</div>
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I did not expect to have come this far. I never thought I would work again and I never thought I would live day to day knowing I can have no more biological children and yet still being able to function. An old friend said to me last week 'life has a way of doing what it wants rather than what you have planned for it'. This reminded me of something I had read a couple of years ago about life being like a complex tapestry. That when viewed from behind it is incomprehensibly messy with arrays of complicated threads weaving in and out and being cut off at strange angles. Yet when viewed from the front it is perfect, weaving a beautiful and rich picture that tells a story.</div>
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4 years on I still don't understand why God allowed us to go trough what we did and yes, I still get angry from time to time. But I am looking forward to a time when I can view the whole tapestry from the front and see it's beauty, see how it makes sense and comes together. </div>
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And already I can begin to see the sense and the meaning form.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-17385440421908592562014-04-01T12:52:00.000+01:002014-04-01T12:52:05.858+01:00A Reflection on Grief, Loss and Joy<div style="margin: 0px 0px 1.5em; padding: 0px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: inherit;"><i>Once, in a little pond, in the muddy water under the lily pads, there lived a little water beetle in a community of water beetles. They lived a simple and comfortable life in the pond with few disturbances and interruptions. Once in a while, sadness would come to the community when one of their fellow beetles would climb the stem of a lily pad and would never be seen again. They knew when this happened; their friend was dead, gone forever.</i></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: inherit;"><i>Then, one day, one little water beetle felt an irresistible urge to climb up that stem. However, he was determined that he would not leave forever. He would come back and tell his friends what he had found at the top. When he reached the top and climbed out of the water onto the surface of the lily pad, he was so tired, and the sun felt so warm, that he decided he must take a nap. As he slept, his body changed and when he woke up, he had turned into a beautiful blue-tailed dragonfly with broad wings and a slender body designed for flying.</i></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: inherit;"><i>So, fly he did! And, as he soared he saw the beauty of a whole new world and a far superior way of life to what he had never known existed. Then he remembered his beetle friends and how they were thinking by now he was dead. He wanted to go back to tell them, and explain to them that he was now more alive than he had ever been before. His life had been fulfilled rather than ended. But, his new body would not go down into the water. He could not get back to tell his friends the good news. Then he understood that their time would come, when they, too, would know what he now knew. So, he raised his wings and flew off into his joyous new life!</i></span></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Adapted from 'Waterbugs and Dragonflies' by Doris Stickney</span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I started writing down the thoughts that I have been sharing over the past couple of months about two years ago. I wrote manically initially, finding the whole process cathartic and healing. Around 'big' milestones I found that my words came more freely and flowed more easily. Around the time of my miscarriages, for example; around Emilie's anniversaries; when we went away as a family and I was able to sit down and think a bit more; around the time that I was experiencing failed fertility treatment; and around my 30th birthday. At these times the feelings were so raw, so intense, that I was able to sit for hours and write. And all the time I was looking forward. All the time I was waiting for our miracle; our happy ending. I JUST KNEW it would happen for us...that I would get that positive pregnancy test and the months would go by with me getting bigger - and probably more stressed - until we had a healthy little baby at the end of it....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">....but that didn't happen. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our lives remained trapped in the state that they had been when we lost Emilie - when we heard the words "I'm so sorry, Claire, but your baby has died". We were stuck and unable to move forwards physically or emotionally. Each time my fertility treatment failed and each time I miscarried it was Emilie who I longed for so desperately. It was her face I saw as I lay in pain waiting for a miscarriage to take place and it was the silence in the delivery room I experienced each time I flushed the remains of my babies down the toilet; the deafening silence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The thing that surprised me most was the fact that life carried on. The world didn't stop turning and time didn't stop moving ; our lives had ground to a halt but still things were carrying on around us as normal. The words of a song by The Carpenters go like this and each time I have heard it since Emilie's death a lump has formed in my throat at the sheer reality of the portrayal of sorrow - albeit in this case through the loss of a love.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why does the sun go on shining<br />
Why does the sea rush to shore<br />
Don't they know it's the end of the world<br />
'Cause you don't love me any more </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why do the birds go on singing<br />
Why do the stars glow above<br />
Don't they know it's the end of the world<br />
It ended when I lost your love</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wake up in the morning and I wonder<br />
Why everything's the same as it was<br />
I can't understand, no, I can't understand<br />
How life goes on the way it does </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why does my heart go on beating<br />
Why do these eyes of mine cry<br />
Don't they know it's the end of the world<br />
It ended when you said goodbye</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Each day when I woke up I couldn't understand how or why things were carrying on as normal. The sun indeed was shining - in fact it was an Indian Summer - and I couldn't bear it. I remained indoors wrapped up as much as I could bear refusing to believe that there could be beauty and joy outside of what we were feeling and experiencing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And the world did carry on. Babies carried on being born and people carried on getting pregnant. Children in the wider community carried on falling ill and some even died. The grief was so immense and all encompassing that I couldn't bear the thought of what these parents would have to experience - of the long road of grief ahead of them and the fact that the only way in which the grief gets easier is by your own capacity increasing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As time carried on I felt like my life remained rooted in that day and I didn't know how I would ever feel happy again. Relatively small things would bring me crashing back down so that the grief was as raw, as painful as it had been when Emilie had first died. I knew that I would never be the same again and I struggled to see people with whom I had had less meaningful relationships prior to Emilie's death. I couldn't cope with the superficial, the surface level and the unimportant and must have seemed like an incredibly solomn and serious person. But the relationships that endured through those difficult times have become incredibly strong throughout the times that followed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As I began to realise that we were struggling to move forwards and that it was incredibly difficult to fully embrace the 'new normal', my writing began to slow down. There were only so many ways that I could express the way I was feeling and talk about what was happening. I felt hopeless and every single pregnancy or birth announcement stung in a way that I cannot explain. And still we stood still.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Each time a pregnancy was announced I would congratulate the couple and share in the joy as much as I could. I didn't always get this right and neither did some of our friends. Generally though, friends were amazing and gave us the space and grace that we needed without withdrawing from us or being awkward around us but still, each time an announcement was made I would think 'it will be me next. Surely'....only it never was.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After my second miscarriage, after truly giving the situation over to God and putting it in his hands, I noticed a huge shift in the way I felt. Suddenly the pain did not consume me and overwhelm me as it had and I was able to have more headspace for considering a future different to the one that I had had planned out. This is not to say that that pain went away, however. It still remained under the surface and reared its head with every trigger; the sound of a heart beat, an ultrasound picture, the cry of a newborn baby, the sharing of a birth story. I learnt to control it more effectively, however, and realised that people understood if I left a conversation and a lot of grace was given to me for sharing my birth stories and for talking about Emilie. For this I am truly thankful. There are times, however, when I genuinely feel that I have nothing to add to conversations - that when labour stories, breast feeding stories, and pregnancy stories are being shared no one wants to know my side of the story and at these times I need to be kind to myself, take a deep breath and remove myself from the conversation if needed. This took me a long time to learn.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When it started writing this story I was convinced it would end with us having another healthy baby. I knew that my story hadn't ended. As this became less and less likely I began to slow down with my writing. Who wanted to read a story about a couple who had suffered terrible loss and infertility and did not get their rainbow baby? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And so this section has been very difficult to write and has taken me a long time to get it right. Making the decision to adopt Molly meant that we were putting an end to our attempts to have a biological baby of our own. It was not an easy decision and was not taken lightly. No baby - whether biological or adopted - will ever replace Emilie; will ever fill that gap. Each child is individual - fearfully and wonderfully made and created for a purpose. One child can not fill the gap another child has left any more than a square peg can fit in a round hole. But somehow we have been chosen and trusted to care for her and had Emilie survived, although we would have pursued foster care, it would not have been at the specific time that would have allowed Molly to come into our lives. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I try not to focus on this point too much as I find it too painful but I have realised that we have had our miracle; it has not come in the form of healing, neither has it come in the form of a rainbow baby or what other people might see as a normal situation. It is not a happy ending; not in the way I had expected it to be and had I been told that 30 months after Emilie's death we would have stopped trying for a baby the mere thought would have invoked a panic attack. But somehow, 30 months after the nightmare began, God has truly used our experience for good and we look forward to a time when Molly can share our name and we are legally her parents.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When Emilie died, I was truly broken and couldn't work out how to move forward. I couldn't ever imagine how I possibly <i><b>COULD </b></i>move forwards. And from that position of brokenness, God touched our hearts and gave us such a sense of compassion for broken children that I cannot put into words. He taught us how to truely love unconditionally and, because of our brokenness and pain, we have been able to accept a little girl in need of a family into our own. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>And still, I know that this is not the end of the story.</b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: inherit;"><i>Romans 8:28 (MSG)</i></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: inherit;"><i>Meanwhile, the moment we get tired in the waiting, God’s Spirit is right alongside helping us along. If we don’t know how or what to pray, it doesn’t matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves, knows our pregnant condition, and keeps us present before God. That’s why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good.</i></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-86493255728650877482014-03-31T14:30:00.001+01:002014-03-31T14:30:42.651+01:00A Different Christmas and a Positive New Year<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">November 2013</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">As the year drew to a close, I found myself having to adjust alot. Not just to being a parent of 2 children on a permanent basis but to caring for a child with additional needs. In-spite of my previous experience in childcare, I found parenting </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 7.5pt;">a child with additional needs is more
challenging than I had ever expected. However, it wasn't simply Molly's behaviour that I found challenging - or the exhaustion - whether physical or emotional. The thing I found most challenging about parenting Molly was the reactions of other people. I loved her unconditionally and, although exhausted at the time, I had a bond with her that went beyond anything that behaviour could affect. This did not make it any easier when she struggled in public and lashed out at another child or had a tantrum spurred on by her inability to manage routine changes or new experiences. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 7.5pt; line-height: 10.55pt; text-align: justify;">I knew that it was not appropriate
to go around saying 'the reason she is behaving this way is because she has............' Yet everything in me wanted to shift the responsibility for
her behaviour and, what may seem to an outsider, my lack of dealing with it
appropriately.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I recorded the following in my blog: </span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><i>A pen, a car or an item of food are
thrown across a table, across a room or at an innocent bystander; hair is
pulled; another child is hit and my reaction is to guide, rather than chastise.
Of course I give a firm 'no' and try to remove from the situation if
appropriate but more rigid behavioural management strategies such as time out
could be seen as rejection; physical restraint may be retaliated to; rewards
are not understood and understanding/sustained interest is not sufficient
enough to withdraw privilages. There are times when it feels like nothing works
and having to leave them to cry it out on the floor seems like the only thing
to do. And then the moment passes and they calm down. You calmly explain
'we don't hit/throw/pull hair we need gentle hands' and the world is a calmer
place. Until it all begins again. And again. And again.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><i>The looks that we are given - the
tuts, the sighs and the stares cut deep and, on a difficult day, can make me
feel incapable. So I often find myself leaving before things escalate again.
We gradually build up the length of time we can stay at places. I explain
to trusted people that we may not be able to stay for long, that we may need to
make a quick exit and apologise for being 'not all there'. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><i>Anything can trigger this cycle...a
new room layout, unfamiliar sounds, unfamiliar faces, an unexpected visitor, an
inability to find a certain toy, a new structure.....all of these things need
to be addressed and the exposure to them needs to be increased gradually but it
is a slow process.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Each day I would bring Molly home and I would know that, as challenging caring for a child with additional needs could be, it was also incredibly rewarding. I would hold her and she would snuggle in to me, resting her head on my shoulder and draping her arms around me. I would be reminded of how far she had come - from the child who did not show any affection and went stiff each time she was picked up - not wanting to be held or cuddled. Not even a year ago she had been unable to trust us and did not engage well with people and by the end of the year, in-spite of the behavioural problems we were experiencing, she was like a different child. I loved to hear people mention how far she had come and I loved to see her interacting well with our friends and their children. I loved to see her being part of a community and BELONGING.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">I went on the write:</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Helvetica","sans-serif"; font-size: 7.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><i>The most special, challenging,
rewarding thing I have ever done is parent a child with additional needs. The
journey is exhausting and is a constant learning process but, as a family of a
child with additional needs, we are learning and growing together and are
working out the best way to handle the situations we are in. We are
learning that additional needs are just that: additional. Added extras.
Different personality traits and a different way of thinking and being.
We are learning to be flexible and find our own ways to embrace
additional needs.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">December 2013</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 10.55pt;">Christmas arrived and I felt excited about the season for the first time since Emilie had died. The seasonal reminders still evoked a tight chest and feelings of sorrow and pain but I was able to enjoy aspects of it as well. I was able to watch Sam and Molly get excited by seeing decorations and taking part in family traditions that we were beginning. Molly was fascinated by the Christmas tree and, with real support from us, was even able to visit Father Christmas! We were able to give her a normal experience. I spent the months leading up to Christmas making decorations, planning food and putting together gift boxes for friends and family. I </span><span style="line-height: 14.066666603088379px;">acquired</span><span style="line-height: 10.55pt;"> a new found joy for buying Christmas presents and </span><span style="line-height: 14.066666603088379px;">reveled</span><span style="line-height: 10.55pt;"> in the excitement of being able to share them.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">We woke up on Christmas morning and were potentially as excited as the children, if not more. We shared stockings together and went for a morning walk. I was mildly surprised, however, to realise that the familiar pain was still there; the aching in my chest and the distant ringing in my ears, but I was more able to control it and was looking forward to hosting a big family Christmas Day with all the trimmings - something I had't imagined I'd ever have the strength to do again. Watching the children tear open their presents and play with them throughout the day was an incredibly special experience and something I will always treasure; our first Christmas as a family of four.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 10.55pt;">I waited for the lull between Christmas and New Year to arrive, for the depression of knowing that we were starting yet another year leading a different life to that </span><span style="line-height: 14.066666603088379px;">which</span><span style="line-height: 10.55pt;"> we had planned to arrive. However, we were surprised at how fresh we were feeling. Boxing day was difficult but not due to grief; both children had become very overtired on Christmas Day and when the excitement wore off for them they struggled with challenging behaviour. Even this felt completely normal and we were thankful to be able to have a quiet day to recover - to feel like a normal family.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 10.55pt;">As New Year approached we went down to Essex to stay with two different sets of friends - James and Katie, with whom we had spent the Christmas after Emilie's death, and Tom and Lindsey. Being with great friends gave us all a focus. Sam and Molly loved seeing James and Katie's children and loved spending time with Tom and Lindsey. We loved seeing our friends and ending the new year with them. It felt symbolic - the first time since Emilie's death that we had looked forward to the start of a new year and the first time that we had felt able to </span><span style="line-height: 14.066666603088379px;">truly</span><span style="line-height: 10.55pt;"> celebrate. The inexorible passing of time still caused us immense pain; other people's lives had moved on along the path that they had planned - that they had expected - and ours had halted drastically in September 2011 forcing us to live a nightmare and remain in a state of limbo. For the first time since this nightmare, I felt like our lives were moving forward too.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 10.55pt;">It was at this time that John and I spoke more seriously about the implications of Molly remaining with us as a permanent foster placement. This would mean that she would be 'floating in the care system' - a term used my social services. Our Independent Reviewing Officer (IRO) had expressed concerns about this and warned us that when Molly's care plan was reviewed, social services would want a more concrete plan for Molly's future due to her young age. She warned us that we may run into problems with Molly remaining in permanent foster care. She asked us to consider more legal options such as Special Guardianship Order. John and I spoke about this in depth and wondered - if she were to remain in our care permanently and legally under SGO, how would our rights be different to those of adoptive parents and how would she feel in the future still not sharing our name. The more we spoke about it the more it became clear in our minds that something needed to change.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 10.55pt;">And so I picked up the phone and called our social worker.......my voice shaking, I took a deep breath and tried to stay calm and rational.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 10.55pt;">"John and I have been talking about Molly's care plan", I said, "In-fact we've talked of nothing else". Our social worker waited patiently whilst I tried hard to get my words out.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 10.55pt;">"We would like to request to adopt Molly".</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-83605187545618223032014-03-21T13:50:00.001+00:002014-03-25T13:22:34.003+00:00The Promise: Part 2<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">As the summer approached, and following our agreement to offer her permanent care, we began to see Molly really relax into family life. Spending more time outside in the good weather meant that she was naturally encouraged to spend more time exploring on the ground and less time in my arms. We saw Molly make huge leaps in her sensory development as she observed Samuel playing and copied his play; splashing in the paddling pool and digging in the sand pit. She loved having Sam home every day for the summer holidays and the bond between them became stronger each day.</span><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">We adjusted to becoming a family of four and tried to get our heads around what this would mean for us long term in terms of our future plans to continue fostering other children. We knew that Molly needed our attention as much as possible and that it would benefit her to have me to herself whilst Samuel was at school, for her to not need to adjust to another child and more professionals in and out of the house on a regular basis for a while. However, we knew that ultimately we did want to go on to foster more children and were left with the conundrum of how to get a spare bedroom without having to spend a fortune or move house and see our mortgage rocket. As part of this conundrum, we lived - and still do live - on a quiet estate with a number of families with whom we are close friends also living on the estate - Faye and Mark and James and Sally included. Moving off the estate to get another bedroom and, as a result, losing the support network a stone's throw from us was not an option and bigger houses on the estate were few and far between with mortgages bigger than we could commit to on only one proper income and our small foster allowance. We therefore decided to look at the option of splitting one of our existing bedrooms into two to provide us with the extra fostering space for when the time came to foster another child.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">In the August of 2013 we had out first holiday as a family of four - a holiday with a lot of special memories and something we had looked forward to for a long time. However, other aspects of the holiday were bitter sweet and I found myself missing Emilie terribly. To all of the other families who saw us I knew that we looked like any other young family holidaying together but once again I was struck with the feeling of wanting to let people know that Emilie had existed and that we should have been a family of five. The familiar feeling of jealousy arose again as I longingly watched other young families play together in the rock pools and on the sand. I would guess at the age differences between their children and would wonder at the experiences they had. Miraculously these feelings were made less painful when we realised that, surprisingly, John's half brother and his family were staying a couple of miles down the road from us. We were able to meet up with them for a couple of days sharing the holiday experience with them. Suddenly the feelings I was having were lessened at the prospect of there being someone else there who had known Emilie had existed and who acknowledged our loss. With the loss of a child, a lot of experiences become bitter sweet as there will always be a huge gap in our lives. This said, however, we had longed for a family holiday for so long and I will treasure the memories we made on that holiday for ever.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTXDLcJ0iZW0Myzyg9qgJTMB7XS1fNSu9mio9qx8oE7LfFRayPOGMxc5FiJB_LP3aRs9jWXEj1CNNvv5AX0uTepMGYXoEKPW7p8qBkL7XQPs6qnHAV4yTT8HX4WRue7QTFNwhr9BUxAMY/s640/blogger-image--1669733534.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTXDLcJ0iZW0Myzyg9qgJTMB7XS1fNSu9mio9qx8oE7LfFRayPOGMxc5FiJB_LP3aRs9jWXEj1CNNvv5AX0uTepMGYXoEKPW7p8qBkL7XQPs6qnHAV4yTT8HX4WRue7QTFNwhr9BUxAMY/s640/blogger-image--1669733534.jpg"></a></div><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">September 2013</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Once again, Emilie's birthday and anniversary approached and I was overwhelmed by the familiar feelings of grief and emptiness. Sam and Molly gave us something positive to throw our energies into but I would become overwhelmed once they had gone to bed and the silence returned. With this, Emilie's second anniversary, I learnt that the saying 'time is a healer' is not true and I wrote the following in my blog:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i>Over the past two years we have experienced grief like I could never have imagined, grief that cannot be put into words. Loss of a child is a heart wrenching sort of grief. It grasps your chest and prevents normal breathing. It takes over your every waking moment and controls the few sleeping moments you can manage, filling your subconscious with fears and obsessions, with fantasies that will never come to pass so that the grief hits in a fresh wave each time you wake up realising that it was just that - a fantasy. Grief is crippling and all encompassing worming its way into your relationships, your friendships and your family. It tells you that life will never be the same, that you will never regain the joy that you have lost, that there is nothing to live for and no sense in trying. </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i><br></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i>It hits in fresh waves, over and over, until you feel like you can't bear it any longer. It is like running a mega marathon but never getting a second wind. Feeling the breath taken out of you, feeling the pain seize your muscles as the intensity of the run becomes too much...</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i><br></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i>...but not being able to stop.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i><br></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i>And then, slowly but surely it eases. The pain doesn't go away. Time does not heal where the loss of a child is concerned but your capacity increases. The belt loosens and you slowly learn to breathe again, slowly rebuild your life and learn what the new normal looks like. You slowly restore relationships, slowly relearn your purpose and get to know the person you have become following the breaking of yourself.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i><br></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i>Slowly but surely the fog lifts.....</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i><br></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i>.... And you realise there is beauty .....</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i><br></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i>Heaven becomes a tangiable concept. A place so close that you believe you could touch it if you could just reach that far. Death is no longer something to dread and God breaks through the stifling silence to reassure me that there is something else. Longing is replaced by hope through the realisation that my daughter - and that my miscarried babies - are not lost to me forever. </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i><br></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><i>I wonder what she'll look like now, wonder what she'll enjoy. I become impatient to meet her but know that this time is not eternal, I know that one day I'll look back on this as a distant memory as I sit surrounded by my children and marvel at the heavenly beauty around me. </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">In the run up to Emilie's anniversary I was overwhelmed by the gifts and cards we received in memory of our little girl. They came in the form of cooked meals, babysitting so we could go for lunch together, beautiful candles, stunning flowers, cakes, cards and an evergreen heather plant - a reminder that life continues through winter. Again I baked a cake for Emilie's anniversary - indulgent and full of chocolate - and we took it away with us as we went away for the weekend. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">For Emilie's second anniversary we chose to go and stay on a working farm. We stayed in a beautifully converted barn on farm belonging to Gamal and Kay; a couple who bought the farm 17 years previously and run it as a getaway for families wanting something a bit different. We had the most amazing weekend. We got up early to help with farming jobs and were filled with joy as we saw how much enjoyment Sam and Molly got from feeding the pigs, chickens, sheep and cows and helping to muck out the horses. Gamal and Kay made us feel unbelievably welcome and let us join in as little or as much as we wanted to. Kay treated the children like little celebrities as they helped her carry out jobs like feeding the ducks and were also lucky enough to see day old chicks following them hatching during our stay. On the farm there was also an adventure play area and indoor games room meaning that the children had all of the activities and stimulation they needed and we, and they, were occupied and having fun the whole time which lessened the effects of the grief. In the evenings we ate together before putting the children to bed, lighting a fire and enjoying the peace, quiet and glasses of wine together! We returned home rested, having felt like we had experienced some real quality time together as a family and ready to move forward again.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWCgkyV7yIMbgnAwp6ZVgzm98v-yCueJ_uBaXFL31RBahmxoYpHy7C8hvYQrKiI3V2jdxz8y0p_BKbZch5Kft7IzMA84VHiMRqoogr_v1BIhx_DoP3K-NYs8igqizhMEL6r15_8drrSdg/s640/blogger-image-1724274481.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWCgkyV7yIMbgnAwp6ZVgzm98v-yCueJ_uBaXFL31RBahmxoYpHy7C8hvYQrKiI3V2jdxz8y0p_BKbZch5Kft7IzMA84VHiMRqoogr_v1BIhx_DoP3K-NYs8igqizhMEL6r15_8drrSdg/s640/blogger-image-1724274481.jpg"></a></div><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-44335753800862371412014-03-21T13:49:00.001+00:002014-03-21T13:49:53.259+00:00The Promise: Part 1Molly continued to remain in our care and came on in leaps and bounds. As a family, we felt our attachment with her and her attachment with us deepen on a daily basis. I was finding my time filling up with facilitating prarenting courses, attending toddler groups, doing the school run and juggling social worker visits and contact. Due to Molly's difficulty in separating from me, I started to supervise contact with her birth parents; something that I simply hadn't prepared myself for. I found this to be an incredibly painful yet humbling experience but managed to build up a rapport with her birth parents. This, however, started to pose problems as although there were boundaries in place and her birth parents have fully adhered to these, I began to suffer from transference of what I believed her birth parents must be feeling. I felt like I'd lost Emilie all over again and it took me a long time - the best part of a year - to realise that these were my own feelings of loss and my desire to protect and nurture Molly. These are feelings that I need to learn to control.<div><br></div><div>As the months progressed we noticed more and more of Molly's needs were becoming apparent - a lot of sensory processing needs in addition to delayed speech and language. It was simply through trial and error that we learnt what worked and what didn't work with Molly and what she could and couldn't tolerate. I remember placing her in a swing at the park. She wasn't too sure getting into the swing but when she realised that the swing moved her eyes were filled with terror and she started to scream uncontrollably. I took her out of the swing and comforted her. She clung to me for a good while afterwards. Another time she needed to be weighed at the hospital. I stripped her off as instructed and tried to place her on the scales. Her reaction was the same as that when she had been placed in the swing. She clawed at me and reached out, screaming for me to pick her up. We were unable to weigh or measure her accurately and trying to measure her head circumferance produced the same reaction. She needed a lot of comforting afterwards and was unsettled for the remainder of the day.</div><div><br></div><div>May 2013</div><div><br></div><div>Molly's adoption medical approached and John and I knew that this was the first step to her finding an adoptive family. I felt sad at the prospect of<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> her moving on but also felt excited for her, knowing that she would find her forever family. I hoped that they would be a young family with at least one other child for her to play with and learn from. I imagined what her life would look like and had spent hours working on her life story book which would follow her. I had even spoken to some friends who had recently adopted a little girl, and a teenage friend who baby sat for us and had, herself, been adopted to ask what to save to move on with Molly and I had begun to put together a memory box for her. I wanted her to know how much we had loved her and wanted her to be able to build a picture of her life prior to finding her adoptive family. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">For reasons of confidentiality I will not go into the details of the medical other than to say that Molly struggled very much with the examinations. She would not allow the doctor to weigh or measure her properly and clung firmly to me, crying and clawing at me each time I tried to turn her around or put her down to be examined. The doctor started to put together a medical report and expressed her concern at the prospect of another placement move for Molly. She asked if we would consider allowing her to remain with us permanently.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I left the medical feeling dumb struck and shaking. We had not allowed ourselves to even consider the prospect of Molly remaining with us out of concern for building an attachment that could not be easily transferred to her adoptive family and now the seed had been planted for Molly to remain permanently with us. I calmed Molly down as much as I could, sat in car and called our social worker, Fran. I tried to keep my voice level as I spoke and relayed the details of the medical to her. I explained that I didn't know what to think or what to feel and was confused as to where to go from here. We knew that we had a LAC review (review of a looked after child's care plan) coming up and arranged to discuss things further at this point. I the returned home, emotionally drained, and relayed all of the details to John.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">Over the next few days prior to the LAC review, John and I thought about and talked about little else. We tried to get our heads around the prospect of Molly remaining with us coupled with the prospect of bringing up a child with additional needs on a permanent basis. We knew that agreeing to this permanency would transform our lives and plans. We had not entered the foster care profession as a path to adoption and knew that agreeing to permanency for Molly would mean that, as she was sleeping in our foster bedroom - which had been our one spare room - we would not be able to foster other children for a lengthy period of time or without having building work done on the house to give us another bedroom...something that we were unsure was possible. The biggest thing, however, was the knowledge that agreeing to permanency with Molly would mean, without any shadow of a doubt, that our journey or trying for another biological child would be over due to the stress and risks attached to another pregnancy already being so high without factoring in caring for a very young child with additional needs who would need extra security, nurturing and continuity. All of these doubts had counter arguements borne out of our love for Molly, our desire to do what was best for her and our belief - in agreement with the doctor and Molly's social worker - that another placement change could be detrimental to her development and not in her best interests. And so, after a lot of thought, prayer, discussion and sleepless nights we agreed to offer permanent foster care to Molly.</font></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div><br></div><div><br></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-11649579168777041412014-03-19T13:25:00.001+00:002014-03-19T18:46:05.716+00:00AdjustmentThe few months after Molly's arrival were a real period of adjustment and change. I was physically exhausted from suddenly jumping from caring for one 'typically developing' child to caring for two children, one with a significant development delay. Samuel really enjoyed having Molly about from the offset and was very gentle towards her, however I could tell that he was missing having me to himself and this was reflected in his behaviour. I started to ensure that he always had some mummy time, something that I found both enjoyable and exhausting - particularly the latter when his behaviour later that day did not reflect the 1 - 1 time we had spent together but instead resulted in him continuing to act out. Most children are required to adjust to having a sibling and not be the single focus of their parents' universe yet Samuel was prepared for 7 months to become a big brother and then had to adjust to the grief of not being a big brother. He then was required to adjust to having a foster sibling spring out of nowhere and take a lot of his parents' attention. When people ask me how Sam got on with being a foster sibling I know it would be a lie to say 'fine'. He loved having Molly around; he loved having someone to play with, someone to teach new skills and someone to idolise him but I don't think the strain the change had on him can be played down however well he dealt with it.<div><img src="webkit-fake-url://78178AF1-D6B6-44B8-82C6-3CAAB808B33E/imagejpeg"></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><br><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">One of the things I found especially difficult when Molly arrived were the comments from other people who we knew in passing through school, nursery or playgroups. I lost count of the number of people who said 'I hadn't realised you had another one' as if I had kept Molly shut away for the first 13 months of her life. Besides the surprised reactions people would give when I explained that we were a foster family, everything in me wanted to scream 'we did have another one; her name was Emilie' but I knew that this was not an appropriate reaction. Instead I explained as little as I needed to and left people to come to their own conclusions. The most asked question was 'will you keep her'. 'Keep her'....as if she was a stray puppy. I found it incredibly difficult to explain to people that Molly was a short term placement, that she would be looking for an adoptive family and that that adoptive family would be very closely matched to her and her needs to avoid placement breakdown. I explained that, if asked, we would always talk about caring for a child long term but that we had been advised to expect Molly's placement to be about 6 months old, that we would care for her and love her like our own for as long as she was with us and would support her to move on to her adoptive placement when one was found for her. Often people would mention that they would be unable to foster as they would not want to see the child go. At first I wondered if we were hard hearted because we were preparing ourselves for Molly to move on at some point. But as I stood in her room cradling her as she fell asleep, watching her mouth open and close gently as she breathed, feeling her close her hand around mine and finally start to relax as I held her, I would find myself praying - begging God - not for Molly to stay but for the strength to be able to move her on when the right family was found. I realised through experience that we desperately wanted to do what was best for Molly and that if this involved moving her on we would trust that the strength and courage to do so would come. We knew it would hurt.</span></div><div><br></div><div>While Molly stayed with us we had to get used to a seriously reduced amount of sleep. She really struggled with attachment and was terrified that we would leave her. She would cry on and off throughout<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> the night simply testing that we were still there. She would relax as soon as one of us went into her room and placed our hand on her chest. This would even make her smile and all through this her eyes remained tightly shut as if she had never properly woken up. This would play out throughout each night until we went to get her up in the morning. Although the amount that this happened reduced as she became more secure in the placement here, her sleep disturbances still continued and we often would have shocked baby sitters asking us how we manage to sleep through it every night. My answer? Ear plugs! We also invested in a Sleep Sheep which was, without a doubt, worth every single penny. It was a white noise machine nestled inside a toy sheep. Molly could occupy it herself and choose from one of 4 sounds. Unfortunately for us, her favourite sound was the sound of a heart beat which took a lot of getting used to and a lot of panic control on my part!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I was juggling monthly social worker visits and facilitating parenting courses. Once again I felt like my time was structured around something constructive other than just being a mummy. Although I felt incredibly busy and at times overwhelmed, I felt like I had a purpose again. I spent what little free time I had researching how to build secure attachment bonds with Molly and learning about how best to support her. I even started running again - something that I had always enjoyed but had been unable to do whilst trying for babies, being pregnant and undergoing fertility treatment. I felt like I had a new lease of life. None of this came without burdens, however, and I found being open and honest with social workers, when I wanted to come across as professional and capable, difficult. Fostering is an incredibly emotional profession and you take on all of the 'emotional baggage' of the child you are caring for through allowing yourself to be the emotional outlet for the pain they are suffering in addition to dealing with feelings of your own that arise through the challenges of caring for a vulnerable child. I hadn't prepared myself for how valuable supervision with our social worker (and my ongoing counselling) would be. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">In addition to adjusting to being foster carers, we were also still coming to terms with our lengthy decision to stop trying for a baby. This, like everything else, was a process and is not something that can be accepted over night. In February 2013 I was seen at the recurrent miscarriage clinic where a large number of tests were carried out to try and investigate what was happening. A number of weeks later I was due to collect my results and see my new gynaecologist. I did not sleep the night before and was incredibly anxious. Amazingly, on the morning of my appointment I received a text message from a good friend who had also experienced recurrent pregnancy loss. She was in the area for some training which had been cancelled and wanted to know if I'd like to meet up. She agreed to come to the appointment with me as a extra listening ear and we went for lunch together before hand...enjoying the delicacies of the hospital canteen. My gynaecologist explained all of my results to me and we discussed the prognosis. They were unsure exactly how to prevent me miscarrying due to very inconclusive results but thought that by trying to regulate my menstrual cycle to help prevent the premature or late release of egg(s) at ovulation, timing ovulation very carefully and then giving me progesterone in the second half of my cycle and HCG injections in early pregnancy I might stand a chance of carrying a healthy pregnancy. The next step was to increase a medication I was already on, metformin, which had been proven to regulate menstrual cycles in women with PCOS. Once my cycle had returned they would introduce clomid again in the hope that I might respond to it with the additional metformin as well. We would then go from there .... Trial and error. None of this, however, could prevent the clotting problems and placental abruptions I was suffering in later pregnancy. I was due to return to see the consultant three months later.</span></div><div><br></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">As I was taking all of this in I started to cry.....a mixture of being totally overwhelmed and being utterly relieved at having a plan.</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">I returned home to relay all of this to John and to try and process it. I was so relieved to have a plan and to have the date to return to the hospital in my diary. I was relieved at being properly listened to and being given the increased dose of metformin which I knew had already started to make a difference since I'd started taking the lower dose four months earlier. However, there didn't seem to be a solution to the problem and neither John or I were happy with the uncertainty and the fact that there was no real way to prevent me from miscarrying again and certainly no way to prevent another late loss. The more we talked about it the more we began to wonder what the right decision was. John was terrified of losing me and we were both very uneasy at the thought of putting Sam, Molly and any other foster children through the pain and trauma of me experiencing another pregnancy loss.</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">Over the next few days, weeks and months I prayed that if this was it for us; if we were to put the dream of having another biological baby on hold that this would be made very clear to us and that the desire would be taken from me.</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif">And I waited.....</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><br></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><br></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-44138043086152536442014-03-17T19:36:00.001+00:002014-03-18T13:28:24.512+00:00New Year, New Us<div>*I have changed some names to protect privacy of individuals.</div><div><br></div><div>December 2012 and January 2013</div><div><br></div>We spent most of the day on Christmas Eve frantically preparing for the little boy to arrive with us. We bought extra presents as we didn't know what he would arrive with and we wanted him to have something to open on Christmas Day. We sorted out his room, made the cot up, bought nappies, formula and bottles and contacted friends to see if anyone had any clothes, shoes etc that would be suitable for him at such short notice. We spoke to family to let them know that we may have an extra little person to feed on Christmas Day. That afternoon the phone rang again with an update; the correct care order couldn't be obtained for the little boy so he would probably be arriving after Christmas. <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Following this phone call we carried on as normal and were excited to spend Christmas Day together. How different it was from the previous Christmas which was so close to Emilie's death. Although it did bring with it a sense of grief - a longing that things could be different - we were now at a place where we were more able to accept the path our lives had taken.</span><div><br></div><div>Boxing Day came and went and the following day we received a call from from our allocated social worker, Fran* to explain that the little boy we had been contacted about would not be coming to stay with us but instead he would be staying with his current foster carers. I was disappointed. We had spent a mere couple of days preparing for his arrival but we had been looking forward to meeting him and had been looking forward to the new challenge and new experiences it would bring. Fran assured us that we wouldn't be waiting long to have a child placed with us and advised us to carry on as normal. She emailed us some more paper work to complete and gave us lots of daily record forms to look through and familiarise ourselves with. Once again I felt a sense of excitement and anticipation at what was ahead of us.</div><div><br></div><div>Sam's fourth birthday was approaching and again I could feel the familiar sense of dread at the inexorable passing of time. I longed for a time when Sam's getting older could be something I was excited about and proud of but at this time it still felt too raw - too painful. I felt incredibly sad that Sam's birthday reminded me so starkly of how long we'd been trying for a baby. The happiness of Sam's birthday was juxtaposed against the sorrow of the 'should have beens' and this one seemed particularly painful as it coincided with what should have been my 28 week mark with my second miscarriage, and the point at which I should have been admitted to hospital for monitoring. I should have been so close to meeting our baby and instead they were still a distant memory.</div><div><br></div><div>We had planned to go away to Center Parcs for Sam's birthday. We had booked it just after the miscarriage and this had given us something to look forward to. A couple of days before we left, our supervising social worker, Fran, came round for a visit and to properly introduce herself following the chaos of Christmas' non arrival. She seemed lovely and both John and I were relieved. She made a fuss of Samuel and showed a real interest in us as a family. She also mentioned that she wanted to speak to us about a potential placement; a 13 month old girl called Molly* who potentially had some additional needs and needed a short term placement until an adoptive family was found for her. We tentatively agreed to the placement with view to speaking to Molly's social worker and meeting her and Molly when we returned from holiday.</div><div><br></div><div>Once again, Center Parcs surpassed our expectations for giving us quality time to spend together. I found the swimming pool much less emotionally painful than the last time we had been there and one of the things that really helped with this was the certain knowledge that I wasn't pregnant and that, at that time, we weren't actively trying for a baby. Safe in this knowledge I was able to do things that I hadn't been able to the last time we went to center parcs; I was able to use the jacuzzi and water slides. I was able to chase Sam safely around the swimming pool and sit him on my knee as we went down the water slides together. I was able to ride a bike through the forest and go cross country without having concerns of what the dangers might be had I been in early pregnancy. For these reasons it was a completely different experience and I returned home much more rested than I had been in a long time.</div><div><br></div><div>The day before were returned home I called Molly's social worker, Jan*, to make arrangements for meeting her. We planned to return home on the Friday, have a brief rest at home and then drive up to meet Molly, her foster family and her social worker. </div><div><br></div><div>We were extrememly nervous as we drove up to Molly's foster family's house and were trying hard to explain the situation to Samuel who at the time seemed completely nonplussed! We briefed him on being a big boy in Molly's house and explained that we wouldn't be staying long. When we arrived, Molly's social worker still hadn't arrived and we were greeted by Molly's foster carer and family who welcomed us warmly, if not nervously too. We were shown through to the playroom where Molly was with her young foster sibling and were greeted by a tiny little toddler girl who was bottom shuffling across the laminate flooring with a dummy in one hand and a bottle in the other. Straight away a sense of relief washed over me as I realised that she bore no resemblance to what I imagined Emilie might look like. I asked Molly if I could pick her up and, when she didn't refuse, I bent down and lifted her into my arms. Her body was stiff and jittery and she did not nestle into me as I might have expected a child of that age to do but neither did she try to wriggle free. I noticed straight away that she was very agitated and although she was sat happily on my knee whilst we chatted with her foster carer, she was not sat still - or even close. She was constantly jiggling, bouncing and twitching and a number of times she even launched herself backwards laughing at my shocked reaction. However, she did come to both John and I voluntarily, something that I would come to learn was very unexpected and not in her nature at that time. <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">We spoke for a while with Molly's foster carer before the social worker arrived and we began discussing a transition plan. Over the next couple of days we would go and spend time with Molly building up to taking her out on our own. The following Wednesday she was to move in with us.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">The transition week was surreal and exhausting. We enjoyed getting to know Molly but it was difficult not being able to implement our own routines and only seeing her for short periods of time. Samuel seemed to be adjusting well and they seemed comfortable in each other's company. We struggled with getting Molly used to eating solids. Coming from a placement of a large number of children she had only been used to eating purees and jar'd baby food and hadn't experienced finger food in any great amount. She initially refused to take any food from us apart from weetabix and puréed spaghetti bolognese so this is what she lived on for the first couple of weeks she was with us. She also threw everything; food, toys, drinks, clothes, dummies and supporting her to relax and let down her guard sufficiently to trust us was a very long process.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">The day Molly moved in was emotional for everyone involved. Her foster carer and I shared tears and hugs as we left the house but there was no reaction from Molly. I strapped her into to the back of the car and drove to pick Sam up from the toddler group that Faye had taken him to with Jasper. Molly clung to me for the rest of the day and cried every time I even tried to put her down. She was incredibly unsettled and had no idea what was going on around her. She would not, however, be cuddled to calm down. Instead she just wanted to be propped on my hip or sat on my knee - not being held as such but knowing that she was safe. Her sleep pattern was incredibly disrupted and we had an exhausting few months adjusting to her sleep disturbances and learning that she did not always need seeing to inspite of her noisy sleep patterns.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Her seeming detachment continued and although she would want to remain very close to me; in my arms or on my knee she did not want to snuggle up and would not allow me to be affectionate towards her. I had never experienced anything like this before and both Fran and Jan explained that it was normal for a child with Molly's needs and in her situation. Molly was obviously drawing comfort from her closeness to me and would simply not entertain the idea of going to anybody else but she did not know how to respond to cuddles and affection and these were completely out of her comfort zone. She would sit on my knee and take both my hands to ensure that they were firmly around her waist but would not want to be cradled or cuddled. We learnt very quickly that everything had to be on Molly's terms and we had to allow her to take the lead for everything - when she wanted to be picked up, when she wanted to be put down, when she wanted to be engaged with and when she wanted to be left alone. If we misread her signals we would be rewarded with the most tumultuous tantrums we had ever seen and one of us would need to sit on the floor close to Molly ready to intervene if she tried to hurt herself through rolling into something or pulling something on top of her. These outbursts could last for a good half an hour. We found responding to this completely alien to us as parents but supported her through it as much as we could. I was desperate to teach her how to be loved but I knew that this would take time.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">When Molly had been with us for about four weeks she became ill. She started off refusing her bottle feeds which concerned me as she was still not eating any solids or finger foods and her bottles were the only thing sustaining her. Try as we might we couldn't get her to take her bottles. And then, after a day of this, she began being sick. Violently so. I called the out of hours GP service explaining that I thought Molly had a tummy bug but because she was our foster daughter I wanted her to be checked over straight away. I drove up to the walk in centre, gave in her name and went straight through to the treatment room. It was now approaching what was normally her bed time. Molly was obviously very weak and tired at this point and I expected her to become agitated and have a tantrum. Instead, as she was sat on my knee she turned to face me and nestled her head into my chest. She didn't go to sleep but remained perfectly still drawing comfort from the cuddle she was receiving. I am unable to put into words how much this gesture overwhelmed me but I knew at that point that we were one step closer to supporting Molly in learning to be loved.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-82007380509257344542014-03-17T13:57:00.001+00:002014-03-17T13:57:59.056+00:00A Fork in the Road: Part 2<div>October 2012</div><div><br></div>We continued completing the paperwork for the Foster Assessment and were feeling positive. I was excited about moving forwards and starting to fulfil what I believed was our purpose. I felt like we had been on an incredibly long journey; I had imagined, as I looked forward years before, that by this point we would have completed our biological family and would be looking towards fostering. The path had taken a very unexpected turn but we were ready to start with the next chapter and ready to fully throw ourselves into it and commit to it.<div><br></div><div>We arrived at the three day foster training feeling a mixture of excitement and apprehension. I looked around the room at the other couples being assessed. We were the youngest by far but I also noticed that there were a few single women. The social worker invited us to introduce ourselves. We were told not to mention our skills or experience at this stage but to mention what had led us to want to foster and why we had decided to do it at that point. As we went round the room people were mentioning wanting to make difference to the lives of vulnerable people. There was a wealth of experience; some of the foster carers were divorcees, some had no children, some were looking to extend their family through caring for an older child on a permanent basis, some were single parents and others, like us, were couples with biological children who had the space and capacity to care for another child. Our turn came and I introduced both John and I. I explained that we had wanted to foster as a couple for a number of years, that I had always wanted to foster and that I grew up with foster caring bing the norm. I also explained that we were bereaved parents and had been putting things on hold for a long time whilst we tried to extend our biological family and that we felt that we could potentially wait for ever without there being a right time to foster. We felt that as we had a spare room, as I wasn't working and Sam was about to start school meaning that I could commit fully to caring for a foster child, that now was a good time and that we were excited. Immediately I could see the social workers exchange glances and start to make notes.</div><div><br></div><div>We continued around the circle and for each person who introduced themselves there was a disproving look on the face of one of the social workers. The final lady in the group had no children and was single. She wanted to care for an older child on a long term/permanent basis as she had the space to do so. The social worker leapt on her. She told her that foster caring was not an easy profession, neither was it an appropriate way to build/extend a family. With this she then turned to me and said 'I mean I imagine you would love for someone to just come and give you a baby to keep? That won't happen with foster caring!'. I was dumbfounded and John sat in silence next to me evidently equally as shocked. I had expected at some point to come face to face with opposition from people who might misinterpret our desire to foster as something else but her reaction truly shocked me. She carried on with 'if you want to complete your family then fostering is not the way to do it'.</div><div><br></div><div>I swallowed and took a deep breath whilst tears stung my eyes. I reminded myself not to cry and steadied my voice before saying 'with all due respect, you asked us to introduce ourselves and give our reasons for fostering. You did not ask about our skill set. Had you done, you would know that I am a qualified teacher, that I have worked with children with additional needs, Looked After Children and other vulnerable children. You would know that my grandparents fostered and that we have thought very long and hard before making this decision. You would also know that I have decided not to return to work so that we have the capacity to foster. We are not trying to complete our family through fostering and know that it would never be complete'. She was taken aback and retorted with,</div><div>'it will if you adopt'. </div><div><br></div><div>I explained to her that adoption may be an option in the future; that if we can't have another baby of our own we may well look into adopting a baby but that this was a long way off. I also explained, however, that there will always be a gap in our family and our lives left behind by Emilie. I explained that this would never be filled - that we understood and accepted this as much as we could and that we would never try to replace Emilie through adoption and certainly not through fostering. And that was it. We had been given a hard time because of our history, and our resilience and desires for foster caring had been tested. They eased up on me for the rest of the day, but that evening we decided that we were not happy with the way we had been treated or perceived. I met up with some friends and shared the story of my experience that afternoon. Everyone was visibly shocked. That is when the tears came - thick and fast. They were tears of anger and tears of frustration. I had no idea how we could break through the walls to convince the social worker that we were ready; yes - there would be hard times but we wanted so much to be able to care for vulnerable children. The following morning John explained to the social worker who had spoken that way to me and asked about her motives. He was planning on explaining that we were considering making a complaint. Before he got this far, however, she apologised. She said that on reflection she realised that she had spoken out of term and that she could see we were a very resilient and knowledgeable couple who had thought very hard about foster caring. She did tell us, however, to expect to come up against opposition due to our recent history. </div><div><br></div><div>I was frustrated. We were always going to be bereaved parents and were always going to suffer from infertility. I wondered for how long we were going to have to explain ourselves.</div><div><br></div><div>The parenting course training was over two dates and took place in the October and December of 2012. This was a real turning point for me. I initially found the training painful as we discussed what might bring parents to the course and how to support them. People introduced themselves and mentioned their children in their introductions. I longed to be able to say I had 2 biological children (which I do now, 16 months later, offering further explanation if people ask) but at the time it was simply too painful to mention Emilie without sharing her story. I simply said that I had a son and left it at that. I can't describe the pain I experienced at this and felt that I was denying Emilie's existence. Funnily enough, I got talking to one of the course leaders at lunch time. She had introduced herself as having 6 children, one with Down Syndrome, and offered no further explanation. At lunch time she explained to me that her fifth baby had been stillborn. I asked her if she included them in the six children she mentioned to which she said 'yes'. I realised at that point that I didn't need to deny Emilie's existence; that I could mention her as one of my children and that people could ask further questions if they wanted to. I often say that I have a biological son and daughter and that we are also a foster family. People do ask how old my children are. I will say, for example, 'Samuel is 5 and Emilie would be 2 1/2'. I leave it up to the person asking questions to venture further, which they often do. I am no longer shocked by people's reactions - although sometimes a little surprised and often John and I will have a giggle about someone's reaction the as we relay the day's events to each other. People react in very different ways. I learnt the hard way, through the social worker's reaction, that people can be shocked, they can jump to the wrong conclusions and it can also induce terror. I have even had one lady, who asked me about my own children (and asked further questions relating to their ages...and where my 2 year old daughter was) whilst heavily pregnant with her second child, put her had up to me and ask me to stop speaking. She said she didn't want to hear any horror stories! </div><div><br></div><div>There are no rules to govern people's reactions. </div><div><br></div><div>The foster panel came round in the December of 2012. We were both incredibly nervous and had prayed an awful lot that if now wasn't the right time to start fostering; if it was too early or if we had heard wrong, that our application would be deferred. Panel lasted less than 20 minutes. As soon as we walked in we were told that we would be approved but that they wanted to ask us a few questions. I braced myself for difficult questions about Emilie and infertility but instead they asked about Samuel and how we would support him as a foster sibling. Happy with our answers they closed panel by letting us know how excited they were to have us on board, congratulating us and acknowledging Emilie which they said they felt was important.</div><div><br></div><div>On Christmas Eve 2012 we received a phone call. A 16 month old boy was needing a placement for an unknown period of time. Would we be willing to take him?</div><div><br></div><div>We agreed.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-6535174681560075762014-03-14T14:26:00.000+00:002014-03-16T15:59:01.754+00:00A Fork in the Road: Part 1<div>
September 2012</div>
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Initially I didn't feel the same level of grief following this miscarriage. I had lost 3 babies in the space of 11 months but still it was Emilie who I missed so terribly, and we were approaching her first anniversary. I thought about her every minute of every day. I would find myself fingering her footprint necklace to help me remember her. I spent time looking through her memory box, touching and smelling individual items and relishing in the memories they evoked. I wondered what she would look like by now had she survived. Would she have my dark auburn curly hair? Would she have John's blue eyes? Would she look like Samuel? I wondered what her personality would be llike. Sam has always been so cheeky; so confident. I would have loved to know the girl she would have developed into.</div>
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As Emilie's anniversary approached I felt suffocated by the change in the seasons. Every leaf that changed colour, every conker that fell and the developing colour of the sky, the trees, the ground; the changing position of the sun in the sky, the feel of the warm autumn sun, the smells of the season and even the seasonal vegetables we were eating...these all reminded me of Emilie. These all reminded me of the things that, one year ago, had heradled that I was getting closer to meeting my little girl and instead these things of beauty were now stark reminders of the pain I still felt every day. I loved looking down tree lined paths and seeing the golds, reds and oranges of the trees but then, a mere moment after taking in the beauty of the colours, I would feel the familiar pain in my chest that would remind me that autumn had become a time of painful memories.</div>
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The hopelessness of autumn felt stifling and I I desperately wanted something to look forward to. My heart literally began to feel heavy again and I was flooded with memories from the previous year. I decided to try and see the start of the year after Emilie's anniversary as a fresh start; the first time I would be able to stop saying 'this time last year I was pregnant/choosing names/having a scan....' We had deccided to go away for Emilie's birthday and anniversary and went to a friend's cottage on the Welsh Peninusla for a week. We were away from technology and got to spend some great family time together making new memories. It was during this week that I started writing with any real intention or motivation. I had decided that I wanted to share my story. I had no idea how the story was going to end and at that point I still felt like I was in an immense amount of pain. However, once I sat down and started writing I sudddenly began to see how far we had come in the year since Emilie's death, inspite of the miscarriages. I also started looking at Autumn in a different way; Everything around me was changing colour, falling to the ground and dying. I realised, at this point, that I had been missing something. Autumn is the preparation for winter; a time of rest, a time where life does not immedietly come to mind. However, spring always follows winter and new life breaks through again. This is what I needed to focus on.</div>
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Emilie's anniversary arrived and Samuel made his sister a card. He used gallons of glue and seemlingly hundreds of tiny pom poms and sparkles. I made a cake full of choclate and caramel and we lit a candle. On the day itself we spent the day together riding steam trains, having lunch and exploring. We went down to the beach for a walk, had a lovely family meal and lit sky lanterns. We celebrated her life and talked about her. We shared memories of the pregnancy and warm memories of friends supporting us since her death. We made wonderful memories together.</div>
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We returned home rested and ready to move forwards. The pain was still there but our capacity had definitely increased and that was something that I had learnt in our time away. I was learning that I needed to come to terms with the fact that I might never have another baby of my own; I might never know what it is like to hold my own newborn baby without the wires that surrounded Sam and the silence that engulfed Emilie. I was trying to come to terms with the fact that my path - the plan God had for me - might be different to the plan I had for myself and I needed to trust him in what he was doing. I had spent the past year (and much longer) comparing myself with other people. With other mothers. I had wanted what they had to the point that I had begun to lose sight of what I had, of my gifts and of how far I had come. I had given everything over to God after my second miscarriage and I needed to learn to trust him. <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">We were a couple of weeks away from our foster training and so far the paper work side of things had been surprisingly smooth. This was where we were going.</span></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-54598796303209595082014-03-13T14:24:00.000+00:002014-03-16T15:58:03.850+00:00Shot Down<div>
With this, our fourth pregnancy, I did not feel a sense of elation. Of course, I was happy that the treatment had worked but I was so filled with fear and anxiety. I was waiting for the joy to come but it didn't and I couldn't see past the possibility that I might lose another baby. I envied women who's biggest worry was making it to the 12 week scan. I knew, for me, that the 12 week scan was just the start of things and I couldn't allow myself to see past this for fear of being let down. At the same time, however, inspite of this self preservation, I also couldn't bear the thought of losing another baby. </div>
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Samuel was about to start preschool 5 afternoons a week and I was looking forward to our upcoming foster training, registration and the parenting course training. These things were very welcome distractions at the time as I was not only dealing with the pregnancy, but we were also approaching Emiliie's first birthday. Her first anniversary. I had so many feelings relating to this anniversary and was surprised at how much it affected me. I could feel the mist descending over me as the anniversary approached and found it incredibly difficult to separate my feelings of anxiety relating to the pregnancy and my feelings of grief relating to Emilie's anniversary.</div>
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When I was six weeks pregnant I dropped Sam off at nursery and returned home for the afterrnoon. I had been feeling pretty groggy all day and was experiencing cramps. As I have mentioned before, I had no idea what was normal and what wasn't. I knew that I had experienced cramping with both Samuel and Emilie but this seemed so long ago that I couldn't remember the feeling. On returning home I went to the toilet and immedietly realised that I was bleeding.</div>
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This time I attended hospital on my own as I felt it was important for John to pick Sam up from school. He would drop him at Faye's house after picking him up but I had the initial wait in the waiting room, triage and the initial examination on my own. As ever, the nurses were fantastic. They held my hand, hugged me, made me cups of tea and did everything they could to comfort me. I was even touched to see how emotional the triage nurse was when she asked 'is this your first pregnancy?' I explained that it was my fourth pregnancy and started crying. When she asked how many living children I had and I explained that we had Sam, that Emilie had been stillborn and now we were struggling with infertility and loss I noticed that her eyes filled up. She will never know how much this gesture of compassion meant to me.</div>
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By the time I came out of triage I could barely walk because I was in so much pain. Unlike my last miscarriage where the outcome had been uncertain, an examination this time revealed that my cervix was open and that there was a lot of blood. My urine sample had also been tested and my pregnancy hormone levels were incredibly low. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that I was miscarrying again. The pain this time was a concern though and my blood pressure was dangerously high again. For this reason they were talking about admitting me and were questioning whether it might be an ectopic pregnancy. The only way to confirm it was through an ultra sound and the onlly ultra sound available at the time was downstairs in antenatal.</div>
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At this point John still hadn't arrived and I was starting to panic. I begged the nurse not to let me go downstiars to antenatal on my own so she agreed to come with me. I tried again to call John but my phone wasn't connecting. I sent him a text message to explain where to meet me and walked out with the nurse. I was trying hard to stay calm but could feel the familiar tight chestnedness and shortness of breath creeping up on me. The nurse held my arm to steady me and led me towards the lift. Had I not been in so much pain I would have asked to have been taken down the stairs. The lift arrived and the doors opened. We stepped inside and were greeted by a family bringing their new baby home in a car seat. They were holding balloons, presents and cards and were beyond happy. I couldn't take my eyes off them and tried to breathe slowly so that I didn't hyperventalite. The nurse kept her arm around me the whole time. </div>
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I stepped out of the lift where John was waiting and the nurse led us down to the scan room. As soon as I stepped through the doors to the antenatal unit I completely lost control of my breathing and descended into a full blown panic attack. I could see through the double doors to where women were sat in the waiting room holding their stomachs and cooing over scan pictures. I felt as if I couldnt physically push the door open to walk through it. Nothing in me wanted to sit in the waiting room and I turned to the nurse, begging her to let me go somewhere else to wait. I completely lost control of my actions and started shouting at John and at the nurse that I couldn't go in the waiting room. I couldn't sit in there waiting for another scan to confirm that another baby had died.</div>
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The nurse spoke to the receptionists and gently led us down the corridor to a scanning room. She told us she would be waiting outside. John helped me climb up on to the bed and the sonographer, not fully knowing what she was dealing with, started to scan me. She was silent for a while before confirming that she could see a gestation sac and that I was showing to be 5 - 6 weeks pregnant. I tried to explain that I was 7 - 8 weeks and she tried to reassure me telling me that maybe I had my dates wrong. If only she knew how wrong she was; how there was no chance I could have my dates wrong due to having had IUI. I then asked her if there was a heart beat. She shook her head; 'no heart beat but it's not ectopic'.</div>
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The panic stopped as soon as I realised that the pregnancy wasn't ectopic and, unlike my last miscarriage, there was no doubt that we had lost our baby. As we left the scanning room and returned upstairs to the Early Pregnancy Assessment Unit, I said to John 'I can't do this again' and he agreed. We sat down back in the treatment room in silence, both of us shocked once more at what had happened. As we sat in the silence I found myself praying. I prayed that God would take the desire to have a baby away from me and that the pain would be lessened. I prayed that we would both find some peace in the situation and, for the first time, I truly handed the situation over to God. I told him that I didn't want it any more and that I would stop trying to control things. I wanted to move on. As I prayed, and sat in the silence, a huge sense of calm and clarity washed over me. The panic left immedietly, as did the anxiety and sense of dread. And I was left with simple grief.</div>
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We had the obligitary week long wait before returning to the hospital to check that the miscarriage was over. I knew that I had lost the baby a couple of days previous to this and the bleeding had stopped. Once again my consultant scanned me and once again sorrow filled her face. 'Yes', she said 'your uterus is empty. I'm so sorry, Claire'. I explained that I knew, that I accepted it and that we were ready to move on. I got down from the bed and we sat down with her and chatted for a while. We chatted about the fostering and she was delighted. We talked about Sam and about how well he was doing. He sat on John's knee, tired from nursery, and she looked at him with a real affection. Our miracle boy. She explained that she was going to refer me to a specialist in early miscarriage and I would also be referred to a gynaecologist to find out how to deal with my polycystic ovarian syndrome. If we decided to try for another baby we would be seen by the early miscarriage specialist before being referred back to her after 20 weeks. I was touched that she had faith in us not to give up but at the same time I was certain that I needed a break. The only things that mattered to me from that point were John, Samuel and the upcoming foster training.</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-17617677083373429012014-03-12T20:38:00.001+00:002014-03-16T15:57:40.944+00:00Pins and Needle: Part 2July 2012<br />
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Before we started trying for our family - before even Samuel was born - John and I had talked about fostering vulnerable children. I had grown up with fostering being the norm: my grandparents fostered a number of young people and there were a few families in our church who also fostered. I had never really known any different and knew that it was always what I wanted to do. John, when I first mentioned it to him about ten years ago - early in our relationship - had his reservations. It wasn't something he had ever really thought about but as the years passed and we talked more about it, he became much more positive about the idea until we decided that, once we had had our own family, it would definitely be what we did. Over the years we spoke about it an awful lot and when I was pregnant with Emilie, knowing that she would have been our last biological baby, we spoke about waiting a couple of years after her birth before we registered as foster carers.</div>
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I have mentioned a number of times that when Emilie died it felt that the rug had been pullled out from under our feet. Every plan we had ever made seemed to come crashing down around our ears and we didn't know where we stood or what to expect from the future. As time passed and our hearts began to heal we began talking about foster caring again. We had thought that, maybe if we were unable to have other children, we might look at adoption but this would be after exhausting every biological option and only when this felt like the right thing to do, which at the time it didn't. As we talked about fostering, however, we were both filled with a real sense of excitement and expectation. Very early on in the process we only told two other couples; Phil and Helenor and Paul and Sally who were already foster carers. We spoke to both couples at length about what we were thinking. As we had spoken to them about it prior to the problems with infertility, it didn't come as a shock to either couple and we decided to register an interest with the local authority.</div>
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At this time, and prior to us telling anyone else, a number of people spoke to us about whether we had considered registering as foster carers and more and more it was seeming like the right thing to do - and what we would have possibly started considering at that time had Emilie survived. And so, with trepadation, I filled in the online form and waited to be contacted by social services. They contacted us the following morning!</div>
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I also began my injections for my IUI treatment. The medication I used was called menopur which contained the hormone FSH (follicle stimulating hormone). I had read online that FSH was extracted and purified from the urine of post menopausal women and wondered what on earth I was injecting myself with! I was umsure whether to share this piece of knowledge with John as I am certain that he already thought he was living with a menopausal woman without factoring in even more hormone cocktails! I had assumed that it would be a simple 'open syringe, inject myself' process like with the fragmin but I actually had to be taught how to mix the injection prior to using it. I had to mix the menopur powder with saline to form a liquid and then I had to use 2 syringes and a drawing up needle to draw it into the syringe, swap over to an injection needle and then had to inject the whole syringe into my stomach. I managed to bruise myself every time! The first time I injected myself I flinched as soon as the needle touched my skin and grimaced as I pushed into my stomach. I remember being surprised at how easily the needle slid into my flesh and was equally surprised - and alarmed - at how sharp it must be. This was confirmed the following time I injected myself as I cut my index finger on the needle removing the cap. Needless to say I improved following this and thank goodness I did...I had a longer than normal path of injections ahead of me.</div>
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In between the first set of injections and my ultrasound we went to stay with Tom and Lindsey, who had supported us during Emilie's funeral, for a couple of days. It was such a relief to get away and Sam, as always, loved seeing them. We talked and talked about the infertility and losses we had suffered and spoke in depth about the foster caring plans. The others drank wine whilst I sat watching, jealously, having not had anything to drink for nearly 2 years and not being able to drink due to the treatment. We laughed together a lot and relished the time we were spending there. Lindsey and I took Sam to London Zoo - a huge experience for both Sam and I and I remember being comforted by the uncomfortable stomach cramps I was feeling that I assumed confirmed the hormones were working.</div>
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On our final night with Tom and Lindsey we ordered a take away curry. I remember the look of absolute horror on Tom's face as he accidently bit into a cardamon pod. He was horrified and his reaction resulted in hysterical laughter from the rest of us. On exclaiming that surely it couldn't be THAT bad, Tom suggested I try one...which I did. Knowing that the taste was pretty awful I didnt chew it and swallowed it whole - causing more laughter. I remember at this point Tom exclaiming that the seed would sprout and grow inside me to which I commented 'at least something will!'. More laugther followed by sobering smiles. We felt - and still feel - so at home with them that nothing is hidden. Three is no shame in what we feel and even in the saddest of times we can laugh together and find homour to break through the pain.</div>
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At this point there was a huge shift in my thinking and I started to realise that I no longer knew what the desire of my heart was; but I was safe in the knowledge that God knew me better than I knew myself and HE knew what the desire of my heart was. He could see past the fear. I stopped begging him morning, noon and night for a baby and instead just prayed that he would give me the desire of my heart. Whatever that was.</div>
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The day after we returned home I attended the hospital for my scan. There was a dominant follicle. It was bigger than the others although not significantly so and so I was given another round of FSH injections and sent home for another couple of days. When I returned for my repeat scan, the dominant follicle had grown although was not quite big enough to trigger with the HCG injection. I was given another few rounds of injections before the follicle had reached the desired 21mm needed for taking the HCG trigger shot; another injection which, this time, was to trigger the release of the egg in the follicle. I had to take the trigger shot at midnight and set my alarm to wake me up incase I felll asleep. It felt like the latest night of my life! I took the syringe out of the fridge and injected it as I had learnt to. My hands were shaking and I was terrified I had done something wrong. This precious liquid was the key to me ovulating and therefore was the key to me getting pregnant. I did not want to mess up.</div>
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Over the following couple of days I felt awful. I felt really nauseous and bloated and was suffering from awful stomach cramps. I drew comfort from this that ovulation had happened. We dropped Sam at a friend's house, drove to the hospital to register and hand in John's sprem sample and went out for lunch as if it was the most normal thing in the world. I tried not to think about how clinical the process was and tried hard to see it as a means to an end. The artificial insemination was possibly one of the most surreal moments of my life. Again I lay in a bed with a nurse making small talk and John holding my hand whilst thoughts of fertilisation and conception were racing through my mind. We left the hospital one more time and once again I tried to relax but had hundreds of 'what ifs?' racing through my mind.</div>
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Over the next couple of weeks we carried on progressing with our foster care application. We met our social worker; a really down to earth man who was not fazed or concerned about our suffering from infertility. We were - and had to be - completely honest about our feelings and experiences. He fully understood and appreciated our motives for wanting to register as foster carers and was more than willing to support us through the process and (huge wealth of) paper work, medicals and checks.</div>
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Nearly two weeks after the IUI, we went camping with some friends and their children. Again I welcomed the escapism that getting away provided. Sam played happily with his friends and we had a wonderful time inspite of the inevitable rain. We sat under the gazebo around the camp fire and chatted and played games. Our friends knew that we were in the middle of a fertility treatment cycle and were amazing supportive and emphatic throughout the entire weekend. They listened when we needed to talk, normalised our feelings when we (I) let my anxieties get the better of us and distracted us with humouur, good food and conversation when we needed it. The morning we were packing up to return home I started experiencing very painful stomach cramps. Although I was unsure what a 'normal/natural' menstrual cycle really felt like, I was convinced that I was getting my period. I panicked and spoke to Sarah about it, who reassured me that with each of her three pregnancies she had experienced what felt like premenstrual cramps prior to missing her period/finding out she was pregnant. I felt sad that even though I had been pregnant three times I still didn't know what 'normal' was nor did I know what to expect.</div>
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John and I sat in our house that evening whilst the stomach cramps continued. I kept rushing to the toilet to see if I had got my period. By the end of the evening I felt at peace and at a place of acceptance at the thought of my period being imminent and therefore the treatment having failed. The following morning I was surprised to realise that my period hadn't started and the cramping had stopped. I took a pregnancy test as I knew I was meant to and followed my normal routine of hopping in the shower whilst the result developed.</div>
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On stepping out of the shower I picked up the test to throw it in the bin as my reflexes had become accostomed to doing. However, as I glanced at the digital test window I was surprised to see the words 'pregnant 2 - 3'. I took a number of tests that morning to confirm. Each of them was positive.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-91594036551254698482014-03-11T14:24:00.000+00:002014-03-16T15:57:13.562+00:00Pins and Needles: Part 1<div>
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<i>"I am losing all hope; I am paralysed with fear. I remember the days of old. I ponder all your great works and think about what you have done." Psalm 143: 4-6</i></div>
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My second round of clomid made me feel even worse than the first. The headaches were more than I could bear and I couldn't cope with the other hormonal side effects. I knew that I must be a nightmare to live with and the hot flashes were adding to my discomfort. I waited for my day 10 ultra sound and attended the clinic with a sense of dread. Sitting in the waiting room I looked around at the other couples and wondered what their stories were. Did they have another other children? Had they experienced any losses as we had or were they childless? I do remember at this time, however, having a real revelation of how lucky we were to have Samuel. I lay on the bed waiting for the nurse and was quickly realising that ultra sounds were possibly my least favourite thing in the world. I was certain I'd had more bad news than good news in ultra sounds and fet so angry that these machines could look inside me and see how poorly my body was working. Once again I hated that I had no control over thesituation and was angry that the whole thinng needed to be a process of trial and error to see what worked for me. I wanted them to give me the highest dose of clomid that they could to cause mne to ovulate but instead they had to work their way up to prevent over stimulation of my ovaries.</div>
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The nurse, who had become familar to me, came into the room and we exchanged small talk as she scanned me. She explained that the follicles were bigger than the last cycle but that she still couldnt find a dominant follicle. There were 4 or 5 that had started to grow but not to the size they would have expected at that point in the cycle. She explained that I would need to come back a few days later and that we would have to pay more money for the additional scan. Feeling disheartned I left the treatment room, called by the clinic to pay my invoice, met John and Sam in the cafe and left the hospital again. John and I tried really hard to focus on the positive. During the last cycle there had been no sign of dominant follicles. At least so far this cycle there was a sign of follicles that were growing.</div>
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Time was speeding away with me again and as the weeks and months progressed I felt further and further away from my dream. I was approaoching my 30th birthday; a milestone that I was absolutely dreading. A wonderful friend of mine, Fiona, had arranged, with a group of amazing friends, a tea party in the park for me. I left the hospital on the morning of my day 10 ultrasound and went to the park to meet my friends. In addition to arranging an afternoon tea for me they had bought me 30 birthday presents. I hate birthdays at the best of times - I hate the reminder that I am getting older still without being where I had planned to be - but I was paricularly dreading this birthday. However, they made me feel incredibly special and valued. Amongst my presents were pampering things and a bath pillow, homemade chocolates, socks (a well known comfort item of mine; new socks - particularly bright ones - make the world seem a little better), books, a scarf, a jewellery making kit, candles and lots of other bits and pieces. They had ensured that every time I look back on my 30th birthday I remember how valued and cared for I felt.</div>
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My 30th birthday arrived a few days later and I returned to the clinic for my repeat scan. Again, the nurse and I exchanged small talk whilst she scanned me. She looked at one ovary, explained flatly that there were no dominant follicles, and looked at the other ovary. There were still a number of follicles that had grown a little bit since my scan a few days earlier but they were nowhere near the size they needed to be - nor had they grown at the rate they would have expected. She said, without emotion 'theres nothing to indicate this cycle will be ovulatory. You'll need to start the norethisterone again and increase the clomid dose at day three. We'll go from there'. I couldn't control myself and burst into tears. I started repeating my history to her and telling her how important it was to me to get pregnant. I asked why the treatment wasn't working and she explained that sometimes 'ovaries like mine' can be unresponsive to clomid and need stimulation injections to force ovulation. She advised that I try one more cycle at the higher dose and go from there.</div>
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At this point it dawned on me what a miracle both Sam and Emilie had been. Although we had struggled to conceive, we had conceived naturally and I had carried both of them to early third trimester. Inspite of the growth restriction and clotting problems, Sam and Emilie had survived to 33 and 32 weeks respectively. They had both defied the odds. We had had 32 precious weeks with our daughter and Samuel's story amazes everyone who hears it. These miracles dawned on me more and more strongly as our journey continued. I had carried two beautiful babies to third trimester against the odds and now I couldn't even ovulate - let alone get pregnant or carry past first trimester. I just didn't understand - and never will.</div>
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During my third round of clomid I only made it to the first scan. A couple of days after finishing the clomid I began to be violently sick. I couldnt keep anything down and was in agonising pain with stomach cramps. John had to stay off work to care for Sam and I spent the day in bed barely able to lift my head off the pillow. We called the clinic who advised that I go in for a scan. It was confirmed that, rather than stimulating the production of one healthy follicle, the clomid had casued lots and lots of very tiny follicles to develop and the hormones were making me sick. We had to cancel the cycle, wait a full month and return to the clinic for a consultation.</div>
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Blog Entry: 30th June 2012</div>
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The abseil had given me something to focus on. It was my 'what if the treatment doesn't work' back up plan. It gave me such a buzz and, looking back, the fact that my treatment had failed in the week leading up to it left me in no doubt that it was safe for me to do the abseil. Had this not happened; had I been mid cycle, I would have missed out on an amazing experience out of fear of harming a very early pregnancy. As it was, I spent the day with friends laughing - really laughing - and feeling care free for the first time since Emilie died. I felt like I could cope, after all.</div>
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We returned to the clinic in the middle of July. It was hot and sunny and the weather was doing a lot to make me feel more positive. Speaking to my fertility consultant, he confirmed that my ovaries had been unresponsive to the clomid and that this was very common in Poly Cystic Ovarian Syndrome. He echoed what the nurse had said that clomid was generally the first step in ovulation stimulation but, as they knew I was unresponsive, we could move onto Intra Uterine Insemination. This was exactly what I wanted, and needed to hear. It would cost us a lot of money but I was certain that they would be able to stimualte my ovaries with the injections. And so it was back to the norethisterone to simulate a bleed for what I hoped would be the last time.</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-10393987341971954622014-03-10T19:27:00.001+00:002014-03-16T15:56:40.381+00:00Moving Forward: Part 2<div dir="ltr">
March and April 2012</div>
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The months carried on and my periods still hadn't returned. My life had begun to revolve around taking ovulation tests and taking pregnancy tests. I spent an awful lot of time on the internet obsessively searching for proof of women who had found out they were pregnant inspite of a negative ovulation test. I couldn't concentrate on anything else. I naturally have an obsessive personality and have a strong need to be able to control things. Here I was, in a situation that I had absolutely no control over. Taking the tests felt like a small way that I could glean back a sense of control but every single morning when I saw the 'negative' symbols on either an ovulation test or a pregnancy test I felt like I was experiencing loss all over again. I felt like every ounce of hope was snatched from me when only a single line showed up in the display window and the rest of the day would be spent obsessing over whether I had taken the test too early/late in the day, whether my urine sample was big enough or whether the tests were working properly. I couldn't bear the thought that my body might not be working properly. </div>
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With the support of my counsellor and friends I decided to stop taking the tests. To try and hand over the control. It felt like I was trying to shake an addiction and I would feel uneasy at the thought of not being able to take tests. I tried hard to throw myself into other things and give myself a new focus. I spent a lot of time crafting, taught myself to knit and began making a scrap book. I would put Sam to bed for his nap and sit down to carry on pursuing my new hobbies. At the time they really did keep me sane! </div>
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In addition to the crafting, I started thinking about how I could snatch back my sense of purpose. I knew that I couldn't get a job as I wanted to be home with Sam but liked the idea of volunteering. Every job I had had in the past revolved around working with children and families and this is where I felt my strengths lay. There was a lunch meeting at church about undertaking training to facilitate parenting courses so I decided to go along and get a bit more information. Jenny and another lady, Rachel, had been facilitating the courses for a couple of years and were leading the meeting. As they spoke about what the training involved and what their vision was for rolling out the courses I felt a sense of excitement that I hadn't felt for months. I knew that I wanted trying for a baby to be my main focus and I knew that I didn't have much head space for anything else at that time but I really felt, at that moment, that undertaking the training to facilitate the courses was what I should be doing. I put my name down and at the same time added a little explanation about how important it was for me to be able to focus primarily on growing my family. For the first time I didn't feel the familiar sense of panic at the thought of filling my time and throwing my energies into something that wasn't trying for a baby! Suddenly I had a focus. I came home from the meeting feeling a sense of excitement that was almost tangiable. The training would be in the September.</div>
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Mother's Day was looming and I was dreading it. I knew that I was still a mother to Sam but I felt like half the mum I had expected to be at that time. We decided to go away to center parcs for a week, to escape and spend some time as a family. The get away did us all the world of good and Sam particularly enjoyed having some activities that were specifically for him. We made some really special memories that week and learnt that we could enjoy being our little family of three. Inspite of this, however, there were some really painful moments during the week. I especially found the swimming pool very difficult to cope with. Seeing women with swimming costumes stretching over their baby bumps was almost more than I could bear and I would find myself looking a little too long at tiny babies who lay in their mother's arms whilst their siblings splashed in the pool. My own flat stomach seemed to be mocking me and I eventually decided that I couldn't bear it any more and John took Sam swimming alone.</div>
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My first mother's day without Emilie was bitter sweet. We were still at center parcs together and I woke up with the familiar sense of emptiness. As I had done previously with other 'celebration days' I took a pregnancy test on waking. I remember thinking how wonderful a testimony it would be to have found out I was pregnant on mothers day. Again, it was negative. I threw the test in the bin and decided to try and enjoy the rest of the day. John did his best to try and make the day special for me. He and Sam bought me a 'cake pops' book. Another hobby to pursue and something that would go on to fill a lot of my time over the coming months. I did not want to be sat with other families over lunch time so instead we went out for lunch the day before and spent time in our lodge together on mother's day itself.</div>
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Finally, a few days after returning home, the 8 weeks - and a couple more - that I needed to wait before starting fertility treatment was over and we found ourselves heading back to the hospital to attend the fertility clinic. I had attended this clinic a number of times before; before Sam's pregnancy, before Emilie's pregnancy and following Emilie's death. It was nothing new but the sense of desperation I felt to begin treatment was new. We discussed all our options with our fertility consultant. My problem wasn't getting pregnant, as such, it was releasing an egg to be fertilised in the first place. The doctor explained that if they could get me to ovulate, I should be able to get pregnant. It sounded so simple; take tablets, ovulate, get pregnant. Time everything perfectly. However, the problem would be how to keep me pregnant once I was pregnant but that was a bridge they'd cross as and when I was pregnant. I would have every medication I needed thrown at me in the hope that I would get pregnant and would stay pregnant. But my lack of periods was a problem. As it had been over 8 weeks since my miscarriage the doctor agreed to induce a period in order to get the treatment moving. I<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> I had never had a bleed induced before and didn't know what to expect. Was it an injection? Would I be given tablets? Would my period start that day or would it take a couple of days? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I waited to speak to the nurse hoping that she had the magic formula to get things started. She gave me two prescriptions; one for clomid and one for norethisterone. I had to start the clomid on day 3 of my cycle. I couldn't wait! However, I was then shocked to learn that inducing a bleed asn't as straight forward as I had hoped it would be. I had to take the norethisterone for 7 days and a period would start 3-5 days later. This doesn't sound like long time at all but I had already waited for so long, I couldn't bear the thought of having to wait another 10 days before getting a period. I tried not to cry. As an after thought, the nurse said 'make sure you take a pregnancy test before you start the norethisterone. If you take it and you're pregnant you will miscarry'. And so started my next obsession. I spent the next couple of weeks terrified that I might be in the early stages of pregnancy ....that it would be far too early to show up on a test but that taking the norethisterone would kill my (hypothetical) baby. Once my period began, I looked out for signs of miscarriage. I was incredibly anxious and obsessed about whether the clomid would work or not if I took it straight after an (imaginary) miscarriage. I was a wreck. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">And then I started the clomid.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I had carried my clomid out of her he hospital holding it as if it was a precious gift. As far as I was concerned at the time, clomid was my pass for a new baby. I spent the time leading up to being able to take it checking over and over that it was still in the cupboard. I obsessed as soon as I had started taking it at day three of my cycle over whether I had taken it at the right time of the day or not. Had I swallowed it properly? Had I remembered to take it at all? Fertility treatment is not easy for someone with an obsessive personality. There is far too much that is out of your controls and far too many possibilities to consider.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">The side effects of the clomid started virtually straight away and were so severe that I was certain it was working. My head became stuffy and fuzzy and I couldn't think straight. I was taking paracetamol to try and clear the headaches. I felt like I had the worst PMT that I had ever experienced and became incredibly short tempered. But worst of all was the hot flashes. I would be sitting watching TV, or getting on with my daily activities when all of a sudden my temperature and pulse rate would soar. I would feel as if I couldn't breathe properly and would need to strip off my top layer of clothing to try and cool down; not good in public. I found this incredibly uncomfortable and unnerving and this was for me, the worst side effect of taking clomid.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">At day 10 of my cycle I attended the clinic for an ultra sound to assess the growth of the follicles on my ovaries - which should grow to release an egg. I felt so awful that I was certain there would be a healthy follicle growing ready to release an egg. However, the nurse very bluntly explained that there were a number of tiny follicles (very common in PCOS) but that there was no dominant follicle that would grow to release an egg.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> I expected her to ask me to come back in a couple of days, having given the follicles a chance to grow a bit more, but instead she told me that this cycle would be cancelled due to lack of dominant follicles needed for ovulation and I was to begin the norethisterone again at day 21 of my cycle and then take double the amount of clomid I had started with on day 3 of my cycle.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I was once again devastated but this time was also shocked at the clinicalness and coldness of this method of trying to get pregnant.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-74538450321715649262014-03-09T14:23:00.003+00:002014-03-11T07:05:54.976+00:00Moving Forward: Part 1<div>Once again we were back at the place of trying for another baby. The initial pain of the miscarriage resurfaced everything that had surrounded Emilie's death. I didn't feel like I had lost another baby - I felt like I had lost Emilie all over again and had to keep reminding myself that this was a separate baby. We had had names picked out and I found that focussing on these names helped me to separate the baby I had just lost from Emilie. We also decided to tell Sam that we had lost another baby in order to help him understand why mummy and daddy were sad again. In the certainty that only a child can have, Sam told me 'we will get another baby, mummy'. Each night he prayed for 'Jesus to give us another baby' and each night I felt a stab of pain as his childlike faith mirrored my own desperation.<br></div><div><br></div><div>The panic attacks resurfaced and the grief began to overwhelm me again. I couldn't bear to see dates on the calendar and I couldn't cope with planning ahead and putting dates in the diary. Every date indicated a milestone; 12 week scan, a year since I had found out I was pregnant with Emilie, 20 week scan, hospital admission date, due date and a couple of weeks after my due date - Emilie's first birthday and anniversary. I hated the way that all of these dates loomed. I was torn between wantijime to stand still so that we didn't have to endure the grief and pain of its passing and wanting it to move forward quickly so that we could get pregnant and have another baby. I wanted to say 'wake me up when it's all over'. Grief does strange things to people; I would never have wished Sam's life away and wanted to cherish every moment we had with him. I wanted to remember every little detail and wanted him to remain young for as long as possible. Yet here I was, wishing my own life away, praying that this terrible season would be over as soon as possible. I wanted my joy back.</div><div><br></div><div>We desperately wanted to start trying for a another baby straight away but the miscarriage had left me quite ill needing very high dose antibiotics which needed to be completely out of my system before we started trying again. My hormones were all over the place, I was underweight and exhausted and I had once again suffered horrendous clotting. The advice we were given was to wait until the antibiotics were out of my system before we could start again. In order to lessen the stress of waiting we would be able to have fertility treatment but we had to wait until I had had a period before I could start any treatment. If I hadn't had a period within eight weeks then they would intervene and use medication to stimulate a withdrawal bleed, restart my cycle and begin the treatment. I was feeling quietly confident. After all, it hadn't taken long for me to get a period after Emilie's death and my hormone levels were a lot lower this time, surely. I was certain that my periods would return within the month and walked out of the hospital feeling more hopeful.</div><div><br></div><div>Time began to move on and I tried to keep my spirits up but I was struggling. A number of people tried to support me through saying things like 'at least you know you can get pregnant'. I'd smile but, at the time, this was of no comfort to me at all. I did know I could get pregnant; I had got pregnant three times, but my most sucessful pregnancy had resulted in severe growth restriction and early delivery. It had been down hill from there with Emilie's stillbirth and and my miscarriage. Getting pregnant was of no use to me at all if I couldn't stay pregnant. I was absolutely exhausted. I couldn't see it at the time but I do wonder, had I stayed pregnant, would my body have been strong enough to sustain a pregnancy and grow a healthy baby. Would I have been emotionally strong enough to survive another pregnancy and look after a baby? <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">The one piece of comfort I drew from the situation is that everything I'd read about trying for a baby after a miscarriage said that you were more fertile following a miscarriage. Surely I would get pregnant quickly again. I knew that 1 in 3 pregnancies ended in miscarriage and tried to see it simply as a statistic. My next pregnancy would be the one that stuck...it had to be.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Once the bleeding and cramping stopped - which took a while - I began to feel brighter. The emotional pain was no easier but things are easier to deal with when you do not have physical pain holding you back. And, of course, I was going to fall pregnant again straight away so once the bleeding and cramping stopped I was more confident that my fertility would return imminently. At this time I met with a friend, Karen, who had experienced a stillbirth 10 months before we lost Emilie. They had lost their daughter, Ella, in an unexplained stillbirth. Over the year and a bit since Ella had died, Karen and her husband Dom, had raised tens of thousands of pounds for charities helping to raise money to fund research into the causes of stillbirth and neonatal death and to help reduce the risks. Karen and I had been chatting and decided to hold a bake sale for 'Bliss' a premature baby charity. Inspite of my hatred for diaries and calendars, having the date for this bake sale in the diary really gave me something to focus on. I spent the week leading up to the bake sale engulfed in a cloud of icing sugar and flour. I baked as if my life depended on it and friends dropped baked goods round to my house in huge amounts. I began to worry how I was going to fit it all in the car. </span></div><div><br></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">On the morning of the bake sale I met Karen and Dom to load up their car with a wealth of baked goods donated by Costco and we left to set up at Dom's work place. I couldn't believe the amount of cakes and treats we had and Dom's colleagues continued donating cakes for us to sell! The support was overwhelming. The day itself was exhausting as Karen, Dom and I cut cake and served customers. I couldn't believe the number of people who got involved. At the end of the day, people were willing to buy whole trays of left over cakes and parents at Karen's girls' school continued to donate money and buy things. When it was all over, Dom counted up the money; we had raised £750! I couldn't believe it. Not only had this given me something to focus on and look forward to but I also felt like I had done something to make a difference - that Emilie's life wouldn't be in vain.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGfjMLnzmR4hwP1p_-wYxlkp4-Jnh1NYajumQdvg91C2NwcOSxfgn8VgJwLg9NUPJPOOOsBNmCXjfnbYI575cBbAKWWBtk6BLwT_myMQvTtiZ9mkp4mcQPkiDnnbbBE7tK5sMTBvn8wSs/s640/blogger-image-351284725.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGfjMLnzmR4hwP1p_-wYxlkp4-Jnh1NYajumQdvg91C2NwcOSxfgn8VgJwLg9NUPJPOOOsBNmCXjfnbYI575cBbAKWWBtk6BLwT_myMQvTtiZ9mkp4mcQPkiDnnbbBE7tK5sMTBvn8wSs/s640/blogger-image-351284725.jpg"></a></div><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">As time went on it became obvious that my periods were in no rush to start again. I began to feel increasingly fed up and impatient. I was taking ovulation tests daily and felt despondent each and every time they showed no hormone surge. I was taking pregnancy tests on a weekly basis, just in case, and would sometimes re-take these a number of times a day to be certain and to try and make sense of any of the symptoms I was feeling, or imagining, at that time. I felt like I had nothing left to give. I had no job, Sam was due to start nursery within a couple of months and I felt like I had no focus or purpose. Gradually though, the season began to change and spring began to break through. I would look out at the garden and see it springing into life. I saw new buds on trees, bulbs pushing through the soil and colours changing. This gave me a huge boost. Winter was finally coming to an end and the crisp, fresh colours made me feel like I had something to hope for. I became desperate to know exactly what hope was. I wanted to know what the word meant and was desperately keen to understand more about the Biblical concept of the word. Through my research I learnt that the biblical meaning of the word 'Hope' was very different to the way we view it in the English language. I knew that hope brings</span><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"> a sense of expectation. But when I read about it, this definition seemed quite abstract. It was often said as if the person hoping was making a wish. I had used it in this way. I had no idea what i waa putting my hope in anymore and certainly did not really believe that anything i was hoping for was truely possible yet I kept repeating my wishes; 'I hope I get pregnant again', 'I hope I don't miscarry' over and over. Positive reinforcement, positive mental attitude. However, the use of Hope in the Bible, I learnt, is very different to this. It is an indication of something that is certain - a strong, confident expectation rather than something wishy washy that can't be defined. I needed to hope in the God of miracles, the God of the impossible. I began to believe that he could quite literally reach down and pull me out of the pit of desire I was in. I desperately wanted to hear him say 'hope in me, wait on me, I have a plan for your life. Be confident in what you hope for'. Something shifted in me and I truely believed that God had a plan for me; that this season would end and I would be rewarded. This rang so true with me that I decided to get the Hebrew word for hope - 'Tikvah' - tattooed on my back. I truely believe that this was a turning point for me both in my journey and in my understanding.</font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><br></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmFySRjjx_99J3-hjm-vaMJSid3kEanZBR4_drCVhQP0wQWnOpEY9-AKA2iSxZIjANF6xv6pUE9gQ0sMX2-remoOfqsHOOFGFCjEUzZix0O5EDrf4xlLMHwO3nIoCjJ1EAG8U9bkBQ40/s640/blogger-image--1240865716.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmFySRjjx_99J3-hjm-vaMJSid3kEanZBR4_drCVhQP0wQWnOpEY9-AKA2iSxZIjANF6xv6pUE9gQ0sMX2-remoOfqsHOOFGFCjEUzZix0O5EDrf4xlLMHwO3nIoCjJ1EAG8U9bkBQ40/s640/blogger-image--1240865716.jpg"></a></div><br></font></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-28179750750441266642014-03-09T14:23:00.001+00:002014-03-10T07:05:37.168+00:00A Boost and a Blip<div>The following two weeks felt like some of the longest of my life. I thought about the baby I was carrying every minute of every day and continued obsessing about the pregnancy symptoms I was feeling. I was desperate to hold my baby - to have a baby - and couldn't think of anything else. I carried on crocheting the blanket and praying that my little baby would live and would grow. I would stand in front of the mirror umpteen times a day trying to work out if my stomach was changing shape at all - trying, with a huge desire for X-ray vision or ownership of my own ultrasound machine, to see inside myself and visualise that tiny heart beat. To know my baby was alive.</div><div><br></div><div>Sam's birthday party was over and the day of his birthday arrived. He was three - two years older than he had been when we began the journey of hoping for another baby. We took him out to a favourite restaurant for a birthday tea and took him to the Build a Bear shop to choose and build his birthday present. Having never been to Build a Bear before I didn't know what to expect. Sam loved it. His instantly chooy he wanted - a monkey - and took it over to be stuffed. He loved watching his monkey fill with stuffing and take on its monkey form. Once his monkey was filled the shop assistant explained that Sam could choose a heart to put inside himInstantly the room began to spin. She explained that the heart could have a sound attached so that Sam could hear it beating. I could feel my own heart begin to beat more quickly and my breathing sped up. I tried to block out what she was saying as we did our best to steer Sam towards the silent heart which he thankfully chose. I was relieved when she stitched up Sam's monkey and handed it to him. He was thrilled. However, the final step of the process felt like a stab in the gut for me. We followed the sales assistant over to the computer where she began logging in the monkey's details. She logged his name (Sam, rather creatively, chose the name 'Sam' for his monkey), his date of birth, colour etc. She then printed out the details and handed them to Sam explaining that this was 'Sam Monkey's' birth certificate. A wave of nausea and panic flowed over me and I had to walk away leaving John to take Sam to pay for his monkey. It still amazes me, looking back, how such a special experience could have become so painful. Sadly, although Sam still has his monkey, now affectionately named 'Liverpool Monkey' due to the Liverpool football kit he wears, I do not know where the birth certificate is and we have never been able to speak to Sam about the heart inside his monkey. It was at this point that I began to realise that the words 'heart', 'heart beat' and the sounds relating to heart beats would be a big trigger of panic for me for the foreseeable future.</div><div><br></div><div>The day of the ultrasound finally arrived and we had no choice but to take Samuel with us. He sat and played with my phone whilst my consultant scanned me. I had been terrified in the lead up to the scan and struggled with the whole 'full bladder' thing; I was so nervous that I had had to go to the toilet four times before my scan!! Immediately on scanning me my consultant reassured me and told me that there'd been progress since my last scan. The baby had been developing. She kept telling me that she could see the embryo but it was very tiny. She then asked if I'd had any bleeding and my heart just sank....</div><div><br></div><div>Minutes later, however, she said 'there's the heart beat. I'm very, very happy-it's a viable pregnancy'. I couldn't believe it! I tried so hard not to cry. There was no real sense of excitement or anticipation, just an overwhelming sense of relief. I felt like I could finally say 'I'm pregnant!' And sent a text message out to our closest friends to thank them for their prayers and share the good news.</div><div><br></div><div>I was still terrified but spent the rest of the day reading back over my notes again and again to see it written in black and white: 'crown to rump length 4.9 mm' 'fetal heart action seen'. I needed to keep reminding myself that it was real and that it was happening to me. We returned home and spent the day trying to get our head around things and forcing myself to rest. </div><div><br></div><div>That evening I started my fragmin injections which were every bit as painful as I had remembered them being following my Caesarean section with Sam. With each injection I decided to make a point of taking joy in each sharp scratch of the needle reminding myself that I was one day closer to meeting our baby. I cooked tea for Sam and John and we got ready to put Sam to bed. Somewhere around this time I went to the toilet and saw what I had been dreading for the past 7 weeks. </div><div><br></div><div>I was bleeding.</div><div><br></div><div>I <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">shouted to John and explained to him what had happened. I saw his face fall. Straight away, and trying not to panic, I called Sally and arranged to take Sam round there so that we could go to the hospital. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Once in the Early Pregnancy Assessment Unit I handed over the obligitary urine sample and sat down next to John. I went into triage and cried as I relayed my history to the nurse. She asked about the severity of the bleeding and whether I had any cramping. At this point there was no cramping and I was desperate for this to be a good sign. We did not have to wait long, thankfully, and I was examined by a doctor and a very caring nurse who held my hand and tried to soothe me as I cried. My cervix was closed and they could not see any fresh blood which was a positive sign. It was explained to us that spotting and light bleeding can be quite common at this point in pregnancy due to hormonal changes but to be certain I was booked in for a scan the following morning. We were sent home as reassured as we possibly could be.</span></div><div><br></div><div>The bleeding continued through the night and had got heavier by the morning. I was scared to go to the toilet for what might happen. I wondered whether, if I stopped going to the toilet, the bleeding might stop. I was desperate for a miracle. Again, we did not have to wait long in the waiting room but in the time that we were in there <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I looked around me at all of the women in the room. They were all, I assumed, in early stages of pregnancy and possibly in the same situation I was in yet none of them seemed teary. None of them looked distressed. They chatted to their partners as if life was completely normal and yet there I was, waiting for my scan, running backwards and forwards from the toilet to assess the blood loss I was experiencing. It was getting worse.</span></div><div><br></div><div>Finally our turn arrived and we entered the scanning room. Once again I lay down on the bed and waited for the news. Only 24 hours ago we had seen our tiny baby - witnessed the tiny flutter of their heart beat - and had returned home reassured. Yet here we were, with me lying down and with the concerned look of a sonographer as she scanned me. Moments passed before she put down the scanner and said quietly "there is no heart beat, I'm sorry". John started crying next to me and I just sat feeling numb and broken. I wondered how God could possibly let me get pregnant again only to lose the baby. Again. I was angry and devastated. To avoid having to go back into the waiting room while a decision was made, we were taken into a side room with comfy sofas and were made cups of coffee. Coffee - healer of all ailments I was discovering.</div><div><br></div><div>Eventually our consultant came up from theatre. Once again she was very upset for us. As the scan had shown that the gestation sac had not yet collapsed there was still a very small possibility - albeit very unlikely - that the baby was too tiny for a heart beat to be detected. With this in mind she suggested that to remove any doubt we should wait for another week rather than undergoing a D & C - a procedure used to remove 'products of pregnancy'. And so, even though I knew that this was the best thing to do, we left hospital once again in a state of limbo waiting for yet another scant to confirm what had happened.</div><div><br></div><div>We returned home with the familiar grief hanging over our heads and knowing that we were in for more waiting. I felt like all I had done for the past two years was wait - waiting for test results, waiting for appointments, waiting for ovulation, waiting for my PCOS riddled menstrual cycle to move on - to do something normal, waiting for blue lines, pink lines and digital 'pregnant' signs, waiting for scans, waiting for babies. Then there I was, waiting for the inevitable. I knew that the recommendation to wait had been given based on guidance that intervention wasn't carried out on pregnancies where the baby was under a certain size to prevent the termination of potentially viable pregnancies but I knew that there had been a heart beat. My baby had been alive and then it hadn't. I just wanted the miscarriage to be over and done with.</div><div><br></div><div>In what felt, at the time, like a cruel twist, the bleeding slowed down as the week continued and there was still no cramping. I began to wonder if things were ok after all. I began to fantasise about having the scan that Monday morning and finding a strong heart beat. Either way, I hated the waiting. It seemed to drain me of any joy that was left and I began to withdraw again. Then, a couple of days before the scan I began to experience cramping. The pain was virtually unbearable so I took some pain relief and went to bed. I truly believe that God protected me that night from another night of excruciating pain whilst I lost another baby as I fell asleep relatively quickly. I woke up in the early hours and the pain had stopped. I got up to go to the toilet and as I did I passed a huge clot - my baby. I was physically and emotionally exhausted once again. I tried not to look at the contents of my womb lying in the toilet and instead I cleaned myself up, flushed the toilet and went back to bed. Two days later, the scan confirmed that my uterus was empty except for some left over areas of clotting. I was given some strong antiboitics to clear the clots and was sent home under that advice that, should the clots not clear within a week, I would need to return for a D & C.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLwHyq5aRj4Z19arjWT0-LnkaxaypGYBd2q7A-ZetGQgAvLEOxmZn_m_WhJqhNG8oTfANFuaS8B82suS4rPAMWzbK4K5AxmllAzpDABRkBB1rrt6Eh7F-vdGbtIYiFYFMcuTCnDQ9w7EU/s640/blogger-image-1122875085.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLwHyq5aRj4Z19arjWT0-LnkaxaypGYBd2q7A-ZetGQgAvLEOxmZn_m_WhJqhNG8oTfANFuaS8B82suS4rPAMWzbK4K5AxmllAzpDABRkBB1rrt6Eh7F-vdGbtIYiFYFMcuTCnDQ9w7EU/s640/blogger-image-1122875085.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-71562314784912236842014-03-08T12:56:00.001+00:002014-03-09T08:08:36.595+00:00Her First ChristmasChristmas 2011<div><br></div><div><div>As Christmas continued to approach, the pain of the season intensified. Our Church has a children's procession every christmas service and, although I knew there was no way I could take part in the procession that year, John bravely walked round with Sam whilst I stood and sobbed. I watched the children process around and watched the new babies of that year being walked around proudly in the arms of their parents. My arms were empty. I had so looked forward to this procession. I had pictured myself carrying Emilie around in a Christmas outfit whilst people smiled and admired her. My arms had never felt so empty as they did in that moment and I didn't know what to do with them. They seemed to hang limp and redundant at my side. My friend, Elli, stood by my side with her arm around me while I cried. I did not need to explain what was wrong, nor did I need to justify myself. This simple act meant more than she will ever know.</div><div><br></div><div>I had Christmas in the back of my mind as a time of miracles. I had prayed and prayed that I would be pregnant by Christmas; that I wouldn't have to go through another Christmas Day without the knowledge that 'this time next year' we would be a family of 4. <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Christmas Day arrived and the first thing I did on waking up was take a pregnancy test. I have no idea what compelled me to do it. I had spent weeks begging God to allow me to be pregnant by Christmas. I had presented Him with my demands and had waited for him to pull through for me. I wasn't willing to listen to thoughts that I might not be ready or that is might not be time and instead I convinced myself that this was the plan. The test was negative, of course. I put it in the bin in the bathroom, took a deep breath and tried to put it to the back of my mind. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">The recent events hadn't dampened Sam's excitement of Christmas Day and we shared in his joy as he rooted through his stocking and unwrapped his presents. He was filled with ecstasy at receiving what he had asked for and I tried hard not to envy my (not even three year old) son. We shared breakfast together before returning to exchanging presents. A text message came through from Elli inviting us for a walk in the park. Again I felt intensely loved and cared for. Sam had got a new bike and wanted to ride it round the estate. The park would have been too much for him so we gave our apologies - and with that agreement to spend the morning alone as a family we knew that we would be ok. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-s723au5rnYwkTKARlOEF1MZJ6cJbkS5RJioKY21eLk_3WmiGkjxbc0gvqc-RVPyhuB8SO-l9Z7aPj0addlQ4AJKOpMc4dP3rAB6rGrmwTsh30mn3Nr13hiSxdqUimkqq1NyPhMjnANs/s640/blogger-image--1701800541.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-s723au5rnYwkTKARlOEF1MZJ6cJbkS5RJioKY21eLk_3WmiGkjxbc0gvqc-RVPyhuB8SO-l9Z7aPj0addlQ4AJKOpMc4dP3rAB6rGrmwTsh30mn3Nr13hiSxdqUimkqq1NyPhMjnANs/s640/blogger-image--1701800541.jpg"></a></div><br></span></div><div><br></div><div>We arrived at James and Katie's house early afternoon and were absorbed at once into the excitement. Sam was delighted to see his little friends and we were incredibly grateful for the company of James, Katie, John and Kirsten and James and John's mum, Joan. We chatted together and, with the shared knowledge of the way we were feeling, there was no need to mention our grief. We knew that it was being acknowledged every moment in the invitation to spend Christmas Day with them. We felt we were given the permission to not put on brave faces and just to take the day as it came and because of this, and because of the shared company of friends, we had a wonderful day. Because of the kindness of friends reaching out to us at our darkest time and not worrying about how broken we might seem on the day itself or being noticeably uncomfortable towards our grief, we had one of the best Christmases I can remember. We laughed and cried together, shared food, gifts and fellowship and loved each other. Instead of looking back and remembering our first Christmas without Emilie as a time of pain, we are able to look back and remember the joy; the children sharing (or being encouraged to share) their new toys, videos taken immortalising for ever excited children bouncing with full tummies on the trampoline, eating wonderful food and enjoying each other's company. We returned home that evening not with the heavy hearts we had expected to have but with smiles on our faces having enjoyed a truly special day.</div><div><br></div><div>New Years Eve arrived a week later and, with it, the chance to wave goodbye to 2011. This brought with it mixed feelings - it was the end of Emilie's year, the time to wave goodbye to her and start afresh with a new year, new challenges and with new memories to be made. I felt resentful, however, at seeing out yet another year without the promise of a baby. New year two years previous was when we had begun to consider the possibility of having another baby and weighing up the risks. I felt like we had gained nothing in the time that had passed since Sam's first birthday. I desperately wanted something to look forward to; a bit of hope to cling on to. <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Again, on waking, I decided to take a pregnancy test as I still hadn't had my period. Although this was not unusual for me it was disconcerting and I was experiencing a number of symptoms that I needed to justify or rule out in my own mind. I placed the test on the side in he the bathroom and jumped in the shower. On getting out of the shower, I squinted through my contact lens-less blurred vision to see writing in the test screen that I couldn't quite make out. I reached for my glasses before looking again.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">The test was positive.</span></div><div><br></div><div>Filled with elation and fear we set about texting our closest friends to let them know our news and to ask them to pray for us. I would be due in early September and, knowing that the baby would be early, I was incredibly excited to know that I would have a baby that would be in the same year in school as Jasper. As Emilie should have been. As the initial shock wore off, however, I struggled to be joyful. I struggled to find that place of peace and instead could only feel the trepidation of facing another high risk pregnancy. I wanted to go to sleep for 9 months and wake up with a baby in my arms.</div><div><br></div><div>As soon as the holidays were over I called the hospital and made an appointment to go in and see my consultant. Before this could happen we had to have our 'booking in' appointment and once again I found myself sitting in a room full of pregnant women - some looking decidedly fed up - and glancing round at them struggling not to feel envious. On giving in my name, my notes had been obtained by the receptionist and my details were being checked. On the front of my notes was a SANDS (stillbirth and neonatal death society) sticker with the writing 'Emilie-Rose 26/9/11' written on it to make staff aware of our story. As the sticker caught my eye, my mind went blank and the familiar sense of panic arose in my chest. I struggled to recall my details to confirm my GP, phone number and address to the receptionist and felt a wave of dizziness flow over me. I mumbled through my details trying to hold back the tears before we walked down to the antenatal waiting room. </div><div><br></div><div>The midwife we saw was very supportive. She explained that it would be a very high risk pregnancy - which we already knew - and gave my the opportunity to choose my own midwife to do my care. I requested the same midwife who had did my postnatal care after both Sam and Emilie and breathed a sigh of relief when I heard her agree, over the phone, to do my care. We went through my whole history which was tiring and emotional and I was given me new folder of antenatal notes, again with a SANDs sticker affixed to it, to bring home. Placed inside the notes was information about breast feeding, about delivery options and a leaflet about the dangers of smoking in pregnancy. Breast feeding was the least of my worries at the time and I wondered what possible options I might have regarding delivery given my history. Smoking was something that I definitely wouldn't risk. The leaflets felt like they belonged in someone else's notes yet I tucked them inside my folder and smiled at the midwife. The notes themselves, however, felt like my enemy. I longed for them to say something normal - to hint that I might have an uneventful pregnancy - but the information and medical history inside them seemed to jeer at me. For months after this I hated the look of antenatal notes in pregnant friends' houses and envied the normality the I assumed must be inside them.</div><div><br></div><div>In the lead up to the booking appointment I had had a difficult couple of days trying to stay positive. I knew that I had let fear take over and desperately didn't want to live that way. The morning of the appointment my pregnancy calendar had informed me that in a couple of days 'the nose, mouth and ears that you'll spend so much time kissing in eight months time are beginning to take shape'. I found that I could barely read it and wanted to throw my phone, that held the information, across the kitchen table. I wanted to know that I would hold and kiss my live baby when they were born but I felt almost too scared to let myself believe it. So, on returning home from the appointment I decided that to try and boost my positive thinking I would begin to crochet a blanket for the baby. I had made one for both Sam and Emilie but in the chaos and terror, Emilie never got to be wrapped in hers. It took me hours to make and is folded neatly in her memory box. I made a decision when we were trying for this new baby that I didn't want to make or buy anything for them, just incase. But as the desire for another baby increased, so did the need to provide for them. And so I began to painstakingly crochet a rainbow coloured stripy blanket. I focussed intently on the baby as I was making it and that helped to make them more real to me. I would spend each evening after putting Sam to bed standing by the cot in Emilie's room - in what would be the baby's room - and praying fervently that I would bring this baby home. That in 9 months time a little baby would be lying in that cot depending on me to meet its every need. Around this time some friends had prayed for us. They spoke to us about trusting God. One of them said she felt that at that moment our pregnancy was likened to a misty morning where everything was quite dark and gloomy but by the end of the pregnancy the sun would have broken through to reveal a glorious day-that we would have our baby to bring home at the end of the pregnancy - but still I found it so hard to trust.</div><div><br></div><div>As the days went by I began to find the emotional aspects of being pregnant harder than I had imagined I would. I constantly had people asking me if I 'still felt sick' and what other symptoms I was having and the more they asked, the more I panicked that I wasn't feeling the right things. I had no idea what 'normal' was where pregnancy was concerned, my brain began to play tricks on me regarding my symptoms and I began to become obsessive over how sick or how tired I was feeling. I kept willing myself to feel worse so that I would conclusively know that I was pregnant. I also obsessed about bleeding. Each time I went to the toilet I would expect to see a drop of blood - a tell tale sign that a miscarriage was happening and I began to read about the likelihood of miscarriages happening without bleeding and/or cramping occurring. I felt like I was trying to protect myself by anticipating loss before it happened so that it wouldn't come as such a shock. I was terrified in every aspect of the word. </div><div><br></div><div>Around the time that I was about 5 weeks pregnant, Sam's 3rd birthday party arrived and I threw myself fully into party celebrations. His excitement was infectious and John and I enjoyed having something positive to focus on. I spent the week leading up to his party making hundreds of tiny bananas for his birthday cake as he specifically asked for a 'monkey lying in bananas' cake! Everything that took place that week revolved around Sam's birthday as we tried to turn a potentially painful situation - our son getting older without a sibling - into something to celebrate and the party preparations became a huge distraction for me. It also became a metaphor for how I was feeling at the time and for how hard I was trying to trust God and I wrote the following on my blog:</div><div><br></div><div><i>15th January 2012</i></div><div><i>I have been working out how much food I need to prepare, how many people will be vegetarian, ensuring there's no stray nuts flying around to cause allergic reactions and whether I should do fresh fruit or not. That's before I even factor in blowing up balloons and thinking about party bags! Sam has asked, rather unassumingly, for the cake. It is the only request he has made for his whole party and there has been no doubt in his mind that I will deliver. He hasn't felt the need to keep reminding me about it or to check with me whether I will still do it, or whether I've changed my mind. Every so often he'll ask me all about his cake and want to know how I am getting on with making it but he trusts me completely to give him what I've asked for. </i></div><div><i>I know this is the sort of trust I should have for my baby growing as it should and being born alive. I was reading this this morning and it really rang home with me: 'it is as though God has asked you to copilot this most important flight. He is holding the controls, but you're asked to come alongside on this journey, doing what he asks & responding to his requests. To be an efficient copilot you must trust your pilot implicitly and remain in constant communication. Trust God, your pilot, with ultimate control of your pregnancy journey.' I know, that in the same way Sam can't painstakingly make tiny sugar paste bananas, or prepare sandwiches & pizza for his party, there is nothing I can do to form this baby. I can accept all of the medical advice I am given, eat well, rest as much as possible and ensure that I'm caring for myself. I can present my requests to God and let him know how scared I'm feeling but I can't form this baby-that is His job and I need to trust Him to deliver. </i></div><div><i>Philippians 4:6-7 (NLT)</i></div><div><i>6Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done.[] 7Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus.</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_MNpLbppUhRu1KjSkI6GyUolyL04qKkW8RhhmhhsOCDWIs6cJbgkYGcnzSl1ICaIIjDGvs-_nDrxgt7eNR0P-pvauMIwCYN1H2qVvBr2WLmfyelVsvy3QMUsrTevyTo0Dg0V9l_V-k1I/s640/blogger-image-380743863.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_MNpLbppUhRu1KjSkI6GyUolyL04qKkW8RhhmhhsOCDWIs6cJbgkYGcnzSl1ICaIIjDGvs-_nDrxgt7eNR0P-pvauMIwCYN1H2qVvBr2WLmfyelVsvy3QMUsrTevyTo0Dg0V9l_V-k1I/s640/blogger-image-380743863.jpg"></a></div><br></i></div><div><br></div><div>Still the obsessions continued, however, and I felt the need to raise this point with my counsellor. I knew that I was feeling nauseous but if this stopped for even a moment I would fear that the baby had died. This affected me to the point that I didn't want to eat much in the hope that eating smaller amounts or not snacking throughout the day might help to make me feel more sick and therefore make the pregnancy seem more real. In some sort of method of self preservation my mind was refusing to acknowledge the nausea and instead I only noticed the lower abdominal cramping I was experiencing, fearing the worst, even though I knew that that was normal in early pregnancy. My counsellor explained to me that my brain consists of a sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous system. When you experience trauma, the sympathetic nervous system comes into force activating fight and flight response. Everything is overactive, stress levels are raised and it is much more difficult to normalise things. That was where I was emotionally at the time and I needed my parasympathetic nervous system, which is responsible for relaxation, to be more active. Carol discussed some breathing and relaxation techniques with me and I really hoped that these eased the sense of panic and dread that I felt. I knew that I needed to put aside some time each day to practise these techniques and relax but every time I did the fears and anxieties would kick back in.</div><div><br></div><div>At 6 weeks - going by my own dates and estimations, we met with our consultant. Although surprised at how quickly we had got pregnant this time, she was great and told us how pleased she was for us. She explained that I would need a scan scan to confirm viability before I could start the fragmin injections which would help to prevent the blood clots I had suffered with both Sam and Emilie. She also explained that at my current gestation it may be too early to detect anything giving me the option to have the scan that day or to wait another week and come back. I was terrified but decided that having the scan that day would at least give a chance of reassuring me. I hated the thought of returning home and not knowing. Of spending the next couple of weeks in pain and anxious with my mind constantly playing tricks on me. My consultant first did a transabdominal ultra sound & could detect the gestation sac & yolk sac but no heart beat so tried doing an internal scan. I lay on the bed, shaking. I had such trust in my consultant but everything about this experience resurfaced feelings from the day Emilie had died. And she knew it. I watched her face again and tried to read between the lines that resonated once again in the silence. I tried to will a live fetus into existence and told myself over and over that if no heart beat was found it was probably too early. I waited.</div><div><br></div><div>Still no heart beat.</div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I tried to remain calm as memories of the scan confirming Emilie's death flooded over me. Knowing me well and knowing my history, my consultant reassured me telling me that there was definitely a pregnancy there, that I wasn't imagining it but that it was probably too early and the baby too tiny to detect a heart beat. Inspite of how much I trusted her, I couldn't help but feel heartbroken again. I was desperate to see a heart beat; to see the tiny flicker that confirment by baby was alive. I was desperate to take home a scan picture to place up on the fridge and remind me each time I looked at it that in a few months time I would have my baby to hold. But instead the scan reaffirmed the fears I had been feeling. I worried that the baby had stopped growing a few days earlier and that's why it was too tiny. I couldn't help but feel terrified, dreading the worst and anticipating losing another baby. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">The advice we were given was to return home, try to rest and to go back two weeks later for another scan. I tried so hard to keep calm and focus on the positive; there was a gestation sac and yolk sac. There was a little home growing for my baby. I spoke to a radiographer friend who confirmed that the findings of the scan would be what he would have expected for that gestation. He tried his best to reassure me and I tried my best to cling to the positives. But with every day that passed I felt like my dream of having a healthy baby was moving further away.</span></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-22481367200848566672014-03-06T16:04:00.001+00:002014-03-08T08:43:35.100+00:00The New Normal<div>Emilie's due date - 23rd November - arrived. I didn't sleep well the night before; I dreamt that the whole experience had been a terrible nightmare and that I would wake up to find that I was still pregnant and waiting for contractions to start. Instead, when I woke, the stark reality hit me once again. Our daughter had died and this was the day I had been dreading - the day that she should have been born. The only thing that lifted my mood slightly was the arrival of my period 2 days previous. I fresh start - the knowledge that we may be able to conceive soon.</div><div><br></div><div>We had planned a family day. We took Samuel over to North Wales to see, and ride on, a miniature railway and to visit a railway museum with model railways. Sam absolutely loved it. He was amazed by the tiny little trains that he could operate with the push of a button and watch them speeding around the track. I stood watching him take in everything around him and tried to control the palpitations and tight chestedness I was feeling through breathing exercises. I was vaguely aware of the whistling in my ear that told me that my stress levels were high. I tried to push down these feelings for Sam's sake so that we could enjoy the day together.</div><div><br></div><div>Afterhe train fun we went to a small cafe for hot chocolate. We sat tucked around a corner so that we were away from the hustle and bustle and found ourselves sitting next to a couple with twins who were under 1. I looked at them longingly as the sat being fed in their highchairs. I was desperate to tell their parents how lucky they were and begun to imagine what it would be like to have twins. I longed to hold one baby and they had two. I remember trying to reason with myself that I didn't know them or their situation and that I needed to try to control my jealousy towards them. I returned my attention to my hot chocolate before nothing the woman stand up in the corner of my eye. As she stood to reach across to one of her twins I noticed that she was heavily pregnant. I chocked back tears and gulped down my hot chocolate hoping that we could leave the cafe as quickly as possible. We drove home exhausted - relieved that the day was over and that Sam had had a good time and at the same time full of grief that we had come full circle. It was over. The pregnancy had ended, we'd received the test results and now Emilie's due date was over and done with. We needed to try and move forward and establish the 'new normal' as well as we could.</div><div><br></div><div>Life continued to plod on and we became acutely aware of the inexorable passing of time as we watched lives progress around us whilst we remained stuck in our grief limbo. I started to get out and about more to toddler groups with friends and to their houses. There would be some days where I would simply need to sit in my own world whilst Samuel and my friends children played around me, me being stirred every now and then by questions or requests. Other days I would feel more able to engage in conversations although still struggled with talking about anything remotely normal. Our daughter had died and life would never be normal again. Making smalltalk, reading books, engaging in normal conversation and watching TV seemed to be things that I had lost the ability to do. Everything seemed so trivial to me. Thankfully my friends were patient and allowed me to talk about my feelings and Emilie as much as I needed to. It was obvious that this made some people uncomfortable, however, and conversations would not flow easily, relationships becoming superficial and surface level - something that we couldn't contend with at the time - and unfortunately a number of relationships did break down. I have heard other people who have experienced such grief describe the same problems. I learnt that grief, like joy, is something that needs to be shared.</div><div><br></div><div>As the year wore on, Christmas decorations and the joy of the Christmas season filled the world around us. It filled shops, houses, pubs, streets, schools, church and people's lives. It suffocated me. I couldn't see Christmas decorations in shops and smell the sickly cinnamon air without feeling a wave of panic engulf me. I couldn't escape from the knowledge that this should have been Emilie's first Christmas. I felt that the decorations and displays were mocking me. I couldn't even bear to buy wrapping paper. Thankfully, Sam's present and our nephews and friends' childrens' presents had already been purchased prior to Emilie's death but everyone else received vouchers that Christmas. They were very understanding. We hadn't made any concrete plans for Christmas, knowing that Emilie would have been so young, and instead were going to see how we were getting on closer to the time. </div><div><br></div><div>Following her death we struggled with the idea of seeing family for Christmas as we didn't feel we, or any other of our family, would be able to escape the grief and we needed to feel comfortable with grieving on the day. When we made this decision another plan was made that we were comfortable with, however, the day drew closer it became apparent that that plan was not suitable and our Christmas plans fell through the week before Christmas. We were devastated. We began to look at last minute holidays for the three of us for Christmas and panicked about what to do. The two of us would have happily by passed Christmas but wanted to celebrate for Sam's sake. Father Christmas still had to come and we desperately wanted him to enjoy the day. We did not have the capacity to decide what to do and sunk deeper into our despair. And then, days before Christmas, the phone rang. Some friends of ours, John and Kirsten, had planned to spend Christmas Day with John's twin brother and his family - with whom we were also friends. They had spoken to each other and invited us to spend Christmas Day with them and their children. Even now it makes me emotional to think about this. We were to spend Christmas Day with wonderful friends whilst Sam got to wreak Christmas havoc with some of his closest friends! And so we had something to look forward to.</div><div><br></div><div>On 14th December, Faye and Mark's son, Jasper, was born. Faye was two weeks past her due date and I was becoming a nervous wreck for her. I wanted him to be born; to know he was safe, sound and healthy. I carried on seeing her in those two weeks and tried my best to hide my anxieties - but I'm certain I wasn't successful! And then, whilst round at a friend's house where I didn't need to hide my feelings, a text message came through to announce his birth. I had prepared myself for that moment for weeks and had gone through all possible emotions in my mind. But when it came to it - apart from a nagging sensation of grief and pain that lingered constantly anyway - the main thing I felt was relief. Relief that Jasper and Faye were healthy. Later that evening it struck me. The feeling wasn't jealousy or resentment, it was the old fear that Faye wouldn't want to be part of my life. I began to worry that Faye would not want Jasper near me. That I was a bad omen of sorts - that my grief would overwhelm her and she would simply want to dwell on her own gains. I was terrified of losing my friend and of losing a child who I had looked forward to meeting. I spent the evening in a sense of panic. The following morning the doorbell rang after we had dropped Samuel off at playgroup. We weren't expecting anybody so I took a deep breath before opening the door. Standing there were Faye and Mark. I fought back the tears and gave her a hug whilst she apologised for being 'off the radar' the past day. I marvelled at how well my friend knew me - how she had anticipated and acknowledged my fears and accounted for her (unavoidable) absence from phone contact! She told me that I should feel free to ask her to go home but that she had brought Jasper to meet me and wanted to give me the opportunity to meet him on my own without the added pressure of putting on a brave face in public or in a group. Her sensitivity overwhelmed me and I opened the door as they got Jasper out of the car. They sat him on our kitchen table in his car seat and I marvelled at his size. His head was covered by a hood and his hands and feel obscured and hidden by the sleeves of his coat and feet of his baby grow. He sat curled up in his car seat trying desperately hard to retain the fetal position as the safety straps held him in place. For the 9 weeks since Emilie's death I had barely been able to look at a pram - let alone a less than day old baby - and yet here he was, sitting on my kitchen table and I couldn't take my eyes off him. I touched his coat and reached for his tiny hand inside the sleeve, sighing as he grasped my finger. I waited for the inevitable panic attack but it didn't come. John came in and we caught up with Faye and Mark, hearing about the experience of Faye's labour, Jasper's birth and how close Faye was to delivering him before reaching the delivery suite. We knew that they had no expectations of us and were happy to let us take things at our own pace. I had passed a huge hurdle; I had looked at and touched a newborn baby and I hadn't spontaneously combusted in the process.</div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-64522420158682028212014-03-06T15:54:00.001+00:002014-03-07T07:32:24.638+00:00Pain and Panic Attacks<div>Once Emilie's funeral was over there was an initial release as the limbo state we had been in was over. But following the release we were plunged deeper into grief. The funeral had given us something to focus on and something to move towards and once it was over we had nothing to replace it with. John had still not returned to work but his return was moving closer and I was all too aware of my lack of job, and therefore (as I felt at the time) my lack of purpose. A few weeks previous I had felt like I knew exactly where I was going. I had finished work early to rest but knew it was temporary. My plan was always to spend time with Sam and Emilie being a stay at home mum until she was a couple of years old at which point I planned to continue my career in childcare. And now here I was jobless having suspended my business with no direction. The rug had well and truly been pulled from under our feet. </div><div>My blog, at that time, read:</div><div><br></div><div><i>13th October 2011</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>I feel like I’m really struggling. I miss Emilie so much – I will be ok for a couple of hours and then my chest seizes up as if my heart is physically aching for her and the panicky feeling comes back. I’m physically and emotionally exhausted from not sleeping and spending hours crying. I find myself staring at people with young babies and panicking when I see a pram. I know that they are doing the things that I should be doing and am finding this incredibly painful. I keep thinking about all of the milestones we’ll never have with Emilie – her first smile, weaning her, learning to sit up and learning to walk. I can’t bear the thought that these are all things we won’t get to see. </i></div><div><br></div><div>I had started to go back to toddler groups with my friends, initially with John's support and eventually by myself, but I was always in a strange, subdued state. The world carried on around me and I felt like an observer in my own life. I almost had the sensation of being under water - when all senses are dulled but you can vaguely hear people calling your name and talking about you. Sam and his friends would run around as normal and I would watch them, in a daze. My amazing friends - the same friends I had met when I had Sam - stuck by my side and ensured that I wasn't left alone. The panic attacks I was having were becoming much more common but now, instead of taking me unawares they would be always present, just below the surface pushing down on my chest and suffocating me. They would lie dormant rendering me unable to eat or sleep, unable to have a conversation without hearing a ringing in my ears and sensing how unreal the situation was, and unable to breathe deeply. And then they would surface. I would see a pram or a baby carrier, see new born baby or a pregnant woman or hear the cry of a baby and the panic would be unleashed. I needed to try and learn to contain it. I quickly learnt that, although seeing any pregnant woman or baby was painful, seeing a woman or baby whom I didn't know and had no relationship with was more than I could bear. I didn't know their story and often they didn't know mine. I envied them so much and desperately wanted to tell them how lucky they were. I struggled to walk past them in supermarkets or cafes without feeling like I wanted to be sick. Thank goodness people were still cooking meals for us as for weeks on end I became unable to go to the supermarket! After a few weeks the panic was ruling my life and I became unable to function. I had lost weight - very quickly and very obviously. My eyes were tired, my face was gaunt and my skin was pale. I knew that people were becoming increasingly worried about me but I physically could not eat or sleep. It didn't take long for this to become a habit and it was difficult to see where the inability to sleep and eat through grief ended and the habit started. It was at this point that my GP suggested I start taking antidepressants in order to help me function more on a day to day basis. The type of anti depressants I was taking would not work instantly but instead would take a month or so to build up in my system. In the meantime (and in the time following) I continued to have counselling sessions with Carol, who had been with us on the day that Emilie died. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>I was continuing to read books that spoke about overcoming grief and losing a baby/child and was asking God to speak to me about what was happening. I knew that I blamed myself for everything that had happened. I was expecting the results of the pathology report to throw up something that would indicate I was to blame and knew that I'd have to pay the price. I would rack my brains to think about what I might move done and would obsess about what I could have done differently; should I have eaten that? Should I have taken Sam to soft play? Should I have gone to the hospital earlier? Should I have slept in that position? Should I have gone swimming the week before her death? Should I have taken those baths? Did I take the medication to prevent clotting properly? Had I taken it at the wrong time of day?? The questions went over and over in my mind and I begged God to tell me why it had happened. Why had he allowed it? The only thing I knew is that I wouldn't know the reason this side of heaven and blaming myself for the rest of my life would be a very long, painful and possibly futile process. That said, it took me a very long time to stop blaming myself and there are still days when the thoughts of self blame cross my mind. I was reading a book one evening and read a passage that talked about God having a purpose for each and every one of us. It was written by a lady who's baby had died of a congenital disorder and had been stillborn at the same gestation as Emilie. She was talking about the purpose that her daughter had had in her 7 month life. ('Wonderfully Made' by Jaclyn M. Olson). I was absolutely blown away by what she had written and begged God to show me what Emilie's purpose had been. I knew that the Bible says that God ‘will fulfil his purpose for me’ (Psalm 138:8) and that this applies to Emilie also – that her short life was not a waste or in vain and that she did have a purpose. That I didn't know what her purpose was at that time was no obstacle to God and he reminded me that he has a plan for me to prosper me, and NOT TO HARM ME – to bring me HOPE and a future. I needed to keep clinging to this, especially when the doubts crept in. At that time I also began to realise that the voice I’d heard accusing me of doing something to harm Emilie was NOT God's voice and that I needed to learn to hear and recognise his voice more. I learnt that nothing can happen without God’s knowledge and permission... 29 What is the price of two sparrows—one copper coin[a]? But not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. 30 And the very hairs on your head are all numbered. 31 So don’t be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows" (Matt 10: 29 – 31). I knew that I needed to cling to this and decided to wait to find out how God would use what had happened for good. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHIDF-PNTUBpFOJ4K8cqSU0DY5b8-S5RXSewcR1Q0bkU2HFlNg8QL7ANfO0Wp_8ZLqUSZ6lmfa-wWIOIOdVgUhKTb8ygVVxU1gWr-Mop_YC-zyy37b8Z9T7Siihkyz7oyji92sSkYj8po/s640/blogger-image--335008895.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHIDF-PNTUBpFOJ4K8cqSU0DY5b8-S5RXSewcR1Q0bkU2HFlNg8QL7ANfO0Wp_8ZLqUSZ6lmfa-wWIOIOdVgUhKTb8ygVVxU1gWr-Mop_YC-zyy37b8Z9T7Siihkyz7oyji92sSkYj8po/s640/blogger-image--335008895.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>The weeks seemed to go by in a hazy fashion and there is alot that I can't remember about those first few weeks after Emilie's death. We were trying to work out what our lives looked like; what the 'new normal' was. The medication I was on was beginning to work and, although still present, the panicky feeling I had become so used to was getting less suffocating. I would still cry myself to sleep at night though and would put Sam to bed for his lunchtime nap and sit in a daze not knowing what to do with myself. I began to watch TV box sets whilst Sam slept to keep my mind in some way occupied but looking back I can't remember anything of what I watched. I would often arrange for friends to come round for coffee whilst Sam was asleep and would try to engage in 'normal' conversation but, as my mind was filled with thoughts of Emilie, this was something that I found incredibly difficult to do.</div><div><br></div><div>The day that Emilie had died had been a blur of trauma and confusion. The only item we had kept of hers after her death was the pink and grey striped sleep suit that she had worn. Before the funeral I had woken up in a panic that the funeral directors would have thrown it away and asked John to call to check. They confirmed that they still had the sleep suit and her Princess dress and I asked John to go down to get it. I wanted her to wear her dress so that we could remember her as a Princess but I was desperate to retrieve the sleep suit. Grief is a funny thing. It completely disables you and renders you incapable, not only to complete every day tasks, but also to think clearly with perspective for the future. We were unable to think about what we might want to keep of Emilie's and this was something that, apart from being given the memory box, was not really spoken about at the time of her death. I look back and wonder what, if I was in my right mind, I'd have kept. Maybe the blanket she was wrapped in? Certainly the wrist band she wore from the hospital. Instead, the only material things we had to prove she existed was her sleep suit and her hand and footprints. I longed for something physical to hold. I didn't want to hold the sleep suit too much as it smelt as I had remembered her smelling and I didn't want to lose that scent. I couldn't hold the hand and footprints. I longed for something to show people - to say 'this was my daughters' or to enable them to raise the subject in conversation. </div><div><br></div><div> The week of the funeral, while John was still off work, I decided that I wanted to go along to 'Sticky Fingers' - the toddler group run by my church. I wanted to try and get back some sense of normality and also wanted to see people before the funeral so that the funeral wasn't the first time I would have seen them since Emilie's death. It just so happened that on that particular day Jemma, the leader of Sticky Fingers, had met a lady who made silver hand and footprint jewellery. Jemma had felt really compelled to invite the lady along to the toddler group that morning and had shared my story with her, asking if she would be able to make me a piece of jeweller with Emilie's prints on it. Jemma sensitively spoke to me that morning. Through chatting, I explained that we didn't have anything physical to remember Emilie by and how much this was upsetting me. She then relayed her conversation with Sarah, the jewellery designer, and asked if I would like a piece of jewellery making as a gift. I remember the feeling of complete numbness that I was still experiencing at that time. I had worked to put on a front that morning so that I could get through the group and I wasn't willing to let anything break down that front but the thought of owning something that represented Emilie overwhelmed me. I have never been able to express how grateful I am for my necklace but remember that 3 weeks later when I picked it up and was able to wear it, feeling a huge sense of relief at being able to prove Emilie had existed. I loved wearing something that people would notice and could ask me about. I often say that the necklace is my most treasured material possession - I know that it is the material thing I would save if my house was on fire!</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTeGa9zW_amo7sYlkduI3R-YPStluJgKKXP4RyEpA0DfCaWhTgMyH4XhUM_cbuhEEH-mzKcAW-TQNciH_IZc9SqrMxGxV1cPnckuc-iIeZPhT32q4VnADXrlp8dYOlyl0-NYevvFsgpoY/s640/blogger-image-1146000710.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTeGa9zW_amo7sYlkduI3R-YPStluJgKKXP4RyEpA0DfCaWhTgMyH4XhUM_cbuhEEH-mzKcAW-TQNciH_IZc9SqrMxGxV1cPnckuc-iIeZPhT32q4VnADXrlp8dYOlyl0-NYevvFsgpoY/s640/blogger-image-1146000710.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>As the weeks drew by, Faye's due date was getting closer and I was so scared that she would want to stop seeing me once the baby was born. It was a fear that was borne out of reactions from other people who did not know how to deal with the situation. I sometimes wonder, had the situation been reversed, would I have known how to deal with things? I learnt that my friends were grieving as I was and the pain was incredibly difficult for them to deal with. I learnt that it was painful for them to see us in the situation that we were in and that this pain was even more amplified when they had young babies and no one knew what to say or do. I couldn't bring myself to talk to Faye about how I was feeling incase she turned around and told me that actually yes - she did need some space from my pain. Each time I saw her I worried that our friendship may come to an end as she wouldn't want to see me once her baby boy was born. Eventually I met with another good friend, Sally - a very close friend of Faye's, for lunch and spoke to her about it. Sally's mum had died a couple of years previously and she was one of the only friends I had who had experienced huge grief and wasn't scared of it. We spoke about the way I was feeling about certain things and she assured me that it was completely normal. I also spoke to her about my fears concerning Faye. I remember her reaction - it wasn't one of surprise of ridicule and she simply said 'Faye loves you'. She helped me to understand that Faye had also experienced loss in the situation - we had both been pregnant together and had looked forward to our children being friends and growing up together. We had looked forward to attending baby groups together and doing the whole 'baby thing' as friends. In a similar way to me adjusting to losing all of these things, she was also needing to adjust to losing the idea of us having babies the same age. I decided to speak to her before our due dates arrived as I knew that once her baby was born he could become the perfect excuse for me not to deal with my fears. As our due dates drew closer I asked Faye if she would help me clear out Emilie's wardrobe. We sat on Emilie's bedroom floor folding tiny baby clothes to put away in boxes and I spoke to her about my fears. I explained that, although I knew that it would be hard when their baby was born, I didn't want her to try and protect me from him. I wanted to still be able to be a part of his life and I didn't want to be robbed from that opportunity in addition to what I had already been robbed of. The morning after Jasper was born, Faye and Mark arrived on the doorstep. Faye said that she wanted to give me the opportunity to meet him without other people being around. They brought him into the house in his car seat and I was immediately struck by how beautiful - and how alive - he was. I was also struck by the fact the he wasn't Emilie. This sounds like a strange thing to say now but it was a huge thing for me, at the time, to be able to separate Jasper from my own baby and from my own desires. He was his own little person and meeting him was a special moment. It didn't induce any feelings of panic or any floods of tears, only appreciation for our friends and a desire to be a part of Jasper's life as much as we could.</div><div><br></div><div>Just before my due date arrived we had our debrief appointment at the hospital with my consultant. It was the first time we had returned there since the day we went to register Emilie's death and as we drove into the car park that familiar feeling of panic and dread started to rise up in my chest. We walked down to the fetal medical unit and the walls seemed to spin around me. I felt physically sick and the thought that I should still be attending clinic there, being monitored before Emilie's delivery, struck me hard as we waited to find out the cause of her death.</div><div><br></div><div>We sat in a side consulting room and waited. My post natal midwife, Angela, had kindly agreed to come with us so that we would have an extra listening ear. Our consultant, and a haematologist, came in and sat down. I remember trying to take deep breaths so that I wouldn't break down. My consultant started by asking how we were, at which point I started to cry. I couldn't speak so simply shook my head. She emphasised that we had suffered a huge loss and bereavement and did not at any point belittle our feelings. She noticed my footprint necklace and commented on how special and beautiful it was. She then began to go through the pathology report with us. The problems I had had with Sam had recurred but to a more severe extent. The onset had been very sudden, the reason for which was unknown and I had also suffered a placental abruption in which the lining of the placenta had become detached from the lining of my uterus causing the oxygen supply to Emilie to be suddenly cut off. There was no way she could have survived and I was also incredibly lucky as pre-eclampsia and placental abruption can claim the life of the mother in addition to the baby. I began to ask questions - had I been overdoing things? Had I been sleeping in a poor position? Could I have prevented it. My consultant reassured me that there was nothing I had done to cause Emilie's death - something I really needed to hear. We were desperate to start trying for another baby; I couldn't think of anything else. We were relieved to hear that we would be able to try for another baby and an action plan was put in place for future pregnancies. I would be 'booked into' the hospital very early and would have a scan by 7 weeks. I would take folic acid in preparation, aspirin as soon as I had a positive pregnancy test and fragmin injections when the pregnancy was confirmed as viable at the 7 week scan. Miscarriage didn't even enter my mind. We left the hospital encouraged that a reason had been found for Emilie's death and pleased that we could try for another baby. It was 7th November and I was convinced that I would be pregnant by Christmas.</div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-23225614024272460302014-03-05T13:42:00.001+00:002014-03-06T08:09:33.474+00:00Saying 'Goodbye'<div>On the days when Samuel was at playgroup - and the emptiness was most apparent - we would go for coffees together. A new garden centre had opened locally the weekend of Emilie's death and we made the most of the heat wave that had struck that week - very strange for the end of September in Liverpool - and sat outside at the garden centre drinking coffee and planning Emilie's funeral. No parent should have to plan the funeral of their child. </div><div><br></div><div>We were given a basic structure to follow and sat discussing how we wanted to pad it out and what we wanted to include. Did John want to carry Emilie down the aisle or would we like the funeral directors to do so? What songs did we want? What prayers and readings did we want and who did we want to read them? How did we want to acknowledge Emilie's life? What flowers did we want and who did we want to come? I couldn't help but notice the stark similarities between planning Emilie's funeral and planning our own wedding yet I was all too aware of the strange juxtaposition between the two. It still felt like a dream - were we really sat planning our own daughter's funeral? Was John really going to carry her down the aisle in a coffin rather that walk her down in a white dress? I couldn't understand how it had gone so wrong. Thank goodness for the other people we had around us to plan the formalities of the funeral and the reception as I really don't think we would have had the capacity to do so.</div><div><br></div><div>7th October 2011 was the day of Emilie's funeral. We had decided for Sam not to come to Emilie's funeral - not because we felt it would be inappropriate for him; we knew that the would be other friends' children there - but because we wanted to be able to grieve without worrying about the effect our reactions may have on him. A childminder friend had agreed to have him for the afternoon and Faye had agreed to pick him up afterwards to bring him to the reception so that he could see our families. We felt that this was best all round. </div><div><br></div><div>We woke up on the morning of the funeral with the knowledge that we were going to be saying 'goodbye' to our baby girl and wondering if this was going to be an end to the limbo state that we were finding ourselves in. We sent Sam to playgroup and picked him up as usual and were given an amazing bunch of flowers from the staff. We had decided to go for a family lunch together before the funeral to give us something nice to remember. The lunch in itself was lovely although surreal. The three of us sat together whilst John and I had the strange knowledge that this was the day of our daughter's funeral. The staff at the cafe made a big fuss of Sam but I wanted to let them know that we had another child and this was the day we were saying goodbye to her. I really struggled with the fact the people who didn't know us had no idea that Emilie had ever existed. I longed for people to ask about her so that I could speak to them about her; so that I could acknowledge her existence and importance. But they would just see a family of 3 and have no knowledge of the fact that that had ever been different.</div><div><br></div><div>After lunch we dropped Sam off at my friend's house and returned home to wait for our wonderful friends, Tom and Lindsey, to arrive. They had been close friends of ours for years in Liverpool, before moving to London to pursue a music career, and are Sam's godparents. We had asked them to come to the house before the funeral and to come in the car with us. There was no one I would have rather had next to us on that day and we needed their support. Once they arrived there was no awkwardness of wondering what to talk about - we continued as normal. We had a catch up, as much as we could, cried and laughed together and eventually prayed together before the car arrived. My stomach was in knots the whole time and I begun to regret having such a big lunch as I felt quite sick with nervousness. 2:45 pm arrived and there was a ring at the doorbell. I think that John answered the door and I followed behind but as soon as I saw the funeral limo and Emilie's tiny, white coffin in the back my legs crippled and the panic gripped my chest. I began to shake and cry in huge sobs. I needed to be virtually carried to the car and was held on one side by Tom and the other by Lindsey. In the same way that I had known I wanted to write Emilie's Eulogy, John had known that he wanted to carry her coffin. He sat in the back of the car holding onto to his precious daughter whilst I sat in the middle with Tom and Lindsey holding my hands and helping to keep me grounded. In through the nose - and out through the mouth. The journey to the crematorium seemed to take forever and I shook all the way. I began to wonder if I had enough tissues to get me through the service. As we pulled up at the crematorium I could see our friends and family through the window and could see friends arriving. I couldn't control the tears and panic any longer and sobbed uncontrollably in the car. Tom and Lindsey were amazing. I could tell that they were in immense pain seeing their friends go through the unthinkable and yet they managed to keep their composure and uphold us.</div><div><br></div><div>Dave came to greet us in the car and go through formalities with us before we got out of the car. Nearly a week after Emilie's death a young man from church named Michael had also died. He had had a cancerous brain tumor and put up a long fight against it before going to home to Jesus. Dave had also officiated Michael's funeral on the same day and must have been exhausted yet he remained calm, kept his composure and was an amazing support to us. I remember speaking to Mike's mum, Carol, some months later at coffee together. She told me how much Mike had loved babies and children. I imagined Mike and Emilie walking through the gates of heaven together and Mike being a part of Emilie's heavenly upbringing. I imagined them knowing the relationship that their mothers would build up and the common ground that they, and we, shared. It has been a huge comfort to me since.</div><div><br></div><div>The time came for us to get out of the funeral car and go into the crematorium. We had asked for people to be seated before we went in so that we did not have to worry about meeting and greeting or taking on other people's emotions before the service. We walked through the door and I focused on the front of the room. Lindsey held on to my arm and helped to hold me up as we walked down the aisle and Tom did the same for John. We made it to the front of the room in one piece and sat for the service. It was an incredibly emotional and special service for our beautiful girl. The songs we had chosen seemed to fit perfectly and Dave led a dedication in which we gave Emilie back to God. The emotional release of giving Emilie up was amazing and we knew that it was something we had needed to do.</div><div><br></div><div>I was able to lead Emilie's eulogy - something that I am certain was only possible through the strength that God had given me that afternoon. I wrote the eulogy down to save it and when I decided to recount my experience in writing I also decided to share the Eulogy:</div><div><br></div><div><i>As a family John, Sam and I were looking forward to Emilie’s birth so much. I had prepared myself for another early arrival just in case and had my hospital bag ready packed. I think I’d done it to avoid the sense of denial I felt when Samuel was born prematurely. We had waited 2 years to try for another baby as we were so fearful about what might happen. We not only had trouble conceiving Emilie but that it had been a far from easy pregnancy. In-spite of all this and even though we were worried about how things were going to pan out, when I did find out I was pregnant we were over the moon and have spent the last 7 months preparing our lives and home for Emilie’s arrival. Sam has known that he was going to get a baby sister and had been very much looking forward to meeting her.</i></div><div><i>I think that you can get to know a baby when you are carrying them and Emilie had a personality of her own – she was very different to Sam. She seemed to have a sheer defiance and despite hundreds of position changes from me she would stay wedged under my ribs. I remember going for a meal to John and Kirsten’s house a few weeks ago and being unable to finish my desert because she had wedged herself firmly between my stomach and ribs and refused any coaxing to move. The midwife told me she was probably just comfortable there. A few weeks later she curled into a tiny ball at the base of my stomach and again wouldn’t accept any coaxing to move. I think we would have had quite a character on our hands.</i></div><div><i>Finding out that Emilie’s heart had stopped was the hardest thing that John and I have ever experienced. There are no words to describe the feelings that came crashing down on us. I am so glad that we have the Women’s hospital on our doorstep as I genuinely don’t know what we’d have done without the staff whilst we were in hospital. I desperately wanted a caesarean to avoid what I thought would be the terror or giving birth to stillborn baby but I was encouraged to have a normal delivery and I am so grateful that the midwives and our consultant didn’t give up on me. I think that giving birth to Emilie made the whole situation more real to us and enabled HER to become more real. I was terrified about what she would look like and had asked the midwife to prepare me thinking that she would be preparing me to meet something horrific. We prayed and friends prayed with us that I wouldn’t have to endure a long, drawn out labour to add to the horrors we had already experienced. Emilie was born after only a 3 hour labour, was handed to us in the same way that any other baby would be handed to their parents and we spent hours just holding, kissing and cuddling her. I needn’t have worried about how she would look - she was perfectly formed and beautiful and would have grown up into a beautiful little girl.</i></div><div><i>I don’t think we’re ever going to know why Emilie was taken from us and I don’t think it would make any difference even if we did know. I know that she won’t be in any pain anymore and that we will see her again. I even believe that we’ll know who she is when we meet her – that she’ll be waiting for us. The one thing we’ve experienced in abundance since Emilie’s death is amazing love, support and compassion from the people around us. The pain has been unbearable but everybody has made it just a bit easier for us by caring for us and showing us we are loved. We have the most amazing support network around us and without that, and the knowledge that God will never leave us, I don’t know how we’d have got through the past weeks or be able to face the coming months. Emilie will always be a part of our lives and we will never forget her nor would we want to.</i></div><div><br></div><div>Close friends prayed for us and read readings at the funeral. It felt so special and so personal for us. We were surrounded by our closest friends and family and felt very loved. Following the service we were encouraged to stay behind to spend a small amount of time on our own with Emilie. As our friends walked out we were given hugs and felt like they truly shared our pain. </div><div><br></div><div>We returned to church, to the cafe, in Tom and Lindsey's car, the four of us chatting and feeling the relief that the end of the funeral had given. For the first time in 2 weeks I felt a release of the pressure. I don't know if it was due to an adrenaline rush caused by the unrealistic and difficult situation being over or if it was God's comfort sustaining me for the day. The reception that Jenny had organised for us was lovely. All of our friends were present and the atmosphere was such that we were able to laugh and share together. There was a wealth of homemade baked goods and tea and coffee served by friends. We felt truly blessed that so many people were willing to spend that difficult day with us and to help to make it such a special afternoon.</div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-36785646922736172112014-03-03T13:13:00.001+00:002014-03-05T11:30:57.293+00:00Seeing in the Mist: Part 2<div><br></div><div><br></div><div>The days that followed are, looking back, a blurry haze of being carried through by those around us. The sense of panic that had formed in my chest wasn't showing any signs of leaving and was getting progressively worse. I had suffered from panic attacks in the past so the feeling was not unfamiliar but the intensity of it was like nothing I had ever experienced. Normal, everyday tasks could suddenly trigger a memory or flashback and I would spiral into a feeling of tight chested-ness and feelings of being short of breath. I spent hours downloading the 30 or so photos we have of Emilie onto the laptop and ordering them in various forms - key rings, black and white and sepia prints, a photo book, canvas collage and passport sized photos. I was desperate to keep her memory alive and the ordering of multiple photographs helped me to do that at that time.</div><div><br></div><div>Throughout the days, friends and church leaders came and went. People continued to bring meals for us and help with the care of Samuel. I was assigned a wonderful midwife - Angela - and a fantastic GP - both of whom I learnt to trust quickly. They showed me immense care and support and helped me to appreciate the magnitude of what had happened rather than to 'shove it under the carpet' or to try and be brave and move on. My blood pressure remained very high and I needed to be monitored very closely for a few weeks. This meant home visits from my GP and midwife every couple of days and this is something I found to be an amazing support. I soon realised that talking about what had happened would help to momentarily relieve the sense of panic I was feeling. The only way I can think of to describe it is to imagine a bottle filled with fizzy drink. When the bottle is shaken and the lid is loosened the liquid escapes very quickly and with great pressure although after that initial 'escape and release' the liquid is more calm - until the next time it is shaken up and the pressure is increased. I found the hours in between visits very difficult as the pressure began to increase and John and I were left with our own massive grief. When people came to see us and we were able to talk about how we were feeling that pressure would be briefly released and thankfully both my midwife and GP were willing to sit and listen to the way that I was feeling without showing any annoyance of discomfort. For the first few weeks after Emilie's death I was unable to sleep. I would lie in bed haunted by flashbacks of the days around her death. I would see the look on the midwife's face as she was unable to locate a heart beat, my consultant's furrowed brow as she gave us the news, Emilie's tiny and motionless body and the faces of those around us as we left the hospital. I was physically and emotionally exhausted but couldn't get any relief from sleep. At about day 4 my GP decided to give me some sleeping tablets to help me get some rest. Although they provided some physical relief they did not stop the flashbacks and dreams. I was, however, very pleased to get some rest.</div><div><br></div><div>Two of our frequent visitors were Jenny and Dave - Pastors from Church. They were very willing to listen to us and were not at all uncomfortable by the things that we needed to say. They shared our grief and accepted our anger. They were also amazing supports in planning Emilie's funeral. Dave had agreed to lead Emilie's funeral for us and helped us with the structural planning and legalities. We had decided to include a dedication in the funeral to give Emilie over to God. I am very glad that we did this. Dave helped us to choose prayers and readings and supported me in knowing what to write in the Eulogy - something that I was keen to give myself. Jenny planned the entire reception for us - an afternoon tea in our church cafe. A self confessed 'organiser', she rallied up people to bake for the day and to serve for us. Thanks to the support they both gave us the only things we really needed to do were to plan 'our parts' of the service, spread the word and to turn up ourselves! We were also visited by Dan and Celia, a couple who, at the time, we only knew vaguely from Church. Nearly 6 years previously their son, Joseph, had also been stillborn. They had found out while Celia was pregnant with him that he had Down syndrome and a heart defect that required surgery in utero. The surgery was successful but, unfortunately, at 34 weeks Celia noticed reduced movement. She was given the option to be induced there and then and be able to spend a short period of time with Joseph knowing that he would not survive, or to wait and allow him to die in the comfortable and familiar surroundings of her womb. She chose the latter knowing that this would be the least traumatic and most comfortable thing for Joseph. This selfless act is something that I will always be in awe of Dan and Celia for. Dan and Celia were the first couple who had experience what we had who we were able to sit down and talk with. We shared our stories, talked and cried together and prayed together. They were at the time, and have continued to be, an amazing support to us. There is something incredibly comforting about shared experience. Not only does it provide a level of understanding and empathy that is not otherwise possible but it also provides a level of perspective; a knowledge that we were not the only people to have suffered the loss of a child under those circumstances - nor would we be the last. It was around this time that the maternal desire to have a baby returned. I remember thinking that it hadn't even been a week since Emilie's death and I really shouldn't be thinking about having another baby but it was something that I could not get out of my mind. I was desperate to fill my empty arms and have my life restored to what it should have been. Speaking to Celia helped me to realise this this was a normal response - a natural urge - and although I needed to heal, instincts and hormones were responsible for the way I was feeling.</div><div><br></div><div>As those first few days and weeks drew on the one thing that gave us purpose and direction was caring for Sam and having family time together. I wrote in my journal at this time:</div><div><br></div><div><i>30th September 2011</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>I woke up again this morning with the familiar feeling of emptiness and brokenness. I think the only reason I get out of bed, have a shower and make any attempt to face the day is because of Samuel – he keeps us going. A friend took him to a toddler group this morning to give us a break and so that he can maintain some sort of normality. We decided to go for a coffee whilst we discussed funeral arrangements. It was a very quick coffee as being out of the house and trying to enjoy some sense of normality just didn’t feel right to me and I was very panicky. We talked about songs, readings and who we would like at the funeral. We decided on immediate family and Liverpool friends plus close friends who have supported us over the years. Thankfully Tom and Lindsey (very close friends who had moved to London a few years earlier) can come so we have asked them to come in the car with us as we don’t think we can handle going on our own. After coffee we went to order flowers for the service. This was very hard and the poor ladies in the florists were horrified at what we’d been through. We chose autumnal flowers including sunflowers and pale orange roses – bright colours to reflect how beautiful Emilie was. </i></div><div><i>This afternoon we actually had a really lovely time going for a family walk at one of our favourite places. Sam was in a really good mood and we all enjoyed ourselves. I feel that as long as I keep busy I’m ok – as soon as I sit down or have some time to reflect I’m hit full pelt by the emotions and such a strong sense of loss. In the garden centre where we went for coffee there is a children’s clothing section and as soon as I saw all the pretty pink clothes my heart leapt as I thought ‘I can buy them for my baby’. It is only then that the reality hits me – there is no baby to buy for. This sort of thing recurs so many times throughout the days and I just don’t know how to handle such strong and confusing emotions.</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipC1HCpGHlp59uKzDSwWo4g3hH8Fmyet_ml1Bn3k_qbxODZkG36EvFSdhfzzPekaJNh3DasH_SGj_Q5BrgMX_oWmNCEUpGA_Qnkad53JCcRFGbWTU3ppuCgYvR748p_Hr1ASixiBnkFLQ/s640/blogger-image--227383558.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipC1HCpGHlp59uKzDSwWo4g3hH8Fmyet_ml1Bn3k_qbxODZkG36EvFSdhfzzPekaJNh3DasH_SGj_Q5BrgMX_oWmNCEUpGA_Qnkad53JCcRFGbWTU3ppuCgYvR748p_Hr1ASixiBnkFLQ/s640/blogger-image--227383558.jpg"></a></div><br></i></div><div><br></div><div>Sam was our rock. We would go for coffees, for walks, or to the park and for that short period of time we were able to put on a mask of normality. We were distracted by the innocence and, to an extent, the ignorance of our son. Every so often he would ask a tricky question - where was Emilie, when was she coming back, why had she been so poorly - and we would be brought back into our pain. But most of the time Sam's existence structured our days and we would talk and act with familiar normality until he went to playgroup or to bed at which point the silence and crippling emptiness would return. One of my clearest memories is the aversion I developed towards television in those early days. Generally I love my soaps - I love the escapism and mindless entertainment that they provide but after Emilie's death everything that was on television seemed mundane and trivial. I would become angry at the conversations, situations and activities that were acted out on television and was unable to engage with them. I would quite happily have starred at a blank screen rather than sit and watch what was going on. They would increase the sense of panic that I was feeling as my anger and frustration grew and in the end we decided that I should have a break from soaps and we instead watched comedies and other things that did not relate to pregnancy, families, babies or loss. Another thing that I struggled with at that time was reading. As an avid bookworm this was something that surprised me. Gradually I was able to begin reading other people's stories about grief and loss and for a good 6 months or so this was all I read.</div><div><br></div><div>One night a week or so after Emilie's death I decided to take a book filled with short stories about overcoming the loss of a baby and have a bath to try and relax me and calm me down. We decided that it would be healthy for John to go climbing with his friends - something to take his mind off things and something to help me relax. I lay in the bath as he got himself ready. I wasn't able to bathe for long before the feeling of panic began to return and I needed to shift my attention to something new. I had triggered emotions through reading some of the short stories and, although the release of some of these emotions and the knowledge that I was not alone were healthy, I began to feel waves of grief, panic and tears rising up. I tried to calm myself down and slow down my breathing to reduce the panic attack; in through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth. As I felt my chest loosen I stood up, climbed out of the bath and wrapped a towel around myself. I was suddenly gripped by dizziness and began to 'see stars' in the way that you might had you suffered a head injury. I tried to reach out to grab something and steady myself but I had seemingly lost control of my body and of my sense of balance. The last thing I remember before hearing John bang on the bathroom door and shout my name, was feeling a falling sensation and hearing a huge bang. Seconds later I could hear John calling my name and I found myself on my feet in a confused state unlocking and opening the bathroom door. As John enquired what the noise was I realised that the bathroom was in a state of disarray. The bath mat was nowhere near the bath, a small unit of wicker drawers had been knocked over and the toilet seat had come off its hinges. I was filled with a momentary sense of terror and confusion before a searing pain shot across my head and jaw, along my shoulder and down the base of my back and ribs. It appeared that I had suffered from postural hypertension which had caused me to collapse, and in doing so I had somehow bruised my back and ribs on the sink, scratched my shoulder badly on the unit of drawers and had smashed the left hand side of my face, near my temple, and my jaw on the toilet dislodging the toilet seat. I sat at the top of the stairs sobbing as John held me. Even now I am unsure if I was sobbing from the pain, the fear/confusion or the release of emotions relating to Emilie's death. John iced my wounds and agreed not to go climbing that night. Instead we sat and cried together before going to bed. The following morning I looked at my bruised features in the mirror and the bruises and scratches that spread across my left shoulder and down my arm and wondered what people at the funeral would possibly think. There was also a part of me, however, that was relieved at feeling the pain. It was something that felt real and was so much easier to contend with that the emotional pain that was overwhelming me more and more as time went on.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXIoDAEyZhZPEHgvbd2aMEjow6VYGZkJd7F7BW6uVvdd_AG7O6ZKRRJ5n7N0Vwfx3LV-j99ARgwY5XBYF0p7qoKF3wWhttbFPNyk61QvMH-D7kL-Y5wJ4ZLpG_IInT-l8m_Hy1vxPR8rA/s640/blogger-image-1658253003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXIoDAEyZhZPEHgvbd2aMEjow6VYGZkJd7F7BW6uVvdd_AG7O6ZKRRJ5n7N0Vwfx3LV-j99ARgwY5XBYF0p7qoKF3wWhttbFPNyk61QvMH-D7kL-Y5wJ4ZLpG_IInT-l8m_Hy1vxPR8rA/s640/blogger-image-1658253003.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5003599254038828400.post-89571111797084067442014-03-03T13:11:00.001+00:002014-03-04T07:02:05.829+00:00Seeing in the Mist: Part 1<div>The first night we were home after Emilie's death was like being a character in a film but not knowing what the director had in mind. It had a feeling of unbelievable surreality about it - almost like an out of body experience. I know that this is part of the stage of grief known as 'denial'. I felt like I was waiting to wake up from a dream and was in a state of disbelief - in that exhausted state between being awake and asleep and trying to grasp hold of the final remnants of a dream before it slipped away. I managed to eat a small amount before being sick. I have no memory of conversation or of what was on TV. We were both in a daze - trying to get our heads around the reality of a seemingly unrealistic situation. We were trapped in a mist that fully engulfed us and pressed down on our bodies with the sheer weight of developing grief. The one thing I decided to do as soon as we returned home as write. I started keeping a journal - something I hadn't done for a couple of years, and begun to painstakingly write down everything I was feeling. It is from these journal entries that my blog arose and this book was formed.</div><div><br></div><div>Eventually we knew that we needed to go to bed. Neither of us had slept for more than a couple of fitful minutes for 36 terrible hours. I don't think either of us really slept that night either. I cried myself into a state of exhaustion and drifted in and out of semi consciousness expecting the nightmare to be over each time I awoke. For weeks, on waking, the first thing I would do is put my hand down to touch my stomach hoping that it had all been a dream. I would feel a sense of crippling disappointment each time I would feel my baby bump had gone and all that was left was loose skin. Early in the morning, that first morning after Emilie's death, I was trapped somewhere between dream and fantasy and remember vividly fantasising about about receiving a call from one of the neonatal consultants who had cared for Sam in SCBU. I imagined that he told me there had been a mistake - that Emilie had been in a state of deep unconsciousness and that when they had come to take her away they had realised she was showing signs of life and had called SCBU. I imagined him telling me not to get my hopes up too much but that this was a good sign. Such dreams and fantasies were not rare for me at this time and I would cling to their fibres willing them into existence. I would go to sleep imagining that Emilie was in my arms and would try to convince myself that it was all a dream. I knew that I was in danger of being caught up and trapped in the fantasies. </div><div><br></div><div>We somehow managed to get up and get ourselves dressed. I sobbed in the shower and my eyes permanently stung. I had a constant feeling of dread and a real tightness in my chest that debilitated me. I was learning that heart ache was a real thing - a tangible pain that prevents you from functioning in the way that you are meant to. Sam woke up as his usual self - nothing is permanent when you are 2 1/2. He was chirpy and full of life. He had his breakfast as usual and walked around happily in the mist that engulfed John and I. Faye came to pick him up on her way home from dropping the boys at school. I opened the door to her worried about how I would feel seeing her heavily pregnant frame. Her compassion helped me to see past the obvious and I knew that she was also in pain for us. I remember her saying "I fell asleep thinking of you and I woke up thinking of you". She, as all of our friends, was keen to help us in whatever way she could. She took Sam to playgroup for us whilst John and I completed one of the hardest tasks of our lives.</div><div><br></div><div>After Sam had been picked up we went to a small local cafe to prepare ourselves for returning to the hospital. Our friends owned a cafe not far from where we lived and we were torn between going there for coffee and feeling the love and support of people who knew us well and remaining ominous in a cafe where people didn't know us. We decided to air on the side of caution and go to the cafe where we didn't know people. We didn't want to risk breaking down or becoming emotionally overwhelmed by grieving with our friends before going to hospital. We sat in the cafe and wondered what to talk about. I can't even remember the conversation - we mulled over our coffees as the constant pain I had begun to feel clutched at my chest. I knew that we were going to the hospital to register Emilie's birth and death but I had no idea what to expect. Before leaving for the hospital I had planned to go into the chemist for some maternity pads. Although painfully obvious now, it had never occurred to me that my body would respond in the same way whether my baby was alive or not. John suggested that he go in for me to avoid people jumping to the wrong conclusion. On his return, he explained that it was a 'good job' he had gone in in my place as the lady in the chemist was gushing and asked him how old his baby was. Such kind words become so cruel at times like this. He didn't tell her the painful truth. We learnt very early on in the experience that it is sometimes best to protect other people from our own pain.</div><div><br></div><div>The journey into the hospital was surreal. As we drove in, my GP called to offer condolences and sort out a time to come out and see us. I was beginning to feel overwhelmed at the number of things that needed to be done - I would still need post natal midwifery care, would need to see the health visitor and GP and needed to somehow plan a funeral for our daughter. During the journey it dawned on me that I would have to step foot in the hospital again - that I would have to go back to the place where not 24 hours earlier I had had to leave our daughter behind. Again the constricting panic continued to set in and as we walked through the door I felt like my chest was going to implode. Once inside, we let the reception desk know that we had arrived so that they could notify our support worker, Val. As we waited I was painfully reminded that not 3 weeks earlier I had notified the same receptionist of my arrival so that she could call down to consultant midwife for me with whom I was meeting to discuss the most appropriate birth plan. What a contrasting appointment this was. </div><div><br></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">We had met Val the day before, following Emilie's birth. She was kind and compassionate and a real voice of calm and reason in the chaos around us. As she approached us she greeted us with ‘this is going to be hard for you’. We were taken up to the registry office where we met our registrar – a very well meaning lady who unfortunately was not prepared for meeting a grieving couple. We filled in the necessary forms and I broke down at putting ‘full time mother’ in the occupation box. I had taken a bold step to take a career break to look after Samuel and Emilie-Rose. I think this is the first time it dawned on me that I was going to have alot of adjusting to do. After registering we came out of the registrar’s office and were greeted by a waiting room full of happy couples and their new babies. I could tell by the expressions on their faces that they were all too aware of our empty arms and teary faces. I knew that this was a happy occasion for them - registering their baby's births and I often look back wondering what effect seeing our situation must have had on them. I held my breath as I walked past them to prevent the sobs that I could feel rising. The few feet distance to the door seemed immense and I once again felt every eye on us as we stumbled through the waiting room and out into the corridor where once again I broke down.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">We were then taken down to a special quiet room to see Emilie. Val had told us that she looked beautiful. She had been laid in a tiny crib in a special nursery room. The crib was decorated with lace and ruffles in the way that it would be if a family were bringing their baby home. They had made every effort to make the experience special and make us, and Emilie, feel valued. I have since found out the the crib contained a special mattress called a 'cold cot' which is placed in the crib and helps to keep babies body temperatures down so that parents can spend more time with them before they are sent to the mortuary. I have since wondered what must happen for parents in less fortunate countries - do they have to immediately give up their baby? Is stillbirth still such a taboo subject in other places? I am so grateful that, through Val's support and the support of the hospital staff, we were encouraged to acknowledge Emilie's death as the loss of a child and to grieve appropriately rather than it being shameful and something to avoid talking about.</div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I looked at Emilie lying in the crib wearing her princess gown. She looked so quiet and peaceful – my beautiful little angel. I leant down to touch her and was startled by how cold she was. This scared me and I nearly refused to hold her but Val encouraged me to do so. Once I’d got her I wondered how I was ever going to let her go again. My arms literally felt empty without her and holding her was the only thing that remotely filled that gap. I knew that she was just a body and not really my beautiful girl – I know that my real baby is in heaven and that one day I will get to meet her but clutching to her body was the only thing I could do to feel close to her. We spent a while with her before speaking to a bereavement counsellor and discussing funeral arrangements with Val. We also discussed how best to support Samuel and were given the contact details for a centre called 'The Alder Centre' at Alder Hey Children's Hospital who provide services to support families who have suffered bereavement. Over the next year or so the Alder Centre were a great support, particularly for John who attended counselling there and for Sam, for whom we were given great support in dealing with. Once the formalities and offers of support were dealt with we spent some more time with Emilie. We knew that we would have to leave her and that, although we were told we could come back as much as we wanted to, this would be the last time that we would see her. We placed her back into the crib and arranged the blankets carefully around her. Even though I knew that the elements had no hold on her, I still felt a maternal need to protect her and keep her warm. We then said teary goodbyes to Val and left the hospital with Emilie's death certificate to return back home.</div></div><div><br></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13148315756441372587noreply@blogger.com1