I love the way he smiles
I loved the way he smiled
I love his big, blue eyes
I loved his big, blue eyes
I love his squishy feet
I loved his squishy feet
I love his soft, supple baby skin
I loved his soft, supple baby skin
I love his cheeks
I loved his cheeks
I love the noises and gurgles he makes
I loved the noises and gurgles he made
I love his smell
I loved his smell
I love to kiss his face
I loved to kiss his face
I love to kiss his hands, his tummy, his feet
I loved to kiss his hands, his tummy, his feet
I love it when he cries but stops when I hold him close
I loved it when he cried but stopped when I held him close
I love to cuddle him
I loved to cuddle him
I love it when he kicks and splashes his feet at bath time
I loved it when he kicked and splashed his feet at bath time
I love it when he burps
I loved it when he burped
I love you my bubaroo
I will always love you, my bubaroo x
I went to my local GP surgery today for blood tests. I have always been squeamish with needles and still fear them despite going through labour. As a distraction technique, the nurse asked me questions whilst I turned away. She went through the generic list of questions: plans for the weekend, questions about what I did for a living etc..etc.. and I just knew she was going to ask me the question I feared the most. The ‘do you have any children’ question?
It’s an innocent question. How was she to know? I won’t blame her for asking but what I will blame her for is her utter insensitivity when I tried to explain, with tears rolling down my face, that yes, I did have a baby but he wasn’t here anymore. Her response? She apologised but told me not to worry. Apparently I’m still young enough to have more children. And next time I’m upset, I should think of the children who are 5 years, 10 years or 18 years old who die in wars and how lucky I am.
How lucky I am?! Thank you for comparing the incomparable loss of my baby to a war. Yes, I’ll remember how lucky I am that my baby was only 3 months old when he died. How lucky I am to be a bereaved mother. How lucky I am that I will never see my baby again.
Thank you for your ill-thought, misplaced good intentions. Thank you for making me feel a million times worse.
Life wasn’t meant to be like this. We had everything perfectly planned from the moment we found out I was pregnant. We planned the house move, the family car, the car seat, the buggy, the nursery, the family holiday, and so on and so on. In fact, even before I was pregnant I was constantly making plans.
But life hasn’t worked out as we had planned. Life is terribly unfair.
We are now embarking on a new life, a new life without our darling baby boy. I’m not sure what this new life looks like but I’m certainly not making any grand plans. One thing’s for sure, I’m not the same person anymore. I’m sceptical of life, untrusting of what it may bring. I’m utterly heart broken. And I want my baby back.
But Eddie isn’t coming back. However hard I cry, however hard I pray, I have to accept that Eddie isn’t coming back in this life time. I have to accept that I will never know why his life was cut so short even if we are given a medical answer.
From the bottom of my heart, I want to believe that Eddie’s still with me; his soul is with me even if I can’t see him in the physical sense. I want to believe that he’s in heaven, that someone is looking after him, maybe he’s looking after me. And more importantly, I want to believe that one day, we’ll be together again.
It’s been 5 weeks since Eddie was stolen from me. 5 weeks since he was taken and not returned. I use the word stolen as he was taken without permission. Nobody checked with me first. A baby needs his mummy. Eddie needed me and actually, I needed Eddie.
If time is meant to be a healer, then why do I feel worse today? Every day that goes by I feel further away from Eddie and all I am longing for is to be with him. To hold him in my arms. To smell him, to kiss him, to tell him how much I love him.
Grief is not a linear process. Every small step you take forward, an unexpected force pushes you back. You feel as if you are tentatively walking towards the sea, you see the waves ahead of you but for a moment you feel the calm. You are close enough to the shoreline, in the water, but still standing. Then a huge wave crashes over you, immersing you in the cold salty water, its force pushing you back to shore. Back to where you started. You clamber up through the sand. Breathless, exhausted, drenched with tears.
I said to Chris today “I feel like we are existing but not living” Everything I lived for seems so insignificant now.
Life is just about getting through the minutes, the hours and getting through the days. Mornings are the worst. I wake up and for a split millisecond I feel ok before that sinking feeling returns with an almighty thump. You know that feeling when you wake up from a terrible nightmare? That feeling of relief that it was just a dream? Well, my nightmare is real. I am living my nightmare every. single. day.
Chris and I are in the process of setting up a charity called ‘Teddy’s Wish’. We are going to raise funds to help support other grieving families and further research into SIDS, neonatal death and stillbirth. Teddy’s Wish is giving me a reason to get through the day when I question how I’m going to get through it. It’s giving me something to do for Eddie. It’s keeping his memory alive.
My dad said I need to try and hold on to moments of light. Each time I experience even a flicker of light, I should write these down and hopefully, in time, those moments of light will get brighter. Teddy’s Wish and writing this blog are moments of light.
I’ve decided to play tennis again – another moment of light. I think it will be good for me. I used to play every weekend before I fell pregnant and it was part of my identity. Tennis is the only thing I can do at the moment that doesn’t have any association with me being a mum. Except of course when I try and squeeze in to my old tennis gear. But, I still think it will be good for me.
Chris and I went to buy a new tennis racquet this morning. He told me how excited he used to get when he was a young boy buying a new sports kit. He then broke down saying he would never be able to buy Eddie his first cricket bat. That’s not the only thing we’ll never get a chance to do. We’ll never buy his first rugby ball nor his first tennis racquet. We’ll never hear him say his first words and never see him take his first step. I’ll never hear him call me mummy…
But he will always be my son.
A friend of mine sent these words to me today that aptly describes the pain I am feeling.
“This on the other hand is like a hand reaching into your chest and ignominiously ripping out your heart…and anything else that gets in the way. The wound is violent, and open and ragged. How can it ever heal? How can we even try to explain it?”
When I was pregnant I used to listen to the song ‘sitting on the dock of a bay’ by Otis Reading. I had this fantasy that when Eddie was born, I would sing it to him if he cried and the song would remind him of when he was in my womb. The song was meant to be of comfort. To stop him from crying.
Now when I play that song, it’s me that can’t stop crying.
Walking in Queens Park with the sun shining reminds me how much I was looking forward to Spring time with Eddie. How lonely it feels to be walking without him.
Every time I walk past a mum with a buggy I think do you know that I’m a mum too even though you can’t see my baby? Do you know how lucky you are? Do you know that I have the same buggy as you but I can’t use it anymore? Do you know I know every buggy I see? I’ve researched them all. As I sat on a bench and mums passed me by with their babies I felt like I was playing some sort of guess the buggy game: i candy, bugaboo, maclaren, mamas and papas, etc…etc…
Chris went to Hampshire to visit his mum in hospital and I had far too many hours to myself on my own. It’s hard to get the balance right between doing things, to somehow distract myself away from the pain, and grieving. I can’t believe it’s a month today that we lost Eddie. Time has stood still yet kept moving and Chris says we are living in some sort of parallel world to everyone else at the moment.
Today was a particularly bad day.