This is a text I sent to a friend on April 1.
'Hiya - sorry to bother you but got to tell someone!
this is still so so tough. Really thought I was making good progress but now I wonder:
I was chatting happily to a mother today with her sweet little newborn (2 weeks).
Another mum comes out with the pat cliché –
"oh you forget how small they are, don't you!?".
A so normal - if boring - thing to say, but as I walked away I realised I would, could, never ever forget 'how small they are'. That's etched in my mind - the cliché had no meaning. Cried and cried.
You forget how small they are don't you? Well no, when you have had a stillborn baby, its something you can never forget.
It stays hardwired in your mind because you do not have the wondrous effect of daily development to overwrite the last memory.
I can remember Pineapple's eyelashes growing almost as I watched, when she was 3 weeks old. Everyday is something new and wonderful. That is life. Death stops everything, seals the moment.
When it’s a baby who has died, one thing you always will remember is how small they are, as that is all you have.
I am amazed that I could calmly and honestly admire the baby, but that this inconsequential comment - because of its wider context - was so very hard to bear.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
‘Mummy, what would you do if you had a boy ?’
‘Mummy, what would you do if you had a boy ?’
Pineapple popped her head out of her bedroom door to wonder.
‘Well, I did have a boy….’
‘Who ?’
‘Matt’.
‘No, but he’s not really your child’ . The ‘child’ was emphasised, long and drawn out.
This was not as stark as it reads, and from her point view I knew just what she had meant.
‘oh, you mean, a jumping about, being cheeky, talking, joking, kind of boy ? I smiled.
‘yeah, like wearing a spiderman suit….but why did Matt die in your tummy ? wasn’t he healthy ?’
‘I don’t know why he died, the doctors tried to find out, but they never found an answer. He was healthy, but maybe he caught a very bad cold. We just don’t know I’m afraid.’
‘Sometimes babies can get germs from their mummies’ she told me gravely.
‘I know ! I have a book about it. Guillaume and I can find the answer for you’
She was on the case with Guillaume, her current best, invincible, invisible friend. She sat on the bed with a copy of ‘How your Body Works’ (Usborne – great book!).
‘here, lets look together and talk about it….’I suggested, assuming that’s what was required, and what she wanted.
‘No! no! NO! Guillaume and I know all about it. We can tell you everything, and get the answer ourselves’.
After a quite a 5-year-old-while of staring at illustrations of a baby growing, a mummy and daddy looking pleased, she declared :
‘I’ve got it ! that’s it ! I know what happened…….Matt got to here….and went backwards‘.
I went to have a look at the explanation. She pointed to a picture of a four month old baby in the womb. Her theory was that at that point he stopped and went into a kind of backward development, back to an egg.
Not bad. And so much better than the reality.
‘Actually he got to this point’ and I showed her another illustration, of the perfectly formed baby at five months.
As ever there was so much in that little conversation…
These ideas come to me straight away – others will no doubt spot more.
The human need to have an answer ‘why’ to tragedies, and to not be able to accept no explanation. This is as strong in a 5 year old as anyone. Also, not for the first time, she showed the great extent of her overall understanding, which needs to be treated with respect.
The reality is that we had a baby boy, but not finally ‘a child’, as Pineapple defined it. Her thinking is in line with most peoples, but not those who have suffered a similar loss.This difference between being pregnant, giving birth, and having a child develop to get to the point they can, say, wear a spiderman outfit (that is what counts) is at the heart of much of babyloss grief.
So - our knowledge that we have had a son, will never quite tally with the way the outside world can ever hope to see it. To claim more verges on the unhealthy. We are left only with our grief. At the worst moments I have willed the grief, as unbearable as it is, to live on. Coaxing it, drawing it out, feeling it. At least there is something of him then. I know that six months after losing him I am still allowed to say that. 5 years on however I would be likened to a Miss Havisham figure. There is still a way to go. And I mean there is a journey here for me personally, but also for the wider world to start to appreciate the particular suffering caused by stillbirth and neonatal death.
The last few weeks or so have been intensely hard. One theme that has come up with force is the need to acknowledge Matt, not just in my head, but in daily life. Hence this writing, the memorial site and more things I am sure.
Thankfully I was able to be charmed by Pineapple’s thought process, and happy that we can talk about it naturally. But only because I have been thinking so hard about all this in recent weeks was it an uplifting, not crushing, conversation. Grief needs work sometimes to enable us to deal with the everyday.
Pineapple wanted to make me feel better with her theory. That’s great empathy, but this is not her job long term. However much the points above will hurt us at times, she should not have to suffer this any more than she has already.
Pineapple popped her head out of her bedroom door to wonder.
‘Well, I did have a boy….’
‘Who ?’
‘Matt’.
‘No, but he’s not really your child’ . The ‘child’ was emphasised, long and drawn out.
This was not as stark as it reads, and from her point view I knew just what she had meant.
‘oh, you mean, a jumping about, being cheeky, talking, joking, kind of boy ? I smiled.
‘yeah, like wearing a spiderman suit….but why did Matt die in your tummy ? wasn’t he healthy ?’
‘I don’t know why he died, the doctors tried to find out, but they never found an answer. He was healthy, but maybe he caught a very bad cold. We just don’t know I’m afraid.’
‘Sometimes babies can get germs from their mummies’ she told me gravely.
‘I know ! I have a book about it. Guillaume and I can find the answer for you’
She was on the case with Guillaume, her current best, invincible, invisible friend. She sat on the bed with a copy of ‘How your Body Works’ (Usborne – great book!).
‘here, lets look together and talk about it….’I suggested, assuming that’s what was required, and what she wanted.
‘No! no! NO! Guillaume and I know all about it. We can tell you everything, and get the answer ourselves’.
After a quite a 5-year-old-while of staring at illustrations of a baby growing, a mummy and daddy looking pleased, she declared :
‘I’ve got it ! that’s it ! I know what happened…….Matt got to here….and went backwards‘.
I went to have a look at the explanation. She pointed to a picture of a four month old baby in the womb. Her theory was that at that point he stopped and went into a kind of backward development, back to an egg.
Not bad. And so much better than the reality.
‘Actually he got to this point’ and I showed her another illustration, of the perfectly formed baby at five months.
*******
As ever there was so much in that little conversation…
These ideas come to me straight away – others will no doubt spot more.
The human need to have an answer ‘why’ to tragedies, and to not be able to accept no explanation. This is as strong in a 5 year old as anyone. Also, not for the first time, she showed the great extent of her overall understanding, which needs to be treated with respect.
The reality is that we had a baby boy, but not finally ‘a child’, as Pineapple defined it. Her thinking is in line with most peoples, but not those who have suffered a similar loss.This difference between being pregnant, giving birth, and having a child develop to get to the point they can, say, wear a spiderman outfit (that is what counts) is at the heart of much of babyloss grief.
So - our knowledge that we have had a son, will never quite tally with the way the outside world can ever hope to see it. To claim more verges on the unhealthy. We are left only with our grief. At the worst moments I have willed the grief, as unbearable as it is, to live on. Coaxing it, drawing it out, feeling it. At least there is something of him then. I know that six months after losing him I am still allowed to say that. 5 years on however I would be likened to a Miss Havisham figure. There is still a way to go. And I mean there is a journey here for me personally, but also for the wider world to start to appreciate the particular suffering caused by stillbirth and neonatal death.
The last few weeks or so have been intensely hard. One theme that has come up with force is the need to acknowledge Matt, not just in my head, but in daily life. Hence this writing, the memorial site and more things I am sure.
Thankfully I was able to be charmed by Pineapple’s thought process, and happy that we can talk about it naturally. But only because I have been thinking so hard about all this in recent weeks was it an uplifting, not crushing, conversation. Grief needs work sometimes to enable us to deal with the everyday.
Pineapple wanted to make me feel better with her theory. That’s great empathy, but this is not her job long term. However much the points above will hurt us at times, she should not have to suffer this any more than she has already.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Letter to Matt
To Matt
"Its probably nothing serious but, if it does not clear up, go to the delivery ward" The Midwife was calm and reassuring when I found a quiet place to call from work.
Two days later, watching a scan of kicking baby, one clearly very much alive –the words of the consultant made little sense.
"I am sorry - its very sad but its looking likely, well inevitable infact, that you are going to lose your baby. We will operate in the morning to do what we can but its is unlikely to work"
She was kind Matt, but she really wanted us to understand and to prepare ourselves that you were going to die. As if such preparation were really possible.
The operation did not work.
Yes you were still alive, and I in fact would still feel you moving and kicking over the next 5 agonising days; but it was explained, the birth process itself would probably kill you, and if not, you would not survive more than a minute or so on delivery. "Sometimes they give little gasps".
Over the next week or so your Dad and I made the hospital our home. We reminded ourselves we only had a few weeks to go and then you would stand a better chance of survival. We were encouraged by what we thought was the increasing surprise of the medical team, when they saw we were still there as the week wore on. Less and less I was asked if I wanted to induce labour "to get things over", more and more I had whispers of encouragement and, even, stories of the odd case like this that had made it to a live birth, months later. We were not daft Matt, we knew the chances were slim, but we wanted to know we had done all we could for you.
Matt, sometimes I wonder if you knew even before we did. The night before the call to the Midwife I had a vivid dream: I saw beautiful gossamer and diamonds, silk down and glistening, shimmering threads wafting peacefully. If I close my eyes I can see it all again: A baby's face clearly visible, and one hand pushing against a soft membrane, gently relaxing again. The handprint darkened as it pressed, lightened again as it released. The baby is at peace, smiling serenely, chuckling and giggling, now laughing loudly, moving upward and right towards a penetratingly bright light. Was that you letting me know you would be alright?
I do hope you were in no pain Matt, and that you were already laughing your way to that light long before your awful, complicated and lengthy birth started.
We spent the next few days with you; we took photos, took hand and foot prints – uncannily as in the dream; I made sketches and we dropped back to the hospital to see you as much as we could. You were beautiful and perfect, but so sadly just too small to survive.
I am playing Aretha Franklin "I say a little prayer for you" and one day, when I can, I will paint the picture of you in the dream, my beautiful little boy.
For now, here is a picture of O-Jizoo-sama from Japan. He is the guardian of children like you who have died before their parents. He’s holding a little baby like you. The baby is even wearing a bib. Its comforting that you, and all the babies like you, have a guardian like him.
It’s a half a year since your birth-and-death Matt but you are missed as much as if it was yesterday. We think about you and will love you always. We are so very sad that you have gone.
Sleep tight,
Love Mummy
"Its probably nothing serious but, if it does not clear up, go to the delivery ward" The Midwife was calm and reassuring when I found a quiet place to call from work.
Two days later, watching a scan of kicking baby, one clearly very much alive –the words of the consultant made little sense.
"I am sorry - its very sad but its looking likely, well inevitable infact, that you are going to lose your baby. We will operate in the morning to do what we can but its is unlikely to work"
She was kind Matt, but she really wanted us to understand and to prepare ourselves that you were going to die. As if such preparation were really possible.
The operation did not work.
Yes you were still alive, and I in fact would still feel you moving and kicking over the next 5 agonising days; but it was explained, the birth process itself would probably kill you, and if not, you would not survive more than a minute or so on delivery. "Sometimes they give little gasps".
Over the next week or so your Dad and I made the hospital our home. We reminded ourselves we only had a few weeks to go and then you would stand a better chance of survival. We were encouraged by what we thought was the increasing surprise of the medical team, when they saw we were still there as the week wore on. Less and less I was asked if I wanted to induce labour "to get things over", more and more I had whispers of encouragement and, even, stories of the odd case like this that had made it to a live birth, months later. We were not daft Matt, we knew the chances were slim, but we wanted to know we had done all we could for you.
Matt, sometimes I wonder if you knew even before we did. The night before the call to the Midwife I had a vivid dream: I saw beautiful gossamer and diamonds, silk down and glistening, shimmering threads wafting peacefully. If I close my eyes I can see it all again: A baby's face clearly visible, and one hand pushing against a soft membrane, gently relaxing again. The handprint darkened as it pressed, lightened again as it released. The baby is at peace, smiling serenely, chuckling and giggling, now laughing loudly, moving upward and right towards a penetratingly bright light. Was that you letting me know you would be alright?
I do hope you were in no pain Matt, and that you were already laughing your way to that light long before your awful, complicated and lengthy birth started.
We spent the next few days with you; we took photos, took hand and foot prints – uncannily as in the dream; I made sketches and we dropped back to the hospital to see you as much as we could. You were beautiful and perfect, but so sadly just too small to survive.
I am playing Aretha Franklin "I say a little prayer for you" and one day, when I can, I will paint the picture of you in the dream, my beautiful little boy.
For now, here is a picture of O-Jizoo-sama from Japan. He is the guardian of children like you who have died before their parents. He’s holding a little baby like you. The baby is even wearing a bib. Its comforting that you, and all the babies like you, have a guardian like him.
It’s a half a year since your birth-and-death Matt but you are missed as much as if it was yesterday. We think about you and will love you always. We are so very sad that you have gone.
Sleep tight,
Love Mummy
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Tetard is French for tadpole
At 4, Pineapple was given a 'merit certificate' in a school assembly for her 'wonderful description of the lifecycle of a frog'.
I was so happy for her, and loved the certificate, which is still pinned on a wall: this was sweet recognition. In retrospect, more than this maternal pride, I am comforted that she was already making a place to put a shocking understanding that was soon to be forced on her.
The award came out of from time spent that summer with Dad discovering tadpoles and frogspawn in a pond near our place. The pond has a small tributary into a glacial and turbulent river that wends its way to Geneva. Some of the frogspawn even hatched and made it to tadpoles. Some of them too managed to mature to frogs. One day I watched with a sickening feeling as the odd, ably swimming, tadpole found its way to the wrong part of the pond, and slipped into the fast-flowing but tiny trickle of water, that dropped into to this churning, icy, unforgiving river.
'Natural selection' her Dad and I reasoned at this pointless waste of a life. Secretly (but in vain I know) I imagined a little bower, or rock of safety somewhere downstream, from where the marooned tadpole would mature and become a glorious frog after all. I am not sure if Pineapple noticed the stricken tadpole, she was too busy poking others with sticks.
I was 16 weeks pregnant carrying you, and we were all looking forward to meeting you.A year later: We have moved out to France, and live close to the same tadpole pool. A new school, and a new life. But so sadly, not your life .
I am accompanying Pineapple's class on a school trip to visit the fire station. The trip ends with a walk in the woods, and an expedition to hunt tadpoles. The ground was drying up after a period of heavy storms, and before we had a chance even to reach the pond with frogspawn, some 5 year olds stumbled on some jelly-like stuff on the path.
'C'est quoi? ' "whassat?" They asked.
'Children, this is what we are looking for - this is frogspawn that’s been put in a puddle by a frog. But look - the puddle has dried up and the frogspawn is stranded. It will probably die…'
10 children looked around quickly for a solution: "lets get some water quick!"Surely we were not just going to let the frogspawn die?
I thought of you and put it another way, as best I could: 'I think it’s too late'.
The children bounced off in 20 different directions to splash in mud and other puddles, apparently reconciled to the inevitable.
But I overheard Pineapple muttering to herself, head down: "that’s just like what happened to my brother. He didn’t even get a chance to live either". She had been thinking of you too.
*******
This is typical of Pineapple these days. She talks about you when it is relevant or she is reminded of you. She plays happily with baby dolls, nurses them. (One is so similar in size to you that at first I found it unbearable to watch). The hospital gave us a crochet blanket similar to the one you were wrapped in, which she loves dearly, plays with and calls "her Mattie". She has a wide circle of imaginary friends, including a superhuman invincible brother.
We were told that children who heard the direct truth were better able to incorporate the loss into their lives, and deal with it as healthily as possible. But it was hard nonetheless. She went through a lot. She was only 4 and was devastated when she first heard you had died, just like everyone else.
It was hard for her too as she heard the initial consultation in the hospital:
'I am sorry, it’s very sad but it is most likely, inevitable actually, you are going to lose this baby'.
Pineapple suggested that if she sang songs it would make you better. She blamed herself for a while afterwards, for not singing enough, or well enough. But she also blamed me: when I came to pick her up after your birth-and-death, she met me on the stairs and screamed at me, angry and betrayed: "WHY are you not pregnant any more? Tell me NOW, WHY??"
She does not ask ‘Why?’ so frequently now, she does not blame any more, but like us all she has not stopped wondering, poor thing!
I was so happy for her, and loved the certificate, which is still pinned on a wall: this was sweet recognition. In retrospect, more than this maternal pride, I am comforted that she was already making a place to put a shocking understanding that was soon to be forced on her.
The award came out of from time spent that summer with Dad discovering tadpoles and frogspawn in a pond near our place. The pond has a small tributary into a glacial and turbulent river that wends its way to Geneva. Some of the frogspawn even hatched and made it to tadpoles. Some of them too managed to mature to frogs. One day I watched with a sickening feeling as the odd, ably swimming, tadpole found its way to the wrong part of the pond, and slipped into the fast-flowing but tiny trickle of water, that dropped into to this churning, icy, unforgiving river.
'Natural selection' her Dad and I reasoned at this pointless waste of a life. Secretly (but in vain I know) I imagined a little bower, or rock of safety somewhere downstream, from where the marooned tadpole would mature and become a glorious frog after all. I am not sure if Pineapple noticed the stricken tadpole, she was too busy poking others with sticks.
I was 16 weeks pregnant carrying you, and we were all looking forward to meeting you.A year later: We have moved out to France, and live close to the same tadpole pool. A new school, and a new life. But so sadly, not your life .
I am accompanying Pineapple's class on a school trip to visit the fire station. The trip ends with a walk in the woods, and an expedition to hunt tadpoles. The ground was drying up after a period of heavy storms, and before we had a chance even to reach the pond with frogspawn, some 5 year olds stumbled on some jelly-like stuff on the path.
'C'est quoi? ' "whassat?" They asked.
'Children, this is what we are looking for - this is frogspawn that’s been put in a puddle by a frog. But look - the puddle has dried up and the frogspawn is stranded. It will probably die…'
10 children looked around quickly for a solution: "lets get some water quick!"Surely we were not just going to let the frogspawn die?
I thought of you and put it another way, as best I could: 'I think it’s too late'.
The children bounced off in 20 different directions to splash in mud and other puddles, apparently reconciled to the inevitable.
But I overheard Pineapple muttering to herself, head down: "that’s just like what happened to my brother. He didn’t even get a chance to live either". She had been thinking of you too.
*******
This is typical of Pineapple these days. She talks about you when it is relevant or she is reminded of you. She plays happily with baby dolls, nurses them. (One is so similar in size to you that at first I found it unbearable to watch). The hospital gave us a crochet blanket similar to the one you were wrapped in, which she loves dearly, plays with and calls "her Mattie". She has a wide circle of imaginary friends, including a superhuman invincible brother.
We were told that children who heard the direct truth were better able to incorporate the loss into their lives, and deal with it as healthily as possible. But it was hard nonetheless. She went through a lot. She was only 4 and was devastated when she first heard you had died, just like everyone else.
It was hard for her too as she heard the initial consultation in the hospital:
'I am sorry, it’s very sad but it is most likely, inevitable actually, you are going to lose this baby'.
Pineapple suggested that if she sang songs it would make you better. She blamed herself for a while afterwards, for not singing enough, or well enough. But she also blamed me: when I came to pick her up after your birth-and-death, she met me on the stairs and screamed at me, angry and betrayed: "WHY are you not pregnant any more? Tell me NOW, WHY??"
She does not ask ‘Why?’ so frequently now, she does not blame any more, but like us all she has not stopped wondering, poor thing!
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