I came across this post from my old blog. It hasn’t seen the light of Internet day for over six years now. I’m not sure it was ever even read by anybody.
Music really is the thing that has always soothed me. I’d forgotten all the ways.
I remember that in the weeks leading up to the LGBB’s birth I was working into a state. But I had forgotten just how much until I read this. This is the kind of thing that is not “allowed” to come to the surface in society. When you lose a baby and, if you are so blessed, you become pregnant with another child who appears to be coming in the usual way at the usual time…. people don’t like you to worry. They don’t think you should be focused on anything but happiness for your position now.
It simply doesn’t happen that easily. Not for all of us. Please, PLEASE, bear this in mind if you ever have a friend or family member (male or female!) who is expecting again after losing their baby. It’s not as straightforward as you might like to imagine.
| April 27th, 2006
The wheels fell off my little red wagon yesterday. With barely three months to go before we finally meet our little Lolly. With the wise words of some friends I am still overwhelmed at being blessed to have, a phone call to Dad and losing myself in games with Pepper and Jazz, I felt much better by the time Steve came home. I have issues with people in my life who can’t seem to just leave me be, to have these freak-out moments without having to justify why. I am still grieving the death of my daughter. They don’t understand that my growing Lollybelly does not signal the end of my grief. Rather, in some bizarre respects, it enhances or spotlights it for me. I am so exhausted trying to point these things out to too many people who should know how to support us better, but who don’t. I’m tired of excusing them when they seem so intent on not letting me go at my own pace. But Steve and I discussed last night that I’m allowing the actions of so few overshadow the good, decent, easy relationships we have with so many more. Our dinner guests on Saturday night are a perfect example. Wonderful. Easy to be around. At the end of the night when we’d all dispersed to different areas of the house to chill out, one of them leaned in to me and in a rare moment of seriousness (because he’s a blessed dag) enquired, “Now…. are we going to need to watch out for you, all hormones and jokes aside?” I nearly collapsed on him there and then and said, “Take it all away now! In a tip truck. Please!” Instead, composed, I thanked him profusely and replied, “Yes please, all three of us.” It’s such a relief to know that, as he and his wife said, we don’t have to do or explain anything. We simply have to see them. They’ll take care of the rest. I know that. And it’s such a relief, I can’t even explain how much. Yesterday, I was feeling gripped from the inside out with fear that something may well go wrong this time too, which has been pointed out to me on several occasions as being the fear of “all expectant mothers”. But, see, it’s that little three letter word which widens the chasm between me (and grieving mothers like me) and other expectant mothers – not “all” of us at all. And that other little word… “too”… it changes everything. It means as well. It means what if something happens this time AS WELL. It hurts to have it pointed out to me that I am going through what any other mother goes through. I’m not trying to be precious here. I’m stating a fact, how I feel. It’s akin to when I was told that “all mothers are sad on their child’s first birthday, particularly their first child.” Erm…. except I didn’t think I needed to point out to this person the blatantly obvious fact that, uh, my child wasn’t actually here for her first birthday. That sets me apart from “all mothers” being wistful about the passing of their child’s first year, surely (except the mothers who have lost their child, of course). After talking to Dad, I felt much better. Dad’s a very logical man. I inherited from him my deep sense of moral justice. Unfortunately, I also inherited from the other side of the family a crazy self-victimisation technique. I like to call it chatterbox brain. My chatterbox brain just would not SHUT UP yesterday. That is, until Dad rationalised my fears with me. He didn’t patronise, he never once said I was being unreasonable or silly. Quite the contrary, he masterfully Jedi-mind-tricked me to calmness and laughter by agreeing with me first and saying lots of “yes of course”s and “mmm I can’t imagine”s in the most tender tone. And he talked me through what we DO know: That by now with all the monitoring I’ve been having, an unbalanced translocation of mystery is pretty much off the cards – 99.5% certainty of that – the heart makeup appears to be perfect, growth rates are above par…… and that all these other things I’m conjuring up that “could” happen, well, as he said “Why would you want to add in more risk factors when you’ve dodged the ones that are most likely for you?” He’s right. It was as if I dropped the heavy cloak I’d been struggling to keep up round my shoulders. I immediately felt lighter. And afterwards, I cried huge sobs of relief that I have these intelligent people in my life to carry me this last little part. So I celebrate this morning with a good dose of loud random iTunes songs from our extensive and diverse mix. I just finished I Go To Rio and am now rawkin’ to Trick Me by Kelis. Is that wrong? Oh, next we have Everyone Deserves Music by dear young Michael Franti. Gotta go. Jig to dance.
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That may well be one of the best things I’ve read on line in a long, long time.
And really, you know what I think about Mr Franti. Everyone really does deserve music.
I agree.
Thank you.x
It’s interesting that sometimes when people don’t know what to say, they say something inane, something that brings THEM comfort rather than you. I wish more people with be comfortale with silence, or just saying, “I don’t know what to say” or simply asking how you are. Platitudes are rarely designed to comfort the listener, just the speaker. xx
Yep, I hear you. Totally. It’s a bizarre aspect of the human psyche, that some would rush to say something to soothe themselves in “a moment” instead of really stopping and listening. Sometimes, the subtlety of listening to silence is lost on those who step in too soon.
I get this.
You are so you, and so right.
People justify and try and minimize others grief. Why? Because it’s uncomfortable, I suppose.
I used to say “if this grief is hard for you, you can walk away. I can’t walk away…it is, now, a part of me.”
The people who didn’t get this are no longer a part of our world.
Love you. Xx
Lucy!!! It is WONDERFUL to ‘see’ you.
Perfectly put – the people who didn’t get this are no longer a part of our world. Yes. xxxx
One set of emotions do no cancel out another. We humans just don’t work that way. Each emotion is vitally important and has to be attended to and worked through and only we can say when we are done. If ever.
Exactly. And you’ve done it again, Steve. Put it perfectly. Nutshell Steve. You ought to get business cards printed.
It sounds like you have some special people in your life that hopefully more than make up for the lack of understanding from others.
Absolutely. Thanks for dropping by, Carli.
So beautifully written, I’m on the verge of tears.
Yes, I was always nostalgic on the first birthdays, but at least I had birthdays to celebrate. Big love to you. Xx
That’s it, Jess. It’s not exactly rocket science, is it! x Thank you. And to you.
This resonates with me too. I know what you mean.
Oh, K…you are just all sorts of awesome and thank you for bringing light on this beautiful post.
For all those who don’t understand, I’m so glad you have those people in your life who do and are completely there for you. xxx
Your dad is such a wise dude. I feel like, when I meet him one day, I have to go and take a bowl of fruit as an offering or something