I started this blog thinking about Facebook posts. I imagined what my posts would have been if I was willing to be more public than a blog about pPROM and my pregnancy's outcome. Then came Christmas and New Years, Facebook was littered with cheerful greetings: Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and all sorts of reflections upon the happy times of 2013 and those surely to follow in 2014. Anyone on my Facebook might have noticed that I posted no such status.
I would have loved to write those things, but they would not be true. I did enjoy Christmas but not as much as I have previous years. I continue to feel so torn. I am enjoying the present but am carrying around heartbreak. Anything is a reminder, a trigger. Every Thursday is a marker for how pregnant I should be, how long ago since I gave birth and how long ago since Maggie died. Mondays are Patrick's death day. My Christmas tree did not have ornaments for them (long story, but they finally arrived today) - my first Christmas without them. Christmas celebrations themselves - how to incorporate them into our rituals.
In the first days and weeks after Patrick and Maggie died, if I smiled or whistled or laughed I would immediately stop myself. It was abrupt enough that my Aunt even noticed. I felt guilty to behave normally or to genuinely laugh, so I stopped myself. Over the last 10 weeks I have attempted to reconcile these feelings and behaviours: I am allowed to laugh, it does not mean that I do not also cry. Happiness does not mean that I am not devastated by this loss. And, yes, in time, I am allowed to have more ups than downs.
Lying in bed last night, thinking of Patrick and Maggie I pictured their skin, their hair, the shape of their hands. I can always picture Patrick more clearly, I had more time and was far less ill with him - something that saddens me greatly - not being able to remember Maggie so well. In remembering Patrick's movements and features especially, I heard myself declaring "they were real."
This is something that I have been stuck on, though perhaps it has evolved slightly. During my pregnancy I recall declaring in conversation with loved ones, that if I lost the babies now it would not be a miscarriage. My intention in this was not to imply that a miscarriage is somehow easy or fine, but that as a pregnancy progresses the creature growing inside becomes more tangible and there is more hope for life. When I reached 24 weeks I began to really believe that we could have hope and even when Maggie and Patrick were born, I believed that we would come home with baby(ies) in our arms. But their lives, like them, were tiny. And the experience was private, intimate; so very few people met them. Or have even seen photos of them. And so, I have this internal dialogue in which I imagine that others do not believe that their deaths are as significant as I do. I imagine that others dismiss their deaths as predictable or poor luck - like a miscarriage or a pet. I imagine this, and I am stuck. I remind myself over and over, they were real. They had life in them when they were born. Patrick especially, had a life. albeit short and sad. They were both here and surrounded by love. I held them. Sang to them. Told them jokes. even. They were REAL.
To be clear, no one has explicitly said anything that has caused me to think this way. Nevertheless, I look for clues of others' doubt: their expectation that I should be fine by now, their neglect to have offered condolences, comparing it to a miscarriage, dismissing the photos, not crying - anything that I can perceive as insensitive or dismissive. I appreciate that it is difficult to raise the topic with me at (where ever I am) and that I will likely cry, which people generally do not want to cause. (And really, crying sucks, so I don't want the topic raised... which is a total catch 22, because now I am saying I want people to talk about it and not to talk about it!) I know that it is hard to offer sympathies and am sure I have failed to do so in my own life. Yet, I go home and think that others just are not understanding that my children died. My second and third born children died. Dead. Gone. Real babies. Gone. Before I turned 30 I had buried two children. EllaGrace has a brother and sister who she will never play with or boss around.
The idea that others may not imagine the babies as real, and as such, my grief, has impacted how I present in public. For example, EllaGrace, Lee and I were playing with the timer on our camera and being silly recently. One such picture is cute; we look like a happy, silly family. Under normal circumstances I would probably post in on Facebook, but not now. What if it undermines the 'real' of Patrick and Maggie's deaths? What if someone thinks that I'm not sad any more? So, I don't share the photo. Or smile much in public places...
If I have no real evidence, just my own assumptions and vivid, grieving imagination, then why do I keep getting stuck on this? No one else has said they were not real. Am I doubting their existence myself? Maybe I think that I am moving on too quickly (there's that guilt again) and am trying to pull myself back? Maybe the whole experience has been so surreal that I have to remind myself that I am sad for a legitimate reason?
Grief is such a strange experience. Am I externalizing? Internalizing? Doubting? Over-thinking? For now, I will try to look ahead. Or at least at the present. This does not mean I will ignore the past, it simply means that for the New Year I am going to allow myself to move forward. This is not a resolution, it's simply something that I have no choice but to do if I am going to learn to enjoy life to its fullest again. And maybe by the end of this year I will have reached that stage where I can remember Patrick and Maggie and be thankful for the moments I had with them and know that they were real and that they changed me and the world in their own small ways.
I am not ready to celebrate yet. So I am not going to say Happy New Year! I will say, I acknowledge that it is a new year. And, I really hope this year is better than the last. Such a bittersweet transition - I feel further and further from my babies, and yet, maybe I am moving towards hope? Thinking that way is hopeful in and of itself.
A little touch of humour, but wholly true (language alert):
A Facebook status steal from one of my friends: Well, 2013, you were a colossal dick-face.
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