Honest Scrap award

I've been given an Honest Scrap award by Amy.

This award is about bloggers who post from their heart, those who write from the depths of their soul. Thank you Amy.

There are some simple rules to accept this award. Firstly, pass the award on to 7 other bloggers and, secondly, list 10 honest and hopefully interesting things about yourself.

Therefore, I pass on the Honest Scrap award to the following bloggers:

Birni at All the little ponies

Karen at Busy hands

Kristy at I love you to the moon and back

Beth at Safe in this house

Akul's mama at Aaajaa akul

Lindsay at La la land

Isla's mommy at Too beautiful for this earth

My ten honest and hopefully interesting things are as follows:

1. I am a "Trekkie" - yes, I must admit I love Star Trek -- not the original but all the subsequent movies and series.

2. I've driven around the US - that's right, after Freyja died, Craig and I rented an RV (that's a recreational vehicle for non-US readers) and drove 13,500 miles around the entire country.

3. I've run from elephants in Africa (yes, they really were chasing me) and also from hippos -- its amazing how fast you can run when these huge animals are charging you.

4. I am over 6 feet tall.

5. I smoked (yes!!) for 23 years, then I got pregnant and stopped instantly. Un.be.liev.ab.le. I'd tried to quit numerous times, but pregnancy was an instant success.

6. I climbed Ben Nevis in Scotland in vile weather (it was mid-summer, ha ha!). Not something I will ever willingly repeat.

7. My last two cats have been named for politicians. Nelson (black cat) and Blair (never shuts up). I should note that both cats came to me with their names -- I did not choose the names!

8. My husband and I were born in the same month and the same year (but not on the same day) approximately 4 and a half hours apart - but on other sides of the planet. It took us 37 years to get together.

9. I have lost luggage several times - or rather incompetent airlines have lost my luggage several times - usually when I'm on the other side of the world with nothing other than the clothes I'm wearing. Holidaying in dirty clothes is not great.

10. I have tasted (and looooooved) Camembert cheese in the Normandy region in France. Now no other Camembert will ever come close. (I love cheese.)

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On another note, I am 37w6d today.

Tomorrow morning, at some unearthly hour, Craig and I will drag ourselves out of bed, get on to various modes of public transport, and make our way over to our chosen hospital. The plan is to be there by 7.30 am. I'm so not convinced about this time because it means we'll need to be up and about by 5.00 am!

However, this means I won't be blogging for a little while.

I want to thank you all for sharing this part of the journey with me. You've all been very supportive and I feel that you've made this part of my journey much easier simply by being there and sending me your caring and understanding comments. I hope to be able to share the next part of my journey with you too.

I hope that the next time I blog, I shall have Freyja's and Kees' little brother here at home with me.

Hopefully.

Missing Kees

I'm missing Kees today. I mean, I miss him every day, but today I miss him more.

When I walk through our hall, I see his photos hanging on the wall, and I touch them, and I miss him.

Maybe it's because this time, these days, these hours before his brother will be born, remind me so very much of those hours before Kees was born. Those hours, those days when we worried. So much.

We wondered what he would look like. Who he would look like. Whether he would be healthy. What colour his eyes would be. What colour his hair would be. Whether he would look like Freyja.

Craig worried that maybe our baby boy wouldn't be gorgeous. He worried that maybe he wouldn't be beautiful. I wasn't worried. I'd already seen Freyja and I knew she was gorgeous. My two sisters between them had produced 6 children, all of whom were beautiful.

And I was right. See for yourself just how beautiful our boy is/was.

He was just getting the hang of sucking his thumb, was our Kees. He liked his dummy/pacifier but he really preferred his thumb. But new babies, they're not very coordinated. So he spent the first few weeks stabbing himself with his fingers and his thumb in the face, in his eyes, in his nose, nearly everywhere but his mouth. But he was learning. There were some successes.

I took these photos on March 8th 2008. Kees' heart stopped whilst he was lying on the sofa at home on March 19th. He was revived, but was pronounced brain dead and removed from the ventilator on March 21st.

Our beautiful, beautiful boy.

No matter how beautiful or special his brother will be, I will always miss my gorgeous son Kees. I could shed thousands, millions of tears for him, and it would never be enough. I will miss him forever.

A tight-rope

The smallest things cause me huge amounts of stress these days.

Some of you may recall that we've had a leak in our apartment (see my post here). Well, we had a temporary fix done in May, and (until today) we had no further problems.

But today it rained. Quite heavily. And our leak returned. It moved about 1 metre to the right in our ceiling, but it's back.

Back in May we had agreed with our co-operative owners that we would get a temporary fix and also obtain some quotes for a roof replacement. But we'd heard nothing of the progress. So Craig rang our fix-it man today to find out what was happening. I won't go into all the details, but suffice to say that nothing is happening.

You may have heard that the Dutch are notoriously tight with their money. Stingy. Penny-pinchers. You get the idea. Well one of our apartment building's co-owners acts as chair-person of our little co-owner group, and he sometimes takes it upon himself to "save money". He is the stereo-typical Dutch tight-arse. It appears that he feels that getting (i) a quote and (ii) a roof replacement, will be too expensive so he's apparently decided to not go ahead with either. Without consultation with any of the other three co-owners. Right. (By the way, I am Dutch, as well as Australian, and I've grown up with stereo-typical Dutch tight-arses, so I can say these things without meaning to cause offense. It's just the way it is.)

So we're staring right at autumn and winter with a (once-again) leaking roof.

I'm a bit over it. Actually, I'm a lot over it.

I feel like I'm walking a tight-rope at the moment. Every little thing which is out of the ordinary stresses me out. Every. Little. Thing.

For the last few days I've had a recurring head-ache and I swear it's stress related. It first appeared when we went to the hospital very late on Saturday evening because I was concerned about some fluid loss. Then it returned the next day when I had more fluid loss so went back to the hospital. Yesterday it came for no apparent reason, and this morning it came back again. (By the way, the fluid loss appeared to be nothing more than a pea-sized bladder over which I have zero control any more. Perhaps because there is an enormous head constantly pushing into it.)

I can't cope with anything out of the ordinary. I can't answer the telephone. I can't answer the door. Email is about the only form of communication which works for me at the moment because there's no pressure, no confrontation, no requirement for an immediate response.

My life is a bit like walking a tight-rope at the moment. Everything is so finely balanced, that it doesn't take much to make me a bit wobbly. Or much to make me fall. And if I didn't have security of knowing that Craig was there to hold on to me or to catch me if I fall, I think I'd go mad. Completely.

And now I worry about our roof. That our bloody roof will topple me.

I will want to go back to Australia at some stage, and that might be sooner than we think. And I can't sell this bloody apartment when it has a bloody leaking roof!! You should see the ceiling in our lounge room -- about two square metres of yellow marked ceiling and wall where the water has left stains.

I really don't need this right now. Living in an apartment sucks. I've done it now for about 10 years (in Australia and here in Amsterdam) and I'm over it. I want my own house with my own walls and my own roof and my own property. I want to be able to make my own decisions about what I want to do and when I want to do it. At least then the stress is about something that (hopefully) I can control.

Today is Tuesday. Bring on Friday. Please. I want to get off this tight-rope.

Sleeplessness, hope and defeat

Carly posted about this recently. Sleeplessness. Lack of sleep.

Sometimes I think that a pregnancy after a loss is all about the lack of sleep.

I mean, for me pregnancy at any time is usually not great. I've suffered from morning sickness in all three of my pregnancies. All differently. With Freyja I vomited every time I stuck a toothbrush in my mouth. The smell of fried food made me gag. With Kees I vomited least of all, but I had a vile metallic taste in my mouth for the entire second half of my pregnancy. I ate goodness knows how many Ren.nies. And with this one, I think I lost weight in my first trimester because of all the vomiting.

But, yes, lack of sleep. Doesn't every pregnant woman suffer from lack of sleep?

Every evening I'm so tired. Really, really tired. I can't wait to get to bed to sleep. Except I don't. I get into bed and read a few pages until I can't focus on the words any more. By this time Craig is usually snoring away next to me. This despite the fact that he generally protests that he's not ready to go to bed - that he's not tired yet. Hmmm. So he's snoring, I turn out the light and try to go to sleep. But I don't. Go to sleep that is.

I lie there and think. And rehash stuff. And worry. And stress. And wake up. And then I get pissed off. That I'm lying there awake and not being able to sleep.

In the meantime I've crawled out of bed several times to visit the toilet, because of course when you're enormously pregnant that's what happens.

Then I crawl back into bed and I think about Kees. And I think about his too short life. And I think about those few lucky people who met Kees who don't even bother mentioning his name any more. Who don't even talk about him. Who seem to be pretending he didn't exist.

So then I get angry. And sad. And all the while I should be sleeping.

I'm so tired. Really, really tired. But most of the time I just can't get to sleep. Eventually I fall asleep of course. But it's more exhaustion than anything else.

Some mornings I wake really early and can't get back to sleep any more. And I'm still exhausted, because I didn't sleep until late, and then I didn't sleep long enough.

And every night when I'm supposed to be sleeping, I lie awake worrying about this baby inside me. I worry for him, but I also worry for me. Because I won't be able to cope if something goes wrong again. I really won't. I'm so close to being defeated right now. Only the hope of this living baby keeps me going.

When I was pregnant with Kees, his death was a real possibility. I guess most people would find that incomprehensible. But it was a real option -- after all, his sister's death was our only experience with pregnancy and birth. And it was Craig's greatest fear too. But his fear was more for me than for our unborn child. He feared that I would not cope with another death. He feared that death would defeat me. But I knew that it wouldn't. And I was right.

I'm not so sure now. Hope and defeat are doing battle at the moment, and I'm too tired to do more than stand on the sidelines. I'm just waiting to see which of the two wins. And hoping to get some sleep.

Aw.ay We Go (by Craig)

We went to the movies yesterday. It was Mirne's birthday, so her choice. Today it is my birthday, so we'll probably go to a movie of my choice. Either way, we have pretty much the same taste in movies so it doesn't really matter who chooses what we see - it's just nice to do it this way for our birthdays. Anyway, we went to see "Aw.ay We Go". A word of warning for any babyloss mamas and papas out there whose nerves are still super raw (they'll always be raw - I mean those of you for whom this is a relatively new thing) - there is a scene in the movie with a babyloss couple.

CAUTION - spoiler alert for the plot of the movie. If you haven't seen it and have read the warning about the content above and still want to see it, you might want to see it before reading the rest of my post.

The movie is about a young (well, they're in their thirties, so they're young to us) couple, Burt and Verona, who are having their first baby. They moved to some out-of-the-way place to be near his parents, and then his parents decide to move the month before the baby is due. So, they decide they will move also, and the movie is about their search for the perfect place to bring up their (unborn) child. Terribly optimistic, we all know, but that's what most people seem to do when they get pregnant. They visit many old friends and family members, some of whom are very quirky.

The crunch time comes when they visit Munch and Tom in Montreal. They have an adopted family of about 5 children of varying ages, but I knew there was a reason for this when Munch asked Verona if there had been any problems yet. I knew immediately that she was a babyloss mama. Anyway, the couple go out and have a lot of fun, but they end up at a bar with a kind of Karaoke thing happening with people doing dance acts as well as singing. Anyway, Verona goes to the bathroom (as you do when you're 6 months pregnant) and we see just the two men talking. Tom looks around for Munch, and we finally see her pole dancing, but in a very slow, sad, and poignant way. The song being played is Oh! Sweet Nuthin' by Velvet Underground, which is perfect. Part of the lyrics say:

Oh sweet nuthin'

She ain't got nothing at all

Oh sweet nuthin'

She ain't got nothing at all

She ain't got nothing at all

Oh sweet nuthin'

Tom explains to Burt that Munch has just had her fifth miscarriage. There is no explanation of how pregnant she was, or whether this was a miscarriage or a stillbirth (most people don't seem to know the difference), but it is obvious that he is deeply affected by this. He stares at Munch, sadly, while she dances, sadly. He can barely talk, and it is obvious that he feels as useless to help her as I always feel with Mirne when she is feeling particularly sad. It is a beautiful scene, which I think many people will not understand, but if you want to show your non-babyloss friends what it is like, if they just don't get it, send them along to see this film and tell them that if anything, this scene is a little under-done in the grief stakes.

I found myself crying uncontrollably in the cinema, to the point where I was so sad I almost felt that I had to leave. I'm glad I stayed for the rest of the film, because it is quite cool (and quirky, as I mentioned), but I was so sad I think I will have to see it again to really know what happens. In fact, I might need to see it several more times before I can remember the scenes immediately following this one.

One week to go

Today I am 37 weeks pregnant (hope none of you mind the underwear shot). Although for some reason the counter on the side of this blog is running one day behind. It has done so the whole way. Strange.

When I was this pregnant with Kees, I was at the hospital being induced. As I'm writing this, it's early morning here. Just after 8.00 am. When I was pregnant with Kees, by this time we'd arrived at the hospital and were settling into our hospital room. Full of anticipation and excitement. Just over 17 hours later we would meet our little boy. And fall irrevocably in love.

We're having to wait an extra week before we meet this boy, Kees' brother. I'm none too happy about that, as you might imagine. When we visited the ob yesterday I was rather peeved about having to wait that extra week.

But she didn't care. To her the possibility of my child dying is just that - a possibility, and a remote one at that. Not something that she's going to lose any sleep over. None. Whereas I have lost hundreds of hours of sleep over that very possibility. They're supposed to be "experts" in the field, but they really don't have a clue what we baby-lost mamas go through.

Tomorrow is my birthday. The day after is Craig's. Another reason why we'd hoped this baby might be born at 37 weeks. So he'd be born whilst we were both still 40. Somehow seems so much younger than 41. But no such luck. We'll be 41 when this boy arrives in our world.

Our third baby. Our second son. Our last child. Our last hope.

Status update

A friend on Face.book has the following as his status today: last night as a family of 3.

His wife is having their second child tomorrow. Via caesarian section. To deliver their son. Their first child is a little girl. The perfect family.

I read his status and then walked away. I was pretty pissed, I decided. How arrogant. How presumptuous. Do they know something that the rest of us don't? Did they get a piece of paper in the post with the words GUARANTEE FOR LIVING BABY on it? Do they just bring that piece of paper to the hospital and hand it over somewhere in exchange for a living baby? Why are they so convinced that their baby will be ok? That they won't be the ones left holding the dead baby?

It's making me reconsider my Face.book position again. Maybe I'll cull some more friends. Or maybe I should wait until I see what happens with my baby. Maybe if my baby is born alive and well, I will be more tolerant of those status updates. Maybe.

But it's not just those arrogant, presumptuous statements. It's also those status updates about babies and children. Those status updates about visits to the doctor, for vaccinations, about kiddies sleeping and mummies being tired. I can't cope. I really can't. How am I supposed to respond to those status updates?

At the moment, I don't respond. Because no-one wants to see my rants in response to their status update.

I just want to scream when I see status updates like that.

I wish that I could write in my status update that Kees was keeping me up all night. That Freyja had a fever but that fortunately it was coming down. That Kees had spilled a full bag of sugar all over the kitchen floor. That Freyja was crawling into our bed every night. I wish.

So every time I see one of those updates it's like a sharp stab in the heart. And in the mind. And reminds me again and again of what I don't have and what I will never have with my Freyja or with my Kees. No matter how many babies I have who live.

And I only want one at this moment. Because I can't have my Freyja and my Kees back. In the absence of his siblings, I just want this little boy who is currently inside me. I want him out. I want him in my arms. I want him healthy. I want him.

Is that too much to ask???

I'm 36w5d. Only 9 days to go.

Not the exception

Craig and I visited some friends yesterday afternoon. They invited us a few weeks ago. To come and sit in the sun in their back garden and have dinner with them.

We arrived on time (as we always do -- I'm a bit picky about being punctual). My friend was at home, as was her 3 y.o. daughter. But her husband was out. She said he'd be home in an hour or so. He came home two hours later.

He's done this before. When we come and visit. He's either not there when we arrive, but then he comes home later, or he's there, but then he leaves. To go and do something like go to the gym (he has actually done this before when we were there - left to go to the gym).

I decided that I found this behaviour of his rather offensive. Actually. Why do they bother inviting us (for a day and time which we all agree on), if he's then not going to be there? Why?

I thought about this and decided that he probably doesn't like us (or doesn't like one of us). Otherwise why would he do this? I mean, isn't it rude to invite people round for drinks/dinner and then just not be there? I'm fairly certain he was at the gym (he came home looking freshly showered with a back-pack containing a towel and things).

My friend is a friend who I've known for about 8 years. Since before either of us were married. Since before babies and stuff. So we've both changed. She's been very sympathetic to us both since we lost Kees. Much more so than after we lost Freyja. I suspect that's because when we lost Freyja, we were living in Australia and she in Europe and Freyja wasn't "real" to her. Compared to Kees I mean. Kees was born - he was a "real" baby. Freyja wasn't born (there are actually a lot of people out there who don't think about how dead babies get out of their mothers bodies). In my friend's view Freyja wasn't a "viable" baby. This all despite the fact that of course Freyja was a perfectly healthy, viable, big baby. But there's no use trying to tell some people anything.

She believes that once this new baby is born, that everything will be ok. That everything will be normal. That our life will be peachy perfect.

She asked me yesterday if I have much stress. I said yes. She asked about what. I explained that my stress and anxiety relate to my dead children and to this baby inside me. She was confused. She thinks I should be able to "rationalise" my stress and anxiety away. That's what she does with anything and everything that causes her stress or anxiety. She doesn't get it. Not surprisingly. She's never given birth to a dead baby. She's never held a dead baby. She's never buried her child. She's never even seen a dead baby. She has no idea. Lucky, lucky her. She simply does not understand that even if I had ten living children now (which is not possible given that I'm turning 41 in a matter of days) Freyja and Kees would still be DEAD.

Yesterday she asked me about our friends. Our friends in Australia and in Europe. I explained to her that our old friend circle, the circle she knew, the one from before I was married, that circle wasn't really our circle any more. I explained that I've changed, my life has changed, it's not the same any more. I said that it's difficult to remain friends with people who send a card when your baby dies and then you don't hear anything from them any more. I said that it's hard when people pretend everything is ok. That it's not nice to be with people who think it's awkward to talk about dead babies. Who don't think of those dead babies as my CHILDREN.

She seemed quite confused by this concept. In fact, I was in the middle of telling her something about changing friendships, when her daughter demanded her attention. By the time she'd finished with her daughter, the conversation was over. She made no attempt to go back to it, and I could see it was a conscious choice on her part - she didn't want to talk about it. So I left it. She asked the question, but she wasn't really ready for the answer. The whole conversation (including her daughter's interruption) lasted less than 10 minutes.

She's a lovely girl, and she means well. But she's a fair-weather friend. I guess I've always known that, but (surprisingly) I was still disappointed when I was confronted with it yesterday.

I mentioned in one of my earlier posts that, with the exception of one or two real life friends, no real life friends remember my children's special dates. She is not one of the exceptions.

An Ex.act Rep.lica of a Fig.ment of My Im.agination

It's Sunday morning. I'm lying in bed, and I'm reading this book. The author is Elizabeth McCracken. You may have heard about it. I heard about it from some (baby-lost) friends.

She is writing about herself. Herself and her husband. And about their first child. A stillborn son.

I've read lots of books about babies dying. About baby-lost parents. They were really the only books I could read after I lost Freyja. After Freyja died.

But this is a recent acquisition. Someone mentioned it and I found it on Ama.zon.

Recently, I've found that my appetite for baby-lost books is much less than it used to be. Back then it was a comfort to read these books. To read a sentence which resonated. A sentence which described perfectly how I felt. Or described perfectly what had happened. But by the time Kees died, I was already an "expert" ... I knew I would survive. I knew how I would feel. I knew the shock would abate. I knew lots of other baby-lost families. I knew without reading about it.

Now these books just make me overwhelmingly sad. So very, very sad. They're not a comfort any more. They're not just people's stories. They're reality. Of so many babies dying. Of so many baby-lost parents. They make me realise that my story is not so different after all.

I often wonder how the rest of the world can walk past these books and ignore these stories. How they can become pregnant and not see these realities. I don't know.

I just wanted to share some of the author's thoughts from this book. I'm only up to page 93, so about half-way through I guess.

She writes (on page 80) that grief lasts longer than sympathy. And that this is one of the tragedies of the grieving.

How true. And how absolutely amazing that something so profound and so misunderstood is put into those few words which express it so perfectly. Grief lasts longer than sympathy. And that this is a tragedy for her and for us (the grieving).

She writes (on pages 93-94) of a lunch in London. A lunch which took place about two weeks after her baby died. A lunch with "people who loved them". Where everyone sat around talking about everything except for what happened. She calls that lunch "two of the most excruciating hours of her life". Where she sat and thought "dead baby dead baby dead baby" and knew that everyone else was thinking the same thing. But no-one said anything.

I remember several dinners like that.

The first dinner happened in mid-August 2006, in Melbourne, about three weeks after Freyja died. It was around my birthday. Two friends took Craig and I out for our birthdays (we are one day apart). They are old friends. Friends from Europe who happened to both be in Melbourne at that time. We didn't really talk about Freyja or the pregnancy. Except for a moment where P (who is a doctor/surgeon/businessman) mentioned that "it was probably for the best" (referring to Freyja's death). WTF??? Where did that come from?? As happened mostly back then, we were so stunned that the opportunity to respond passed us by. But I remember what he said. That it was probably for the best. We don't really have any contact with them any more. Our grief outlasted their sympathy.

The second dinner took place in Amsterdam in April 2008, only a few weeks after Kees died. We had dinner at my (then) best friend's house. Her new-ish boyfriend was there. It was important to her that I like her boyfriend. She said to me, whilst we were chatting in her kitchen, that "at least you know you can get pregnant. I don't even know if I can do that." WTF???? Like I'm supposed to feel SORRY for her, for her uncertainty in her ability to get pregnant??? When she hasn't even TRIED ... when it was just an unknown??? And I've just buried MY SECOND DEAD BABY?? I walked away from that one too. But the friendship didn't last. A seven year friendship. We worked together, we were best friends, we travelled the world together. She was my witness at our wedding. My grief outlasted her sympathy.

For those interested in possibly reading this book, it's a rambling story. There's no real structure to it. But I guess that's just like life really. It suits my frame of mind at the moment. My life has no real structure to it either. It just happened, just like it continues to just happen.

36 weeks

My friend Lou, from my last post, she had a big, healthy baby girl on Wednesday. Lucky, lucky Lou. xxx

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My teapot broke this morning. It was a special teapot and I'm very sad about it.

Craig said he opened the kitchen cupboard and it fell out -- onto the stone bench top.

My tea pot is stone -- it has a metal jacket which is lined with felt to insulate the stone pot. The metal jacket, which clips around the stone teapot, has 4 legs (oops, it has 3 legs - Craig just corrected me).

It was a gift from my aunt and her partner when I moved into this apartment in 2002. A house-warming gift. I loved it so much.

I remember when they were coming to visit me in my new apartment. I was desperately looking through my apartment for a coffee pot to serve coffee to them, but failed to find anything. So off I went, on my bike, cycling frantically to a shop a few streets away which specialised in tea and coffee. As I walked in, I saw my aunt, and heard her say to the shop assistant that the tea pot was for her niece - a house-warming gift. I said (as I closed the door behind me), yes, that's me, don't bother wrapping it!! We laughed about it a lot.

And the pot died today. It's not repairable. Craig says he will buy me a new one. But it won't be the same pot, and they're terribly expensive.

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I've been thinking recently - how will I do it?

How will I parent a living child, after I've only parented dead ones for more than three years?

I thought I knew what I was doing with Kees. I was so relieved when he was born alive that I let my fears go. Pretty quickly.

I don't think that I will be able to do that this time. Let my fears go that is.

I think I'm going to fear death for a long time. A very long time.

Other parents, they don't see their child as being so fragile. They don't see their child's death as being something real or something possible. Something that could actually happen. It's the unthinkable for them. That's what they all told me. When Kees died -- after we'd already buried Freyja. That it was "unthinkable" and "unimaginable". For me obviously it's neither unthinkable nor unimaginable -- it's reality. My reality. A reality filled with horror and fear and death.

Do you remember a time when death was surreal? It was like something so far away that it wasn't anything I had to worry about. Not for a long, long time. It didn't even register on my list of worries, and that list has always been pretty long (I'm a bit of a worrier). I remember that time. But that time was long ago. Before Freyja died.

Now I fear death always. I feared Freyja's death, but didn't really expect it to happen. I feared Kees' death and I really did expect that to happen. Not when it did, but before, I feared his death when he was inside me. When he was born it was like we'd beaten that. Beaten death. But we hadn't. Death won. Now I fear Craig's death. Not mine, but Craig's. Because I don't think I could survive without Craig. He is what has kept me going over these last few years.

So if I don't go mad in the next couple of weeks, and if this baby is born alive, how on earth am I going to be a good parent to a living child? How will I beat my fear? How will I live my life without letting fear of death ruin it? How can I parent a child with that overpowering fear hovering around me? How will I let myself love a child who I fully expect will die? How will I sleep at night without fear that when I wake up my child will be dead? How will I be able to be at home with my child if Craig is not there? How will I stop myself panicking every time my child sneezes or coughs? How will I be able to bathe my child without fearing that he will drown? How will I not go completely mad?

How?

This fear of death ... how on earth am I ever going to get over it? How will I ever let it go? When will this fear go away? Will it ever go away?

Or will I spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for death ...

I am 36 weeks today. 14 days to go.

Babies making their way into the world

I just wanted to wish my friend Lou all the best for tomorrow. She is having her baby in the morning. My friend Samara is also expecting her baby any day now.

Craig and I will be thinking of you and hoping that healthy babies will make their way screaming into the world.

Lots of love.

1,555,200 seconds

Bloody hell, I'm scared. So scared. And I can't do anything about it.

I'm 35w3d. Only 18 days to go. And every day I worry that it will be the last day. That this day will be the day that he stops moving. Every day. Every morning. Every afternoon. Every evening.

Craig's been doppling me more often. I'm too scared to tell him that I worry constantly, but he's a clever boy --- I'm sure he's worked it out.

Yesterday Craig hung some baby clothes on the airer, for them to dry. And it felt all wrong. It didn't feel right having them hanging there. All those mini clothes. Those were Kees' clothes, and he's not here. So what on earth are they are there for? On display? For anyone to see? And what am I supposed to do with them?

This baby doesn't feel real.

At. All.

I mean, I feel him inside me, and I love feeling those movements. But the minute he stops moving, I panic. And the thought of giving birth doesn't thrill me either. The idea of going through all that hassle and pain and discomfort, and having a team of strangers looking at, and poking, my nether regions -- I gotta tell you, it doesn't excite me. Because probably I'll end up with a dead baby again. Either at birth, or the day after, or the week after, or the month after.

I worried a lot about this when I first got pregnant. This dread I have that maybe I'll be too scared to love this baby. That I'll be too scared to invest any time or emotions in him. Because he'll just die. It's like I want to "wait and see". Whether he'll stay with us. Or whether he'll go and join his older siblings.

And I can't tell anyone what I feel, because they'll just think I'm worrying for nothing. That I'm being pessimistic. And everything's gone fine until now. No reason to think this baby won't live.

But they don't have my experiences. My dead children. They don't realise that it only takes a second for a baby to die. And how many seconds are there in a day??? There are 86,400 seconds in a day. That gives baby ample time to die. And I've got 18 days to go ... that's 1,555,200 seconds (give or take) that this baby and I need to get through. AAARRRGGGHHH!!!

And then of course, presuming we get through the next 18 days, I have to get through the birth itself. And we all know that bad things can happen there.

Now don't get me wrong, I no longer fear giving birth, that was only during my first pregnancy. And as I've previously said, that was a piece of cake compared to everything that followed. No, I dislike birth because (i) it's not a great experience to begin with, (ii) I was pretty traumatised by my last experience, and (iii) my babies never actually last long enough for me to recover (either mentally or physically) from my birthing experiences. I've forgotten lots of the uncomfortable bits of pregnancy, but I definitely haven't forgotten the uncomfortable bits of birth. Like the fact that last time I had no feeling in my lower back for about six weeks after the birth (from the epidural). That I had only just started feeling remotely "normal" again when Kees died. That the stitches were fucking awful.

I won't complain one little bit about all this horrible stuff. Not one little bit. If this baby lives. But I will feel so absolutely ripped off if I have to through all this again for a dead baby. Really.

Because I might be a mother, but most people forget that. Because I may have given birth, but just about everyone forgets that. I carry the physical scars from birthing my children, but no-one even considers that. I am unfortunately emotionally scarred from carrying and growing and birthing and burying my children, but those scars aren't visible, so no-one sees that.

Being a mother is bloody hard work. And that's only to dead children. I'm scared that I can't cope with any more mothering.

A trip to the dentist (by Craig)

I had to go the dentist last week. Most people fear this, but I don't mind because my teeth are in good shape and I try to keep them that way.

As usual, the hygienist made the usual inane conversation, and even though she knew who I was because she had read my file, she didn't know anything except that my teeth were good. She knew nothing about me, so she couldn't really make conversation with me.

My dentist, however, was another matter. He asked how the baby was going. I told him we had 4 weeks to go, and he said "But this is your second one, I mean your son Kees". He even knew his name, but obviously didn't know (or remember) that he was dead. I told him what had happened, that Kees had died and how I had come to find him. I told him that the paramedics couldn't do their job, and had failed to intubate my son for 45 minutes, which led to him having severe brain damage due to oxygen deprivation. I told him that he lived for 2 more days in the hospital before the ventilator was switched off and he died. He asked what caused it, and I told him that it was just a virus, that it had attacked his heart muscle instead of his lungs, and that it was a 1 in 40,000 chance. He was surprised at the statistics, and said so. Surprised at how common it was. That no-one knows.

And you know what? When I stopped looking down (because it's hard to say all these things), and I looked up, he was crying. I could see the tears running down his cheeks. This is a man who sees me for 10 minutes once a year, and he was crying. He said he was so sorry for me and my wife. He said that he hoped we had better luck with this one, because we deserved all the luck in the world. He told me to wish his best to my wife (I don't think he could remember exactly who she was, even though she is also a patient of his). And then my appointment was over. I hope he pulled himself together before his next customer!

Isn't it surprising that complete strangers can say the right things and close friends and family say nothing?!? Why is that? Is it that some people just have a caring attitude, and some wouldn't know how to care if their lives depended on it? Or is it just that some people, in my case my family, are complete assholes and can't see past their own "grief" to even notice that those around them are suffering a billion times more? May be I need to go to the dentist more often......

My happiness

(Australians reading this post may remember that awesome song by Powderfinger, "My Happiness".)

I don't want people to think I'm a negative person. Although I guess if you only know me through this blog, you might begin to think so!!

Before my babies died, before any of this happened, I used to be a fun person. I had lots of friends, and people used to enjoy my company. I am different now though - I guess a natural consequence following the sad events which have happened in my life.

I thought it might be fun to sit and write down a list of some of the things which make me happy. :-)

So here's my list. No particular order (except the first one of course)!!

** My husband Craig. Without a doubt, the best friend I could ever have. And (fortunately for me) also the love of my life. This man makes me laugh even when all I want to do is cry. He loves me unconditionally. He looks after me. He protects me. He is my partner in everything I do. He is my soul-mate. I wish that we hadn't wasted all those years apart but that we could have spent them together. I love you so much Craig. xxx

** My cat Blair. I love cats. Always have. I'm not a cat- or dog-person. I love both. But my lifestyle over the last 8 years has been more suited to a cat (I've been living in apartments). Blair is a total freak. He thinks that he keeps us on our toes by being unexpected, but actually he's quite predictable. He likes to stalk us and he thinks he does so successfully - ha! He makes me laugh at his silly antics.

** Our travels. Craig and I both love to travel. I was fortunate that before I married, when I was still a single woman, I had friends with whom I could travel. But it's different when you travel with a soul-mate. I love it! Even now, when I'm scared of so many things, I feel I can face the world (literally) when I'm travelling with my husband. And planning future travels always gives me something to look forward to.

** Our children. They make me sad ... oh so sad. Not because of who they were or who they are, but because of what they will never be. But when I remember them, I remember how beautiful they were. How unique they were ... that perfect combination of Craig and me. How they looked like me and like Craig and like each other. (That makes me cry immediately.) But knowing that we made them together ... that we made those beautiful children, that makes me happy too.

** Our home. We have a lovely apartment. One that a lot of lowlanders would give their eye-teeth for. I'm fortunate to have been able to afford this in the past. It's a wonderful home now. Despite our complaints about the neighbourhood noise (we live in the centre of old Amsterdam) we both love it. It feels like our home. It's where Kees lived his short life.

** Our new baby. Fills me with awe. And wonder. And hope. And happiness is not far away.

** Our block of land. We bought it last year. After Kees died. I don't know what prompted us, but suddenly we both wanted something solid, something concrete (or in this case, something sandy with trees!) for our future. It's in a small country town and close to the beach. It's big! And sandy. With lots of trees! We love to plan the house we will build there, the gardens we will establish, our new home.

** Our wedding rings. The wedding rings we have (photo on my blog) are new. We had them made after our second wedding anniversary. I love them. They are of our own design. Heavy and solid, made of white and yellow gold. They each have two diamonds. One diamond each for every year that we were (then) married and a diamond for each of Freyja and Kees. The inscription reads "Mirne & Craig" and "Freyja & Kees". A representation of our family. Every time I look at my wedding ring, I remember. (When I was pregnant with Kees, I lost my wedding ring -- my original wedding ring. We looked everywhere and could not find it. The loss of that ring, and then Kees' death, prompted our purchase of the new rings. We found my original ring about six months later. It was under our fridge. We suspect that our in-house magpie (Blair the cat) took it from the table, played with it, and then conveniently "lost" it under the fridge ...)

** My handbags. These are a reminder for me. Of a time following Kees' death. When I went slightly mad. I bought about 80+ handbags/shoulderbags on e.bay. I hate to think of the money I spent (waaaayyyyy too much) but it kept me happily occupied at a time when my concentration span was about 10 seconds. I don't know what on earth I will ever do with all these bags (they're all expensive designer bags), but whenever I look at them, I smile to remember those moments of my madness. And I am thankful all over again for such lovely and understanding husband. :-)

** Listening to my husband plan. Craig is a big planner. Every day he has a new plan for something. I don't think his mind is ever still. He's constantly coming up with a new plan. Sometimes I tire of his plans, but more often I smile at them. I wouldn't describe Craig as an optimistic person, but you wouldn't think so if you heard him speak of his plans. Craig usually makes me smile when he shares his latest plan ... whether it's an idea for a water-saving device for our block of land or a detailed route for an overland trip through Africa.

** Balls of cat-hair on the floor. This happens regularly in our household. I've never been the best house-cleaner, and since Kees' death I've been much worse. Nowadays, balls of cat-hair floating around usually amuse me and serve as a timely reminder that the vacuum cleaner needs to be used. Until that moment though, I just smile and look at my silly cat, and my husband who doesn't care how much cat-hair is floating around. (We take clean clothes out of our washing machine which has cat-hair on it ... good thing it makes me smile!)

** Our shelves. We have many shelves in our home. Some of them are metal shelves and some are built-in wooden shelves built by Craig! And they're filled with books and/or dvd's. We have an insane number of both. Craig and I both love to read. Last time we went to the UK for a weekend we came home with 11 novels plus several non-fiction books (books are much cheaper there). I smile when I see our shelves filled with books. And when I see stacks of books sitting at various places around our home -- books which haven't been read yet. I'm happy that we drag our books with us on our travels and curl up together to read.

I guess most of us know that things, material things, don't make us happy. Sure they usually make life easier, but they don't make us happy. Wouldn't any of us give up everything we had if it meant we had another chance to be with our beautiful children? I know I would.

Nowadays, things don't make me happy, but things allow me to create happy moments and happy memories. For example, my camera doesn't make me happy, but I treasure those photos I have of my children which I took with my camera. The pram which we have bought for this new baby doesn't make me happy, but the potential, the hope which I hold, that maybe one day soon my new baby son will sit in it -- that makes me happy. All those handbags (what on earth will I ever do with them?) remind me that my husband loves me so much that he didn't even blink when I was buying them all on e.bay.

My happiness does not depend on things. I guess that's one thing that I've learned since Freyja and Kees died.

Love, cherished memories and hope - that's what makes my happiness.

Other people's feelings

I was remembering some stuff this morning. Not for any particular reason. It's not an anniversary or a birth day or a death day. No estimated due date coming up (except for this new baby's). I was just remembering.

I was remembering about other people's feelings. About how they always seem to be more important than mine. More important than Craig's. And yet, it seems to me, that any way you look at it, it should be about my feelings, about Craig's feelings.

So why isn't it?

One of the clearest memories I have after Freyja's death are of instances when we were at my parents' house. We lived in Melbourne at the time, and my parents live(d) in Adelaide. Approximately 800 km away. Craig and I flew to Adelaide when we found out that Freyja had died inside me. We wanted her to be born close to our homes -- our familial homes -- and so that she could be buried in the Adelaide Hills.

After the birth we stayed with my parents for about a week. I remember telling my mum and dad and sister that we didn't want to see anyone. Really. We told them this several times. Craig even went so far as to say to them that we were in no state to see anyone and that (in our state of grief) we might say or do things that might offend people. He asked them to keep this in mind and to forgive us in advance if that was the case. My husband - he has his head screwed on at all times (I was shattering into a thousand pieces).

Yet that didn't stop my mum from opening her front door to anyone who knocked on it. Her friends. Who came looking for my mum. Who came wanting to comfort my mum in *her* grief. Who my mum let in the house. Who would sometimes see me and come rushing to me. Despite what we had said.

My sister brought her boy-friend. Craig and I thought we'd made it clear to her that we'd rather she didn't bring him. Apparently there was a misunderstanding (on their part) and she brought him anyway. Craig was very upset and absented himself during their visit. My sister and her boy-friend were *offended* and left.

Is it just me? I was really offended by all that. Why didn't they listen to what Craig and I had asked? Why didn't they just leave us? All we wanted was to be alone in our grief. We just wanted to be surrounded by those we thought were nearest and dearest to us. Why couldn't they just leave it at that?

We had problems with Freyja's funeral too -- I've posted about this before, so I won't go into it again here. But again it came down to our wishes against everyone else's. Why was this even an issue? Why couldn't people respect what we wanted? Why couldn't they do that? Why did my mum keep asking if one (or more) of her friends could come? Why did my sister not understand that I did not want her boy-friend to come? Why did they ask these things? Why did no-one understand that this wasn't some "show" that was open to the public? Why didn't they realise that Freyja's funeral was one of the worst experiences of our lives? Why couldn't they respect our wishes?

When Kees died there were similar issues. But we were prepared this time. We had learned from previous experience. We were much stricter -- people thought we were being mean to them. Seriously. I wonder if it ever occurred to those people we weren't organising a party, and we weren't deliberately excluding anyone. We just wanted to do what we wanted to do. But no-one can ever leave it can they?

My MIL and FIL came to our son's funeral and never said a word to me. When Craig walked over to them at the funeral and asked them why, they said they didn't want to stand and wait in line to speak with us like all those other people. His father turned his back on Craig and ignored him. (He was being supportive of his daughter - read on.) Neither of my SIL's came to Kees' funeral. One because she and Craig had "words" several days before. The other because she was "supporting" her other sister's position. Right.

(Already before Kees' funeral, before we even brought him back to Australia, whilst we were still in Amsterdam, my IL's were behaving strangely. One of my SIL's had come to be *with* us whilst Kees was NICU, and after he died she extended her stay so that she could be a tourist in Amsterdam. We found this to be an incredibly offensive action (yay! a holiday opportunity!!) and (frankly) extremely selfish of her. Her parents defended her actions (as they always do) by saying that they'd all gone out for dinner the night before and my SIL had burst into tears because of a song she heard. That's how upset *she* was. Right.)

My sister's boy-friend, who was by now her live-in life partner, (the one who wasn't *allowed* to attend Freyja's funeral on the premise that it was "family only") also chose not to come to Kees' funeral. He stayed at home instead. His nose was still out of joint for not being *allowed* to attend Freyja's funeral. My parents had tried to convince him to come, but he was insistent that he would stay at home. (Kees' funeral was not invite-only -- it was open to anyone -- it was announced in the newspaper.)

One of my parents' friends came to give me a hug at Kees' funeral and said how shocked he was to read the statistics on stillbirth and SIDS. (Craig and I provided a pamphlet for those who were interested at Kees' funeral.) He was particularly shocked because his oldest daughter was X months pregnant and so she would be worried for her baby. I thought this was a singularly inappropriate comment to make to a mother who was burying her second child. I could have slapped him.

My MIL complained after the funeral that she had been offended by my brother and his partner. My brother is gay. Craig and I met his partner for the first time at our son's funeral. My bro's partner seemed lovely and we were glad to meet him. My bro and his partner offered to take lots of photos of the funeral. We were happy that they did. (We now have many beautiful photos of my son's funeral.) However, my MIL complained that "a stranger" took photos of her. She also complained that she was "offended" that my bro and his partner were "holding hands" during the funeral. WTF????

My MIL sobbed very loudly throughout the entire service. Louder than anyone else. From the way she was acting, it seemed that *her* grief was greater than anyone else's.

My MIL and FIL and Craig's aunt and uncle and cousin left immediately after the grave-side service. We were having sandwiches and coffee in a hall afterwards, but because my MIL hadn't been informed of this, and was too "upset" to attend, they all had to leave.

None of my friends or family from Europe came to my son's funeral. At the time I didn't really think much of it. Afterwards, when my mind was clearer and I had time to think, I was shocked. I was shocked that those relationships, which I had built up over a period of 7-8 years, really didn't mean so much after all. I was shocked because I thought they were strong relationships, I thought those relationships *meant* something. I was shocked that none of those people (including my then best girl friend) thought that my son's death was worth a trip. I guess they all had better things to do with their time and money. (And you can argue till you're blue in the face, but that's what it came down to. All of my then *close* friends were easily able to afford a trip to Australia.)

My IL's never contact us on any of our children's special days. Never. After Kees' birth day and death day this year, Craig couldn't help himself. He rang his mum and asked why they didn't contact us. His mum said that "they were too upset". Right.

With the exception of one or two real life friends, no real life friends remember my children's special dates. None. Only on-line friends (who are all other baby-lost parents) remember how important my children are to me. How important it is to acknowledge their existence.

We are still surrounded by selfish people. Many are people who simply don't contact us any more. They don't know what to say. They're made uncomfortable by our dead babies. So they just don't contact us. Well, I guess it must work for them, because they keep not doing it ... contacting us, that is.

All these actions are actions of selfish people.

All of them.

We tried to so hard to do the right things for our children.

At first, when Freyja died, we tried very hard not to offend people. To compromise. But it didn't work. People didn't appreciate anything we did, they still resented us (for whatever reason), and nothing we did was good enough.

So with Kees we did it differently. We did what we wanted to do. It still wasn't good enough. We still offended people. But I cared a lot less. I didn't care what people thought. Because it wasn't about them. It was about us and our son.

Because anyone who tries to draw attention away from grieving parents to themselves does not deserve any care. Their selfish actions are outrageous - at least that's what I think. Unfortunately, others don't.

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I still hope sometimes that things will change. But it hasn't changed yet. Sometimes I wonder if this new baby lives, whether people will come out of hiding and suddenly act like the last three and a half years haven't happened. I wonder if they'll point the finger at us and say it's all our fault. I wonder if they'll say that we were too *sensitive*. That they didn't mean it that way. I wonder if they'll blame us for the way our relationships have changed. I wonder if they'll suddenly be all attentive because there's (hopefully) a *living* baby. I wonder if they'll realise that a living baby may change things for us, for our future, but that it's not likely to change the past. It doesn't mean that Freyja and Kees are forgotten. It doesn't mean that my children, my three children, are not a part of who I am today.

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I'm not writing this because I'm having a whine. I'm just writing to get if off my mind. Sometimes once you put things in writing they just seem a lot clearer. After all, it is the way it is. Nothing will change that. It's happened, it's in the past.

I usually run stuff like this by Craig to double-check that my memory is not faulty. That I'm not being influenced by all the familial fall-out which has been the result of my babies' deaths. Craig assures me that I have recollected the situation correctly.