Remembering

When I was pregnant with Jet, Craig and I discussed how we would remember our precious Freyja and Kees with our boy Jet. How we would remember them with our son Jet during his lifetime. Whilst Jet was a little baby, a little boy and growing up. So that he would know and remember his siblings birthdays.

Many babylost parents spend a lot of time wondering how to remember and honour their special babies. Those babies that they can't hold in their arms. Those babies that will never grow up. Those babies who have special places in our hearts.

Craig and I remember our babies every day ... of course. But every year, on Freyja's special day, and on Kees' special days, we stop and remember them. We remember the joy they brought us, and the sadness which the ends of their lives meant to us. The changes their deaths brought to our lives.

We had hoped that we could celebrate Freyja and Kees' lives with our living son Jet. We had hoped that every year on Freyja and Kees' birthdays we would be able to have a birthday cake and candles to remember Jet's brother and sister with him. But now of course we can't. We won't be able to do that.

Craig and I are not able to celebrate our children's lives yet. Maybe we will be able to do that in years to come. But not yet.

We cannot have a birthday cake for our Freyja, or our Kees. And we haven't had to have one yet for our sweet Jet. It's too hard. Any joy we ever had for these children is still over-shadowed by the pain and sadness and grief we have in our hearts for them now.

Maybe we will never be able to have birthday cakes for our children. That's quite possible. Maybe that was a dream that belonged with Jet. And now with Jet gone, that's one of the dreams that has gone with him.

:::

The reason why I was thinking about this today is because Birni and Shane are honouring their son Ciaran's first birthday. And Lindsay is honouring her daughter Zoe's second birthday.

I am remembering and honouring them with you.

Four weeks ago

Four weeks ago today I woke to sunshine coming in through the curtains.

I was in hospital.

Jet was three days old.

The sunshine put fear into my heart.

I jumped out of bed and rushed to check my son.

He should have woken me during the night for a feed, but he hadn't.

He should have been sleeping in his cot, but he wasn't.

He was dead.

Four weeks ago today, I woke to find my newborn son, my sweet Jet, dead in his cot.

And my life changed again. Forever. Irrevocably.

Farewell my sweet Jet. I love you.

Rage and rambles

The other day (yesterday????) I thought things were going a bit back to "normal" again. I was wrong.

Last night I had a bad night. I slept badly. I woke up several times. I couldn't get back to sleep again. I had nightmares. I felt like my blood was boiling or about to spurt out of me. I felt full of rage even though I was "asleep" or supposed to be asleep. I felt totally stressed. How is that normal? Quite simply, it's not.

I don't know what to do about this rage. This violence which is stuck inside me.

I'm angry at the world. At the doctors. At my crappy family. At my crappy friends. At everyone.

I hate going out. I hate going to the shop and seeing all those people going about their lives. I hate listening to people on the street talking about nothing, about crappy, unimportant things. I'm completely over rude, arrogant Dutch people who walk so that they deliberately bump into you. I hate being snubbed by young shop girls who think they're too good for their job. I can't stand it. And I just want to respond with rage.

When I see mums and their kids on the street, I want to scream. When I see parents smoking with kids hanging around, I want to scream. When I see pregnant women, I want to scream. When I see young couples, holding hands, their lives before them, I want to scream.

Basically I'm just filled with rage. And I don't know what to do about it.

I miss Freyja. I miss Kees. I miss Jet. I miss the life I would have lived with one or two or all of them. I miss being able to see them grow. I hate it that I will never know what they would look like. What they would be like. Whether they would be like me, or like Craig. That I will never know ANYTHING more about them. I can't stand it.

I hate it that people treat us like lepers. I hate it that people who were so upset about Kees' death, haven't even contacted us about Jet. I hate it.

I hate it that I can't cope with even the smallest things. That even the stupid leak in my ceiling (the subject of several previous posts) causes me to completely stress out. I hate it.

I can't stand it that some people are finding it so "difficult" to cope with Jet's death, that they don't have time for us. That Jet's death is so traumatic for them, that they don't have the inclination or energy to think of us. I want to bash those people. I want to bash their heads in. How dare they? How dare they be so bloody selfish? Can't they remember that Jet is OUR SON??? How is it possible that this escapes their mind???

We haven't seen or heard from Craig's two sisters since before Kees' funeral. Neither of them attended Kees' funeral. After Jet died, when Craig was talking to his mother on the phone, she said to him that one of his sisters was writing a card (WTF???) and the other didn't know how to approach him (WTF???). She suggested that perhaps he should call her. WTF??? Who are all these fucking selfish people??? Craig should call his sister because she doesn't know how to approach him? What about simply calling him on the phone and saying sorry??? Selfish bloody bitch. We never got a call or a card. We got nothing. Not one single thing from either of his sisters to say they were sorry about Jet.

I had a friend visiting me the other day. The one who looked after our cat Blair whilst we were travelling. I said to her that none of our mutual friends had contacted me. Not one. Most of these mutual friends are ex-colleagues of mine. She still works with them. She suggested maybe I should ring them and tell them that it's ok to contact me. WTF??? I should call them? Where do people get these ideas from??? Since when does a bereaved person call people to tell them it's ok to call??

What is happening in the world? When did people become so selfish??

I was looking on face.book yesterday. I culled a lot of people who were "friends" last year, following Kees' death. So sometimes I cheat and I log on as Craig and check on some of the ex-friends. My brother is an ex-friend. He had a status update some time ago about Jet's death. Some of his friends responded. Including our cousin's wife, who made a comment about how she and her husband were "thinking of you (meaning my brother) and your family (meaning my parents and siblings) and especially Mirne and Craig". WTF???? "Especially Mirne and Craig" ... what does that mean? Wasn't Jet OUR SON??? I feel like I need to wear a t-shirt to remind people. I feel like people are kidnapping the memory of MY CHILDREN. I want to scream at them. This is all I have left of my children, and it feels like people are taking it from me.

Two people call us regularly. My sister L, the missionary. She calls pretty much every couple of days. Except when she's too busy with her life and her three kids. She has a life. And my mum, except when she's telling me how to feel, in which case I hang up on her or she hangs up on me. Which happens quite regularly. But they're both up to their old tricks again. They ring. Craig answers the phone. They ask for me. They don't speak to him first. They don't ask him how he's going. They don't bother to talk to him. Like somehow Jet was more my son than his. This will be the THIRD TIME I'm going to have this conversation with them. Once after Freyja's death. Once after Kees' death. And now again. You think people would remember.

Today is four weeks since Jet was born. Four weeks.

Nail polish

I put silver nail polish on my toes on the Monday before Jet was born. Two coats of O.pi silver nail polish with a third coat of lovely Di.or sparkly silver polish.

It looked beautiful. I did it especially knowing I was going to hospital to deliver Jet on the Friday.

It was the Monday after my birthday. The Monday after Craig's birthday. The last week of my pregnancy with Jet.

During this pregnancy, my only pregnancy during the summer, I painted my toenails every fortnight. It gave me something to do. I liked the different colours. I bought lots of different polishes. I painted them every fortnight.

I wore sandals during my second and third trimester with Jet's pregnancy. I was feeling warm. It turned out that during this pregnancy my body temperature was about a degree cooler than it usually is. That meant that I felt the outside (warm) temperature much quicker than I usually did. Hence the sandals. And the toenail polish.

I remember a few weeks before Jet was born, reading on a blog, or in someone's comments, about a new baby-lost mum who did not want to remove the toenail polish she had worn for the birth of her baby. I distinctly remember reading it. And now I know how she feels.

I've been wearing this silver nail polish since 24 August. It's flaking. It doesn't look good any more. It doesn't look good at all.

I remember how happy I was when I put it on. It was hard work. I was over 37 weeks pregnant. It was awkward trying to reach and put three coats of nail polish on ten toes. But I did it. I did it because I wanted to have nice sparkly toenails when Jet arrived in our world. I debated over blue nail polish or silver. I chose silver.

It's time to take it off. It's looking awful. It's not a good memory any more. I did it especially to create a good memory, but it's not a good memory any more.

Time to take off that nail polish today I think.

Anything is possible

A friend said something to me via email a few weeks ago. She's very wise, and her words touched me very much. I hope she doesn't mind if I paraphrase some of those words here.

She said that she often thinks that (before her twin girls died) all her wishes were attainable. She realises that they have may been slim chances, such as winning the lottery, but they were all possibilities no matter how small. Now her greatest wish is one which she knows will never come true. She knows it can never happen. She wants her children back. She wishes that there was something she could do for me, but she knows that my greatest wish is also to have my children back, safe in my arms. And that is not possible any more.

I've blogged about this in the past. About living my life, looking forward to the future, wondering what was around the corner, about knowing for sure that the best was still to come. And waking up one day realising that the best has been. And that I didn't know it. Realising that not everything is possible any more. It's not.

Some people think that it is ... possible that is. But for me it is not. Not everything is possible any more.

My children are dead. Freyja is gone. Kees is gone. Jet is gone. They are never coming back. They will never grow up. They are gone. Their lives are gone. They are not possible any more. Nothing can make that right.

My friend is correct.

:::

Craig and I, during our recent travels in Norway, climbed a glacier.

It was very bloody scary.

I was in a state of very heightened anxiety and I freaked myself out completely before we even got to the bottom of the glacier.

We had to walk, climb, hike over about a kilometre of rocks, massive boulders, rough terrain before we even got to the glacier. By the time we got there I had worked myself into a very anxious state and had to be talked into getting up the glacier by Craig and our wonderful guide.

Our guide was a very sensitive, young, Nepalese man who has climbed just about every glacier and rock-face in the world. No joke - just this last summer he climbed to the top of Mt Everest TWICE. Unsurprisingly, as this is his life's work, he also has multiple friends and family who have died by falling from just about every glacier and rock face in the world. Really. He seemed at peace with those deaths and talked much about "this life" -- making me presume he believed very strongly in "another" or "next" life.

However, he said one thing that struck me. He said "anything is possible". He was speaking specifically about a man with no legs who "climbed" Mt Everest. Goodness knows how he did it, perhaps on the back of someone else. But he fervently believed that "anything is possible".

I don't. I don't believe it. I agree with my friend -- anything was possible before we lost our children. Now it is not. If anything was possible, I would have my children back. But anything is NOT possible, so I cannot have my children back. People who delude themselves by thinking that anything is possible are in for a rude shock. It may give them hope to think that, but reality has a way of biting you in the bum just when you're least expecting it.

I remember a time when anything was possible. When Craig and I married on 11 March 2006, we believed that very strongly. We were overjoyed to have the opportunity to explore our seemingly endless possibilities together.

But anything is no longer possible. And people can say what they want (usually to try and cheer us up), but nothing changes that.

:::

I'm starting to feel more "normal".

Don't be fooled. "Normal" is just a word and it means different things to different people.

"Normal" for Craig and I is being parents of dead children. That's what our life together is about.

We've had lots of practice at being dead-baby parents. It's what we've been doing since 24 July 2006 (when we found out that Freyja had died). It's like we've been preparing for being dead-baby parents for over three years now. And now the preparation has ended. This is it. We are now the proud parents of three perfect and beautiful babies. Unfortunately we're not happy parents. Unfortunately we will never be happy parents. Unfortunately we will always be dead-baby parents.

That's our "normal" - that's our life.

I sincerely hope that's not all that our life will be. I hope not. I hope that we also get to be something else. Maybe I'll get to be a gardener. Or a bread-baker. Maybe we'll get to be someone's friends. Maybe we'll get to join a 4WD club. Maybe we'll get to be home-builders. Maybe we'll get to be something other than just dead-baby parents.

Maybe our "normal" will become something good for us.

Maybe our "normal" will make us happy one day.

Post traumatic stress disorder

I've been surfing the net, reading up more about PTSD. I've been interested in PTSD for several years now, ever since it appears that it applies to me.

This is what the Mayo Clinic has to say about it. See www.mayoclinic.com.

Symptoms

Signs and symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder typically begin within three months of a traumatic event. In a small number of cases, though, PTSD symptoms may not occur until years after the event.

Post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms are commonly grouped into three types: intrusive memories, avoidance and numbing, and increased anxiety or emotional arousal (hyperarousal).

Symptoms of intrusive memories may include:

• Flashbacks, or reliving the traumatic event for minutes or even days at a time
• Upsetting dreams about the traumatic event

Symptoms of avoidance and emotional numbing may include:

• Trying to avoid thinking or talking about the traumatic event
• Feeling emotionally numb
• Avoiding activities you once enjoyed
• Hopelessness about the future
• Memory problems
• Trouble concentrating
• Difficulty maintaining close relationships

Symptoms of anxiety and increased emotional arousal may include:

• Irritability or anger
• Overwhelming guilt or shame
• Self-destructive behavior, such as drinking too much
• Trouble sleeping
• Being easily startled or frightened
• Hearing or seeing things that aren't there

Post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms can come and go. You may have more post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms during times of higher stress or when you experience reminders of what you went through. You may hear a car backfire and relive combat experiences, for instance. Or you may see a report on the news about a rape, and feel again the horror and fear of your own assault.

Diagnosis

To be diagnosed with PTSD, you must meet criteria spelled out in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, published by the American Psychiatric Association. This manual is used by mental health professionals to diagnose mental conditions.

Criteria for post-traumatic stress disorder to be diagnosed include:

• You experienced or witnessed an event that involved death or serious injury, or the threat of death or serious injury
• Your response to the event involved intense fear, horror or a sense of helplessness
• You relive experiences of the event, such as having distressing images and memories, upsetting dreams, flashbacks, or even physical reactions
• You try to avoid situations or things that remind you of the traumatic event or feel a sense of emotional numbness
• You feel as if you're constantly on guard or alert for signs of danger, which may make you have trouble sleeping or concentrating
• Your symptoms last longer than one month
• The symptoms cause significant distress in your life or interfere with your ability to go about your normal daily tasks

Today

It's early in the morning. I've just gotten out of the bed. We've had our morning coffee. It's now 8.10 am.

What will I do for the rest of the day?

What will I do now?

:::

I hoped that my life now would be so different.

I had hoped that once Jet was born I wouldn't have a moment to sit and think.

I had hoped that Jet would keep me busy 24 hours a day.

I had hoped that Jet would not only give me purpose in life, but would give me something to do. Something to focus on. A person to look after. A future to look forward to. A reason for being.

Now it's 8.12 am and I wonder what on earth I will do for the rest of the day.

Oh sure, I need to clean the fridge (it hasn't been done for ages), vacuum the apartment, fold up clean wash, and otherwise generally prepare the apartment for Craig's aunt who is visiting for a few days on Sunday.

But that's it. I don't have anything else to do. I don't know what else to do.

Watching TV is hard work at the moment, as is reading a book. My levels of concentration, which have always been bad since Freyja died, have shattered again. If I can concentrate for five minutes at a time on the TV, then that's pretty good. It means I never really know what's going on in those programs that we're watching. Currently watching the Foyle's War series, which we've seen before.

I woke this morning and said to Craig that literally every moment, from the moment when I wake in the morning until the moment I (finally) get to sleep, is spent thinking about my children. About their lives, their deaths, what I could have done differently, what I should have done differently, if anything could have been done differently. Whether the NFI (the Netherlands Forensic Institute) will find something this time. Whether it's something in me. Whether it's something in Craig. And the only conclusion I ever draw, after spending every waking moment thinking about my sweet, beautiful, dead children, is that I never should have had them. They never should have been conceived. Because then they never would have been born, and they never would have died.

:::

I need to speak to my doctor. Because thinking about all this stuff every waking moment of the day is exhausting. I'm physically and mentally exhausted. I suffer from constant headaches, chest pains, hot and cold sweats. I get flushes/rashes over my body. You name it, I get it.

Yesterday I was on the phone to my sister and the conversation was stressing me. I could tell because suddenly the telephone (which is one of those light plastic portable phones) felt like a very heavy brick in my hand. My fingers were suddenly struggling to hold the phone to my ear. I felt like I was going to drop it - like my fingers were incapable of holding it any longer. So I had to get off the phone.

My sister said that after Kees died last year she had to stop herself from living her life filled with fear. She said she had "irrational fears". Like worrying about her three kids running onto the road, or worrying about them near a swimming pool. She said she consciously had to stop herself feeling these "irrational fears" or otherwise she would be living her life in fear.

I have to say that I fail to see that these fears are irrational. They seem completely rational to me. I guess she believes that God will protect her and her family (she's a missionary), although she was there and praying for Kees when God failed to protect Kees. She's seen that you can't rely on God's protection.

I wonder what she thinks of me then.

I'm living my life in fear and have done so since Freyja died. I lived 37 weeks in fear when I was pregnant with Kees - even though everyone assured me it couldn't happen again, and to enjoy the pregnancy. I lived 38 weeks in fear when I was pregnant with Jet. Again I was assured by everyone that it wouldn't happen again, and to make sure I enjoyed the pregnancy. I didn't enjoy either pregnancy. I lived in fear. Fear and hope battled. Hope was winning. But it didn't last long. Fear won in the end.

Everyone (except Craig) thought my fears were irrational. Everyone. Friends and family and anyone else. They all told me so. They told me with their mouths, with their eyes, with their bodies. They all thought I was crazy to be so irrational. I bet they've all forgotten that now. I bet they don't remember that now. That they were so judgmental and that I was so worried.

Irrational fear. I don't think so.

:::

Oh yes, another hope which is gone.

I had hoped that after Jet's birth I would no longer need to take anti-d medication. I had hoped that the joy which would be in my life with my living son would mean I no longer needed any anti-d medication. And although I've avoided taking any medication for three weeks, I don't think I can avoid it any longer.

I hope that it will be a short-term thing only, but I worry that it will be long-term. I don't want to take any meds at all. I don't want the side-effects. I want to be normal again (which I haven't been since July 2006), but I wonder whether that will ever be possible.

:::

We dropped off our rental camper yesterday.

We've rented campers from this guy before. He's pretty good and we trust him not to rip us off. He knows about our children. He and his wife have a toddler.

I was talking to him yesterday about Jet, and saying that we sent out Jet's remembrance card mostly because I wanted people to know what a beautiful boy he was. I didn't want people to think that he must have been ill or something. Because that's what everyone thinks. That obviously the child was ill, or had some condition, otherwise he wouldn't have died. But no-one asks. No-one wants to talk to us about it. No-one wants to talk to us about our (dead) children. Everyone just (incorrectly) assumes.

The camper guy said the same. He said to me that he assumed we wouldn't want to talk about our (dead) children. He said he assumed it would make us uncomfortable. I told him it made us more uncomfortable not to talk about them. That those (dead) children are part of our lives. Part of who we are. That we can't simply pretend they didn't exist. That I can't pretend I didn't just spend the better part of 3 years being pregnant. That I didn't give birth to a daughter and two sons. I think he was rather surprised to hear us say that. I think he's part of that ill-informed group who believe it's better to say nothing. Not surprising really. That ill-informed group makes up most of our society.

However, he said that since we told him about Jet, he's thought about us often. He often goes to check his daughter during the day and even at night. He thinks about us and our (dead) children and then he checks his daughter to see if she's ok. He asked if we could send him a remembrance card.

:::

It's now 8.50 am. I wonder what I will do with the rest of my day.

Communications

We got home yesterday. To Amsterdam. We were both happy to be home. It's strange though. To be here again, just the two of us. Without Kees, without Jet. I walked up the stairs and almost felt a shock to see those photos of Kees and Jet on the wall. Almost, but not quite.

:::

I was on the phone with my mum yesterday. I lost it with her. I got really angry. She hung up on me for a change (usually I hang up on her).

I was telling her that my life will now never be the same. That I will grieve for Jet forever. That my beautiful boy is gone and that the pain of his going will be in my heart for the rest of my life. All true. All too true, as I know from experience. Mum started saying, "Don't do this to yourself ...", and I got so angry. So angry. Do what to myself? Have a happy life? What? Not think of my THREE DEAD CHILDREN? What? Do what to myself? I yelled at her, and she hung up.

When I talked to Craig about the conversation, he reminded me that last year after Kees died, he had to ring my parents to tell them that they should stop telling me what to do. That they didn't need to ring me with "advice" on how to live my life with two dead babies. That all they needed to do was love me and leave the rest to Craig. I remember my mum telling me at the time that I was "poisoning myself with bitterness, and poisoning everyone else around me". Lovely hey? That's what everyone needs to hear from their mum at such an awful time.

And now she's at it again. Telling me how I should be feeling. Telling me what I should be doing. And apparently this sadness, this grief, this overwhelming fucking pain I feel for my beautiful Jet, that's something I'm "doing to myself". What a load of crock.

I spoke to my sister L. At least she gets some of it. At least she's not constantly trying to tell me how to feel. I told her that I had hoped that the birth and life of sweet Jet would have helped me heal from some of the pain that I constantly carry around with me. The pain from Kees and Freyja. But that now intead of having helped heal some of that pain, the pain has just increased. Now I fear whether I'll ever heal. I think not. I think that no matter how far I get in my life, a part of me will always feel that pain. That pain of losing Freyja, Kees and Jet. That pain of missing Freyja, Kees and Jet.

:::

When we got home, there was a pile of mail waiting for us. Unopened mail. I wasn't looking forward to opening it. But then I never like opening mail. That's Craig's job and he loves it. Usually, he gets his letter opener and slices into those envelopes with glee. But this time of course there were condolence letters. Which makes it a less fun job. Much less.

After we opened all those letters there was a little pile of cards on the table. Only a very little pile. And I wondered if that's all that Jet meant ... did he really have so little impact on the world? Only that little pile?

So many people who I would think would send us a card, didn't. Nowadays it seems that text messages, email and face.book messages are acceptable ways to condole someone on their loss.

I had to erase all my mobile telephone's text messages yesterday. The phone's memory was full, so I could receive no more messages. So those few messages of congratulations which we had received in the hospital - they're gone now. As well as messages of condolence.

A cousin in Australia sent us her condolences via text message. She came to Kees' funeral in 2008 and cried and cried. This time she sent us a text message. I find that rather shocking actually.

And of course there are those people who communicate their shock and sadness over Jet's loss through others. And that someone says to us "doesn't it make you feel better to know all those people are thinking of you?" Short answer: NO. If those people don't even bother contacting us, it doesn't really mean anything. Actually, it means it's too difficult for them to contact us or they simply can't be bothered. They don't tell US about their shock and sadness. No. Instead they tell someone else who is then supposed to tell us. And that's supposed to be good enough. Right.

When one of my uncles here in the Netherlands received Jet's remembrance card, he was so shocked that he called his brother in Australia (my father) to communicate his shock. (He never calls my father. Never.) But he didn't contact us. He didn't call us. He didn't send us a card. Nothing.

Another set of friends in the USA. When they found out that Jet died, they immediately wrote to my parents. My parents. I didn't quite understand that. Why they wrote (via email) to my parents and not to us. I asked them about it, and got a lengthy response that because they hadn't heard from us about Jet's birth, they contacted my parents who told them. So naturally, because they'd already had communication with my parents following Jet's birth, they contacted them once they heard Jet was dead. Jet was three days old when he died. We were still in hospital following his birth. I hadn't even told everyone that he was born yet. Only family and a few close friends. I sent out an email to a group of people the day after Jet died - these friends in the USA were amongst the recipients. Despite already knowing about Jet's death, and having communicated with my parents, they didn't respond to my email for two days.

I guess it is too much to expect that people react with the same shock and horror and pain and sadness in response to Jet's death as we did. I guess it's too much to expect that they will want to comfort us, to console us, to support us.

Some people sent us text messages. Some sent emails. Some sent face.book messages. Few telephoned. Few sent cards. Many have not contacted us at all.

Is the death of my third child, my second son, my sweet Jet, so unimportant to them all??? I feel that it is. I feel that they are not shocked. After all, this is my third dead child.

:::

Jet died three weeks ago today.

Raw pain

I think I'm backing off from the blog for a while.

My pain is so raw -- the blog isn't helping it. I think it's aggravating it.

I don't want to read comments from people who think I murdered my own children, or who think I'm a freak who deserved what she got. I also don't want other commentators to retreat to their own blogs to muse about how aggressive blogland has become.

At the moment I am filled with pain and sadness and rage and frustration. I can't do anything about that. I know that it will lessen. I know the burden of pain which my children leave with me will become bearable. And by "bearable", I mean that I will be able to "bear" that pain. I've been doing it since Freyja's death already. I'm just not ready to shoulder and bear that pain yet.

I'm not opening this post for comments. Thanks all for your support.

Life or death

I'm writing this post from on board a boat. Or a ship. The technicalities escape me.

We're going down the coast of Norway, heading south. I'm happy about that. I'm happy that we're heading home.

These trips, these trips we take after our babies die, I'm usually like a zombie for the first few weeks. And this time is no different. What is different this time is that I have no desire to stop being a zombie.

I spend a lot of my time wondering whether I'd like to die. Or to be more clear, what I'd really like is to do is go to sleep and not wake up. Which I guess is dying. I also wanted to do this when I was pregnant. Sleep for the term of my pregnancy and not wake up until my baby was born. So that I wouldn't have to worry throughout my pregnancy. This time however, I don't want to wake up. There's nothing to wake up for. Nothing that I can see.

My future looks bleak. My immediate future seems to be filled with me sleeping and waking and wondering what the hell I'm going to do. I worry about that too. I want to go home, but I wonder what on earth I will do with myself once we get there. Craig starts work again on 1 October. Thank goodness he works from home, so at least I can bother him 24/7. But I worry about what on earth I'm going to do when I'm awake at home. And he's working. What will I do every day? What will I do every week? What will I do every month? The rest of my life stretches out before me, and it looks very bleak.

I cry every day. All the time. I miss my babies. I miss my hope. I miss my life. I miss everything. I don't know what to do.

I wish someone else's baby had died. I wish it hadn't been all three of mine. My two sisters have 7 children between them. Surely it should have been one or two of theirs who died? Surely it was their turn? Why did this happen to me again?

I think often these days about why these children, these perfect children of mine, why they were born. I was so happy when I first got together with Craig. We weren't going to have any children at all. Craig had testicular cancer years ago. We'd discussed and accepted that there weren't going to be any children. I had accepted that. It didn't matter. I had Craig and I was happy. I counted myself a very fortunate woman. But it turned out that all those doctors were wrong. The radiation therapy didn't kill off Craig's swimmers. They were pretty good in fact. Previous tests had shown that his swimmers weren't going to make babies any more. Those tests were wrong.

I believe quite strongly that I would have been better off without my three beautiful, perfect, but dead, children. Many people disagree with me on this. They believe I should be grateful for having had my children. For having had the chance to parent my children. Many of those people come from a background with (in)fertility issues. I don't have infertility issues. We thought we did (with Craig's poor swimmers), but we didn't. We were shocked to realise we were actually very fertile. We unintentionally conceived Freyja believing that we could not have children. We didn't know that we could. But we never had any problems conceiving.

But our babies died. And every time, a part of me died too. If I could turn the clock back, and if I could choose, I would choose not to have any children. Craig and I were on our way to a very happy life together. Very happy. Even knowing that we could not have any children. That was fine. We were ecstatically happy to have found each other. Me, after having been single for my entire life. Craig, after having come out of a divorce and very unhappy marriage. If I could go back, I would choose not to have any children. I would choose not to have Freyja, Kees and Jet in my life. Many people disagree with this. They somehow feel that my life is "better" because I had my children. They are wrong.

I'm struggling enormously with the knowledge that I will now never parent a living child again. My seven weeks with Kees and my three days with Jet were it. That was it. My parenting time was numbered in days only. I believe, and I have believed for some time now, that being a babylost parent is much more bearable when you also have one or more living children. Many people disagree with this belief. Usually the people who disagree are babylost parents who have one or more living children. Yet I read in books and in blogs, that newly bereaved parents get on with their daily lives only because of their living children. That they later are grateful that their children gave them a purpose. That they continue to have a purpose.

I have no purpose. NONE. I think that those babylost parents who lost a baby when they already had living children will not understand this. They will not understand that I have no purpose now. I have no hope. I have no hope for my living children. Because I have no living children. I have no hope of seeing my children grow, because my children are all dead. I have no hope of watching my child go to school, because none of my children will ever go to school. I have no hope of ever hearing a child call me "mum", because all my children are dead. I will never see my husband play with his children again, because all our children are dead. I will never see my husband indulge his desire to buy Le.go for his child, because all our children are dead. I will never see my parents be grandparents to my children, because all my children are dead.

Are you all getting this? Are all you babylost parents with living children getting this? All my children are dead. And I'm much worse off because of it than you are. I'm not comparing grief, because I know for a fact (having lost three children) that grief for the loss is just as great. However, I have additional grief, a grief that many babylost parents are fortunate enough not to suffer. And that is the grief of knowing that I will now never parent a living child again. Those 49 days with Kees and those 3 days with Jet were it. THERE ARE NO MORE. My life as a mother to a living child is over. It has gone. It was buried with Freyja and Kees and burned with Jet.

This also applies to babylost parents who lost their firstborn (like I lost Freyja), but who are still hopeful for their rainbow baby. They still have the hope to parent a living child. I know, because I used to have that hope too. I hoped for two rainbow babies. First for Kees. Second for Jet. Two rainbow babies. I know now that hope is everything. Hope gives you purpose. Once that hope is gone, as mine is now, life becomes a struggle, because what is the point of life without hope? What is the point? I don't know.

And do you know what else? People are avoiding me again. Not just people in real life -- I expect that. They've been doing it since July 2006. Nothing has changed there. Craig and I become more and more isolated in our grief and in our life together. But people in blogland are avoiding me too. Those who wished so much for Jet to live, for us to have a semi-"normal" life, they're avoiding us too. Like they can't believe that Jet died. Like they don't want to believe that Jet died. Like they don't want to believe that such awful things can happen. Like they think that by staying away from me, they can avoid the reality of Jet's death and our terrible life.

It doesn't work. Jet is still dead. Kees is still dead. Freyja is still dead. I still want to die every day. Only Craig keeps me going, but I think he has to work hard for it every day.

Two weeks ago

Two weeks ago we woke up to find that our sweet boy Jet had died. Apparently in his sleep. For no (as yet) apparent reason.

Two weeks ago I had light in my life. Now I don't.

Two weeks ago I had hope in my life. Now I have none.

Two weeks ago I had joy in my life. Now there is only sadness.

Last night I couldn't sleep. I was restless. I was confused. I was worried. I kept clinging to Craig because I was worried that I would wake up to find him gone too.

My Jet, my sweet boy Jet died, but the clock didn't stop. Not even for a minute. It seems life goes on for everyone but me. I don't know what to do. I'm scared to do anything.

I WANT MY LIFE BACK. THIS SURELY CANNOT BE HAPPENING? WHERE ARE MY CHILDREN?? I WANT THEM BACK. WHERE IS MY LIFE?

A Fathers Grief (written by Craig)

This poem was sent to me by a friend recently. She, in turn, had retrieved it from a forum where a thread had been started for me on Father's Day (which I only found out about when she emailed me!). If I had known about the thread earlier, I would have posted this earlier. The poem was posted by other babyloss parents:

It must be very difficult
To be a man in grief,
Since "men don't cry"
and "men are strong"
No tears can bring relief.

It must be very difficult
To stand up to the test,
And field the calls and visitors
So she can get some rest.

They always ask if she's all right
And what she's going through.
But seldom take his hand and ask,
"My friend, but how are you?"

He hears her crying in the night
And thinks his heart will break.
He dries her tears and comforts her,
But "stays strong" for her sake.

It must be very difficult
To start each day anew.
And try to be so very brave-
He lost his baby too.


It is so true. Very few people ask how I am going. Noone cares whether I am coping with my grief. All anyone ever asks me is how Mirne is going. Whether she is coping with her grief. It means a lot that the friend who sent this thinks of me as often as she thinks of Mirne. She asks after me regularly. She includes little messages for me in her emails to Mirne. But she is the only one. Mirne's family ask me how I'm going on a very infrequent basis. But, mostly, they ask after Mirne. Of course, she is their priority over me, and I understand that. My friends don't contact us. But that's okay.

My parents don't ring or email. They are "too sad" to call us. That was the excuse they gave us after Kees' 1st birthday, when we didn't hear from them. And that is the excuse they have used since. They have been "too sad" to even think of ringing us. They said that. But that's okay, now. I've decided that my parents aren't really going to be there for me any more. My mother asked me about 3 years ago how long she had to keep being my mother. My answer, which I didn't give to her, was that it was until the day she died. But, apparently, that is not the case for her. I should have realised then that they weren't going to be there for me any more, but I didn't. But now I do.

So, now we have friends who think of me as much as they think of Mirne. And those are the friends I need. And now I have my family - Mirne. And that is the family I need. I don't need anything else. So I am going try to be happy with what I have.

Crying my way around northern Europe

Yesterday was two weeks since Jet was born. Only two weeks. And so much has happened.

He was born and he died.

I was unspeakably happy, now my heart is irreparably broken.

I was looking forward to a happy future. Now I look for no future at all.

I was hoping to put fear and anxiety behind me. Now fear and anxiety are my constant companions.

When I was in the pit, Craig would offer me his strong arms and lift me out. Now I don't want to get out, there's no reason to get out. Craig stands there calling me but I don't really hear him. There is no point.

We've received some bizarre messages -- you know the type. Saying they've been offering "quiet support from the sidelines". What the fuck does that mean? Or assuring us that we "will find comfort in the knowledge that our children are in God's arms". WTF?? Really, people are incredibly stupid.

People are trying to be helpful I guess. But they're not. They don't know what they are talking about. Even people on this blog - some of them send the most bizarre emails - I got an A4 bible-bashing email a few days ago. Repent and believe and you will be saved. That sort of rubbish.

I wonder if all those people would believe their own words of comfort if it were their three children, their future, their flesh and blood, lying there being worm food and ashes. I don't think so. But most people are full of advice, without having any of the experience and knowledge. It's easy to speak and believe when your children and grandchildren are safe. When you've lived your life and see your future in those you leave behind. We still have to live our life and we leave nothing behind -- nothing except perfect, beautiful, dead children.

It's also very difficult for me to make any type of conversation. Even Craig is probably finding that talking with me is like pulling teeth. But you see, my life is shattered, my hope is gone, I have nothing to say that anyone will want to hear. I'm mourning my children, my life, my future, everything. I've had my time and I've had my chances and that's all over now. That's not anything I can ever do again. I cannot make polite conversation with people at all at the moment. All I want to do is scream at the top of my lungs. I have NO sympathy for anyone else except me. Me takes up all my time. It's hard enough remembering that Craig is in this too. That I have to not ignore him but take his pain into account with mine. It's all shit hard work. I have no hope, I wonder what the future will hold, I'm scared of the future.

On top of that I'm still suffering from the usual post-birth physical complains, my back hurts (I need physiotherapy), and I'm about 30 kgs overweight.

Anyway, enough of that. Life is shit and sucks generally and I don't have a good thing to say about any of it. I'm crying my way around northern Europe.

Some words

Some words which a friend sent to me:

To those of you who look away when I grow teary eyed in the baby department, look a little deeper. Surely you have some compassion in your heart.

To those of you who change the subject when I speak my child's name, change your way of thinking. It may just change your whole life.

To those of you who roll your eyes and say we barely had them at all, how could we miss them so much, in our hearts we have seen them live a thousand times. We have seen their first steps, their first day of school, their weddings, and their children. We have had them forever in our minds.

To those who say we can have another, even if we had twenty more they would never be the child we lost, and we will always miss them.

To those who say get on with my life, I have. It is a different life, the life of a grieving mother. One with a tremendous amount to be thankful for, but also one with a lot to mourn the loss of.

Do not judge a bereaved mother. She comes in many forms.

She is breathing, but she is dying.

She may look young, but inside she has become ancient.

She smiles, but her heart throbs.

She walks, she talks, she cooks, she cleans, she works, she IS, but she is NOT, all at once.

She is here, but part of her is elsewhere for eternity.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

This is my last post before we leave. I wanted to say some things.

Firstly, how much I love my beautiful husband. Craig, you are wonderful. You are a fabulous husband and I am lucky to have you. Every day again and again I am so happy that you are in my life. You created beautiful babies with me and every time I look at your gorgeous face I see my beautiful children. I love you so much. xxx

Secondly, thank you all in blogland for being so supportive of us in this horrible, horrible time. I'm sorry if I haven't been able to respond to you all personally. We received many messages - via this blog, via email, some via F.B., some via mobile phone. If we did not respond, it was inadvertent. We've been in shock.

I am still amazed at the number of people I know (friends and family) who do not contact us. They just don't. I know that they know we lost Jet, yet they don't contact us. Instead they tell other friends how upset they are for us. I had one friend tell me that people keep saying to her how shocked they all are, or of one man who was crying for us in her office, or of another friend who had rung her and said how shocked they all were. But none of these people contact us. We are the bereaved. We are the ones who said goodbye to our sweet Jet. But they don't contact us. How am I ever supposed to look these people in the face again?? How am I supposed to acknowledge their very existence when they do not even bother to acknowledge my son's? I want to spit in their faces. They are cowards. True cowards.

Thirdly, to the bitch from hell who said in a comment on this blog recently that it was obvious to her that I had killed my own children - I hope you die a particularly long and painful death.

Fourthly, I saw that some of you are wondering what happened. What happened when Jet died. I refer to you this post. We were sleeping. Jet was supposedly sleeping. We woke up to find him dead in his hospital cot. He had died in the night. He died between 2.00 am and 6.30 am. We don't know what happened. The pathologist has already said that the preliminary findings show nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. It appears (at this stage) that Jet was a normal, healthy little baby boy. We don't expect to get further results for some months yet. With Kees we had to wait for nearly 9 months for all the results. I hope we don't have to wait so long this time.

Having said that, I don't believe they'll find anything. Our children have all been healthy. There's been nothing wrong with them. Nothing genetic, nothing congenital, nothing. They were all normal, healthy babies. After we lost Freyja we had tests done - on her, on me, on Craig. When I was pregnant with Kees we had an amnio to ensure there were no genetic issues. After Kees died, we had the same tests - he had a full autopsy. We would never, ever have gone into the pregnancy with Jet if we had reason to suspect there was a genetic or inherited risk.

However, I no longer believe that the death of our three beautiful babies is a coincidence.

Over the last 20-30 years, many scientific advances have been made. It has been possible to identify many previously "unknown" causes of deaths - in babies and in others. I have no doubt that in the future more scientific advances will be made. Maybe sometime in the future, we will be able to find out why our babies died. Why babies continue to die. I hope so.

I hope that much needed funds will be made available to organisations like SANDS and Sids and Kids so that they will be able to continue and progress with this important research.

Maybe one day babies won't die so often. Or maybe if they do, we will know why they died. Maybe we will be able to prevent it.

Maybe precious babies will stop dying.

Finally, I know that many of you in blogland are pregnant with precious, long-awaited, much-loved babies. I'm going to be struggling very much to accept the fact that I will never be pregnant again. That there will be no more chances for Craig and I to parent a living child. This is very, very difficult for me to accept. And I know that your pregnancies will be a constant reminder to me of that fact.

Please forgive me if I seem distant or seem to show a lack of enthusiasm for your pregnancies.

I wish nothing but healthy, successful pregnancies for all baby-lost mamas --- it's just that I'm still grieving my Freyja, my Kees and my sweet Jet, as well as any future babies I might have had.

The first day of the rest of my life

That is what today is. The first day of the rest of my life.

I didn't fall apart at the crematorium. I was very anxious about that. It was just Craig and I. I needed to support him as much as he was supporting me. And it's difficult to be supportive if you're falling apart.

But I didn't - I didn't fall apart.

Craig looked at Jet and came back to tell me that Jet still looked like Jet. He still looked beautiful - very Jet-like. So we got to say goodbye properly - like a family should. We got to be together again, the three of us.

And then we went home to pack away the last bits of Freyja-Kees-Jet clothes and furnishings. Again. For the third time. I remember getting all those things out of storage only a few weeks ago. I blogged about it here.

But that was yesterday, that was the last day of the first part of our lives. Today is first day of the rest of our lives. Today we start building our lives without our children, without any children (except for those in our hearts of course).

Tomorrow we go. We go on our memory trip (as our friend Kerry calls it). We go away for what will hopefully be a healing time together.

I leave you with some photos which our friend Kerry took for us. The photos are of our childrens' grave in Australia. My parents purchased the letters for Jet's name and put them on the grave yesterday - so that he will be remembered along with Freyja and Kees. It looks so beautiful. I'm so glad that they were able to do that for our son.

Goodbye sweet Jet

I am wearing all black today. For Jet's cremation. I haven't done that before. In the past I've just put on whatever fits me. Today nothing fits except for a pair of black maternity trousers. I hate putting them on. I wore these trousers during my pregnancies with Kees and Jet. I wish I wasn't wearing them.

It's been pouring with rain here this morning. I wonder if it's a sign. But then I don't look for signs any more. I don't believe in signs.

Everyone writes to me how much they admire my courage, my bravery, my strength. I'm not brave, I'm not strong and I have no courage. I just have grief and fear. Grief for Jet and Kees and Freyja. Grief for Craig and me. Fear for me and fear for Craig.

I was lying in bed last night pondering on the possibility of future happiness. Often people say that our children would want us to be happy. And then I wonder how we know anything about what our children would want ... I mean, they're dead. My grief is because I will never see my children grow, I will never know what they want.

Except this. I think I can say with absolute certainty that if my Freyja and my Kees and my Jet were here with me, they would want their mummy and daddy to be happy. They would want happy parents. They would want us to fill their lives with happiness.

So that's what we'll try. Craig and I will try to be happy together, because that's what our children would have wanted for themselves - our happiness.

Goodbye Jet. I loved you so much. My sweet Jet. My precious boy. I hope that we can be happy and I hope you will be able to see that happiness. Thank you Jet for the hope and happiness I had for those three beautiful days with you. I'm so sad that I will never get to hold you again, to see you grow, to see those beautiful eyes, those wonderful hands and fingers, those perfect lips, that gorgeous nose. I will miss you forever. Just like I miss your brother and sister.

Your daddy and I will think of you every moment of our days and love and miss you forever.

The last day and the first day

Tomorrow Jet is being cremated. I'm dreading it. I think I will fall apart. I don't want to put that burden on Craig.

My other children were not cremated. They were buried together - in a grave that will hold Craig and I sometime in the future. I didn't think when I buried Kees that there would be another child to come.

Jet will be cremated. His body will be burned. I could scream and cry for days just thinking about it.

Tomorrow is the last day of my life with babies.

I think of Sunday as the first day of the rest of my life. My life without children. I'm going to be working very hard to make it a happy life with Craig. I desperately want a happy life with Craig.

Coincidentally, in Australia on Sunday it is also father's day.

Finger marks

We had a busy day today.

We visited our GP for medication (sleeping tablets amongst others), did some shopping, went to the pharmacy. Had a police officer visiting to tell us about the section which was performed on Jet.

We also received a visit from a midwife who came to check my (shrinking) uterus and (healing) stitches, but who stayed for nearly three hours. It was good to talk to her. She also visited us after I had Kees. She hadn't known until Tuesday (when she heard it from the hospital) that Kees had died. Or that I was pregnant with Jet. Or that Jet died.

Whilst she was here she noticed some bruising on my upper left arm. The bruise marks look like finger marks. She asked if I knew what they were. I hadn't seen them and didn't know where they came from.

Craig saw them too and suddenly remembered that on Tuesday morning, immediately after I found Jet dead in his hospital cot, after I had screamed and screamed whilst standing in the hospital corridor in my sleep wear, I was pinching myself on the arm. Over and over again.

I'd forgotten. I'd forgotten that I'd done that.

I had been pinching myself to see whether I was awake. Whether it was just a nightmare.

It wasn't.

That awful life

It's started.

The awful life which follows a baby dying.

I know all about it - I'm an expert. I've started living that awful life twice before, but I thought I'd be able to put some of it behind me now. Instead it's snow-balling. All over again.

You know that life: where you don't sleep because you're thinking of everything over and over again. And you're wondering why? And you're thinking if only you'd done this differently or the nurses had done that differently. Where I'm now constantly thinking why didn't I bring the breathing monitor to the hospital? Why didn't I insist that they use it? Why did I think that it was safer in the hospital? Why? Why? Why?

I'm off to the doctor this morning for a large supply of sleeping tablets - otherwise I'll go insane from lack of sleep and an overactive memory/mind.

Jet is being cremated on Saturday. We met with the funeral man yesterday. He knows us - he picked up Kees for us and sent him to Australia last year. He's a lovely man who we had a very good discussion with about infant mortality. He acknowledges that the numbers are too high. Our funeral man in Australia is lovely too (he and his wife lost two babies around the 20 week mark).

Then we're going away for a while. To get our heads together. To visit new places. To make new memories together. It's a therapeutic thing -- we did this each time after we lost Freyja and then Kees. We created good new memories together. It was an important healing time for us. A time of closeness.

I've been thinking about another baby. Already. But I'm now at a stage where I'm scared to risk the life of any baby, even before they are conceived or born. I feel like there's an evil presence around me which is killing my babies -- all my babies. So I don't know if I'm prepared to expose any future baby to that evil -- that certain risk which all my babies face. Death. 100% mortality - that's the statistic for my children. 100% certain death.

I just don't know what I'm going to do. About anything. I'm not sure how to live like this. A life with no hope. How can I do that?? What can I do???

Photos of Jet

Some of the photos we have of Jet. Not enough of course. Never enough. Just like with Kees. Just like with Freyja. Never enough photos. But these are some and they will show you just how beautiful our boy Jet is.

We took our wedding rings to our jeweller today -- they will put in a diamond for Jet and inscribe his name inside next to his brother and sister's.

Wasteland

We are amazed at the outpouring of love from everyone who is reading my blog. Thank you for your messages of love and support. Craig and I are overwhelmed by everything, including your messages.

I have received requests from some of you for my street address. If you would like to send me an email with "address" in the subject header, I shall send my address to you.

Someone sent us an email which said "this is more than tragic". I looked at those words again and again. Those words don't even begin to describe the wasteland which is now our life.

Having already lost Freyja and Kees, Jet's death is like a fucking devastation of our entire lives. We had pinned so much hope on this boy's birth and life. My hope for a happy future depended on it. Now happiness doesn't even come into it any more. Survival is all that is left.

A life with no living children. A life with only dead children. Parents of dead children only. Growing old with no children. No possibility of grandchildren.

A life filled with grief. A life with only memories of the short lives of my children. A life of avoiding babies and children on the streets. A life of jealousy. A life of bitterness.

A life spent always wondering WHY WHY WHY????