Due dates

Two years ago today was my due date for Kees' birth. My expected due date was 20 February 2008.

Of course he was born earlier. Kees birth was induced when I was 37 weeks pregnant.

Kees was born in the very early hours of 1 February 2008. It was snowing.

He was 52 cm long and weighed just over 3.5 kg.

He died in the hospital where he was born just after midday on 21 March 2008. He was nearly 6 kg. It snowed that day too.

He was seven weeks old on the day he died.

:::

Freyja's due date was 16 October 2006.

But she died inside me, probably in the early hours of 24 July 2006.

Freyja was born in the early hours of 25 July 2006 when I was just over 28 weeks pregnant.

She was 42 cm long and weighed 1.4 kg.

:::

Jet's due date was 12 September 2009.

He was born earlier too. He was born in the early hours of 29 August 2009 (my sister's 40th birthday), as the result of a planned induction when I was 38 weeks pregnant.

He was 51 cm long and weighed just over 3.2 kg.

He also died in the hospital where he was born, but that's because he never got a chance to go home.

Jet died when he was just 3 days old in the early hours of the morning of 1 September 2009.

:::

They were all born with lots of very dark hair. They all had their dad's lips and chin and ears. Freyja had my nose and eyes. Kees had my eyes and a nose which was a bit like his dad's. Jet had my eyes and his dad's nose. Freyja had green eyes, like me. Kees and Jethro had dark brown eyes, like their dad.

They all looked like each other, and they also looked like us. Amazing. Usually babies just look like babies.

They were beautiful, beautiful children.

:::

Two years ago today.

What do I get?

More babies are being born.

A mother from the on-line support group which I used to be a part of, who has lost two baby boys, she had a little girl several days ago. A healthy, living baby girl.

One of my friends here in the Netherlands had another little girl yesterday. Her second baby. Her second girl. A healthy, living baby girl.

And what do I get?

Three apparently healthy, but dead, babies.

:::

I had a massive panic/anxiety attack the other day. I don't know why.

We were looking at a tent to buy. A used one. But barely used - almost new. I wanted this tent very much. The design was one we had been considering for several years, but they're very expensive. So when the opportunity came to buy a used one (in excellent condition) for less than half the price of a new one, we jumped at it.

So we were sitting at the tent seller's house, and I had began to have enormous chest pains. All of a sudden, and for no particular reason. Classic anxiety. Craig thought maybe I was anxious about spending so much money, especially given our very uncertain immediate financial future. But I don't think that was it. I don't know what it was.

We bought the tent. The sellers were lovely people. Maybe ten years older than us. Also four-wheel-drivers. Adventurer travellers, a bit like us. Childless, like us, also not by choice. They tried to have children, biologically and by way of adoption, for many years, with no success. So now they just have to get on with life as best as they can. Just as we have to.

:::

My friend who had her baby girl yesterday, said to me a few weeks ago that she couldn't understand why we always want to do (or feel the need to do) big adventurous things. We were talking to her about our wish to drive from the Netherlands to Australia in our four wheel drive (hence the expensive tent purchase). I said to her that I didn't have a daughter at home to look after and another on the way.

I don't think she understood.

Her life is about her children. Mine is not and never can be.

:::

I've been fantasizing about another baby recently.

My fantasies take many shapes. Maybe adoption. Maybe another pregnancy. Maybe embryo adoption. But reality eventually comes back with a bang.

Our chances of success with adoption are so slim as to be virtually non-existent.

Another pregnancy would be simply a matter of stopping contraception. But getting a baby to live once s/he is born seems almost impossible. The doctors don't even know how to do that -- because they don't know why our three died.

And embryo adoption - that's one I've been looking into. We could do that. Probably quite successfully. It would cost money, but I don't mind that. It would be a burdensome process, but no more so than IVF - less even, because the embryo already exists. A pregnancy resulting from an adopted embryo would not suffer the same risks as my biological pregnancies.

But Craig doesn't want me to go through another pregnancy. He is scared to have a baby in the house. He fears that every baby he sees is dead or will die. I understand that. But I still want a baby.

:::

Maybe we will foster children one day. Maybe once we get back to Australia and build our house. Maybe then we will be able to look after children who need someone to love them.

Maybe that's what I'll get.

Ramblings

We visited a lawyer today and I had to try to explain to her why I didn't think I'd be in any state to return to work in the near future.

It's hard to explain, because anyone who's never held their dead child in their arms, will not understand.

No matter how much I try to explain, she just kept asking if there was something I could do that would "help". Like take some sort of medication. Or have some sort of treatment or therapy. Something. And she didn't understand when I said that there isn't really anything.

I said to her that I believed that time would make my pain less raw, but that time wouldn't make my dead children come back to life.

Time will never let me forget that although I am a mother to three children, I will never get to be a mother to any living ones.

Time might heal the wounds to some extent, but the scarring is so deep and extensive that it will never go away.

The births and deaths of those three beautiful children have changed me from the person I was. And that person is never coming back. She's gone forever. And I don't know what person I will eventually be. Once those wounds are not open any more. Once the scar tissue has covered the gaping holes in my heart. The only thing I do know, that old person is gone.

She thought that maybe if we got some sort of explanation from Jet's autopsy, that that might things "better" in some way. She doesn't understand that even if we get some sort of answer, my children are gone forever, and it will make their deaths any better or easier to cope with.

Anyway, I tried to explain this all to this woman. But all she could think was that maybe some coaching would be beneficial. That coaching might help me towards a new start in life.

A new start in life. I wonder if that's even possible.

Frankly, I don't think it is. My life is not like a blackboard -- where we can just wipe it clean every now and then and start again. Starting again is not possible.

How do I explain to someone what it's like to fear death all the time? What it's like to wake in the morning and hope that my husband didn't die in the night? What it's like wondering every night when I lie in bed what caused the death of my children? That I sometimes jump out of my skin from fright when the phone rings? That I nearly always jump out of my skin from fright when a car beeps its horn? That I worry about everything? That I can't even fill in a form without being stressed? That when I put vegetables in the microwave I forget how long I put them in there and then they nearly explode??? That I burn my fingers because I take hot things out of the oven without wearing oven mitts? That I often have afternoon naps because I'm tired all the time and have no energy? How??

Returning to work is not an option for me now. I can't even be responsible for myself, so how could I be responsible at work? How?

:::

We got a greeting card in the post today. Craig's youngest sister sent it. She did not come to Kees' funeral because Craig had an argument with his other sister. So his youngest sister did not come to Kees' funeral. She sent a card to us today saying that she apologises for not coming to his funeral. I say it's all a bit too late really. It's nearly two years since his funeral and we've heard nothing from her since the funeral until today. She hasn't even contacted us following Jet's birth and death. And now we get this card saying that she apologises for not coming to Kees' funeral.

Well, too little, too late, I say.

The importance of memories.

I find it totally amazing that after all this time, friends and family still do not understand how important it is to us that they honour and remember and recognise the births and deaths and general existence of our children.

They still don't understand.

After everything that Craig and I have been through. After we've had three children. After our three children have died. After everything I have said and even written. They still do not understand.

Of course I think of my children every day. I don't think that will ever change. But I would expect certainly that our family thinks of our children on the days of their birth and death. Maybe even some friends would remember our children on those days. But they don't. A few special people do.

This week it was Kees' second birthday. My parents and my sister in Australia sent me a (joint) bunch of flowers to remember and honour Kees. My (ex)secretary here in Amsterdam sent me a text to say she was thinking of us. A friend from the UK sent us a card. Craig's aunt in NZ sent us a card. All the other people who mentioned Kees to us that day, whether in response to my blog or a FB update, were baby-lost parents. Because they know how important it is to remember.

Nothing from any of Craig's family. Not from his parents, not from his sisters. I could hit them over the head with a baseball bat.

Nothing from my brother -- despite the fact that he was here only a few weeks ago. Nothing.

Nothing from any other family. Nothing from other friends.

I spoke to a friend on the phone earlier this week and she asked how we were. I said that it had been Kees' second birthday the day before, as well as Jet's 5 month angel-versary. She said nothing. She just started talking about something else.

I was so angry about it all. So angry. So I posted a status update on FB saying that I was sick of so-called "friends" who didn't even have anything to say about my children's birth and death anniversaries.

You know what one of my "friends" came back with??? This: "What are u looking for? Comment or no comment people grieve with you. I take offence at that - if that's how you define a friend here. No, not right. This is fucking stupid FB so go now and delete all the non-friends and get on with all the feel-good friends. That's fucked Mirne. U are better than that. This is not a counseling service."

I sent this friend a remembrance card after Jet died. He did NOT RESPOND.

He. Did. Not. Respond.

Yet he feels justified somehow in leaving this message on my FB page.

I was shocked. Really shocked. He was my housemate and he was a friend for many years. But I guess he's not any more.

I couldn't believe that he was even talking about feel-good friends. I couldn't believe that he was saying that I was "better than that". I couldn't believe that he was waffling about people grieving with me whether they commented or not.

The truth is this:

** I no longer have "feel-good" friends. They mostly disappeared after Freyja died. And those who were still around, well, they left very quickly after Kees died.

** He (the friend who left the comment) does not know me any more. He hasn't spent any time with me at all since Freyja died. He doesn't know who I am any more. I am not the same person any more.

** Whether people grieve with me or for me is completely irrelevant. If they don't TELL ME or SHARE their grief with me, I will never know. Craig and I grieve together - just the two of us. We grieve every day for the loss of our beautiful children and for the loss of the life we should have had with them. Every. Single. Day.

All I really want is for people to understand just a little bit of what it is like to lose a child. Or, in my case, children. What it is like to wake up every day knowing that your life is forever irrevocably changed. To know that I feel sadness and pain every day. That I lie awake at night wondering why my children died. Being angry that other children live. Wondering how on earth I will fill the rest of the days of my life. Wondering whether I shall ever work as a lawyer again, all the while knowing that most likely I won't because I've turned into an anxious, quivering, stressed-out wreck.

Why on earth do people think that I shall stop thinking about my children? Is it just because time goes by? This year in July it will be 4 years since Freyja died, yet to me it feels like yesterday. I remember all the details vividly. Every time I see a little girl, whether on the street, or in the shop, or on the tram, I wonder how old she is. Whether she is the same age as our Freyja should be today.

Do people really think that I'll just get over it? That I will just get on with my life as if nothing had happened? As if Freyja, Kees and Jet were just accidents or mistakes??

What on earth are all these people thinking?

When my brother was here, one of my many cousins who lives here in the Netherlands came out of the woodwork and emailed my brother. He asked whether he could catch up with my brother whilst he was here. I was amazed ... I've lived here for years, yet this cousin has never contacted me. He knows that my children were born and died, yet he never even sent me a card.

All I really want is for people to honour and remember my children. That's all they'll ever be able to do. I'll never be able to show off photos of them on FB. I'll never be able to boast about how clever they are. I'll never be able to tell everyone what their first words were. I'll never be able watch my children with their grandparents, with their aunts and uncles or their cousins. Never.

The only thing that other people can do for us and for our children is to remember them. Yet people cannot even do that on their special days. Their birth days and/or their death days. Is that really so difficult?? I don't even expect people to remember their days. I have their days recorded on my FB profile. I post a status update to mark special days. Yet even that is not enough. Even that doesn't prompt people to say anything.

Surely we, as baby-lost parents, know that we must say something. Surely we know that even if we don't know what to say, simply pretending is not good enough. Surely we all know that you can't just "smooth over" a baby??? A baby is a part of our life forever. I will always be a different person because of my children. Always.

Before, I was not a mother. Now, I am a mother.

Before, I was not bereaved. Now, I am bereaved.

Before, my life seemed ideal. Now, there's no-one who would envy me my life.

Before, I lived every day with hope and optimism. Now, I struggle to find hope in anything.

Of course what I really want, I can't have. My children are gone and I will never get them back.

The memory of my children is all that I have left. Those memories are the most precious things that I have left of them.

And if my family and my so-called "friends" can't even honour and respect those memories a couple of times a year, then I don't want anything to do with them.

:::

By the way, I reviewed my list of "friends" on FB and "deleted" some. They have nothing to say to me about my children, so I really don't have much to say to them.

2 years. 5 months.

Today is two years.

Two years since Kees was born. Today is his second birthday. My beautiful boy should be two years old today.

Two years since that wonderful morning in February 2008 when he was born. We went to the hospital on the last day of January for my induction. We met our beautiful son in the early snowy hours of that morning on that first day of February. But we didn't get to keep him.

Two years. Two years old today. Our son Kees.

:::

5 months.

5 months since Jet died.

I woke that first day of September last year, immediately knowing that something was dreadfully wrong. And it was. Jet had died in his bed. In his sleep. In the early hours of that first day of September 2009.

5 months.

:::

My beautiful, beautiful boys.