That question. My answer.

My friend Birni wrote recently that many women who are further along in this baby-lost journey don't post on their blogs as often as they used to. I don't know about other women, but I know that I don't. My reasons for not posting as often any more are because I feel like I'm a bit of a broken record. I'm just repeating what I've already said. Maybe if my Jet were still alive I'd be blogging about being a mum to a living baby and how that is. But that's not what happened and that's not what I'm blogging about. I think people won't want to read my blog if I just write the same thing over and over again. And, to be honest, I'm sick of writing the same thing over and over again.

I've seen some baby-lost mums blog about the inevitable question that most couples get. "How many children do you have?" or "Do you have any children?" That question which used to have me in tears. Now I'm so stoic I can just about cope with anything.

I never avoid the question. Never. I never say "none". Never. I always tell them that we have three children, but that they are all dead. If people want to know more, I tell them. If they don't, the conversation stops there.

You see, for me to deny my children is impossible. Because they are all I have. There are no living children. There will be no living children. I can't offer up up a happy, breathing, healthy child and say "here s/he is!" --- I don't have that. I only have Freyja, Kees and Jet. So if people ask the question, that's who they get. Freyja, Kees and Jet.

I don't have a living rainbow baby that I can play happy families with. I just have Craig and me and of course, Freyja, Kees and Jet. They're always there. Always.

So some people get shocked. People who don't know our history, but who ask the question. I never think, "I don't know these people, so I don't have to tell them". Never. If people ask the question, they get the answer.

I suspect this is quite disconcerting to most people. Because dead babies don't really exist. They're not spoken about. People don't know that babies die. They really don't. People think that cot-death is a thing of the past. That was only babies dying because they were lying in their beds incorrectly. Amazingly, in some countries, bumpers for cots are still on the market. Amazing. They are a proven risk, yet people still put them in their baby's bed. Sometimes mums put their babies to sleep on their tummies because "they sleep better". Yet it was proven in the Back To Sleep campaign that it was a contributing factor when babies die. Unbelievable that people forget.

But I digress. Babies don't die. Didn't you know that?

The babies that die, they must have something wrong with them. Must be. When I tell people that my children died for unknown reasons, they don't believe it. I don't mean that they think we are lying. No. They simply don't believe that babies die for no reason. They always probe me with questions, just to make sure that I actually know what I'm talking about. Heart problems is everyone's favourite. Our children must have had heart problems. But when I tell people that the doctors found nothing wrong with their hearts, then they question the doctors capability. Must be something wrong with their hearts. No. There wasn't. People shake their heads and mumble something and then move on to another topic.

I'm always surprised at how few people actually know what SIDS is. In fact, the only people I've come across who know what SIDS is, are other baby-lost parents. My own family, who I always thought were quite intelligent, did not know. My mother stunned me when she said she hadn't known that so many babies died. This was after Freyja died. Suddenly people came out of the woodwork and admitted that they, or a daughter or a grand-daughter or a cousin had lost a child. My mum was surprised. She had had four healthy pregnancies and four healthy, living children -- she'd never encountered dead babies before. My youngest sister had the same -- four pregnancies, four healthy, living children. My sister L has three beautiful girls, but then suffered from two very early miscarriages. That was already shocking enough. My family still doesn't really believe it. That there was nothing for the doctors to find.

After Kees died, my boss was talking to me about the cause of death. She was either pregnant (in her last trimester) or her son had just been born. I can't remember exactly. Actually, her son must have been born, because we talked after we received the results from Kees' autopsy. She said that she didn't really believe it (the results) and that the doctors must have made a mistake. Not done something properly. I responded that they cut up my son's body into little pieces and put those under the microscope (so to speak) so I thought that they probably had done it "properly". She was shocked. It offended her that I said that out loud. That I said out loud that the doctors cut up my son's body. It was clear from her response and her behaviour that she thought I'd said too much - crossed the line - or whatever. And all I could think was, "You stupid woman. My son is dead. My daughter is dead. What could be worse than that?"

My dead babies are easy for other people, as long as they are not confronted by the reality of their death. As long as I keep everything neatly tucked away. As long as I can be "happy" for others and their healthy families. As long as I pretend.

So, when people ask me the question, I always tell them the truth. That I have three children. Freyja, Kees and Jet. But that they are dead. Yes, all three of them.

Auntie Flo

Today should be the last day of my period. I'm not really sure, because I'm taking the Pill all the way through. I'm trying to stop my period from coming back. But it's pretty persistent. Just keeps coming back.

Sorry if this blog is too intimate, but my period is something that reminds me every month of what a complete failure I am as a woman.

It reminds me that I've suffered this horrible thing every month for 27 years for nothing. Nothing. Oh yeah, for three dead babies.

It reminds me that any fears I used to have (back in my not-so-wild youth) of being pregnant were wasted fears. Little did I know that I should have hoped for a pregnancy. For a living baby.

But back then I didn't. Sex before marriage was "bad". Pregnancy before marriage was "bad-der". Abortion was NOT an option. My parents used to lecture my sister L and I about this continuously.

It was a different life. A different society. A different "norm".

:::

I was brought up in a christian family.

Sex before marriage was very, very bad.

Pregnancy outside of marriage was visible evidence that you were a "loose woman".

People "living together" was only for those very strange people. People like that (theoretical) great-aunt who'd been living with her partner for 60 years or so, but simply chose not to marry.

You didn't refer to your boyfriend or girlfriend as your "partner". A partner back then was a business partner, not a life partner.

Gay and lesbian couples lived under the radar. I didn't realise my uncle was gay until I was about 18 or 19. No-one ever told me. I just worked it out for myself. He'd been living with his partner (now his husband as they are legally married here in the Netherlands) for about 10 years then. No-one told me about it, because it was "bad". As if by ignoring it, or pretending it doesn't happen, it somehow becomes tolerable or acceptable.

(My brother came out of the closet about 4 years ago. He was in a serious relationship for a few years, and recently became single again. My parents met his partner and told him that they didn't believe in my brother's lifestyle. WTF??? Couldn't they just keep their mouths shut??)

Divorce was shameful. Really, really shameful. Never mind that one of my mother's sisters was separated from her husband and living with her boyfriend. She was catholic, so divorce was not an option. She never lived with her husband again, yet they were separated for 35 years. She lived with her boyfriend all that time.

So, given this environment, my sister L and I were lectured regularly about the evils and sins of sex outside marriage. I think at that stage my parents honestly believed that we would be virgins until we married.

(This is of course also at a time when they expected us to get married like good girls in our early 20's, as they did. But not to get pregnant before they got married, as they did.)

We were brought up to believe that sex outside of marriage would lead to pregnancy. And such a pregnancy would have to be borne. It could not be terminated. Termination was not an option for girls like us. Good christian girls.

There was never a discussion about safe sex. NEVER. Safe sex was sex in marriage. That's it.

There was no discussion about sexually transmitted diseases. Never.

People got AIDS because they had sex outside of marriage. Seriously.

The only way you could have safe, responsible sex was in marriage. That's it.

:::

Needless to say, my sister L and I went down a different path.

We never had discussions about sex, my sister L and I. She had several serious relationships (including an engagement), but she broke them all off. She married a lovely christian man, with the same beliefs as her, when she was nearly 32 years old. She's now been married for 8 years, and they have three gorgeous girls. She has a happy life. Lucky, lucky woman.

My younger sister J, she grew up differently. She was the youngest of us 4 siblings. She is my younger sister by 8 years. Amazing what a difference that makes. She started going out with boys when she was 12. She got a serious boyfriend when she was 15 (and she'd already had sex with other boys.) She was on the Pill then, and my mother knew about it. She nevertheless got pregnant at 16. She had her first child (my lovely nephew) at 17. She got married to my nephew's father 6 months later. (We all told her not to. We told her to take her time. She didn't.) She went on to have two other children with this man. Not surprisingly she was divorced before she was 30.

:::

The foundation of my parents' beliefs has been shaken significantly over the last few years. By my sister's divorce (marriage is sacred, therefore divorce is unacceptable). By her subsequent new live-in relationship (no marriage, therefore living in sin). By the birth of her fourth child (born outside of marriage). By my brother's gay-ness. By his gay relationship (he will of course burn in hell unless he repents). By the death of my three children -- who were all prayed for, so should have lived. By my turning away from christianity (surprise, surprise). The only one who still believes what we were all brought up to believe is my sister L. The missionary.

:::

I went on the Pill a few times during my single life. Never really for contraceptive purposes, more to reduce the pain and the flow. But I'm not very good at taking pills regularly, so that went out the window quickly. (I now take a raft of pills every morning -- Craig diligently supervises that I take everything when I should.)

:::

I was single until I met and married my gorgeous man when I was 37. Mmm ... was I celibate until I was 37 years old? Not likely.

I never had any serious relationships. Because I simply couldn't be bothered, and I never found the right man. But I did have flings. I mean, who doesn't?

But always my parents dire warnings about the evils and sins of pre-marital sex echoed somewhere in the back of my head.

I had a few scares -- where I apprehensively peed on a stick and waited for a result. But always it came back negative -- to my (at the time) great relief.

And I never caught any awful disease. Pure luck really. I didn't grow up with the sex education which kids now grow up with. Safe sex outside of marriage didn't exist in my family. No sex existed. There was no other option.

So my period always came back. Regular as clockwork. Usually quite painful. Often like a flood. And there was never any pregnancy.

:::

And now I'm 41 years old. My period is still there. It returned 4 weeks after each pregnancy. Do you believe that? My body is so bloody regular that even after the birth of a child, my period came back regular as clockwork.

Now I'm trying to get rid of it. All the literature says that you don't need to bleed every fourth week just because you are on the Pill. In fact, the literature says it's just to make you feel "comfortable", and keep you on the same routine a usual.

But, you see, that routine is not "comforting" to me. In fact, it is a very physical reminder every month that my period is just a complete waste of time. That the physical discomfort I have suffered for 27 years was for nothing.

:::

I therefore take my Pill diligently every morning. Because I don't want to get pregnant. I fear the death of another child. But I also fear never having another child. What a conundrum.

Craig and I have talked about him having the "snip". But I'm simply not ready to take that final step. That step which is forever. I'm not at that stage yet.

So I grumble every month when that nasty period comes back. No matter how many Pills I take.

I'm reminded every month that (despite my apparent fertility, even now, at 41) any baby I conceive will probably die. Just like the others.

Another day

It's mother's day today in many countries in the world. Including ours. Both in the Netherlands and in Australia. I'm not giving it much thought. Really. I actually thought it was last Sunday and I rejoiced because I didn't think about it at all. But the world reminded me soon enough that it was still looming.

My lovely husband came home from the supermarket yesterday with a love-heart cake, especially for this day, from my three beautiful children (and him of course). I love Craig so much. :-)

:::

I've been lying in bed at nights writing lengthy blog posts in my head. Then the next morning they're gone of course. I sometimes wish I could have a direct connection from my head to my laptop. So that when I have something important or profound to say, it would be recorded immediately.

But that's not the case.

:::

I think about my children every day. All the time.

It occurs to me that most people, those people in the normal world (not the baby-lost world) would think this rather strange. I guess they think that we're like the others. Those who don't have children. Because of course if you don't have children you can't think about them all the time.

I feel like yelling at people who expect that. I feel like saying to them, "but you think about your (living) children all the time, don't you?" They don't realise that in your heart, your child is always there, whether living or dead.

I expect that my uncle, whose son (his only child) died unexpectedly in July 2008 when he was 27 years old, thinks about his son all the time. In fact, I'm sure that my cousin Michael is in his mind all the time. Because my children are in my mind all the time. All. The. Time.

I wish I could explain that to people in the normal world. I wish they would understand.

:::

Our trip away wasn't hugely successful.

We had planned to be away for nearly four weeks, but came home after just a week.

We were camping with our tent, but the weather was against us from the start. In the UK it was appalling. Very, very cold. The only way I stayed warm at night was to snuggle against my husband. It rained so much that even the English were surprised. And it was so windy that we feared for our tent's safety. Craig didn't get much sleep as he was worried every night we'd get rained and blown away.

Despite the appalling weather we had a lovely time and met up with some friends and joined the Land.Rover community in commemorating 62 years of LR.

Then we crossed the channel (or rather went under it) to a hopefully sunnier, warmer and drier France. We were disappointed as the bad weather followed us. Our first night camping in France placed us next to a lovely English couple who lent us a little blow heater for the tent. Fortunately they did because it froze overnight. We had ice on the tent when we got up.

We continued through France, with one more overnight, and then got into Spain. Which wasn't much better. At that stage we were heartily sick of being cold all the time.

I then checked emails one evening (whilst in a very dodgy Spanish campground) and found that I'd finally received some advice from a lawyer I had seen three months earlier. The advice caused me stress and anxiety. Craig and I decided that camping in cold weather wasn't worth it, and started driving home to Amsterdam.

Which is where I am now. Warm. In my own apartment. Wonderful.

:::

I am going through a process at the moment to apply for a pension. A disability pension. On the basis that I'm in no condition to go back to work at the moment.

My employer has been legally obliged to keep me employed during my time off over the last two years, but that obligation is coming to an end very soon. And as I'm the primary "bread-winner" in our family, that means we're looking at some very serious financial stress in the near future unless we get this pension situation sorted out.

And there's no way I can work. No way at all. I'm having breakdowns every day. I forget everything. I get confused by everything. I get scared by everything. I'm tired all the time. And the list goes on.

My employer's doctor has been "keeping an eye on me" for the last couple of years. On my well-being. This means that he's either seen me or spoken with me, once every 5-6 months or so. Right. Like that means he knows what I'm up to, or how I am.

I recently met with him so that he could prepare and submit his official report on my state of (un)well-being to the appropriate authorities.

His diagnosis of me was (i) post traumatic stress disorder and (ii) post-natal depression. I agree with the first, but am totally in disagreement with the second.

He described that these two conditions were as a result of the "tragic ending of my pregnancy". I was completely offended when he wrote that. Jet's death wasn't the "tragic ending of my pregnancy". Freyja's stillbirth was a tragic ending of that pregnancy. Jet's birth was a wonderful and joyful moment. A celebration of life. His life. My precious Jet. His death was a devastating loss. The death of our son. The death of our third child. The end of a beautiful life. Jet was a person. He lived.

I've written a letter to the authorities because I've been brewing on this for a few weeks now. I want them to read my views on this. I want to tell them that this doctor does not have either the expertise to diagnose me properly, and in any case has not taken the time to do so.

I hope they read my letter.

:::

Nearly the end of mother's day here. Thank goodness. My mother sent a text saying she was thinking of me. One of my sisters called to say she was thinking of me.

Another year. Another day.