Another year slips by

I've been seeing a lot of other blog posts saying goodbye to the year 2010. Maybe because 2010 was a bad year, or maybe because they expect 2011 to be a better year.

I've thought about that. And I've concluded that maybe 2010 is now the norm for me. Because it wasn't really bad, but it wasn't really good either. It was just blah.

What if 2010 has set the standards for the years to come?

:::

None of our babies died in 2010.

I didn't get pregnant in 2010. (I faithfully take that little pill every morning.)

Neither of us got seriously ill in 2010. (Except that I've gotten slightly battier, and probably still am getting battier every day.)

It was a year in which we remembered all three of our children, every day.

It was a year in which we planned some trips, cancelled some, and went on some.

It was a year when Craig and I had many cardio-related tests done, hoping that they would provide some answers. Unfortunately, there were none.

It was a year when I got fatter. I'm now even fatter than I was during my biggest and fattest pregnancy.

I didn't go to work a single day.

I talked Craig into getting rid of an old sofa, and replacing it with a newer one.

We bought our pop-up caravan. Which then costs us lots to make it road-worthy. Sigh. Typical.

I talked Craig into getting another cat: Ferry.

I don't think we made any new friends, but I don't know whether we lost any old ones either. (Most of the old ones are already long gone.) Perhaps we grew further away from old friends. Not surprising really. They're busy with their growing families. We don't fit into their lives with our dead children.

It was a year which brought me closer to accepting that I will probably never parent a living child again. Which broke my heart, and continues to do so every day.

It was a year which made me doubt the future. What future?

It was a year which made me angrier. Angry that my children are all dead. Angry that NO-ONE KNOWS WHY THEY DIED. Angry that other people's children live.

It was a year when our apartment finally got its long-awaited coat of paint. (After many years of our roof leaking.)

It was a year which did not have any defining moments for me. No moments of inspiration. No moments of wonder. I had one moment of hope, but that was extinguished pretty darn quick.

2010 has not been a year for me of any memorable events. Nothing that stands out.

All that's happened is that I've gotten another year older. Which to me means that I'm another year further away of ever becoming a parent again. No wonder I hate getting older.

:::

The problem is that it's been a pretty "normal" year for us. Normal post-dead babies that is.

My concern is this: what if this is all there is?

What if 2010 is representative of all the other years to come?

What if it never gets any better than this?

What if this blah existence is all we get?

What if there are no inspiring moments?

What if there is nothing wonderful to look forward to?

What if my cats are the only beings I get to love, other than Craig?

What if that is not enough for me???

What then?

Ruins

I've been thinking lately. Like I always do. About life, and everything.

It sucks. Yes, it does.

I wish I could turn back the clock. Because if I could, I would not have any children. Not biological ones anyway. Maybe Craig and I would adopt. At an age when we would be eligible to do so. And not be rejected because of being baby-lost crazy.

My babies made me happy for such a short time. Much too short. And that happiness was not enough to last me for a lifetime. Not enough.

I didn't get pregnant to have dead babies. Not. No.

I wanted my children to live. To laugh. To love. I wanted life for them.

Instead all I got was death.

And it's shit.

It ruined my life, you know. Death did. Death took my three children, and left me with the pieces of my life. And, guess what? The pieces don't make a whole any more. There are gaping big holes in my life.

How the hell am I supposed to "get on" with my life now?

People think that. That it's been "long enough". That I should be "over it". They only see the surface me. They don't ever see the real me. The crazy baby-lost me. The me who is full of holes. No. They don't.

I can honestly say that the life I had, the life I should have had, it's gone. It was ruined. It was destroyed. It fragmented into tiny, little pieces. And it can't be put back together. Not the way it was. No.

And you know what? I still can't cope with babies, and children, and families. I still can't. My heart breaks when I see a little girl. I'm filled with jealousy when I see a pregnant woman. I'm envious of all parents of living children. I'm still full of rage that my three children are dead.

But I'm not allowed to be. Not any more. No. I'm supposed to be "over it", "getting on with it". After all, can't live my whole life in grief and anger and sadness. Although I don't know why not.

How is it that people who don't have dead children do not comprehend that I will love and miss my children every single day for the rest of my life? How is it that they do not understand that I will cry for them forever?

I hoped that I would avoid babies and children by going away this xmas. But it wasn't to be. There were some people at the hotel we were staying at who had a baby and a little girl. Babies do it for Craig, and little girls certainly do it for me.

Seeing other people being happy with their children makes me want to scream and cry at the same time.

I wonder if that will ever change.

I wonder what will happen with the ruins of my life.

I wonder.

Age or death?

Sometimes people say things that completely stun me. Really.

:::

For years my mum has been saying "you have to get older or you die young".

She says this in response to people who complain about getting older. Or about any of the side effects of getting older.

For instance, if you complain about getting grey hair, or wrinkles, or whatever. She'll then say, "well, it's either that or you die young."

I've always thought it a singularly inappropriate thing to say.

I think my mother was surprised when age caught up with her. She always focussed on her youth, even when I was already an adult. Then suddenly, when she realised that she really was "older", she came up with this saying. And she's been saying it ever since.

But.

My children died. Then my cousin died (suddenly, at age 27). And now that saying of hers is even more inappropriate than it was before.

It annoys me INTENSELY when she says it. And I wonder why she herself doesn't realise how utterly inappropriate it is to say such a thing ... especially to ME.

:::

My father said to me some years ago, (I think it was after Freyja died or Kees died) that as you get older, more and more people around you die.

I know what he means by that, but (again) it doesn't really seem an appropriate thing to say to a woman who has buried her babies.

We had lunch with a friend last week who said the same thing. She told us that her husband's cousin, a woman of about my age with a long history of serious mental illness, committed suicide.

Then my friend said that as she is getting older, she hears more of "these types" of stories, "like your children's deaths", she said.

WTF???

:::

When people say things like this to me, a whirlwind of emotions swirl around in my head. Confusion. Shock. Disbelief. Anger. Utter amazement.

I am continually stunned that anyone who knows me, and who knows about my children, would say such insensitive and stupid things.

Do people really think that the deaths of my children are part and parcel of getting older?

Do they really think that it is "normal" for babies or children to die?

That as you get older, more and more babies or children will die?

WTF?

:::

Let me say this:

** it is not normal for babies to die.

** it is not normal for young people to die.

** it may be the case that more people die around you as you get older, but that's probably because your peers are aging with you, and are dying as a result of age, disease, accident, whatever.

I think that the next time someone says something like this to me, I might lose my self-control and snap at them.

Why, oh why, is it always me who has to bite my tongue, when it is others who say insensitive and stupid things?

Happier?

Whilst returning from a snowy walking expedition in Amsterdam yesterday, we met one of our neighbours.

Her daughter-in-law had a baby boy two weeks after Kees was born. She had been keeping up with us during my pregnancy, and was happy for us when Kees was born. She also shared the news of her new grandson when he was born.

Obviously she knew when Kees died. Our whole street knew, as there were ambulances and police cars everywhere.

Over the last couple of years I've seen her grandson sporadically. Most often in the summer, because our neighbour and her grandson will be sitting on a bench in front of their house. But yesterday we saw him too. He was sledding in the snow on the street with his grandfather.

I recognised him immediately and pointed him out to Craig. It's hard to imagine that our Kees would be that big too. That he'd be turning 3 in February!

Then we turned the corner, onto our street, and met our neighbour, his grandmother.

She walked up to us and started a conversation. She is originally from New Zealand, so we usually speak English with her. She said that she had seen us a few times recently and thought we looked "happier".

It's mind-blowing that people can actually think that. I believe that people WANT to think it, because it makes them more comfortable. Because, surely, if they gave the matter any thought whatsoever, they would realise that we could not possibly be "happier"?

I'd say we are less shocked. We are less distraught. We are less optimistic. But we are not "happier".

If anything, I'd say we are less "happier". We are slowly coming to terms with our losses. We are coming to accept that we are parents to dead children. We are coming to terms with the sad reality which is our life.

I am calmer. But that is only because of the medication. And the calmness is surface calm only. Scratch a little tiny bit and anxiety erupts through the mask of calm.

Happier? I think not. I think we'll be chasing that illusive "happy" for a long time, that is, if we don't give up before then.

Family portrait

This was painted for us by Stephanie from Beyond Words Designs.

Isn't it gorgeous? I love it.

It represents our family: Craig, me, Freyja, Kees and Jet.

Perspective

I never really used to know what that meant.

:::

The Oxford online dictionary says the following:

noun

• 1 [mass noun] the art of representing three-dimensional objects on a two-dimensional surface so as to give the right impression of their height, width, depth, and position in relation to each other.
• the appearance of viewed objects with regard to their relative position , distance from the viewer, etc.:a trick of perspective
• [count noun] a view or prospect.
• Geometrythe relation of two figures in the same plane, such that pairs of corresponding points lie on concurrent lines , and corresponding lines meet in collinear points.
• 2 a particular attitude towards or way of regarding something; a point of view:most guidebook history is written from the editor's perspective
• [mass noun] true understanding of the relative importance of things ; a sense of proportion:we must keep a sense of perspective about what he's donethough these figures shock, they need to be put into perspective
• 3 an apparent spatial distribution in perceived sound.

:::

I majored in history in my undergraduate degree at university.

Perspective is much easier to understand when looking at history.

It's much easier to put things into perspective when you are not personally involved. When you are much further away in time from events.

But the fact that you are not personally involved, and that you are not close in time to the events, often does not allow a person to put things into their "actual/true" perspective.

:::

How do you put grief into perspective?

I read lots of books after Freyja died. Books about grieving, books about death, books about children dying.

And they all said the same things.

** Everyone grieves differently.

** Everyone grieves for different periods of time.

** A baby's death causes by far more shock and grief, when compared to other deaths.

:::

Craig and I visited a friend last week. She had invited us for dinner.

We made the usual inane dinner conversation.

She made some comment about "some of us having to go to work every day", which I took as a criticism to our not going to work every day. That comment was rather surprising, but I let it go.

Then during dinner she told us about a colleague who has cancer. She told us some other stories about colleagues who have also been afflicted by tragedies.

I responded to these revelations with the usual, "how sad for them", but fortunately their child(ren) is(are) still healthy.

Whether children are healthy and alive is usually my measuring stick these days. A measuring stick for a fortunate life.

Anyway, she didn't like that answer. So she spent a considerable amount of time telling me (because Craig was staying out of the conversation) how this is a terrible, terrible thing to have happened to these people.

Somehow the conversation turned into one of comparison. My obvious comparison is the loss of my three children. But apparently that's not a "suitable" comparison, according to my friend.

Craig put his two-cents in. He said that when he had cancer, he thought that was the most terrible thing that could happen to him. But he got past that. Then he found out his wife was cheating on him, and he went through a divorce. He thought that was the most terrible thing that could happen to him. But he got past that. Then Freyja died. And the thought that was the most terrible thing that could happen to him. Then Kees died. And then Jet died. You get the point. His perspective changed. His idea of what was "worst" or "badder" changed.

When does it end?

And when will someone who has not lost a child simply admit that they do not know how we feel? When will they stop trying to come up with stupid "stories" which will (they hope) prove us wrong?

When will they accept that it's not a comparison, but a perspective.

Craig's example is a good one. His experience in life at the time at which he got cancer, meant that in his perspective, his cancer was the worst thing that could happen to him. And he was right. At that time in his life, his cancer was by far the worst thing that could happen to him. Similarly, when his (first) marriage fell to bits, he thought it again.

He did not know that only a few years later, much, much worse would happen. His perspective would change so much, and he didn't even know it.

When someone comes up to me and says, "I know how you feel, because my sister-in-law's mother died suddenly the other day", it's not because they are stupid. It is because they are comparing grief, and are wanting to show me that we have something in common. What they don't have is perspective.

Our friend, who we had dinner with, had a fiance who died suddenly more than a decade ago. She grieved for many years. I think she grieves still - for his lost life, for her lost life as his wife. We noticed on our recent visit, that the photos she used to keep of him and his family, are no longer displayed in the living area. I wonder where she has put them now.

I will never be able to do that. Put away my children's photos. They will always be on display.

:::

Most people become quite voluble when you appear to "compare" your grief to theirs. But I can only say to them, it's not a matter of comparison. It's perspective.

For instance, my perspective is very different to a baby-lost mum's who has three living children. Without a doubt.

:::

So can anyone put grief into it's true perspective?

I doubt it. Unless you walk in someone's shoes, it is not possible to feel what they feel, or to suffer what they suffer.

I doubt that I will meet many people during my lifetime who will have the same perspective as me.

:::

Craig and I went to see a psychologist the other day. To discuss various issues which have arisen. As a result of three dead children.

Our psych had received some background information from our GP. Our GP had told me he would give her some information about us. And when we arrived, the psych confirmed she had received background information about us from him. So I assumed she would know. But I was wrong.

Within minutes of our conversation it was clear she did not have a clue of what actually happened to us. I asked her what she had been told. She said (and I apologise for the grammar, but this is literally what she said): "She had been told that three times we had not got a baby."

What the f*ck??? You could have knocked me over with a feather. My blood started boiling immediately.

(Note to self: do not trust GP's - ever. No matter how good and trustworthy they appear.)

I explained to her that, actually, we had "gotten" our three babies. But that they died. All three of them. For no reason. I had to tell her that several times - the no reason bit - because she didn't seem to believe us. She even asked us if our babies "looked normal". You'd figure that if I've said to her that the post-mortem investigations showed no abnormalities, that our babies would look pretty normal. But no. It had to be stated specifically several times.

(Actually, I don't think people in general believe us. No-one believes us that nothing was wrong with our babies. They think we are lying. That we covering up something horrible or something. What a laugh! Don't they realise I'd give just about anything to find out why our children died??? Bloody fools.)

So that was our psych session off to a very bad start.

Wonder what next week's session will be like?