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????

24 hours

24 hours ago, I was holding Jet.

He was awake.

I was breast feeding him. Jet and I were both learning.

24 hours ago he was restless and consequently so was I.

He was still alive.

I was grumpy after having been awake with him all night. I had woken Craig to burp Jet and it didn't seem to have worked - Jet was still grizzly.

Craig told me to go to sleep.

I had sore breasts - they were like rocks and were burning. My milk was "coming in".

Now, 24 hours later, I wish, I wish, I wish, that my little Jet was still here in my arms. That I still had something to be grumpy about. That he was still grizzling.

Instead I'm sitting here blogging in the middle of the night. With a horrible headache from all the wine I drank. To forget my son. To forget my grief. Grief which I know doesn't go away.

Oh my little Jet.

** Jet ** 29 August 2009 to 1 September 2009

We rejoiced so much on Saturday morning. Our son Jet (Jethro Craig Wilhelm) was born here in the Netherlands at 4.25 am. He weighed 3.210 kg and was 51 cm long. He was perfect. Just like his perfect sister and brother. We rejoiced that his birth went smoothly, without stress, and with much support.

This morning I woke to the sun's light coming through the curtains in the hospital room. I immediately knew that something was wrong. Jet had not woken me for his feed. I rushed to his hospital cot and felt his face. I saw his lips. I knew we had lost another one.

My heart feels like maybe it is irreparably broken. I hope not.

I hope that I have the strength to remember this little one. Our Jet. Our son. Our third child. That wonderful combination of Craig and myself. A boy who looked like his sister and like his brother, and most of all like his mother and father. It appears that Craig and I make gorgeous babies together.

I hope that I will be able to remember these three days of his life with joy. Maybe one day. At the moment these memories only make me weep more.

I wish that I could stand on the street and howl his name. I wish that I could.

I hope that you will all mourn our loss with us. That you will forever remember our Jet, our third child, our second son, brother to Kees and Freyja. Son to Mirne and Craig. Cousin, nephew, grandson. Much loved and much wanted. Forever remembered. Forever missed.

Maybe in the next few days I will be able to share some of the images of his too short life.