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.