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.

Autopsies & Futures

We received information about the results of Jet's autopsy last week.

No information, that is.

Yep, that's right. They didn't find anything unusual. Everything was as it should be.

Conclusion: no cause of death found. Jet's death gets added to the Netherlands' SIDS statistics for the year 2009.

The SIDS foundation doctor did have one final suggestion for us. He recommended that we have some genetic tests done. Some of Jet's tissue is still available to the genetic department at one of the hospitals here in Amsterdam, and they can test for one final thing. Whether Jet may have had a genetic predisposition for cardiac arrest.

We have to fill in a lot of forms with family history. Health history. Birth and death history. And the only thing that stands out is that no-one in either of our families had any heart problems. No-one in either of our families has ever had a heart attack.

Mmm ... doesn't bode well.

So we may have to accept the fact that no reason for our children's deaths will ever be found.

Apparently normal, healthy children. All three of them.

:::

So now what? I have absolutely no idea.

When I rang my mother to tell her of Jet's results, she said that we'll have to build a future for the two of us.

Easily said. Not so easy to do.

I mean, how on earth am I supposed to do that? I find it difficult enough to get out of bed at the moment. And then to have a shower. How on earth am I to build a future for the two of us?

And what is there to build a future for? When I know that the best has already been? When no matter what we do together in our life, we both know that it will never get any better than those days when we were a living family with hope for a future with Freyja and then Kees and then Jet?

What's the point of building a future, a life, which will die when we do? What's the point in building assets which will go to charity when we die? What's the point in collecting beautiful things and memories, when we have no-one to collect them for?

Who will cherish the photos of my children once I'm gone?

Who will remember my children once I'm gone?

Who will sort through our things when we're gone?

What is the point?

As you can probably tell, the future seems fairly bleak to me. As a matter of fact, the future is a kind of unreal thing which doesn't really have any meaning for me. I mean, it might never happen. Tomorrow is the only real future for me. Even this afternoon seems far enough away.

Can someone please tell me how to build a future when the foundation you have is so very very painful and sad?

What now?

I'm a bit lost again. I don't know what to do with myself.

I'm a grown woman, but I haven't a clue what to do with my life.

I've done all the things that I'd planned. And some that I hadn't planned, and that I hope will never happen again.

Before, before the dead babies, I'd always assumed something would come up. Something good. Like Craig. I didn't prepare for three dead children.

So what now?

:::

I just walked to the shop to get some wine (for me) and crisps (for Craig), and on the way home I walked past a group of young(er) people, one of whom was speaking with an Australian accent. I noticed immediately (of course) and heard them discussing what restaurant they should go to.

I felt very sad and nostalgic as I walked past. I even stopped and looked back at them just before I got to my front door.

I used to be like that. A Friday evening would always have me out and about with friends doing something.

Nowadays a Friday night is no different to any other night of the week. It's Craig and I at home. With Blair the cat. Watching a DVD. Tonight we watched Mas.ter Chef --- because we love it.

:::

I don't even need to ask "what happened?", because I know what happened. Three dead babies happened.

But I don't know what to do. I don't know how to get on.

I know I'll never get over it. Who would? But I don't know what comes next.

What do I do with the rest of my life (however long that is)? What do I do?

How many holidays can I go on? And they don't excite me any more anyway.

How many books can I buy? And I don't read them any more because I have no concentration.

How many DVD's can I buy? I don't have the concentration to watch those either.

How much rubbish can I buy on E.bay before I realise it's not going to make anything better (and will only anger Craig and empty our wallets)?

How many friends can I visit, and watch them with their children? I can't because it upsets me and makes me angry. That their children live, whilst all of mine are dead. In addition, most of my "friends" don't want to spend any time with me. I don't blame them really. I'm not the most fun person in the world these days.

:::

I'm 41 and I feel like my life is over.

I have no clue how to proceed further.

I don't know where to begin.

Craig makes plans for us for the future, and I just follow. Because secretly I don't believe in the future, our future, anyway.

I'm lost.

Another visit to the doctor

We visited the GP this morning.

Our GP's office has a "walk-in hour" every morning where you don't need an appointment to see one of the GP's. I don't like going, because you never know who you will get. But this morning I had an ear-ache, which had been around for a few days, and as it's Friday, I thought I'd better go.

As luck would have it, we saw our old GP. You may recall a previous post I wrote about her. We haven't seen her since then. Since before Jet was born. We have seen one of her colleagues instead. But this morning, I had the bad luck to be called in by her.

She seemed quite surprised and shocked to see us (Craig was there to hold my hand, as he always is). So she pre-empted our meeting with the statement that she knows that the "one and other" has happened since our last meeting, but that she hasn't the time to go into any of that now because it's so very busy.

That. Was. It.

The "one and other" being of course the birth and death of our son Jet and the birth of her (living) child.

I responded quite calmly by saying that I had an ear-ache and I was concerned I might have an infection. And that was the only reason I was there. She seemed surprised again, but recovered nicely by getting the equipment necessary to investigate the mysterious depths of my ears.

She gave me a prescription for some antibiotics and our meeting ended.

DO. YOU. BELIEVE. IT??

All she had to do was say how sorry she was to hear about Jet's death. That's all. I don't really expect people to understand any more. Although she was our GP from June 2007 until August 2009. She looked after me before, during and after my pregnancy with Kees, and his subsequent death. She looked after me before and during my pregnancy with Jet. She saw us at least once a month for over two years. You'd think she would have some understanding. But apparently not.

I will ensure that when I go back to the GP's office in future, I shall specify that I do not want to see her.

Two years -- yesterday and tomorrow.

We've been having a strange time. With the painter in the house for the last week or so. Now it's all finished and it looks lovely. All clean and white. I'm very pleased with it.

But then ... yesterday was the day two years ago when Kees was peacefully lying on the sofa. Craig had just fed and burped him. Craig went to the toilet to pee and came back to find Kees not breathing. That was the start of the Kees nightmare.

Our beautiful boy. So big and healthy. And of course after two days in the NICU, the machines were turned off and he died. That's two years ago tomorrow.

And tomorrow we go and have lunch with my uncle because it's his birthday next week. So he's having some people over for lunch. Including us. We go to celebrate someone's birthday, someone who is approximately 70 years old, on the day when our son died. The day when he was only 7 weeks old. The irony. The sadness. It just bubbles over inside me.

Our beautiful son. Our gorgeous Kees. Our pride. Our hope for the future. So much love. So much potential.

How terribly, terribly sad.

Dis-organisation and Re-organisation

Our apartment is a mess. A complete mess.

It's being painted at the moment. Inside. All the walls and ceilings. Everything.

Try and picture about 80 square metres, over three levels, with stuff absolutely EVERWHERE. And none of it where it's supposed to be.

Because we finally got our leakage issue resolved, by having the new roof put on late last year, we can finally get everything painted. We can finally get those awful yellow stained ceilings painted. Because there should be no further leakage!! Yay!! I've been waiting over six years to get this done.

But OMG what a mess ...

:::

We're using this time of complete disorganisation as a time to reorganise some of the things in our small and crowded apartment.

A few weeks ago we bought a fabulous tent. But we have storage issues: where to put the tent? It's big - it folds down to 2 metres long. At the moment it's squashed into the (electricity & gas & water) meter cupboard, but that's not an ideal long term solution. So we decided to rent a storage box. Not a big one. Just one big enough to fit our camping items, and some other things we have in the apartment which we have no immediate need for.

And that brings me to baby stuff. We have lots of it. Like LOTS of it.

Most of it belonged to Kees. When my sister and I packed up his stuff after he died, she said I had enough for twins! And we didn't even buy most of it ourselves. We received so many gifts when Kees was born. So many clothes for a 0-3 year old. So many toys. So many things which Kees never got to use. And Jet only got to wear some of the stuff for three days. There's even a fabulous pram travel cover which I purchased via e.bay when we were in the UK for a short while. Also a baby b.jorn carrier, which was also an e.bay purchase. All these things. They represent so many dreams and hopes we had. So many memories of Freyja, Kees and Jet. Yet they're going into storage.

So at the moment there's a stack of about 5 clear plastic boxes full of baby things stacked on top of each other, waiting to be removed to the storage unit tomorrow. And that's where they'll stay for a while. Until we know what happens next in our lives.

:::

But the good things is, our apartment is being painted. The insurance company is paying for it. And by this time next week, it should all be done.

Clean white walls and clean white ceilings. I've been dreaming of this for a long time.