A Grandparents Perspective by Lee

Lexie's Garden

Three and a half years ago we said goodbye to our rainbow baby Lexie, my granddaughter.

Everyone finds their own path whilst grieving. Some are broken and struggle to continue, some keep to themselves and hide their feelings, some hit out their pain and hurt anyone and everyone around them, some move on quicker than others.

The father tries to comfort the mother, as well as deal with his own grief.

The mother is lost. Broken. Part of her is missing. She can’t function, she wants answers, and as her body is repairing itself, her heart continues to break.

Time, understanding and talking helps.

Lexie now has a sister and more recently, a brother. Both of these pregnancies were very stressful for everyone concerned. Ongoing scans and tests right up to delivery (remembering that everything was good with Lexie until 24hrs after her last scan).

My daughter insisted they delivered the babies early, which proved to be for the best.  All was good.

I have found that people don’t know how to talk about the loss of a baby.  People ask me how many grandchildren do I have.  I answer 6, with 1 in heaven.  Some people have suggested we should “let go” of Lexie.   How do you?

I think of her every day. Every day.  The worse times are her anniversary and Christmas, there is always lots of kids around, but one is, and always will be, missing….

It can only be so much worse for the parents. Having more babies helps, but it will never replace the little girl they lost. 

Grandmother Lee

If you require support after reading this blog, please contact Sands on 1300 072 637

Things I Wish People Understood - Part One by Suzanna

At 36, I’ve lost a parent, a friend and a child. There is nothing on Earth more harrowing than burying a child, even if you never had the privilege of knowing them. My husband, Ted, and I lost our beautiful baby Ella in January of this year. She was stillborn at 34 weeks. She was, and always will be, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t bring myself to talk about the magic, and joy and horror of our experience. I can’t bring myself to share the details which are personal, and raw and sacred.

What I can do, is tell you about our grief and the things I’ve learnt.

There is abundant kindness in the world

It’s important to savour the great kindness that is apparent in times of despair. Since losing Ella, we have been touched by people’s tenderness and humanity. We have been shown support through flowers, plants, cards, texts, gifts, keepsakes, meals, phone calls, long distance visits and all manner of thoughtful gestures. Often, this kindness has come from the most unexpected places. We are grateful beyond words.

We are tortured by things which ought to bring us joy

Babies are a source of collective joy, especially among women. But for my husband and me, they are a form of torture – an excruciating reminder of our loss. I can’t see a pram or a pregnant woman without wincing. Sadly, babies seem to evoke in me a kind of emotional anaphylaxis – fear, paralysis, constricted breathing.  But babies are not like peanuts; they can’t be easily avoided. There isn’t a supermarket, shopping centre or café on the planet which is baby-free.

Leaving the house is Hell

Any journey beyond the sanctuary of my home involves walking the gauntlet of prams and mothers’ groups. Given that I live in a small community, it also involves visiting places which evoke memories of being pregnant, excited and full of hope. Finally, there is the horror of bumping into a myriad of acquaintances who, upon noticing that I’m no longer pregnant, gleefully ask how motherhood is treating me. 

Greif has no end point

At Easter time, I had a chance encounter with a bereaved mother whose son had been dead for 15 years. She knelt at her child’s grave, literally howling in despair. It shook me to my core. It made me realise this: time does not heal all wounds. We never stop mourning the loss of our children, and there will frequently be ‘triggers’ that reignite or intensify our suffering. Typically, the things which bring joy to others are our greatest sources of pain – Christmases, birthdays, Mother’s Day. This seems particularly cruel. Unfortunately, bereaved parents mourn more than the loss of their children. They mourn every milestone that ought to have been enjoyed.

Children are not replaceable

Let’s be very clear: children are not disposable. They are not replaceable. In the wake of Ella’s death, the most hurtful remark I endured came from a man – with three adult children, no less - who laughed and replied ‘oh well, you can always make another one’. Comments of this nature show a disgusting and disturbing lack of humanity. A baby is no less loved than a toddler or a teenager or an adult child. Next time you think that my child’s life doesn’t matter, consider which of your children you’d willingly trade or discard. A brief life is still a special one.

The conversation gets awkward

Bereaved parents – especially those of us who are still adjusting to our circumstances – often don’t know what answers to offer people. Inquiries as to whether or not we have children are painful to navigate. I can’t bear to tell people that I don’t have any children. Denying Ella’s existence dishonours her and causes me great pain. In saying that, I don’t want to tell strangers that my baby has died. I’d like to declare that I have a child, without any obligation to flesh-out the miserable details. But it’s deceptive and probably unhealthy to mislead people into thinking that you are parenting a living child when you’re not.   

Suzanna

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Suzi Maxwell-Wright

  

My name is Suzi. My husband, Ted, and I are trying to heal after losing our baby Ella Rose Argyle (21 January 2017). Ella was stillborn at 34 weeks, after what appeared to be a healthy pregnancy. As we declared on her headstone, Ella is ‘beautiful, longed for and eternally loved’. She is, and always will be, a part of us. My hope is that this blog will honour her precious life and help other bereaved parents feel less alone as they navigate their grief. 

Charlie's Tenth Birthday.

It’s coming up to Charlie's 10th birthday on the 2nd September.

Today I hid in my daughters’ wardrobe and cried.

One of those silent cries because you don't want your children to ask what's wrong.

I knew it was coming. How could it not?  It never comes when I expect it too.

It waits until my heart can't take anymore.

Today I was putting my 7 year old’s clothes away. A simple chore.

I held the door so tight with one hand while my other hand covered my mouth to stop my screaming.

This year Charlie would have been 10. Double figures.

Wow, I would have had a son who was not far from becoming a teenager.

His sister Neve would have been 9.

The pain is still so raw, the pain of not holding them.

To watch friends’ children turn 9 and 10. To see what they are doing, seeing who they are growing up to be.

I have had to learn to not ask the what if's. There will never be an answer. I think sometimes the what if's are what hold me in this emotional rollercoaster.

Today as I stood there letting the tears flow and trying not to scream out, I had to give myself permission to let go, to not try to be the strong mum, friend or wife.

Today I can't do it. I can't be the mum that plays or laughs. Today I don't want to ask my husband how was your day.

Today I don't want to listen to a friend.

Today and probably for a few more days, I want to lie in bed and be cared for.

I want to be held and fed and not be all those roles of mum, wife and friend.

That's hard to ask for help, for me especially.

Today I told my husband i need to go to bed and not be a mum. He reply was to remind me he will support me and hold me and to allow me to stop my roles.

As he kissed the top of my head and held me he said

" you can cry and go to bed if that's what you need"

I so wanted to crawl into that bed. To allow the darkness to sweep over me like it has done so many times before.

Yet I didn't. I heard my two children playing and laughing downstairs.

My first thought was, how do I explain to them I can't be your mummy today?

They don't understand, how could they? They know about Charlie and Neve. We have always talked about them.

They need me, regardless of how I'm feeling. They need feeding, homework needs to be done, talking about their day. To them,  I'm their world.

I can go to bed when they do.

So today I didn't go to bed and hide. It doesn't mean tomorrow I won't. For 10 years I have battled.

10 years without our first son. I still remember his birth and seeing him for the first time. Those beautiful long legs. The way he looked just like his daddy.

I remember holding him whilst singing twinkle twinkle. The smell of his skin as i kissed him.  The tiny hand that gripped my finger.  The look on my husband’s face as he held him as he took his last breath. He was born alive at 23+5 weeks.  He lived for 2 minutes. He was not a miscarriage or a stillbirth.

Our son lived. I hope in those 2 minutes Charlie knew just how loved he was and still is.

I have those memories of him. Those memories I have every single day.

When Neve was born sleeping we lost that time of feeling her heartbeat of her grasping our fingers.

I remember her everyday as a chubby curly haired baby who was perfect.

Time they say is a healer. Not for me.

For me it’s just more time without them.  More time for remembering.

So today when I cried in the wardrobe I was crying for the 10 and 9 years of missing and remembering.

It's always so bittersweet.

So today I chose not to hide in bed but to allow myself to feel and to cry.

It's never easy, there isn't a magic wand to wave.

Today the choice I made was to keep going with support. Tomorrow maybe another choice.

Tomorrow  is another day.

For Charlie and Neve the love I have for you grows every day.

Kristina Riley