The Hard Road to Recovery: Healing After Stillbirth - A Mother's Perspective Part 2 (Managing the grief in the day to day)
To any mothers that have lost a baby by miscarriage, stillbirth or early infant death, I cannot profess to have any sense of being able to manage the grief any better for having been through stillbirth grief myself. I have always fancied myself as a bit of a "fixer" - helping those that wanted some kind of advice, to come up with some fix to their problem (whether the advice was wise or not). But as I stand in the mirror, tracing the stretch marks with my fingers, feeling the scar roads that show how far my boys would each journey within me, I am lost for any kind of fix. The roads don't stretch as far on the right hand side of my tummy as the roads on the left hand side do. It is a bittersweet image. Benjamin's journey would not be as long as Nathanael's journey.
I remember the midwife looking at my caesarean section scar, and commenting that it was very neat and well hidden and that I would be able to enjoy wearing bikinis again in no time (not that I ever wore bikinis before pregnancy!). Looking at my tummy, I just thought, it isn't my section scar that would be the scar to worry about, it is the network of country lanes that track across the front of my stomach. And yet, I cannot bring myself to improve these scars in any way. All throughout my pregnancy I would moisturise with bio oil, trying to avoid any kind of stretch marks. As the pregnancy advanced into the third trimester, a few stretch marks appeared and I suddenly felt quite proud. They were a rite of passage, physical evidence of my motherhood. When we received the devastating news about Benjamin, these scars meant even more to me. They were storylines about the lives of my boys. Nathanael's story would continue on beyond the journey reflected in the purple, shining tracks across my stomach, though Benjamin's journey would continue in the heavens.
Every time that I look in the mirror, I am reminded of Benjamin's short lived journey, I am reminded of the searing pain and grief, that sorrow and devastation I felt on that scan table when they told me that my son had no heartbeat. I can see the pain in my eyes sometimes. My face has matured in a way that only grief can facilitate. And yet I welcome it. I long for any sign of the journey I have travelled myself, proof of the lives and legacy of my sons, proof of the sadness and the loss, proof that this life in its way has been cruel but that I have survived and can continue to live in strength with my angel looking on.
I feel that sorrow and loss afresh every time I see a twin buggy, twins, or even hear the name Benjamin. I just think, that's my son. That should be the image people see when they look at our family, but there is an invisible member. I feel on the verge of crumbling into a teary mess when people look at my gorgeous Nathanael and say "Oh gosh, 11 weeks? He's very small". I just think, if only you knew. Sometimes I tell people, I slip it into conversation when they comment on Nathanael, I remind the world that Nathanael has a brother. I remind the world that they cannot negate Benjamin's life by being ignorant of it. Sometimes I make people feel awkward because of this, they feel as though they have overstepped some kind of line, or stomped on my heart. This is not why I mention it though, it is not some attempt to feel hard done by or to incur people's sympathy or attention. It is purely to remind the world that I have two sons. I feel true to our family and Benjamin to tell the world about him.
That is one thing that has really helped me in this process that I know women who have miscarried may not get the option of, and that was to hold Benjamin. My parents, parents in law and sister in law all had the opportunity to hold Benjamin when he wasn't in his cold cot, and this was invaluable because as a family, we made memories that incorporated Benjamin. Even though it is not the kind of memories that we should have been making, it helped us as a family to grieve together and to have time with Benjamin together.
I love Christmas. I still get as excited as I did when I was a child. Nothing has changed, it has always been the most wonderful time of the year (queue Andy Williams playing in the background). But as the shops begin to unpack their stock into the display windows, I feel a sense of dread. A sadness. This was going to be our first christmas as a family with two little boys. We even had the christmas outfits planned, it was going to be so ridiculously cute. I will have to process afresh what Christmas actually feels like when we get there but for now a part of me, perhaps the right hand side of me, dreads it.
We have photos of Benjamin and Nathanael together, and photos of the four of us as a family. My heart sings and cries simultaneously when I look at them, but I feel so grateful and glad that we had those photos taken. So I that I can see my family as it should be. The other day I had them printed, a huge one of us as a family that will go on the wall, and little wallet versions of all the ones of Benjamin so that I can carry him with me. They keep me going, keep me strong.
When we went to the crematorium to collect Benjamin's ashes, I was getting into the car and asked my husband if "he had Benjamin" (obviously meaning the ashes). I was not prepared for how grateful I would be to my husband for the words he uttered in response; "Yes" he said, "but these ashes are not Benjamin, Benjamin is alive and well in heaven". I brushed over it at the time thinking yes,yes I know. But those words were profound. I could remember Benjamin as the healthy, gorgeous, hilarious boy I saw on those scans, an identical image of his brother, not as some ashes in a pot, or even the tiny quiet body I held in the hospital. One day we will all be together as a family.
That thought gives me such strength and though I don't mean for it to sound morbid, I no longer fear death. I don't by any means welcome it, but the thought that I will get to be reunited with a member of my family that I could not be with in this life, gives me such joy. There is hope, there is light at the end of all of this. There is no longer any fear in death. Love trumps all. I should know that as a Christian, but I'll admit that it has been hard to quote those kind of hopeful, life changing comments when this life has thrown such a curveball.
I lost my grandfather "Bikey" several years ago. It was the first family tragedy I had experienced. He passed away after a 5 year battle with Pancreatic cancer. I remember feeling such pain throughout my body, resonating mostly in my stomach when I saw a hearse with a coffin drive through the crowds of family and friends that had gathered for his funeral. I lost the plot. I just burst into tears and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. There was such a harsh realisation, that cut through my reality like a knife, that the loving, fun, warm grandfather I had was in this box. I wish sometimes that the pain of that image would fade, but to this day it hurts afresh. My granny was incredible, she held me as I sobbed, even though I should have been strong for her. I sobbed through the funeral, uncontrollably. All kinds of things over time have been triggers for those memories, particularly stories of people's battles with cancer. It felt desolate, life without Bikey. Every family gathering, every christmas just felt incomplete without him. But one day my granny and I were catching up over FaceTime, years later, and she told me about this picture she had of Bikey. She pictured him on a beautiful, quiet beach, walking along, happy and healthy. I had such a renewed sense of hope and peace. He was okay. He wasn't here, but he was okay, in fact, more than okay. That picture has given me strength in those difficult moments when I miss him.
After we received the news about Benjamin and our time with him on this earth had come and gone, my granny told me that she had had another picture. She had seen Bikey on that beach, healthy and happy as she had seen before, only this time he was holding Benjamin. Bikey was telling Benjamin all about the ocean and they were healthy and happy together. I sobbed. Even as I write this, I sob. That image is so painful because it reminds me that neither of them are with us here, but so hopeful and assuring that we will all be together one day.
I am grateful for my faith, for the relationship I have with my God, who pours out His love and grace on me daily and reassures me that this world, this life, is not the end. There is so much more beauty to come. There is wholeness to come. We will be whole and restored again. Together. Again.
I am daily so grateful for the family and friends that have stuck by us through this whole process, for the people that refer to my "other son" as Benjamin, and for the acknowledgment that I am a mother of multiples, whether I have them both with me in this life or not. I am and always will be a twin mum.
I love Christmas. I still get as excited as I did when I was a child. Nothing has changed, it has always been the most wonderful time of the year (queue Andy Williams playing in the background). But as the shops begin to unpack their stock into the display windows, I feel a sense of dread. A sadness. This was going to be our first christmas as a family with two little boys. We even had the christmas outfits planned, it was going to be so ridiculously cute. I will have to process afresh what Christmas actually feels like when we get there but for now a part of me, perhaps the right hand side of me, dreads it.
We have photos of Benjamin and Nathanael together, and photos of the four of us as a family. My heart sings and cries simultaneously when I look at them, but I feel so grateful and glad that we had those photos taken. So I that I can see my family as it should be. The other day I had them printed, a huge one of us as a family that will go on the wall, and little wallet versions of all the ones of Benjamin so that I can carry him with me. They keep me going, keep me strong.
When we went to the crematorium to collect Benjamin's ashes, I was getting into the car and asked my husband if "he had Benjamin" (obviously meaning the ashes). I was not prepared for how grateful I would be to my husband for the words he uttered in response; "Yes" he said, "but these ashes are not Benjamin, Benjamin is alive and well in heaven". I brushed over it at the time thinking yes,yes I know. But those words were profound. I could remember Benjamin as the healthy, gorgeous, hilarious boy I saw on those scans, an identical image of his brother, not as some ashes in a pot, or even the tiny quiet body I held in the hospital. One day we will all be together as a family.
That thought gives me such strength and though I don't mean for it to sound morbid, I no longer fear death. I don't by any means welcome it, but the thought that I will get to be reunited with a member of my family that I could not be with in this life, gives me such joy. There is hope, there is light at the end of all of this. There is no longer any fear in death. Love trumps all. I should know that as a Christian, but I'll admit that it has been hard to quote those kind of hopeful, life changing comments when this life has thrown such a curveball.
I lost my grandfather "Bikey" several years ago. It was the first family tragedy I had experienced. He passed away after a 5 year battle with Pancreatic cancer. I remember feeling such pain throughout my body, resonating mostly in my stomach when I saw a hearse with a coffin drive through the crowds of family and friends that had gathered for his funeral. I lost the plot. I just burst into tears and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. There was such a harsh realisation, that cut through my reality like a knife, that the loving, fun, warm grandfather I had was in this box. I wish sometimes that the pain of that image would fade, but to this day it hurts afresh. My granny was incredible, she held me as I sobbed, even though I should have been strong for her. I sobbed through the funeral, uncontrollably. All kinds of things over time have been triggers for those memories, particularly stories of people's battles with cancer. It felt desolate, life without Bikey. Every family gathering, every christmas just felt incomplete without him. But one day my granny and I were catching up over FaceTime, years later, and she told me about this picture she had of Bikey. She pictured him on a beautiful, quiet beach, walking along, happy and healthy. I had such a renewed sense of hope and peace. He was okay. He wasn't here, but he was okay, in fact, more than okay. That picture has given me strength in those difficult moments when I miss him.
After we received the news about Benjamin and our time with him on this earth had come and gone, my granny told me that she had had another picture. She had seen Bikey on that beach, healthy and happy as she had seen before, only this time he was holding Benjamin. Bikey was telling Benjamin all about the ocean and they were healthy and happy together. I sobbed. Even as I write this, I sob. That image is so painful because it reminds me that neither of them are with us here, but so hopeful and assuring that we will all be together one day.
I am grateful for my faith, for the relationship I have with my God, who pours out His love and grace on me daily and reassures me that this world, this life, is not the end. There is so much more beauty to come. There is wholeness to come. We will be whole and restored again. Together. Again.
I am daily so grateful for the family and friends that have stuck by us through this whole process, for the people that refer to my "other son" as Benjamin, and for the acknowledgment that I am a mother of multiples, whether I have them both with me in this life or not. I am and always will be a twin mum.
Comments
Post a Comment