My dearest Aoibh

I’m not really sure how it now 5 years since you were born, it feels like it was both yesterday and a lifetime ago. I guess it will always feel like that.
Recently I’ve been thinking about the different people who spoke to me in the early days after we lost you, women who had walked this path before me. One who told me she no longer feels she needs to visit her child’s grave every day, which seemed so unbelievable to me. But yet here I am now, content that I don’t have to visit your grave every day to know you are with me- I imagine you floating just above me, keeping an eye on things. Your brother thinks that the little bronze angel on your grave is you, and I like that idea too.
Another woman encouraged me to keep the blanket we cuddled you in, rather than it going with you, and spoke of how she keeps hers under her pillow. Sometimes she holds it every day, sometimes it is only the changing of the sheets that reminds her it is there. Again in those early days I couldn’t imagine it- I held your blanket tightly, had it packed in my bag wherever I went. Now sometimes I sit with it for while, trying hard to remember how it felt to hold you in it, other times weeks pass without being drawn it.
Sometimes I hear the story of others who have lost babies and wonder how they are carrying such a heavy burden, forgetting for a moment that this is my burden too.
I spent so long in the early days searching the internet for something that might tell me things would be ok, advise me how to cope with this grief. One description helped me the most- grief is like a ball in a square room. At first the ball is large, hitting off the walls over and over, the pains of grief feeling never ending. But in time the ball grows smaller, still hitting off the walls, but much less frequently.
I suppose that’s where I am now- sometimes the grief hits me like a boulder and I go from easily telling your story, to barely being able to utter your name. Particularly when I think of all you are missing, and will continue to miss. But I now can see joy and happiness again. I use our story to push me forward, to help others, to be that person that hopefully can give one person at the beginning of this awful road hope that life and grief can coexist.
I suppose I’m really trying to say thank you, thank you for teaching me so many lessons, for making me a mum, and giving me the strength to say your name to help others. Today we celebrate you, and try to hold on to that feeling when you were born- love, happiness, joy, and hope. I know there will be pain in the coming days, but that’s ok too.

I will love you forever

Your adoring Mum xx

My dearest Aoibh

Happy New Year my darling. In all honesty I am not a big fan of the New Year, it makes me feel a step further away from you which I hate, but it also allows me an opportunity to reflect on the years without you.

2018 was a big year, it started with finding out that I was pregnant with you and ended with me struggling to find my way without you. 2019 didn’t feel much easier. I remember it being a year of fear, fear that I wouldn’t get the chance to parent again and then, even when I was pregnant I was consumed by fear that I would have to say goodbye to another baby. 2020 has undoubtedly been an incredibly difficult year for a lot of people and definitely a year like no other but for me I feel like it was also the year that I began to find myself again.
I will remember 2020 as the year that not only did I receive the most amazing gift that is your little brother, but also the year that I felt stronger. I feel like I have become more resilient, more comfortable with my role as a mum to your brother whilst also ensuring that I am still the best mum I can be for you. I have realised that it’s ok to have good days and bad days, and to not feel guilty on those good days, but also that mum guilt is just part of the job!

During this coming month I will have my final 1:1 psychology session. I have been having these sessions for 2 years and they have been such a huge support. As a mental health practitioner I should probably already know the benefit of talking, but it wasn’t until I was the one being asked to talk that I realised its true power. My psychologist has seen an awful lot of tears from me, and I’m sure there will be a few more before I say goodbye, but it feels good to be at the point of feeling confident enough to not need those regular sessions anymore, reassurance as to how far I’ve come in the last 12 months.

I think 2020 has taught us all not to take anything for granted, and I certainly have no idea what the next 12 months will bring. All I can hope is that I continue to use the strength you gave me to be the best mum I can be to both of my children.

All my love

Mum xx

My dearest Aoibh

I find it hard to believe that I am writing this on your second birthday. I can’t quite work out if it feels like a lifetime since I met you, or only just yesterday.

This week brings up so many emotions. There is a lot of sadness, but I am also trying hard to remember the happiness too. Like all mums on their children’s birthdays today brings me back to your birth story. I can still see the labour suite, and the wonderful midwives who helped deliver you. I remember junior doctors asking to observe your delivery due to your condition and the midwife being so protective of you even then and they were told to go away very sharply! I remember the midwives, your Dad and I trying to guess what time you would arrive and how quickly the medical team arrived when the midwife realised that you were going to arrive much quicker than anyone expected. I wish I could say I remember your first cry but unfortunately it’s one of my missing memories, but I do remember getting to hold you and cradling your warm bum in my hand for the briefest moment. I love thinking about all those things, it feels like almost a different story to the following few days.

In the last few weeks I think I have felt your absence just as hard as when it first happened. My heart has ached for you in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. I think a lot of that is to do with the birth of your brother. I think that maybe there is something almost protective about losing your first child, there is no knowledge of how deep the loss really goes, of how much has really been lost. But now I know, in your brother I see all that I have lost in you. It amazes me that I can feel pride and happiness when I am watching Liam learn and develop, but at the very same time my heart hurts that I don’t get to see any of those things with you. I also feel sad for Liam that he will never experience a big sister/ little brother relationship and I wonder how that will affect him in the future. And in these crazy times I think about your heart condition and how it would have undoubtedly made Covid an altogether more scary thought and sometimes I wonder if I would have been able to cope with the anxiety of it. In truth, in my darker moments I wonder whether some higher being knew that I wasn’t the right mother to care for you.

I think that one of the biggest things in grief is riding all the waves, the happiness of having you, the sadness of losing you and the guilt for moving on through life without you. But I suppose I can only do what I’ve always said I would do, cherish your memory, speak your name and tell the world about you.

Happy birthday Aoibh, I hope you are celebrating wherever you are with cake and balloons and hopefully feeling all the love that there is in the world for you

forever yours

Mum xx

My dearest Aoibh

On the 23rd April at 12.29pm you became a big sister to your brother Liam. He arrived screaming into the world and I couldn’t help but think of how different your births were.

With you we were in a different city, everything was pre planned and it felt that I gave birth in a crowded room. You came into the world with an uneasy quietness and we were only able to steal a moment of cuddles with you before you were taken away to lots of doctors and nurses. The only thing I hoped for with your brother was that it would be quieter, and thankfully it was. Just me, your dad, a midwife and hopefully you looking on from above. I tried to channel your strength to get me through and thankfully the delivery went as straightforward as these things can.

I would love to say that all the professionals I came into contact with while pregnant understood the impact that your life and loss has had on us. Only one midwife during my pregnancy asked about how I was coping, and acknowledged the level of anxiety that I was living with. Even during your brother’s birth I heard midwives handing over that you died due to ‘abnormailites’ and it hurt to have someone sum up all our pain so bluntly. But all that said I have always been determined to continue to share your story, and these experiences have only reinforced my desire to use our experiences to improve things for others in the future if I can. I’m just still working out how best to do that!

At the minute I am sitting cuddling your brother thinking how lucky we are to have him after everything and struggling to believe that he is here filling our house with love. I only wish that you were here sharing all of this with us.

I have no doubt that there will be many more challenges ahead on this parenting after loss journey but I know that I will do all I can to make sure that Liam knows his big sister and you will always be part of our family, our first born.

All my love

Mum xx

My dearest Aoibh

I have spent so much of the last few months thinking about this pregnancy and the differences compared to yours. I have thought about and pushed myself to be more prepared this time. I have bought more stuff, washed lots of baby clothes, set up the nursery and tried to let myself dream of what might be. But all these actions come with the fear that I might once more have to face packing everything away and cope with the acute pain of loss again. My mind, in a desire to protect me from future pain I guess continuously reminds me that things can and do go wrong, and if I’m honest it can be exhausting fighting that fear each day.

I am also conscious that should everything go to plan and we get to experience the joy of bringing a baby home, there is pain there too. One of the joys of being pregnant again is being able to compare your story with that of your little brother or sister. To think about how differently my body has coped with pregnancy, how the patterns of kicking etc is different and soon enough I will also have 2 labour stories to compare. However there is also a time coming when comparison will no longer be possible. I think one of most painful things about losing a baby is the loss of a future, the loss of all future milestones. I am so excited about the potential of being a parent again and getting to experience those milestones with my baby, but I know I will always be thinking of what you have missed out on each step of the way.

I also can’t ignore the fact that the world we are living in currently was unimaginable just a few months ago. Due to coronavirus pregnant women are now facing pregnancy with less support and I have had to think of the potential that should your dad get the virus he would not be allowed at the birth. I am also aware that following the birth we have been told to self isolate again and that no visitors are allowed. I am sure I will look back on this pregnancy and think about antenatal classes being cancelled, going to antenatal appointments where I have been ushered quickly through empty GP surgeries to be seen, or having an appointment with a consultant who is wearing full PPE for a routine scan.

All I can hope for is that I get to labour without me or your father coming into contact with the virus, and hope that we won’t have to wait too long before we can properly introduce your little brother or sister to the world.

And for now I am just sitting writing this in the middle of the night, thinking of all the hours of sleep I also lost with you at the same stage of pregnancy. I am trying hard to not be too anxious about labour and hoping that you will be there keeping a close eye on how things are going. I would also like to ask you to make it a pain free experience but I think that may be pushing my luck!

All my love

Mum xx

My dearest Aoibh

It has been a funny few months since I last wrote to you, full of hope, fear, relief, anxiety, grief, happiness. In August we found out that you were going to be a big sister. In that moment I was awash with both relief that we had a chance to be parents again, and fear that we might have two babies whose stories end the same way.

Pregnancy after loss is pretty exhausting and confusing. I live for the moments that your little brother or sister kicks me, and then as soon as the moment passes I hold my breath until the next kick, the next bit of reassurance that life continues to grow inside me. I like to imagine that you are there somewhere being a wiser older sister, advising that your mother is a little highly strung and the easiest option is to just kick, or be plagued with poking and prodding.

I have found myself worrying about not only heart conditions, but also all the other reasons I know why babies die. I suppose that is the scarring of trauma, my mind’s go to is to decide that the only possible outcome for me is to have to say goodbye to another baby.

A few weeks ago your dad and I sat in a familiar waiting room waiting for a doctor to see us, the same doctor who told ever so gently that you had TGA . I had prepared myself to be told the same thing again this time, geared myself up for sympathetic faces and apologies. Thankfully we didn’t hear those words. The doctor was as great as I remembered him. He told us quickly that the baby didn’t have TGA, done so with a gentle smile, and a quiet acknowledgement that the appointment was an important part of our journey, but not the full story.

For now, I am trying hard to focus on the potential that we might bring your little sister or brother home. I have went through your stuff, working out what we might use, and made a list of what we still need. I’m working hard to embrace the hope and allowing myself to dream of the ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’. I think the key is holding onto my belief that as long as I have you to guide the path, things will be ok in the end.

All my love

Mum xx

My dearest Aoibh

Happy 1st birthday my darling girl. Today I have spent the day thinking of all the different parts of your story; from our arrival to the hospital in Dublin, to my labour and your arrival into the world, to your transfer to the children’s hospital and then, after 2 short days having to say goodbye to you.

I hate that as time moves on I struggle to remember all the details of those days. I vividly remember the moment you were born and how for a brief moment they let me hold you. I can still feel your warm skin on mine. But then I can’t properly remember our final moments together. I don’t know if I spoke to you, or told you how much we love you. I can only hope that you felt our love in that moment.

I have learnt a lot about myself and about grief in the last year. I have realised that grief is in no way linear, instead it is like a scribble on a page, sometimes hard to predict when the pain will hit or when you will get to the other side. I can remember in those early days without you wishing that the pain would lessen. But weirdly now I look back and sometimes miss those days, miss the comfort that comes from being so close to the loss and all the memories of you.

I miss you every day, it’s hurts that we will never celebrate a birthday together and I will never get to watch you grow. I also think of the fact that one day hopefully our family will be larger and you not get to be the amazing big sister I know you would been.

I have definitely changed as a person in the last year, and learnt a lot about myself and that is all thanks to you. I know in my heart that you are keeping an eye on all of us, and you will always be our guiding light. You are the reason that we keep pushing forward and being grateful all the rainbows on our path. I promise that we will celebrate your birthday every year by eating cake and thinking of how lucky we are that we got to have an angel like you in our lives.

Love always

Mum xxx

My Dearest Aoibh

This week marks a year since we found out that you had a heart defect. In my mind I can still see the waiting room and the room in which we were given the news with crystal clarity. I can see the doctor’s face the moment that he saw something wasn’t right on the scan, and the look of realisation on the face of the radiographer standing behind him.

I cried as soon as the doctor said the words ‘heart defect’, before I had even heard the words ‘TGA’, and  ‘heart surgery’. The first of thousands of tears to be shed. Tears for you, tears for me, tears for an uncertain future looming in front of us.

Sometimes I think of the person I was before that day. A person so confident that everything would be ok that I initially planned to go to the appointment by myself. A person who had no concept that things might go wrong and was sure that it was going to be a wasted journey. A person who thought her biggest concern was working out which hospital would be easier to get to when I went into labour and whether or not I could manage labour without an epidural.

And then I think about the person I am now. Some days I am proud of the strong, resilient person that you have taught me to be, but on other days I am jealous of the person that I was. The person who was blissfully naive about the future that lay ahead, and I am angry that I will never get to be so blissfully naive again.

Finding out about your diagnosis feels like it happened years ago to a different person. I suppose in reality it did happen to someone else, someone, that if I completely honest, I don’t really remember or recognise. Although with that said I have no real desire to be that person again, because to be her would mean changing you, and being a heart baby is part of you.

Your story is much more than ‘heart defect’, ‘TGA’ and ‘she died’. It is a story of love, strength, family, parenthood, and hope. Sometimes I get caught up in the idea of your story being short, but I think I am beginning to realise that your story hasn’t ended, you have just handed me the job of writing the next chapter. I hope this next chapter includes stories of raising awareness about your condition and supporting others to see rainbows through the clouds, and more than anything I hope that in time perhaps you will have a brother or sister who can help us write a few chapters too.

All my love

Mum xx

 

My dearest Aoibh

Its hard to believe how quickly time passes. This morning I looked at your letters for the first time in a long time. I can’t believe that we are now closer to marking your first birthday than we are to when we first said hello.

The last few months have all been about the ‘normal’, in particular getting back to work full time. Having structure and routine have definitely helped, and getting back to work is a huge goal achieved, but with that comes the implication to the outside world that all is ok now.

In the early days of losing you I just wanted to get through. I wanted to stop the tears and somehow get rid of the ball of pain in my heart. I wanted to show the world my strength, show myself that I could cope, show you my love by not giving up. Now, in a strange way I miss those days. I miss having space and time to sit and think about you, to talk about you, to daydream, to cry.

For some reason I had decided in my own head that I would know I was ok when the tears stopped. I realise now, with the help of a psychologist, that tears are in no way a measure of how well I might be coping. I spend most of my psychology sessions crying, and that’s ok. I cry because of how much I miss you, I cry when I think of how short our collective story is, I cry for the might have beens and I cry for what the future may or may not hold for us. And after all that, I feel ok.

I used to think that I knew what the consultant in Dublin meant when she said that we would never get over you, but in time we would learn to grow around you. I think I am really only just beginning to understand it now. It’s not easy to find a way of embracing life but also allowing space for grief to lead the way. It’s hard to allow those things to co exist, but I know that there is a way, I’m just at the beginning of figuring it out.

As always I think that it is mainly the love and support of others that guides me through. I think sometimes people worry about sharing their happy times or sad times with me, maybe they worry that I’m not strong enough yet to deal with either. But life is all about those moments and it feels like a privilege now when I can share those moments and walk with others a little while, just like they did with me.

I certainly haven’t got this all figured out yet, and there are definitely still days when I have no idea how to move forward. But there are also days that I can smile, laugh and be happy, and that’s ok too.

All my love

Mum xx

 

My dearest Aoibh

Ever since you left us I have hoped that you would show me a sign, anything that would let us know that your spirit still exists somewhere and is keeping an eye on us, gently guiding and reassuring. What I wanted most of all was to see you in a dream. I imagined that in that dream we would be doing all the things we didn’t get to do; sleepy mornings together, walks and games in the park, cuddles at night.

I can remember in the early days someone said to me ‘I suppose you are dreaming about her all the time’. I wasn’t and it made me angry. Angry at my own consciousness for not allowing me the relief of seeing you again, angry at myself that maybe the fact that I wasn’t dreaming about you meant I didn’t love you as much as I should or that I was less of a mother. In my most warped days I was even a little angry at you, that in some ridiculous way you had made a decision not to appear to me in a dream.

I then read that some believe that loved ones do not appear in dreams in the early days of grief as it would be too difficult and our minds are protecting us from being re-traumatised. This gave me a little comfort and I told myself that you would appear when both you and I were ready.

A few weeks ago a received a letter from you in a dream, it was short (not like my own long ramblings to you) and it told me that things would be ok. I wondered whether a letter was all that my mind would allow me to have. But then a few nights ago, completely unexpectedly you arrived. It certainly was a strange dream and some would say it was sad, reminding me of all I lost and could not get back, but to see your face and see the smile that I will never get to see meant everything to me.

Life has been busy recently, I have done a few days at work and for the first time in a long time I have had to actually put things in my diary again. All these things are open to interpretation but I choose to believe that the dream was reassurance that grief and ‘normality’ can sit side by side, that it is ok to keep going and pushing forward to find my new normal.

I suppose this is just a very very long winded way of saying thank you, thank you for showing me your smile and letting me know that you are ok, what a wonderful gift.

All my love

Mum xx