Being a Mom without a Mom

This piece should probably be called being a person without your person, because I don’t think missing Mom has been harder since Finley arrived. If anything he has helped. By becoming a new person in my world he has made the gaping hole she left just that little bit smaller. This piece may ring true to some of you who have lost a person though; maybe you have felt similar or maybe you have felt differently but for some reason I decided that now is the time to share my first experience of loss.

My Mom died of a heart attack in December 2001. I went to my Saturday job that morning, my Dad arrived to it in the afternoon and had to tell me that his wife, my mother, was dead. He had to do that five times in total, to each of my four siblings, one of whom was pregnant. I remember walking out of the shop into the street decorated for Christmas and I couldn’t breath. The wind had been knocked right out of me and would take a long time to return.

Before I continue my Dad is more of a hero than you even think he is right now and so I know he won’t feel left out in this piece because he knows what I think of him. He has been Mom and Dad for 15 years, he even used to buy sanitary products for me and sister in the weekly shop (thanks Dad), He did everything possible to ease the loss and ease it he did. He has now taken up the role of being Grandad and Nanny and is doing so with aplomb.

So Mom. I keep starting a sentence with when she died and then deleting it because…well what about when she died? When she died so did the future that I had been planning. When she died I lost the chance of just being 18, of just being 19, of just having my twenties. Death had knocked on my door and left it ajar. I was acutely aware that life can end, with one missed beat of a heart it can stop. It’s very hard to live in the moment when you know that that moment may be the very last you have.

As strange as it may sound I have had to work hard to accept that I would probably see the night, and the morning, and I would probably see the weekend. I had to relearn how to make plans expecting to keep them. Your brain, or at least my brain, tried to protect me from the shock I suffered with her death but in doing so it prepared me for everyone’s death, that’s a pretty exhausting way to go about your day. It’s also exhausting to be the partner of someone who lives like this. If my now husband didn’t return a call quick enough I would get anxious and I would be angry at him for making me wait. To this day when I get a call from a family member that I am not expecting for a brief second I am scared to answer. It’s unfair and it sucks for all involved, it’s hard to ask someone to buy a litre of milk when they are talking to you as if you might be the grim reaper.

When Mom died I suffered from fits which damaged the nerve in my right arm and meant I could no longer write like an adult should, I would write maybe two or three words at a time and then my arm would freeze and I could do no more. Every time I tried to write I cursed her and so in the months following her death I missed her, I hated her, I grieved for her, I begged for one more moment with her and I blamed her for not letting me have it. When she died I spent some portion of every day sitting and thinking about her face and her voice because I was so scared of forgetting them. When she died I felt her face with my eyes closed so that I could store it to memory. When she died I wondered what the hell was I meant to do now?

For those of you who never met her she had beautiful cheekbones. Her whole makeup regime involved only black eyeliner and mascara. She washed her face with soap and used Vaseline as her moisturiser and she was glorious. She always took her glasses off for pictures even though she really couldn’t see without them. She organised a holiday every summer that would take us all around Ireland, once to Wales and once to France where my brother was made sleep in a separate tent including on a night that a storm arrived and he almost got washed away. God how we laughed, my poor brother. She made memories for us without knowing that we would spend most of our life reliving them without her.

Men loved my Mom. She was funny and beautiful, she was a great flirt (sorry Dad!) but I don’t think she knew she was. A few weeks after she died the oil man arrived, when we told him she died he had to come in for tea with sugar, he was devastated. Imagine when you die that your impact is so great even the oil man is in mourning. My Mom was a treasure and I didn’t even know it. As it turns out I want to be the kind of Mother that she was, I think that would probably give her a knowing laugh.

When Finley arrived I discovered how much she loved me. God that regret of never knowing or appreciating it. Of course she told me she loved me but hey I was 18, what did I care? A few weeks after Finley was born I was really sick and I was tired, and I cried so hard for her. Where the hell was she? How could she not stay to meet my baby, to meet the father of my baby. And the hardest thing of all is that I know, wherever she is, she’s asking herself the same questions.

So being a Mom without a Mom, being a person without your person? If you’ve never lost someone close then the experience of it is far more encompassing than you think. It affects more parts of your life for longer than you can probably appreciate. You may not need to hear that but it might help with the level of empathy you give someone, and for how long you give it. When you wake up ready for your day I wake up ready for mine missing Mom. Every day feels like it starts with a -1 and while we may both end up with a +10 for an awesome day I’ve worked that little bit harder to get there. Every death, and every knock that follows hits hard because the foundation is already a little shaky. That’s what it feels like to me. Somedays I realise it, some days I don’t, but every day I remember she died. For every time you get a message, or a call from your Mom I don’t. For every coffee you have with her, for every dinner she makes you, for every smile she has given you I have not had this. And mostly now for every kiss she gives your baby, mine has received none.

How has it affected my parenting? I’m not sure because I guess I have nothing to compare it to. I know that it has affected every part of me and therefore it affects me as a mother. I know I’m anxious about getting pictures with him because I want to make sure he has them if I die. I write down how much I love him so that he knows how wanted he was if I die. Life becomes a little more about death than it should be. I accept that as Finley grows he will be interested in his Nanny but she’ll always be an abstract concept. I know that’s not his fault and I will need to not blame him for it. She will always be a part of my life but she will have never been a real part of his. Kids know what they can see, I have to learn to accept this.

I also know that I bathe in the glory of motherhood. I know that I haven’t fought with my husband as much, or he with me, because we are just so grateful to have this happiness. The joy Finley has brought us feels like a relief or maybe more accurately it feels like a release. Death is a leech, it hangs on trying to ruin your finest moments but the life of a baby is far more powerful. Finally something more powerful than death. In many ways life feels lighter and easier since he arrived, I can welcome back use of the word Mom now. It’s a small word when often used but it echoes loudly when left unsaid.

This piece feels very self absorbed and pitying, lets be honest that’s because it is. I’m writing this one for me, and for everyone who has lost a person and tries so hard to just get on with it. Perhaps Mothers Day inspired me. Also I’m interested in human experience, especially ones I have not gone through and so some of you may be interested to read this having never felt able to ask the questions.

And I want to appreciate that I’m here writing it because I was surrounded by wonderful people when it happened. The evening of Moms funeral my friends brought me back to one of their family homes and put on Shrek. I think they were probably worried that Shrek was a terrible movie choice but it has given me my  single happy memory from that time. They were only 18 too and yet how they reacted to me from then to now was perfect. The first thing my sister did was to ask if I was ok, she too had just lost Mom but in that moment she cared more about me. My sister in law sat beside me when the coffin was brought into the house, and my brother held me as my fits took hold. I like to think that each of us has protected each other and I hope this is Moms legacy, she created a family to love each other and that we do.

Hmm how do you finish a piece like this? I want to finish it by telling you to love your Mom or your person more, to tell them that you do, to listen to them when they say it back, to create memories with them, to let arguments go and not waste time but I’m saying all of that because I still live as if I will die tomorrow….maybe though instead of that being a curse it is actually a blessing?

You, Me, He and We

Sometimes I can’t decide if the world shows just happiness or just sadness. Social media is full of everyone's bright moments which makes it hard when you’re struggling, but yet we also only read about death and despair. So I write about my struggles hoping they will help someone else, but now I want to write about my sunshine because that can be helpful too. I forget, or maybe I remember but feel guilty, that it’s ok to be happy. Its great in fact, it should be celebrated, banked and cashed in to bring us through those times that are less joyful.

You

Before I got married I read about the pitfalls of being married. Websites are very helpful for laying out the Top 10 things to avoid if you want a happy marriage. They eagerly point out the roles we should play, the reasons we stray and how to make sure you know when your partner does. And then I got married and I forgot what was on which list and I was me, and he was he and we were happy. 

Then I got pregnant and I read about how much stress a baby places on a relationship. People eagerly share the impact that a baby has and, sadly, at times I did worry about us. Would we love the baby more than each other? Can a bubble grow or does it just burst? Would I resent my baby or my husband if I was given less love and our new person was given more?

And then Finley Winston Doyle arrived and I discovered that bubbles grow and grow. That love grows and grows. That your heart doesn’t increase in size to accommodate just the baby, but also the person standing terrified with you. I knew my husband would be a great Dad so that wasn’t a surprise, I had just never thought of how him being a Dad would change him as a husband. Of course there are pressures, my god we have driven each other mad. Sleepless nights, painful days. A baby who couldn’t tell us why he was sad, a partner who couldn’t fix it. Everyone is right, it changes things. The websites aren’t lying…the lists are real but they are incomplete. 

They need a but. A big movie style BUT.

You will cry, you will hate each other (a friendly version of hate), you will fight over abstract emotions that neither of you really feel BUT you will laugh so much. You will lean on each other and feel the strength of your teammate. You will trust the love you have. You will collapse into the history you share like a safety blanket, wrapping you in belief and helping to reenergise your determination. You will see your child love his parent and you will see why. You will look at this person you created together and sometimes that fact alone will leave you breathless. A whole life that exists because you chose it to. You will be proud and you will be content and you will realise that those feelings are very under rated.

He

Our boy. I don’t even know what to write about him, I am not a great enough writer to give him justice. Sometimes it feels like I can see my emotions and so here is my best explanation of being Finleys Mom. In the days following my Mothers death I lay on the sofa in my dressing gown and I recall a feeling of blackness around me. I can remember the feeling still, it just felt dark. Finley is colour, he feels like a deep breath, my love for him extends like a universe. This morning I turned to look at him; he was clapping and smiling to himself, then he saw me and just started to laugh; in that moment life felt complete. My greatest fear now is that he may not know my love for him. That fear in itself is a privilege, because instead of feeling like I have no future I worry about how long my future will be. I accept how lucky I am to experience that.

And We

My family. I am a mother, I am a wife. Some days I feel very far removed from the person I want to be, sometimes I feel like this person is exactly who I have worked to become. Motherhood does that to you. It’s hard to merge your new identity with the feeling that you don’t have one at all.  Right now I’m happy for my priority to be my family, I know it will come back to being myself but until then I’m going to enjoy the simplicity that life with a baby brings.

What’s the point of this piece? Well it’s not to brag. It’s not to sit smugly. It’s just to say that I’m happy and I feel lucky to be. It’s to try counteract some of the lists, some of the dread and the fears. It’s to recognise that while both take work, marriage and parenting are great decisions. That a baby can have a positive effect on a relationship, it just sells more ad space when we talk about the negatives.

This isn’t everyone’s experience of course. I needed to represent my story though because this life, especially on social media, needs a bit of balance.

p.s You may have noticed the chirpier tone of this blog. Yes my friends Finley now sleeps. Love is alive, the sky is blue, the birds sing sweetly once more. 

Silent Ref(l)ucks

Remember I said I would be writing more, and then I didn’t. And then I did…..but inevitably I didn’t. Well here I am again hoping I’ll write more. I have missed the cathartic nature of writing, I have needed it more than ever the last few months but the reason I’ve needed to write is the reason I haven’t been able to.

Finley is almost 7 months old, seven whole months. Jesus. The last time I wrote things were tough and I told you about crying in my yoga class. Well turns out that was the beginning of the end of my sanity! As I suspected our poor bub had silent reflux which is probably a symptom of his cows milk protein intolerance. Basically it means he (and we) spent at least 16 weeks dealing with acid travelling up and down his oesophagus (it’s silent because he swallows it back down rather than vomiting). Medication helped and stopped the nights of non stop crying however many more tears were to follow, evenly divided between me and my boy.

So straight up silent reflux is a temporary issue which babies grow out of. It’s not life challenging or life limiting, it didn’t require hospital stays for us and therefore it is minor, almost insignificant, compared to what other people face. I absolutely accept that and it was my mantra every day. What it did do though was send me to a place of exhaustion and stomp on my fingers every time I tried to climb out. All new parents are exhausted, you know that – we say it all the time. We say it so much it’s boring, what did we expect? We tell expecting parents with glee – oh just wait for the exhaustion, you think you’re tired now? We scoff. Well reflux tired is different. Reflux tired is being kept up all night by your tormenter and then tending to their needs every day.

Wait, stop. Finley is not a tormenter, I know that. Finley spends all day smiling and laughing. He holds my face in his tiny hands and kisses me constantly. Everything I do makes him laugh, he’s the most rewarding audience I’ve ever had. He is literally a standing ovation (well maybe not literally since he can’t stand, but you know what I mean). He takes his medicine laughing, he changed to bottles laughing, we should have named him Joy and just have let him deal with the consequences. However the first hour of the morning I've had to accept another new day and the last hour of night we have had to ready ourselves for the lack of sleep to come. I have had to remind myself that he is not a tormenter, he is my gift, an accumulation of every good we had done in our lives given back to us in a beautiful package. This is the greatest test of reflux, to separate the baby from the circumstance.

What has made it so hard though? Sometimes I don’t know. Tiredness is a tricky beast, it takes over everything even your memory. I know that every day I was exceptionally happy, I know that Finley never got the brunt of my tiredness but I know that Brian did. I know that the three of us danced in the kitchen together every night, I know that every day Brian got a picture of Finley being adorable, and I know that almost every morning he had to see me have one little cry to help me get it out of my system. We have been hellbent on not letting it take over our experience of Finley and it hasn’t. Day to day has been glorious still, but somewhere amongst it all I developed a slight anxiety of night times. The anxiety probably made them worse than they actually were because I started to fear the night and what it would bring, even the times when it ended up not being so bad. It also made me slightly unreasonable when it came to letting go of control and allowing Brian to help more.

Thankfully I think (please god let it be true) we have finally got Finley settled on the right formula, his medication has the reflux under control and so we moved him into his own room to see if it would help with his wakenings. I very quietly whisper this but it has. Due to a foot injury and being unable to rock him asleep I’ve also inadvertently started sleep training and the last two nights he has woken only once. Immediately things are better for me, which is where we are blessed that it was only reflux we have had to deal with. And that brings me back here, to write it all down and document another new part of parenting that I hadn’t expected. Parenting has been a struggle at times, thankfully though Finley, our baby, has not.

And you Reflux, you can go f(l)uck yourself.....see what I did there?

PS: my next blog is going to be such a happy one. It's going to be a giant brag about my life, so much bragging you'll need a vomit bag just to get through it.  

Oh I’ve cried…

Haven’t you? 

Today I cried in my yoga class. Yep it happened. Every class our lovely teacher asks us how our week has been and instead of my usual witty (in my opinion) response today I started talking, choked up and could barely finish. The. Shame.

Why? Well we’ve had a few bad nights with Finley. He suffers with trapped wind which I mentioned in my b(r)estfeeding post and it has since become worse. He hasn’t slept for the past three nights and not only is this slightly tortuous and exhausting (which it really is) but I think the tears were based on my inability to cope with seeing him in pain. This is one reason I cried.

Let’s get something straight though; I’ve cried many times before today. I have probably cried once a week but often it’s just tears streaming down my face and usually because I’m too tired to hold my emotions in. I’m not sad, I’m not upset, in fact they often come because I’m happy and also, I just need to cry sometimes. This aspect of motherhood has been a slight revelation to me and possibly the most fascinating part of this new life. There is an ebb and flow of motherhood that has meant I have had tears rolling but felt extreme joy at the same time. Finley just needs to look at me and my whole body fills with a joy I couldn’t create for myself. It’s not even joy, it’s a feeling of contentment and satisfaction that I did not think achievable. They seem like such boring words to use when talking about my son but to me they are golden. To be content, fully content and happy, is priceless to me.

So, the tears are nothing new, but letting them out in front of my yoga class was unexpected. I’ve been trying to figure out why it happened today. One reason is I’m completely exhausted. When I say, he hasn’t slept I don’t mean he hasn’t slept more than two hours, I mean he has 10 – 20 minute blocks and is then awake upset and in pain. Still though I don’t think that is why I cried.

One theory that is dawning on me as the day progresses is that I cried out of disappointment. I have tried so hard to enjoy every moment this beautiful child has brought. On the days that have been hard I have taken a moment but always could put the smile back on and go forth in positivity. This week I haven’t been able to. This week motherhood has kicked my ass and that has been slightly devastating. I wanted to bask in every glorious moment and, if I’m honest, I thought that if I let my defences down, and admit that it’s been hard people would worry about me and think I am overwhelmed. Its ridiculous I know. I don’t even think it’s a pressure that has been put on me but rather one I’ve given myself. When people have told me I’m a natural, or that motherhood suits me I literally grow in stature. I am a natural aren’t I?! It really does suit me you’re right. I guess that I didn’t allow for the picture of a happy, natural Mom to be one that cries….in her yoga class.

This week however has expanded my horizons on what kind of Mom I want to be. I see now that being a successful parent means having moments and days that are kinda crappy and admitting so. I know we live in a world where we are open and honest but sometimes as parents and Moms, and women we aren’t always as honest with each other as we could be. So here I am feeling tired, mortified, with my resolve slightly bruised but not defeated saying I have cried, haven’t you?

B(r)estfeeding?

So breastfeedng is a bitch right?! It’s the least natural ‘natural’ thing I’ve ever done. I don’t even know if I continue to do it because I love it, I’m too lazy to formula feed or (which I hope is the reason) I know that it’s working for my baby and so I am persevering through all the pitfalls we have encountered out of blinding love and adoration for him. This week however, like an oasis in the dessert, I see a bottle of formula in my future and I am slowly crawling through the dry sands to reach it.

Let’s start at the beginning. Finley arrived into the world and latched like a boss. He was straight on, feeding away and his latch was worthy of a primary school teachers gold star sticker. We came home in a haze of glorious love for each other and our brand-new baby boy. Two days in and we were rocking parenting. Then the public health nurse arrived and to my shock and horror my 10lb baby had lost weight. BUT… WHAT? Aha fear not said Dr Google, this is normal and he will regain it in no time. We continued to feed round the clock and the PHN returned….dear god not only was he not gaining fast enough, he also wasn’t doing enough poos. MY BOOBS ARE EMPTY I cried, I am starving my child I wept, everything is terrible and nothing will ever be good again I lamented. Disclaimer: our PHN was so lovely however the constant weighing and calls about pooey nappies truly made me want to return to the hospital and make them show me how to keep my baby alive. **Spoiler Alert** He is fine and it was all normal.

So, all babies lose weight straight after they are born. Babies that are formula fed tend to put it on faster while breastfed babies have to wait for the milk to arrive and thus it can take longer. Also, the poo will arrive, don’t you worry Mama, it will arrive good and strong and you will laugh at the day that you fretted. Your baby may then poo many times a day, once a day or once every few days. Breast milk has little waste which is why it can vary from baby to baby and digestive system to digestive system. Remember, as you will have now been told 4 million times, every baby is unique.

During the never-ending weight/ poo drama (which lasted 2 little weeks until he was back to birth weight) I also began to feel an unusual sensation in my boobs. It was day 5 when I felt like there were lines of pain in both breasts and which I decided was my milk coming in. Hurrah! I thought, my baby shall be fed, but ouch it sure does hurt to feed him. This pain got worse…and worse. I cried many times. Dr Google said cracked nipples…bleeding nipples…air your nipples, keep them dry. I walked around the house for days with my boobs hanging out, telling my husband not to look at me as the last shards of my dignity packed its knapsack and scuttled away, too embarrassed to be seen with me. Then Dr Google told me I might have nipple thrush. Yes you heard me, thrush IN MY NIPPLES. Well that’s wonderful. Off to the lactation consultant we went. She showed me how to latch Finley and suggested a treatment for my nipples which was two types of cream on the nipples to be washed off before feed. Considering my baby fed approximately 4,000* times a day this was a pain in the…nips. *(may be a slight exaggeration)

I persevered but alas the pain only got worse. I was then diagnosed with ductal thrush. Yes you heard me, thrush in my milk ducts. One dose of treatment…nothing. A second dose of treatment…nothing. However just for the craic I also got mastitis during this week. That was fun and probably caused by bad feeding techniques due to the spears of hot fiery pain coursing through my breasts. Antibiotics were taken and a new strong 2-week treatment was given for the thrush. Hurrah it will be gone. But wait…what is this constant burn in my nipples you ask? Ah well it turns out that underneath all of those pains I also have extremely sensitive nips inherited from my Mother who passed away before I ever cared to ask about her breastfeeding history. I can tell you the temperature through nipple power alone these days.

And now, 15 weeks later, how am I? Oh well thank you for worrying, I’m super. Ha! Just joking. Our new dilemma is that Finley, due to a stuffy nose, may be getting too much fore milk which is making him gassy and screamy (is that a word?) and not enough of my fine creamy hind milk. Yes I have returned to the fore and hind milk issue. Sigh. If it does not improve I shall try a bottle of formula and see if that doesn’t work. If that doesn’t work then my son and I shall set off to the Caribbean and share a cocktail made on coconut milk which, if you believe popular culture, appears to be the answer for everything.

So after all of that jolly talk what are the lessons I’ve learnt? I’m going to number them to make sure you don’t miss an important lesson. You’re welcome

1.      Well breastfeeding is the hardest, most demanding, relentless thing I have ever done and yet I choose to do it multiple times every day and feel grateful that I have been able to breastfeed my baby. So I guess that shows the power of breastfeeding? 

2.      Breastfeeding is a choice. You shouldn’t feel like you have to do it, but you shouldn’t feel that you can’t either. It is incredibly rewarding and if you want to breastfeed you almost certainly can, you just need some guidance from a lactation consultant, some perseverance and a box of paracetamol to help.

3.      The marketing of breastfeeding is WAY off mark. Please be honest with us dear Government. If you want me to breastfeed show me the picture of the lady with her boobs hanging out to air dry while she cries into her pint of water that she desperately needs to be alcohol/ a comfort drink. I am yet to meet the woman who spent her time breastfeeding with a designer shirt gently resting midway down her arm, her freshly showered hair touching softly off her face as she gazes lovingly at her thriving baby. That might happen but for me.. and every woman I’ve spoken with this was not the case. Tell us it’s hard and brutal and lots can go wrong, then tell us how to avoid this. And remind us that it’s a choice and you can stop but that many women don’t and that it is worth it. The moment I accepted that I didn’t have to breastfeed was when I decided I wanted to and would keep going. Don’t give new Moms false expectations when the reality is so different and she will only find that out when she is exhausted, emotional and possibly sitting on a rubber ring because of extensive surgery to save her vagina (just me?) 

4.      Show me the… Lactation Consultant. Did you know that after having a baby you can’t be discharged until you ‘open your bowels’ (more on that another day)? Well in my opinion as a first-time breastfeeding mother you also shouldn’t be able to leave until you have seen a lactation consultant or been given an appointment for a satellite clinic. I honestly didn’t know that milk coming in wasn’t meant to feel like my breasts may fall off due to combustion until the lactation consultant told me.  Want me to breastfeed? Support me, guide me and make it possible for me to keep going. Not everyone has the money to hand out to a private LC and I would put money on the fact that those who can’t pay to see one may be the same people who stop breastfeeding despite a strong desire to continue. 

5.      I should probably mention dear breastfeeding mothers that I am unique in the amount that has happened. In fact I appear to be a leaflet of all the things that can be wrong, wrapped up in my two boobs to make it easier for you to hear all of the pitfalls in one story. You’ll be fine and you will most likely adore breastfeeding.

Movie Star Tears.

Today I am in a heighted state of pregnancy emotions. These emotions have led me to develop movie star tears which have appeared on and off since this morning. I am highly amused by these pregnancy tears; they gently roll down my face without any warning or sound. They glisten in my eyes, leaving no red rim, and thankfully do not harm my makeup. In typical Niamh fashion I have finally cracked the movie star crying code and yet I’m far too pregnant to break Hollywood (yes it is only my pregnancy that is preventing me from being discovered).

Anyways I think pregnancy tears are hilarious so have decided to bring you through my day so far. You may read these thinking there must be some exaggeration for dramatic effect but sadly that is not the case. Before you read them I would like to mention that I am in fact very delighted with life currently.

I cried movie star tears when:

• I thought my sleeping husband was annoyed at me. I had to wait for him to wake up in order to ask, turns out he wasn’t. Yes, I know, you’re right; it’s very hard for someone who is asleep to exhibit signs of annoyance however that did not stop me crying.
• I arrived at the bus stop and thought my bus had left early. It hadn’t, I got on it at the usual time.
• A lady was nice to me. My swipe card wasn’t working and she told me my day would get better when I had a coffee. That level of kindness was too much this morning.
• I got into the car after a packed Luas journey when no-one gave me their seat, even though I was holding my bump like the celebs do in magazines.

I wanted to cry when: (this means tears pricked my eyes but I didn’t let them fall)

• I wanted a muffin and bought one.
• I saw a picture of a premature baby born at the same stage as my baby is at now.
• I was worried that I wouldn’t love my baby.
• I thought about how much I love my baby.
• I had to ring my manager and was worried I would cry during the conversation.
• A lady power walked passed me during my lunchtime walk and I realised that she wasn’t really walking that fast.
• I saw children playing with swans in Stephens Green.
• I told my colleague about a day I forgot my keys to the office and it was raining outside.

While the movie star tears are most likely down to hormones, I am also slightly sleep deprived. Not only have I discovered the phenomenon of pregnancy tears but pregnancy dreams have also arrived full force. 

A few nights ago I dreamt that I was involved in a love triangle with Common and Xzibit (while still pregnant and married). We decided to work this problem out with the help of a mediator who turned out to be Robin Williams. Unfortunately the mediation came to an abrupt end when Robert De Niro shot us all. I rang my husband to say goodbye as I stood looking at the hospital he worked in. Sadly for me the hospital didn’t deal with those types of emergencies so I felt I shouldn’t go in and embarrass him. Not only was it a crappy dream but I woke feeling guilty about bringing Robin Williams back to life only to shoot him dead.

I’d like to think that tomorrow will be better, but I really shouldn’t think about it too much, just incase I cry.

Fear of commitment.

As I write this I am 25 weeks 3 days pregnant. I weighed myself during the week, I still don’t know if that was a good idea or bad. I never weight myself in normal life, I just try on my skinny day jeans to see if I need to consider eating less. Unfortunately that doesn’t work anymore, those mock me when I try entice them past my knees. Anyway I appear to be 3 lbs up on the result given when searching for ‘weight gain at 25 weeks’ (I know I’m all for accurate, medically sound information). I’m not sure how I feel about those 3lbs – they seem irrelevant compared to the other XXX lbs I’ve gained (no I’m not ready to share with you) however I also feel those 3 lbs will be my nemesis post pregnancy when I try to fit back into my wardrobe, especially because those 3lbs are very likely to turn into XXX lbs (no I’ll never tell).

I actually don’t mind the weight gain or soft feeling of my body from lack of hard core exercise. I still feel sexy and enjoy my rounded stomach but I do see how pregnancy can be tough for people who care more about their physical appearance. It really isn’t a vanity thing I’ve decided, it’s more about confidence and self-identity than about appearing attractive to others. So yes basically I’m saying it’s not about you, it’s about meeee. Anyway there’s my tuppence worth on body image in pregnancy…what do you mean you didn’t ask for it?

The other thing I have realised this week is that I have a fear of commitment. Yes 25 weeks and 3 days pregnant is quite late to realise this however worry not – my fear of commitment is towards baby item shopping. I am in the head melting world of baby buggies, dear Jesus there are too many models and so expensive.  We’re planning to go second hand and so I have signed up for alerts when new travel systems are uploaded. I check my email, find the perfect one at a good price, nod my head, admire the bargain and then close the email. I can’t commit to anything yet. What if the Quinny isn’t as good as the Uppa Baby, better than the Joolz but non match the Bugaboo??  Do you even know what those words mean? For some reason because I had a successful fusion of egg and sperm I’m now meant to. It’s a terrifying and unpredictable world and I am among it without so much as an instruction manual (or bank balance to buy the Stokke which is so very pretty).

Amongst this fear of committing to buggies, baby clothes, nursery colours, drawers and cots I have realised a talent for committing to … blankets. Yes blankets. Possibly the least important item that is needed by a baby, (I mean you could put a towel on baby if you had to), however I have bought a blanket every time I’ve been meaning to buy a useful item on my list. I have blankets in grey, white, grey and white. Some are fluffy some are knitted, some are cute, some trendy. However all of them will fit and I’m almost certain I won’t regret purchasing any.

Blankets are safe, they are my friend, they are the accessory shopping on a day you feel fat. They don’t say anything about my ability to be a mother, they will lie there looking awesome and shan’t care what buggy there are seen in. One day I will drop one of these blankets, someone will pick it up and admire what a nice blanket I have. They will then see the glory of the child it is covering and I am entirely convinced won’t even notice that my buggy is a convenience shopping trolley. I guess what I’m saying is that it isn’t what’s on the inside that matters, but what you dress it up in.

It’s likely I have 4 – 19 more blankets to buy before I commit to any larger investment piece.

Where we are born.

It’s 4.30am and I’ve been awake for an hour. That’s a common occurance these days, sleep and pregnancy aren’t great friends but most nights they tolerate each other. Tonight….not so much.

Even though outwardly I will myself to go back to sleep, I do secretly enjoy these midnight wakenings. Winston (the bump – did I mention his name before?) tends to wake with me so I hold my belly and let him kick away. The peace of the night is a lovely time for this, it’s a blessing of pregnancy, maybe of motherhood. I feel like I have a buddy with me all the time, no more lonely sleepless nights. I hear this changes with pregnancy two and three though, you just want sleep then they tell me, I’ll wait and see. I hope I’ll always enjoy my baby connecting with me this way.

This week I’ve been thinking a lot about where we are born. I had a bad dream Monday night which involved ISIS and beheadings, I woke up scared and upset. The next morning I walked through Stephens Green to try get a bit of beauty back into my mind, it was a gorgeous morning and the park looked heavenly. I thought about the women waking up from the dream of my reality, into what had been my nightmare. Why where they so unlucky?

This thought occurred to me again tonight. I felt Winston kick away in my warm bed, in my warm home and I thought about the other pregnant women in the world feeling the same thing but in very different surroundings. I don’t know if I should ask how they got so unlucky, or how I got so lucky? The main thing that saddens me is that it really is about luck. How our lives are mapped out depends so greatly on the situation you are born into yet at times I feel like we lack the responsibility that this unfairness should bring.

I remember on my first pregnancy a pregnant woman from Syria was rescued trying to cross the sea into Greece. She had been the water for too long and, at the time of reporting, they were unsure if the baby had survived. To think that woman tried to change her luck, to deliver her baby in a better place, and ended up floating in the Mediterranean Sea. We know it’s not fair but we, I, let it happen. We sit here, I sit here, and we sympathise and we donate. We feel awful and we wonder what we can do to help; but we are selfish and once it is not happening to us, we are quietly accepting of it happening to others. 

Tonight as I write this on my laptop in my warm room, in my warm house, I am sure there are women in homeless shelters holding their bellies. Women fleeing religious persecution, in cities under the rule of barbaric terror groups holding their bellies. Women who have the same hopes and dreams that I do, but without the freedom to make them the reality that I can. Women who take a shot at freedom and end up in the freezing waters of the sea. Who send their children in boats to Europe, and find out they arrived dead on the shores.

To my mind this is simply because of where they were born. And I’m just sitting here writing about it. My own lack of action embarrasses me, I hope my child will do better to effect a change in this world, but I guess they may have different plans for themselves. What a wonderful thing about living in Ireland – they are free to do what they want without paying the price of their life.

I’ve written my healthy husbands eulogy

This title is going to have you believe that I am suffering greatly from severe pregnancy hormones and have decided to move to a female only camp and dance in the rain. Aha! That is not the case at all….well not 99% of the time.

I was inspired to put this down in words while I am still getting enough sleep to appreciate how much I love my husband. Ugh isn’t this post gross? I’m pregnant, happy and love my husband, that is anti Jeremy Kyle right there. I’m sorry. However I promise I do deserve this and I only know this because of all the times those options seemed so far from my reach.

I’ve been at a number of funerals. Some I attended to support the person grieving but many of them were because I was the person grieving. If you have read my other blog posts (although I appreciate I’m mainly talking to myself) you will see that I lost my own Mom when I was 18.  I met my husband 7 months later and was welcomed into the warm embrace of his mother soon after. Four years ago we also lost her; this came 5 months after the sudden death of a good friend. 6 months ago I then miscarried, losing our first baby at 12 weeks. Each loss chips away, sometimes you can build yourself back up but for me there are still chinks in my foundations.

But what I hope you see is that I really do deserve the pregnant, happy and love my husband moment, however I don’t take for granted that you don’t always get what you deserve.

So the eulogy.

It’s weird and I know it, however I think it is partly a response to the loss of my Mother. She died 10 days before Christmas from a heart attack. She had been fluey during the week and was going to the doctor on the Saturday. I rang the house on my lunchbreak from work to check in on her but no-one answered, I didn’t think too much about that. Three hours later my Dad arrived to my workplace, took me to a quiet room and told me Mum was dead. She went to the GP, was sent to the hospital and died right there on the bed just after she had arrived. There would be no goodbye hug or kiss; no I love you, no more chances to feel her skin warm. She was dead.

Since that day I am in an endless and sometimes exhausting battle with myself to not over react to real life. I spent some time afterwards not wanting to get close to anyone, then letting myself fall in love and subsequently fighting all my urges to wrap the people I love in cotton wool and try to never let them hurt or get sick. This is not healthy for me, but mostly it’s not healthy for them. A cold really is just a cold.

It’s this fear of loss, especially of sudden death, that has me thinking about my husband’s eulogy. I hate funerals but I also find great comfort in them. What I hate most is that of all the days in your life to be alive your funeral  really is the one. People talk about you with such love and compassion. They show how much they miss you in tears, in silence, in shock. They remember the greatest days of your life with humour and sadness. They forgive your bad days, and question why they ever felt anger towards you.

I have survived losses and sad days. I have suffered from seizures brought on by grief which took me years to learn how to prevent. I learnt to write again when those seizures damaged the nerves in my arm, and, I stood on the alter and spoke about my mother when I was 18 years old and absolutely broken. I know grief, I know loss, I know survival.

However then there is my husband and when I think of him (on those loving days) I do worry about how I can survive without him and what I need to do in life to ensure I will not regret upon death.

This is when I think of his eulogy; strangely it usually comes upon me when driving. I recall to myself the last thing we said to each other. The last touch we had. I remember the strength of his character, the gentleness in which he approaches our love and the loyalty that he gives to it. I think of how he cared for his Mom when she was ill, of his tears when our friend died and how he works to keep her memory alive. I think of stories from drunken nights, the dances we have together and the faces he pulls that make me laugh so hard I want to pee myself.

I think of when I told him we were pregnant with our first baby, how his beautiful magical face lit up. Then I think of how he treated me when the baby was lost. When I told him he should be with someone who can grow a healthy child, he told me there was no point having a child with someone else; it was only my child that he wanted to be a father to. I remember how he talks about our growing child now, how he sings to it and speaks to it and I’m pretty sure will also make this baby laugh until it pees.

I think of his long gorgeous body, his big eyes that I fall into and his juicy lips that I know so well. I think of how his hair feels when I rub it, how he smells and the sound of his voice which is like music to my ears. I think of seeing him when I get home, and then I think of what would happen if I didn’t. My heart quickens up and my breath burns. Of course I cry, every time I cry.

Then I go home and I tell him I love him and why, and I make another memory to add to my list. Most importantly though, I have reminded myself how much I love him and why. I appreciate what I have, I gain perspective into my life and what is important to me. It calms me to know that I have found a great love, that whatever the future holds I will have known a love that hurts to live without.

I hope to never walk a day on this earth without my husband, and he without I. Ideally old age will take us together, holding hands and slipping into sleep. However, what's important to me now is to know that he will have felt the force of my love, and that my words of love for him are not spoken to another without first being spoken to him.

Eulogies are a beautiful tradition but to my mind they are always said too late.

It’s all lies, featuring 24 weeks in one short blog post

God I’m useless at blogging BUT I think I am going to get better so I wanted to do a quick update, a recap if you will, and bring everyone up to date on me, my pregnancy and the lies that are told.

I will be 24 weeks tomorrow which I thought was 6 months but now I think that 6 months is 25 weeks. It’s all very confusing and yet it probably isn’t but math was never my strong subject. We had our big scan (the scan is the same size as a regular scan however I feel I must use the terminology that has been shared with me) at 22 weeks.

Scans still scare me since we found out about our miscarriage during our first scan, however this time the big difference was that baby had been kicking and somersaulting for a couple of weeks and so I knew it was alive. Of course I didn’t know if everything was ok and I had a very quiet voice of fear accompany me on the day. The sonographer was lovely, she took us through each part of our gorgeous baby and I gasped every 4 seconds including when we saw the kidneys which truly are just grey blobs on a screen. BUT THEY ARE OUR BABIES GREY BLOBS. She let us hear the heart beat and persevered to get a profile pic when it seemed inevitable that baby would not move it’s gorgeous hand from its perfect face.

The scan finished with her telling us that everything looked normal. Isn’t that just the most wonderful word when looking at a scan of your baby? Normal! Ahh bliss. I let out a deep sigh of relief and then read about counting movements and immediately found something new to worry about!

I’m feeling good these days. I’m not as tired, not as bloated, not as nauseous and not as worried. However as the pregnancy progresses I have encountered a number of lies that have been sold me to by this maternity world, ones that I would like debunk now.

The lies, myths & inconsistencies

The 12 weeks myth –such were the promises of wellbeing at the 12 week mark that I woke up on the morning of it ready to start marathon training. I was sold tales of ‘bursts of energy’,’ no more sickness’, ‘easing of symptoms’. Hurrah I thought, life will be back to normal. I will stay up late and watch movies. I will high five people on the street and drag a comb through my hair looking into the mirror. Then my old foe, 2 o’clock, arrived on day 1 of week 13 and the feeling returned. I was miserable, I was tired and I was bloated. How could this be I cried? They promised I lamented. THEY LIED. It took until week 16 to start to feel better, week 18 to really feel better. Screw you week 12; you were but a mirage in a dry desert of despair.

You won’t even miss alcohol – oh how you make me laugh. I remember speaking to friends about how to survive without a weekend glass of wine, ‘you don’t even miss it’ I was told. THEY LIED. Sometimes, when I’m all alone, I sit and think of the condensation on a bottle of chilled New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. I hear the sounds of the cap opening, or the pop of the cork, and the glug of the liquid as it pours into the glass. I feel the glass between my fingers and the first rush of flavour as it hits. And then I realise the best I can hope for is a non-alcoholic Erdinger which is mostly head or a glass of orange juice whose only winning quality is that it isn’t water. I miss wine every damn day.

You’re gorgeous – look I’m not saying you’re not gorgeous but it takes many months for that bump to develop and until then you will be obsessed with trying to round off whatever fat has been deposited on your stomach. My bump is getting there now at 24 weeks, until this point it looked kinda fat, as did my bum, my love handles and my arms. I only recently passed the milestone of having my bump bigger than my bum.   

Choose a healthy diet-  personally I could not choose any diet. For the first 16 weeks my appetite was such that it went from ravenous and needing to eat all the carbs, to ravenous and not being able to deal with life let alone eating. When you are tired, bloated, emotional and need to eat every 2 hours it’s hard to keep going for the carrot sticks. One of my snacks was always fruit or veg but the one 2 hours later and 2 hours before was most definitely carbs. Your body is no longer your own and you must learn to feed the animal (albeit a really cute cuddly one) inside.

Body confidence is not technically yours either – so I am curvy, always have been and will be etc. I have days I feel crap but usually I’m pretty confident. Pregnancy has been interesting…I really promised myself I would not look at skinny pregnant women and wish I was them…celebs included…and I kept that promise right until I looked at a skinny pregnant woman and wished I was them. Again most days I feel good and am really embracing my belly, however I do feel different. I have given my body to a greater purpose and it isn’t as easy as I haughtily thought it would be.

Babies don’t come cheap –  I feel like I’m back in the world of wedding planning except this time I’m only getting bigger and the party I have to look forward to involves sleep deprivation, vomit and must be tolerated alcohol free (see alcohol point above) Everything is expensive AND even if, like me, you are anti-establishment and plan to go second hand e’erythang you will be terrified of not buying new just incase something happens, and your recycled buggy flops in on itself in the middle of the sanitary towel aisle in Tesco. The point is when you add baby or maternity to a product the price is ridiculous yet you will feel the shame of not being able to afford the best even though you have fought against that feeling your whole life.

Needless to say pregnancy is also wonderful and joyous etc etc but watch out for those sneaky lies and the sense of shame that they can create.

I may add to this list as they occur to me. I shall be the debunker of myths, the remover of hope, the renewer of misery. Or something like that.

More gas and a hairy bush

We went to Spain for a week in February, I decided it would be factor 50 weather so packed every light summer item I possessed and no jacket….terrible decision. Turns out February really is still February in Spain, go figure. As well as packing light I decided to lighten up my personal load too. We were meeting a friend whose body fat percentage is less than the Victoria Secrets model at the moment they step on the runway. She’s fit and gorgeous and tight. Considering at 20 weeks I was unfit, passable and soft I decided the least I could do was defuzz so when standing next to her in the bikini (which we obviously didn’t wear – see February above) I didn’t also add spider legs to the list of differences we have.

I am not prudish and would happily walk around naked except for the risk of chilblains and upsetting other people’s lunch HOWEVER it turns out bikini waxing when pregnant is not for the faint hearted. Not to give too much away about the drapery, heavens forbid, but turns out red hair is the thickest of the hairs (wait, did I just give it all away there?). This coupled with me slacking off on my personal styling when bump had cast a shadow to ‘that area’ (it’s a dangerous place to bring a scissors to blind) meant that the beauty therapist had her work cut out.

She was wonderful and did not seem fazed by the task ahead; it was her job she told me. I don’t buy it though….I know she didn’t walk in to beauty school with hopes of one day waxing a pregnant woman’s ungroomed ginger bush, and, if she did, she needs higher hopes or lower hopes but most certainly different hopes.

So the wax; it was definitely more painful than usual and to her credit she was very, very thorough. We talked a lot which was helpful, it distracted the pain somewhat until of course she touched me and I wanted to immediately reverse my decision to have a child. Thankfully I now understand waxing is clearly more painful than childbirth so I’ll be fine. Anyway, the talking was dandy except that as time moved along I was anxious to remain silent in order to let me concentrate on the rather more urgent issue at hand.

Fellow people who have grown a child may sympathise with the slightly increased amount of errr windy pops that the body produces. Mainly these pop right out my delicate mouth which I can furiously apologise for while everyone laughs at the cute pregnant pops. Other times they do not pop out of my mouth but instead find other ways in which to escape free. (Thankfully this is usually when sleeping and my husband kindly does not let me know it has happened for fear of me breaking down in a mortified toddlers crying tantrum.) Quite quickly, while holding my knees to my pregnant and bloated stomach, I had a very real sense of danger to what could happen next.

Have you ever held your knees to your swollen boobs while another woman defuzzed your hootenanny? It’s not fun, it’s not mildly weird, it’s not even bearable. By the time she was finished I had 15 different apologies ready for the inevitable pop off that I was destined to allow escape while she was working. I was sure that holding my legs, talking about a holiday whilst sweating profusely meant that something would have to give and it was surely my digestive muscles.

Time dragged on, as I said she was thorough; I willed her to quit while she was ahead, get out while the going was good, SAVE YOURSELF SWEET GIRL. Eventually the magical words ‘we’re done’ arrived; she was going to step outside while I got dressed. I had done it! Success! I was smooth and still had some dignity left to lose in the delivery room. However friends, I tell you most sincerely I kept those legs up in the air until she was a safe distance away. God only knows how much of the universe I had been gathering during the wax and I was not about to release the lever of my legs to force it all back out while she stood in the room.

Long story short. Bikini wax felt great however every moment of it is seared into my brain forever more. Spain was wonderful, friend was even tighter than the last time I saw her and I spent a week in too little clothes unsuccessfully trying to do pregnant Chrissy Teigen on holidays.

Have a pregnancy

On Saturday I passed the 15 week mark. It’s a funny time of pregnancy isn’t it? There is definitely a belly but it’s not too prominent. You’ve reached the high of hitting the second trimester yet you (I) still fall asleep by 9.30 every night. The promised land of symptom free post 12 weeks has not materialised and then you realise it was really only a ruse used to get to week 12 without tearing your hair out. I totally fell for it… yet here I am still tired, still feeling sick and now happily aware that neither of these things matter at all.

This has been the epiphany of my second pregnancy. How I feel these 9 months (or is it 10 months? Pregnancy math confuses the hell out of me) is completely irrelevant. Sick, tired, narky? It doesn’t matter. Itchy boobs, stretch marks, weight gain? Pfff what did you expect? I, bolstered by Hollywood/ Instagram’s perception of the pregnancy journey, had me expecting flowing skirts in hay fields with floral crowns, bralets and a big beautiful belly. That may still happen however I’ve come to realise that whether it does or doesn’t is inconsequential to the purpose of pregnancy.

Pregnancy is about life, it’s about a woman’s body bearing a child. It is a job your body has undertaken on a 9/10 month contract with a really stressful 12 week probationary period. Hopefully along the way you have fields of gold, and moments of eating cereal off a rounded moving tray, but if not….it doesn’t even matter.

I’m sure that for some people this sounds depressing, unromantic, harsh but for me it’s been quite freeing. Knowing that what I’m currently going through is not meant to be of benefit to me is a relief. It focusses me on July, when all of this sickness, this exhaustion will result in a new future. A new human has to be the result of hard work right? It could never be a walk in the park.

I am sure this frame of mind is largely down to my miscarriage. My first pregnancy was certainly more romantic. The telling of my partner, the rubbing of a belly that hadn’t started to grow yet…all moments that I hold so precious. However the romance of that pregnancy did not lead to a little person. This pregnancy, which was very practical and unromantic for the whole first trimester, will hopefully result in the family we have been planning for.

Just to clarify I’m not saying happy pregnancies result in miscarriage…clearly…I mean please you know that? What I am questioning however is what would happen if we released ourselves from the pressure of loving a pregnancy; of rejoicing in it and shouting about how much we welcome the sickness for fear of anyone thinking we are ungrateful for this gift? That release – for me – has let me enjoy the pregnancy even more! It has taken away disappointment from the days when I feel none of those things.

There are so many forums on pregnancy, and in every one there is a topic where a Mom-to-be discusses how hard she is finding it, and the guilt that this brings. Before she even gets to sharing why she is finding it hard, she apologises for doing so. It’s an internal pressure that is compounded by external forces. Those forces are many – media, family and friends, and people like me who had a miscarriage or are experiencing fertility issues. When I had a miscarriage I couldn’t care less how much your pregnancy hurt you, honestly I wanted you to shut up complaining and be grateful! Yes I was am my own worst enemy!

I know this pregnancy is a gift and I dare anyone to challenge me on how much I appreciate that. I speak to my baby, I do everything physically possible to make sure it is safe. I will buy the dungarees I always dreamt of wearing when pregnant. But I will also know that whether wonderful or awful, this pregnancy is not about me. It’s about bringing life into the world. And that is the crux for me – remove the guilt you feel about the pregnancy not being all you wanted. It is what it is. It is wonderful or it makes you feel terrible. The end result is the baby, not the experience.

Hint though – don’t moan to those who want to be pregnant and are not. That just makes you a bit of an asshole. If you want to figure out who you can moan to read this and follow the logic, www.latimes.com/opinion/op-ed/la-oe-0407-silk-ring-theory-20130407-story.html

So in summary what am I saying? My message is Have a Pregnancy and don’t stress about what adjective to use until the end of it.

Could it be?

As you can see my great intentions to write post miscarriage stayed as just that….an intention. It was for a couple of reasons. One was because I was struggling with getting through each day and writing it down just seemed a bit miserable. Then amidst the struggle I found out that I was pregnant again and really had no idea what to feel let alone write.

Pregnancy after miscarriage, life after death, was a whole new learning. I want to say I was happy, I felt lucky, I had hope but I didn’t. I wasn’t sad, of course it was good news – but only if the baby survived which there was no way of knowing would be the case. I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to suffer another loss, I really didn’t want to have to be.

I was scared, I am scared.

On our first pregnancy I set up the scene of telling my husband, it was beautiful. I will never forget the look on his face. It was that memory that stung so hard after our miscarriage – to know that I had to let go of that moment because it no longer existed in the way it had. On this pregnancy I told him when we were changing the sheets on the bed. I whispered it and then we went to meet friends for the night. For the next few weeks we discussed very little about it, my choice more than his. He was happy but he knew….a positive pregnancy result can mean nothing at all.

I felt a lot sicker with this pregnancy, I was exhausted all the time. From 2pm until I gave up and went to bed I was sick. My appetite was insatiable, my boobs were sore and heavy. All signs of a good pregnancy and as the days and weeks continued a little bubble of hope was growing. At 8.5 weeks we had a reassurance scan, the name itself comforted me. The day arrived, the middle of December and the day before my Mothers 14^th anniversary, it’s amazing how we look for little signs when we need them. I couldn’t look at the monitor for fear of what I wouldn’t see but there it was, a beautiful blob with a spinning top in the middle that our midwife said was our babies’ heart. It spun around hypnotising us as it did. We had never seen our first babies’ heart beating so here was the first indication for me that things were different.

We left the appointment and I saw the face again. The joy of pregnancy, of a future, of our dreams realised. It was there on my husband. We wandered around Grafton Street in a happy daze. He kissed me under the Christmas lights – he held me tight, brought me into him and kissed me hard. It was a kiss to breath the life back into me, to show me that together we had been through the worst and here was the best.

The scan gave me the hope I needed to accept the sickness and know that this time it may not end with pain. We told family and friends over Christmas but I was still apprehensive. I didn’t want to be imprisoned by the fear that my miscarriage had left me with and sharing the news seemed like a step towards breaking free from it. I told people with my eyes slightly squinted though, as if I was telling bad news. I still couldn’t believe that I wasn’t. I planned for how we would follow up when the pregnancy ended again, I had conversations to this effect in my head so that I could be more prepared this time. My poor baby, it started life with a mother who had no faith in it. I feel so guilty for that.

On January 7^th we had a 12 week scan as part of our booking appointment. There on the screen appeared our baby. It was a tiny miraculous human dancing for its Mom and Dad. Its little legs kicked up to meet its waving arms. It moved so much the sonographer got different measurements each time. A happy baby was what we were told from a laughing consultant, our happy baby.

We left the appointment and for the first time in my pregnancy I rubbed my belly. I spoke to my child that had danced for me. I thanked it for showing us just how alive it is. I thanked our first baby for preparing my body to welcome its sibling, for showing me through its own death that without any doubts I desperately wanted, and was ready, to be a Mom.

So here I am now. 13 weeks and two days pregnant. I believe it is happening and while July is a terrifying amount of time away I have let myself accept that maybe this time I will get a rainbow from the storm.

It's a Motherfucker

I posted a piece about my miscarriage yesterday on Facebook. It was more about the experience of miscarriage rather than my own personal one – but of course it is personal as it must be. The last few days I have an urge (if that’s the right word) to be open about what had happened. Perhaps it was because I feel myself getting stronger. I think it’s also down to the weekend that just passed, it was a bit of a milestone for me.

I work for one charity and am involved on a volunteer basis with another – this weekend each had their biggest event of the year. When I was pregnant I had been so looking forward to the weekend so I could show off my bump to a large audience. I have always been a fan of the baby bump and of course the thoughts of my own bump to rub was almost too much to bare! As the weekend approached I felt really conscious that I had nothing to show of my pregnancy, and for those who I hadn't told they would have no idea of how everything had changed for me.

I find this concept so interesting. We look people in the eye every day and we really have no idea what is behind them. We treat people well, badly, rudely, kindly and we have no concept of how our behaviour towards them will affect them in that day. Having lost my mother when I a teenager I have been careful in my dealings with people, knowing that a brave face can look like a perfectly normal one to the person looking at it. As it turned out both events went extremely well, I was actually quite proud of myself but more than that I was grateful that I have a very full life and many people who enhance it.

Anyway back to the piece I shared on Facebook. I was apprehensive about sharing it – you never know how people receive such personal pieces and I have no doubt I have previously rolled my eyes at something I have seen. I wanted people reading it to know where it had come from. I wrote it as a person who is feeling more positive and optimistic about the future, but who remembered the fear of not feeling this way. The response was incredible, should I have been surprised? Perhaps not, people are nice which, sadly, is something that can be all too easily forgotten.

I received a number of private messages and mails, along with public comments of support and women sharing their experience. I felt validated in posting my message which in itself is quite sad, maybe it would have been better to be alone in my feelings. From the messages I received I learned that many women felt silenced, lonely and the word taboo was used a number of times. Isn’t that awful to think of? A person loses their child and somehow enters a world that can be labelled taboo. One woman said the response to her miscarriage had been negative, it hurt to hear that. My support system could not have been more encouraging, patient and kind. My family, my friends – every person I dealt with helped me to heal – for one woman to experience the opposite is one woman too many.

I’m not sure what can be done about this, what needs to be done and what I personally can do. Maybe with time I can figure out a way to help, or maybe the question is what is it that I am helping? Is everything perfectly fine with how we deal with miscarriages?

There are a few things I believe we humans could be better at doing. One is how we treat Mums & Dads who have had a miscarriage, the sensitivity and respect we give to their grieving. The weekend I miscarried we were also moving house…dreadful timing yes. My father-in-law came over to help, when I thanked him he replied ‘that’s what Grandads do’. I cried when he said that because I knew in that moment that he still thought of me as parent and my first baby, although unborn, would not be forgotten. Small things like that can be the difference between surviving a miscarriage and losing yourself to it.

Another is ridding the stigma surrounding them and, in my personal experience, around having an early miscarriage.

We all know that 12 weeks is a magical marker where we can stick on the microphone and publicly announce our pregnancy ‘Hear ye Hear ye’ etc.. I don’t really get that to be honest….but more of that again. However because of this golden rule of pregnancy when you do tell people before 12 weeks and then miscarry, there is a very gentle message whispered in the wind from some people that really you shouldn’t have told anyone yet now should you. There may even be a slight tilt of the head you would expect to get when you climb the wall you were told not to and then fall off.

Why is this?

Are they telling me that my baby didn’t exist before 12 weeks? That my hopes and dreams for this child were meaningless before 12 weeks. That the physical effects of the pregnancy on my body where phantom before 12 weeks? I hope not.

So why then should it make a difference that I tell you about all of these before 12 weeks? And why do we feel that a miscarriage before then should not be as cruel to the parents who experienced it?

All questions I have yet to answer and which maybe I never can. Conversations are good though and hopefully that Facebook post may lead to a rethink about what losing an unborn child means to the people who experience it.

Also as a side note: I’ve been listening to The Eels, It’s A Motherfucker…..I recommend it.

And then there were 2

First off if you feel people overshare on the internet this blog post is not for you. This is all about sharing. If you tend to roll your eyes and wish people could keep private information private then please close the page and return to your day. You are not welcome here.

If however you came about this page because, like me, you need to read about the pain, fear and isolation that miscarriage brings then I hope you get something from this. I hope at the very least you feel connected to someone else who has experienced your journey.

If you are pregnant try not be scared by my story. Look around you, look at all the people who once were babies. All the numbers point to your pregnancy being wonderful, healthy and ending with the greatest joy in your new child. This is for those of us who sadly did not get the same ending and the people who will be supporting us through it.

 Now that the introduction is over here is my story.

My Silent Miscarriage

The Emotional Truth

On Friday 28th August my husband and I went for a 10 week scan at a private scanning facility in Dublin. Leaving the house the last thing my husband said was 'Let's go see our baby'. I'll never forget that sentence, the reason I mention it is because that is where our frame of mind was. We were going to see our baby. We had booked a 10 week scan because we couldn't another 2 weeks to see our little future. 

During the scan it became apparent to me quite quickly that we were not seeing what we should be seeing. I saw my uterus, I saw the gestational sac but where my baby should have been, there was just vacuous space. I asked the sonographer where my baby was and why I couldn't see it. I didn't need her to answer. As I climbed off the bed and she wrote notes I looked at my husband. I clicked my fingers, banged my foot and really quietly said shit. What I wanted to do was peel off my skin, break open my ribcage and allow my heart to explode into pieces. That is no exaggeration, I felt the pain of restricting my heart from breaking as it wanted to break. 

We drove into Holles Street, my husband and I. The only sentence that touched the silence was 'I'm sorry' which we said to each other multiple times. Sorry for the pain each other was feeling, sorry that we had dared to believe, sorry that in our own pain we couldn't take away each others. Upon arrival in hospital we dodged the glances of the happier people, they also looked away as would I. When you are in that high it is too hard to be reminded that there can possibly be such a low. 

We met a nurse, I remember looking at her and feeling like I was a young child. I tried so hard not to cry, I tried to answer questions and to not to ruin her day by sobbing. At that moment in time all I wanted was the pregnancy to be out of me. I couldn't bare to be carrying around such a lie. My body had tricked me for weeks, made a fool of me and I wanted control back. I needed to just lie down, have it sorted out and wake up at a future date when we could smile again. I wanted control back.

Unfortunately that was not to be which I'll explain more of below. We were sent home to return the following Monday. As you can imagine sleep did not come that Friday night. I lay awake searching for answers, what would happen next. I wanted to read about the pain I was feeling, I didn't want to know that there would be other pregnancies, that 1 in 4 end like this. I wanted to know that it really was the end of the world. That people knew this was my 1 in 1, my 100%, I had lost the only pregnancy, the only baby I ever had and that it was not ok. I was looking for comfort in other peoples pain, maybe I'm weird or maybe that was just the depths of my grief.

The weekend that followed was sad. It was endless hours of shock and sadness but broken with the support and love of other people. We had told some family and friends about the pregnancy and let all our nearest and dearest know about the miscarriage. I cannot recommend this enough. You may be better at dealing with things in private and of course that is the best way for you, but if you are unsure, and if you have people who love you I would recommend sharing it with them. I felt very broken in the days that followed our news, I was unable to put on a brave face or keep up appearances and so in order for me to deal with what was happening I needed people to know. I needed them to expect nothing from me and to know that I wasn't being rude, distant or prickly, I was just grieving and all my energy was going to that.

Monday arrived and we met a lovely midwife who mothered us, something we greatly appreciated having both lost our mothers in years previous. She told me I was going to be angry with her but I would have to return a week later for another scan and then I would receive my options. This procedure is to give the pregnancy a chance which unfortunately for me was not needed, however it is a legal procedure which they must adhere to. The scan showed two sacs and one embryo, perhaps it had been a twin pregnancy but we won't know. She saw that some bleeding had started internally and so I may miscarry naturally. Again I was sent home with a longer wait ahead but with more information for me to process which helped.

The term silent miscarriage is because my body had continued to believe it was pregnant even though the pregnancy was not developing. I was told it was a good sign that my body really wanted to be pregnant. I did not feel that. Finding out at our scan felt cruel, I felt like a fraud, all those weeks acting pregnant when I wasn't. I wondered if maybe it was all in my head, had I made up the symptoms? Should I have known? I couldn't touch my stomach, I couldn't look at my body. It had fooled me so cruelly, I couldn't bare to be attached to the lie. Those feelings subsided, thankfully, I never blamed myself for the miscarriage but I still do struggle every so often with the feeling that I didn't know what was going on. Honestly I felt a tinge of embarrassment. How could I be so stupid and not notice? It was my body, surely I know when there is a baby growing and when there is not? Medically though my body did think it was pregnant, I try to remind myself of that. These were feelings my husband has been trying to help me with. He has been more than I could have wanted through all of this. I may write again about our partnership through this, I have been lucky to have a man that loves me, wants a family with me and so shooed away any regret I had for him being married to a woman who thought she was pregnant. 

The Physical Truth

I feel like this is important because we were sent home from the hospital on Friday with no information on what was to come. I know that the two things that could happen were a medical or natural miscarriage. The only way this could end would be in miscarriage however I had no idea/ have no idea what to expect from it. In my exhausted emotional state I started to really fear the physical side of this. 

I was worried about what we were meant to do if it started. How much blood loss was too much? How much pain was too much? What pain should occur? What pain is a sign that something is going wrong? The weekend seemed endless in time but thankfully I did not miscarry during it. We met the midwife Monday morning and she answered some questions below. I am sharing them with you incase you also have them.

The first thing she said was 'It will hurt, and you will bleed. You will need ibuprofen and paracetamol and very thick pads'. That helped, at least it gave me the information I needed to prepare for what was to come.

I asked if it starts at home should I come back in?

She replied that it was best to let it happen at home however if I had a moment of doubt or questions I was of course welcome to come back.

I asked how much blood loss would be too much?

She told me more than one pad soaked in 30 minutes. If I bleed more than that it would be worth returning.

Those two points of information calmed me greatly, small points but yet incredibly important. They told me I would not die, that pain was normal but either way I was welcome to return. 

Words 

Perhaps you are reading this because you know someone who is going through a miscarriage. For me personally I have not been offended by anything a person has said to help so please try not worry about the words you say. You are there, that is a big deal. I appreciate that their words have been said in kindness and by even wanting to speak with me they are putting themselves into a vulnerable position. Below are some things that I didn't really want to hear...but again that's just me and also I was not offended to hear them, it may give you insight into the thought process of the person you are speaking with.

That:

Miscarriages happen alot.

Man this feels like the end of the world right now, the fact they are common feels heartbreaking but really does not help me feel better, This was our baby, our pregnancy, March was our month to become a family. Statistics are meaningless at this moment in time. I want my pregnancy back.

You will go on to have a healthy baby

I do believe this is true however right now I had so many plans for this child I can't think of giving them to another. My first pregnancy ended without giving me my child, I'll never get that back no matter how many children I have. However I do know that we will be parents and I appreciated that people were just trying to help me see past this awful time. If someone is scared that their miscarriage means they can't carry a pregnancy soothe them with the truth that most people who experience miscarriage do go on to have healthy pregnancies and children.

What did help

When family and friends told me that it was awful; that they couldn't believe it was happening to us, that they couldn't imagine our heartbreak that really helped! For others to acknowledge the pain we were in felt so comforting. In those first few hours and days its hard to think past that specific moment in time and thoughts of the future are too much. Any words that acknowledged the loss genuinely helped make me stronger, I knew people weren't waiting for me to be back to my normal self, they were happy to be with me at my lowest time and would wait for me to return.

And now...

I am still at home waiting to miscarry, my next appointment is this week. Waiting to miscarry has been tormenting. I feel like I am under imminent threat, whether rightly or wrongly I have felt slightly trapped at home, worried to leave incase something should happen. Equally it is true that I have no great ambitions to leave the house. The whole process is cruel, its the only word I can think of that sits right. Miscarriage is cruel, waiting to miscarry is cruel. It does not discriminate, it does not give you answers but only questions. It tests your resolve to the extremes. As a woman it expects you to be both physically and emotionally strong enough to deal with it, it leaves no choices.

I never believed I would have one. For some reason I thought I would be spared which perhaps has added to the shock. Of course there is no reason I should have thought that. Getting pregnant is a miracle, it took us months and so why I should think I would be so lucky twice, to get pregnant and to keep it, I do not know. I do however have hope that next time will be different.

I plan to continue to write about my experience. In my opinion there is not enough information publicly available on miscarriages. Its hard to find out what really happens, how people really feel and I personally needed that. If you have questions about my experience please feel free to contact me, lets be honest no-one wants to be in the miscarriage community but in reality thousands of us are. We may as well help each other out.