It seems that every body has its breaking point; I reached mine yesterday and it was a boil on my leg. Actually, I'm not sure if it was the boil or the tiny cut on my little toe.
It made a lot more sense when I did a quick re-cap on the last 15 months: anxiety for our sick baby; grief; trauma x 2 (sudden end of business partnership and car accident); moving; change of climate increasing asthma to point where I need medication every day; pregnancy - not just pregnancy but one fraught with grief and anxiety as well as symphisis and insomnia; emergency caesarean; infection; effects of antibiotics on my newborn baby (upset tummy, unsettled, grizzly, not sleeping); ongoing bleeding from bladder; very painful haemorrhoids; a boil and to top it all off MY LITTLE TOE HURTS.
I feel like a punching bag and the blows just keep on coming.
It's school holidays and I can't sleep during the day with Rory and Sienna home.
Caira's taken to waking up at about 9.30pm and taking 2 hours to settle again, so I haven't been getting to sleep until about midnight. Even though looking after the kids isn't hard work as such (older ones entertain themselves, I don't need to "do" much for them and Caira really only needs feeding, changing, bathing and cuddling at the moment) I'm emotionally and physically exhausted.
The good news (for me) is that once upon a time I would have crumpled to the floor in a sobbing heap. Last night Michael hugged me and I quietly cried a few tears. We went to bed early (well, 10.00 instead of midnight) and I only woke up once, at 12.45 to feed Caira. Was completely oblivious to the fact that Michael was up with her for 3 hours after that, about 2.5 hours of which he was lying in our bed with her. Slept right through it. I felt awful that he'd been up so long but so very, very grateful that I slept. I know I wasn't up to being up last night. Michael told me all through the pregnancy that he wanted to be up with her through the night to let me sleep as much as possible. He wanted to take as much of the load off me as he could. (I kept telling him that since I would be breast feeding there wasn't much he would be able to do through the night, plus unlike him I can sleep during the day.) It still kind of surprises me after almost three years whenever I see him DO the things he SAYS. Not because it happens rarely - it happens all the time. I've just never known anyone else who DOES so much.
In a completely unrelated matter - I got an email from uni last week about my grade point average. Obviously mine is too low. I didn't complete second semester last year or first semester this year before taking an intermission for 18 months. I got an email stating that I needed to present a case to the uni for why I should be allowed to continue studying. I told them that I was on an intermission; that in first semester this year I was resuming study after complications in my pregnancy resulted in the stillbirth of my daughter but that I had found myself unable to keep up with my study due to grief combined with a subsequent pregnancy. (I got an email back saying I was fine to resume study in 2012 and that the email had been sent due to an automated system.) I cried and cried and cried. I hate still dealing with fallout from Kat's death. Daily (and forever) grief is something I've come to accept. Most days it's just a knot of awareness in the back of my mind that someone is missing. But then every now and then I have to more actively deal with it and it breaks the wound wide open again. I miss her so much. I wish so much that we could have all three of our girls with us.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
It's taken 10 days to get the chance to post this, but....
CAIRA IS HERE!!!!!!!!!!
She was born by emergency caesarean on Wednesday 1st December, her due date. My waters broke (in an absolute flood all around the house!) around 10.00 the night before. I'd been having irregular contractions for a few hours previously and almost as soon as we were in the car on our way to hospital they started coming every three minutes although only mild. I was in very early labour on arrival at hospital and five hours later, stretched out in a warm bath with essential oils and Michael brushing my hair, just as I was thinking that the last couple had been much stronger, contractions... just... stopped. We ended up getting a couple of hours sleep before I was induced in the morning. Contractions started again and I was assessed by the obstetrician who found that Caira's head was down but sitting high in the pelvis. It had been very low the night before. I was instructed to remain upright to allow gravity to help her come down. I spent the next three hours going between standing and swaying (sometimes with Michael behind me, his hands on my hips giving my back his body heat) and sitting on the birthing ball, leaning forward on the bed. It caused excruciating pelvic pain though, having to sit with legs apart in order to lean forward so I would sit until I couldn't stand it anymore and then stand until I couldn't stay on my feet anymore. Somewhere in there I saw the doctor again and Caira had turned sideways. Just before midday, after labouring for three hours and as I was requesting an epidural, the doctor came in to do another scan to check Caira's position. She was head down again. Immediately after the scan I went to the toilet and the doctor stayed in the room to do another scan when my bladder was empty. In just that few minutes, Caira turned around to breach. At that point, and with me lying there saying "just get her out, just get her out" the doctor ordered a Caesarean due to an unstable lie. Because my waters had broken there was no way for the doctor to turn Caira around again and even if she did turn there was no guarantee at that point with all her movement that she would stay in any one position.
So, an hour and a half later I had experienced the extreme weirdness that is feeling pressure and pulling on my insides, hearing snipping and knowing it was my body being cut but not feeling any pain and there we were in the operating theatre and listening to Caira's first cry. When we heard that sound we both burst into cry-laughter. We were holding hands, looking at each other and waiting to catch sight of our daughter and I was saying "she's alive, she's alive, we did it, she's breathing, she's crying, she's alive!" In that moment, despite those words, I wasn't actively thinking of Kat. This was Caira's moment and I was so excited to meet her. My over-riding emotion was utter excitement.
Caira was taken by the paediatrician for a check and Michael cut the cord. His first words when he saw her were "she's absolutely gorgeous". Nurses were telling me how big she was, that they thought she would be over 4kg. Finally, all wrapped in a blanket, Caira was laid down on my shoulder and Michael and I sat/lay together looking at our daughter. Her eyes were shut tight and she kept trying to open them but not doing it. A nurse came and shielded her eyes from the theatre lights and she opened them; we both saw that her eyes were the exact same colour as mine. She closed them again and the next time she opened them they were dark blue. Her hair looked red but once the vernix dried it was much fairer, more blond. It has started to fall out now and what's left is darkening. In some light it still looks red though. All in all she looks very much like me. And she wasn't over 4kg - she was 3768g or 8 pound 3.
She has been a dream baby so far. In her first week she had the usual second night feed and scream fest that they all have but otherwise she went five to six hours between night feeds every night and two to four hours during the day. She rarely cries - although when she does she really lets us know about it! The kid is loud! When we pick her up we could swear she's smiling. Michael's mum said the same thing. Her mouth kind of opens, her eyes shine and her whole face glows. One thing I have never, ever seen or heard any other newborn do... we will often go to check on her in the bassinette and she will be wide awake, just lying there happily looking at the side of her bed with her hand outstretched. The first time I saw it I was sure that my vision from all those months ago was true - both my girls in the one cot, one a newborn and the other a little older but still a baby sitting up on the left side (as I look at her) of her sister's head watching her.
The main other thing to write about now is that I was readmitted to hospital after a day and a half at home with an infection. I've been on antibiotics for a few days now and they've unsettled Caira, but nothing we can't deal with. She's crying a bit more and wanting more feeds but we are fine.
All in all she is an absolute delight. She's a beautiful girl in every way and we are so much in love with her.
CAIRA IS HERE!!!!!!!!!!
She was born by emergency caesarean on Wednesday 1st December, her due date. My waters broke (in an absolute flood all around the house!) around 10.00 the night before. I'd been having irregular contractions for a few hours previously and almost as soon as we were in the car on our way to hospital they started coming every three minutes although only mild. I was in very early labour on arrival at hospital and five hours later, stretched out in a warm bath with essential oils and Michael brushing my hair, just as I was thinking that the last couple had been much stronger, contractions... just... stopped. We ended up getting a couple of hours sleep before I was induced in the morning. Contractions started again and I was assessed by the obstetrician who found that Caira's head was down but sitting high in the pelvis. It had been very low the night before. I was instructed to remain upright to allow gravity to help her come down. I spent the next three hours going between standing and swaying (sometimes with Michael behind me, his hands on my hips giving my back his body heat) and sitting on the birthing ball, leaning forward on the bed. It caused excruciating pelvic pain though, having to sit with legs apart in order to lean forward so I would sit until I couldn't stand it anymore and then stand until I couldn't stay on my feet anymore. Somewhere in there I saw the doctor again and Caira had turned sideways. Just before midday, after labouring for three hours and as I was requesting an epidural, the doctor came in to do another scan to check Caira's position. She was head down again. Immediately after the scan I went to the toilet and the doctor stayed in the room to do another scan when my bladder was empty. In just that few minutes, Caira turned around to breach. At that point, and with me lying there saying "just get her out, just get her out" the doctor ordered a Caesarean due to an unstable lie. Because my waters had broken there was no way for the doctor to turn Caira around again and even if she did turn there was no guarantee at that point with all her movement that she would stay in any one position.
So, an hour and a half later I had experienced the extreme weirdness that is feeling pressure and pulling on my insides, hearing snipping and knowing it was my body being cut but not feeling any pain and there we were in the operating theatre and listening to Caira's first cry. When we heard that sound we both burst into cry-laughter. We were holding hands, looking at each other and waiting to catch sight of our daughter and I was saying "she's alive, she's alive, we did it, she's breathing, she's crying, she's alive!" In that moment, despite those words, I wasn't actively thinking of Kat. This was Caira's moment and I was so excited to meet her. My over-riding emotion was utter excitement.
Caira was taken by the paediatrician for a check and Michael cut the cord. His first words when he saw her were "she's absolutely gorgeous". Nurses were telling me how big she was, that they thought she would be over 4kg. Finally, all wrapped in a blanket, Caira was laid down on my shoulder and Michael and I sat/lay together looking at our daughter. Her eyes were shut tight and she kept trying to open them but not doing it. A nurse came and shielded her eyes from the theatre lights and she opened them; we both saw that her eyes were the exact same colour as mine. She closed them again and the next time she opened them they were dark blue. Her hair looked red but once the vernix dried it was much fairer, more blond. It has started to fall out now and what's left is darkening. In some light it still looks red though. All in all she looks very much like me. And she wasn't over 4kg - she was 3768g or 8 pound 3.
She has been a dream baby so far. In her first week she had the usual second night feed and scream fest that they all have but otherwise she went five to six hours between night feeds every night and two to four hours during the day. She rarely cries - although when she does she really lets us know about it! The kid is loud! When we pick her up we could swear she's smiling. Michael's mum said the same thing. Her mouth kind of opens, her eyes shine and her whole face glows. One thing I have never, ever seen or heard any other newborn do... we will often go to check on her in the bassinette and she will be wide awake, just lying there happily looking at the side of her bed with her hand outstretched. The first time I saw it I was sure that my vision from all those months ago was true - both my girls in the one cot, one a newborn and the other a little older but still a baby sitting up on the left side (as I look at her) of her sister's head watching her.
The main other thing to write about now is that I was readmitted to hospital after a day and a half at home with an infection. I've been on antibiotics for a few days now and they've unsettled Caira, but nothing we can't deal with. She's crying a bit more and wanting more feeds but we are fine.
All in all she is an absolute delight. She's a beautiful girl in every way and we are so much in love with her.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Well, we made it through the first year.
I can't believe everything we've packed into a year. Michael giving up legal practice; moving; study; kid stuff - some of it very positive such as feeling as though they've finally settled into our new family dynamic, some of it difficult such as getting them settled into a new town/school and sorting out visitation with their father; financial stress caused by ongoing dispute over payout for the partnership; and of course a pregnancy.
Throughout it all we've experienced trauma, grief, sadness, laughter, contentment, stress, pain (physical as well as emotional), excitement, nerves, anxiety, joy. And throughout it all we haven't once wavered in how close we feel to each other. We've been the one constant and I'm kind of proud of that.
Anyway... the anniversary. We spent the day with the kids, which was what we wanted. We had to go to a BBQ (a work do for Michael) but we were all together. The kids happily came and went from us to playing outside with other kids and that was nice. We went shopping and bought the first plants for Kat's garden.
We said right from the start that we would buy a plant every year on her anniversary to make a garden and also that we didn't want to buy the first of them when she died; we wanted to buy the first one on the first anniversary. Our intention all along had been to buy a rose each year but in the lead up to actually buying something I was getting nervous about growing roses in this climate. We decided to go to the nursery and look at roses first then if we didn't want one to look at a lemon tree. I liked the idea of her tree being productive, of using the fruit from it. And Michael liked the lemon being yellow for Kat (it's the colour we associate as "hers" since so much of what we bought for her unintentionally turned out to be yellow).
So we got to the nursery and the roses looked decidedly sick and there were no fruit trees. Next stop - Big W. The first thing we found was a lime, the second was an olive. As soon as I saw the olive tree it just felt right. Especially when I read the care instructions and it mentioned the olive being a symbol of peace and happiness. We walked around with the olive in our hands but kept going back to the lime as well. We stood and talked about it for a moment and decided to get both.
Just as we walked towards the limes to pick one up the kids came running over excitedly saying "there's a butterfly". We turned around and there was the most magnificent blue butterfly fluttering directly above where we had just been standing as we decided to get both plants. I turned to hug Michael and found myself sobbing. Stood there in his arms, weeping into his shoulder in the nursery at Big W. Didn't care.
Our trees have now been potted up and they are both beautiful.
I can't believe everything we've packed into a year. Michael giving up legal practice; moving; study; kid stuff - some of it very positive such as feeling as though they've finally settled into our new family dynamic, some of it difficult such as getting them settled into a new town/school and sorting out visitation with their father; financial stress caused by ongoing dispute over payout for the partnership; and of course a pregnancy.
Throughout it all we've experienced trauma, grief, sadness, laughter, contentment, stress, pain (physical as well as emotional), excitement, nerves, anxiety, joy. And throughout it all we haven't once wavered in how close we feel to each other. We've been the one constant and I'm kind of proud of that.
Anyway... the anniversary. We spent the day with the kids, which was what we wanted. We had to go to a BBQ (a work do for Michael) but we were all together. The kids happily came and went from us to playing outside with other kids and that was nice. We went shopping and bought the first plants for Kat's garden.
We said right from the start that we would buy a plant every year on her anniversary to make a garden and also that we didn't want to buy the first of them when she died; we wanted to buy the first one on the first anniversary. Our intention all along had been to buy a rose each year but in the lead up to actually buying something I was getting nervous about growing roses in this climate. We decided to go to the nursery and look at roses first then if we didn't want one to look at a lemon tree. I liked the idea of her tree being productive, of using the fruit from it. And Michael liked the lemon being yellow for Kat (it's the colour we associate as "hers" since so much of what we bought for her unintentionally turned out to be yellow).
So we got to the nursery and the roses looked decidedly sick and there were no fruit trees. Next stop - Big W. The first thing we found was a lime, the second was an olive. As soon as I saw the olive tree it just felt right. Especially when I read the care instructions and it mentioned the olive being a symbol of peace and happiness. We walked around with the olive in our hands but kept going back to the lime as well. We stood and talked about it for a moment and decided to get both.
Just as we walked towards the limes to pick one up the kids came running over excitedly saying "there's a butterfly". We turned around and there was the most magnificent blue butterfly fluttering directly above where we had just been standing as we decided to get both plants. I turned to hug Michael and found myself sobbing. Stood there in his arms, weeping into his shoulder in the nursery at Big W. Didn't care.
Our trees have now been potted up and they are both beautiful.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
"Innocence and Experience"
I've written before - although I can't remember if it was on here or in the personal diary I kept for 3 months before starting this - about "Innocence and Experience", a series of poems by William Blake that Michael and his mum talk about a lot. In the days after Kat died I felt that the hope we/I had held for her had been Innocence; her death was Experience.
The first anniversary is upon us now. I've been so focused for almost a year now on the 20th November being Kat's Day that it was only last night I stopped to think that there's another anniversary. The 19th is the day we found out our girl had passed away.
I haven't really done a great deal of "this time last year"... Of course there has been some of that, I think it's only natural in the first year of grieving. I remembered the date that we found out I was pregnant with her, for example. And being pregnant there has also been an element of "at this stage of pregnancy with Kat..." but again, only really at key times, such as 15 weeks (when I'd been 'sick'), 18 weeks (first ultrasound that showed any problems) and 25 weeks. All in all though my grief has very much been in the present and I haven't spent all that much time looking back. Now though it's the anniversary and so I look back.
The 20th is Kat's Day. It's the day we will consciously involve the kids in spending time together as a family in memory of Kat. We will buy her a rose plant and some flowers to put in a new vase that is just for her flowers when we happen to buy them throughout the year. It was the day we got to see and hold our girl.
The 19th marks the worst moment of my life. Of course there was a whole lot of pain still to come; if I could measure pain as such, probably the moment Kat was laid on my chest stands out as the most raw, animalistic moment. But hearing that there was "no heartbeat... I'm sorry to tell you that your baby has passed away" was... the moment. It was the moment my soul was ripped apart and my own heart seemed to stop for a moment and I stood staring down a black hole in which the rest of my life would be lived as a person who knew the unimaginable pain of outliving a child.
Today is the 18th. And on the 18th I was still Innocent. I thought our girl was still alive and that the next day we were going away to Newcastle for our appointment to see her heart beating on the ultrasound. Most of all? I was looking forward to having a couple of days alone with Michael.
The first anniversary is upon us now. I've been so focused for almost a year now on the 20th November being Kat's Day that it was only last night I stopped to think that there's another anniversary. The 19th is the day we found out our girl had passed away.
I haven't really done a great deal of "this time last year"... Of course there has been some of that, I think it's only natural in the first year of grieving. I remembered the date that we found out I was pregnant with her, for example. And being pregnant there has also been an element of "at this stage of pregnancy with Kat..." but again, only really at key times, such as 15 weeks (when I'd been 'sick'), 18 weeks (first ultrasound that showed any problems) and 25 weeks. All in all though my grief has very much been in the present and I haven't spent all that much time looking back. Now though it's the anniversary and so I look back.
The 20th is Kat's Day. It's the day we will consciously involve the kids in spending time together as a family in memory of Kat. We will buy her a rose plant and some flowers to put in a new vase that is just for her flowers when we happen to buy them throughout the year. It was the day we got to see and hold our girl.
The 19th marks the worst moment of my life. Of course there was a whole lot of pain still to come; if I could measure pain as such, probably the moment Kat was laid on my chest stands out as the most raw, animalistic moment. But hearing that there was "no heartbeat... I'm sorry to tell you that your baby has passed away" was... the moment. It was the moment my soul was ripped apart and my own heart seemed to stop for a moment and I stood staring down a black hole in which the rest of my life would be lived as a person who knew the unimaginable pain of outliving a child.
Today is the 18th. And on the 18th I was still Innocent. I thought our girl was still alive and that the next day we were going away to Newcastle for our appointment to see her heart beating on the ultrasound. Most of all? I was looking forward to having a couple of days alone with Michael.
Friday, November 12, 2010
It's the weekend of the butterflies.
This could make me sad, but instead I'm feeling really peaceful today and enjoying the memory.
The actual date is tomorrow, but it was this weekend last year that we went over to Michael's parents' house and we all went up to see Jon English playing an outdoor night concert in the Warrumbungles. I had a simply wonderful weekend. I felt that the seven of us - Michael and I, the kids and Kat and Michael's parents - were a family. It was the word that kept coming to my mind, along with connected. I felt so incredibly connected to Kat. I felt the kids connected to Michael and his parents. His mum and I were so excited about Kat and were enjoying looking at a pregnancy website she had found. At that stage I was starting to think that a virus had interrupter Kat's growth and that she would always remain that few weeks small for her age - which in the long run would be nothing at all. I was worried about the lack of amniotic fluid and what it meant for her lung development but I thought there would be something the doctors could do for her after she was born. We were worried about her, but I was also the most optimistic out of any stage in the pregnancy. And she was Kat. It had been confirmed from the amnio that we were having a girl. She wasn't "the baby" anymore. She was Kat. She was real.
As we sat outside in a beautiful spot in the Warrumbungles, all of us together eating a picnic dinner and listening to music, a mass of orange butterflies appeared right in front of me. Rory and I were sitting together and the two of us were captivated by them. As I watched they started to gather around my feet. I still have no explanation for why, but I looked at those butterflies fluttering around my feet and it felt like it was connected to Kat. Of course, the next (and only other) time I would see a mass of orange butterflies was in our backyard after her funeral. A single one came into our house and I just KNEW it was her. Thus began the butterfly connection.
When we got home on the Sunday night I finally got out the book we had bought for her a couple of weeks earlier and read to her. It was the book of cat poems that Cats is based on. I read to her and she kicked and kicked and kicked. It was the most she had kicked in weeks and weeks and I thought that everything was going to be OK. Later that night I got my Cats DVD out and watched it. The next morning I woke up from dreaming of Kat as a grown woman standing on a dark stage singing Memory. I was positive for one moment that she had died. I immediately pushed the thought out of my mind and continued to feel the happy optimism that had built over the weekend. In hindsight I never felt her move again. Very occasionally I would feel... something... that I thought was a small kick. I continued to feel them for a few weeks after she was born, so I don't know what it was.
I've always believed that Kat had something to do with my mind that last week. The last ultrasound we went into was the only one we had that I expected to see her heart beating. All the others, even the three in the first trimester, I went into absolutely convinced that there would be no heart beat. Before that last one though I spent the day getting more and more nervous, thinking that I was imagining the worst. I was imagining that she wouldn't have grown a full two weeks' worth since the last one. That there was even less amniotic fluid. That there were more pockets of fluid on her body. But underlying all of it, I was looking forward to seeing her heart beat. I was expecting to see it. We sat in the waiting room at the hospital seeing people carry their babies into the paediatric clinic and saying "that will be us soon". I have always believed that Kat wouldn't let me entertain the idea that she was lying dead inside me.
Since Kat died I've struggled, more so in the beginning than now but still now to some extent, with the hope that we held for our girl. I've resented it knowing that as soon as I contracted that virus her fate was sealed and we had no way of knowing it. I had no way of knowing that something inside me had attacked my precious baby girl. But today I find myself remembering that last weekend that she was alive, remembering the hope and cherishing it. I cherish that so close to the end and all that came afterwards we had that one happy weekend.
This could make me sad, but instead I'm feeling really peaceful today and enjoying the memory.
The actual date is tomorrow, but it was this weekend last year that we went over to Michael's parents' house and we all went up to see Jon English playing an outdoor night concert in the Warrumbungles. I had a simply wonderful weekend. I felt that the seven of us - Michael and I, the kids and Kat and Michael's parents - were a family. It was the word that kept coming to my mind, along with connected. I felt so incredibly connected to Kat. I felt the kids connected to Michael and his parents. His mum and I were so excited about Kat and were enjoying looking at a pregnancy website she had found. At that stage I was starting to think that a virus had interrupter Kat's growth and that she would always remain that few weeks small for her age - which in the long run would be nothing at all. I was worried about the lack of amniotic fluid and what it meant for her lung development but I thought there would be something the doctors could do for her after she was born. We were worried about her, but I was also the most optimistic out of any stage in the pregnancy. And she was Kat. It had been confirmed from the amnio that we were having a girl. She wasn't "the baby" anymore. She was Kat. She was real.
As we sat outside in a beautiful spot in the Warrumbungles, all of us together eating a picnic dinner and listening to music, a mass of orange butterflies appeared right in front of me. Rory and I were sitting together and the two of us were captivated by them. As I watched they started to gather around my feet. I still have no explanation for why, but I looked at those butterflies fluttering around my feet and it felt like it was connected to Kat. Of course, the next (and only other) time I would see a mass of orange butterflies was in our backyard after her funeral. A single one came into our house and I just KNEW it was her. Thus began the butterfly connection.
When we got home on the Sunday night I finally got out the book we had bought for her a couple of weeks earlier and read to her. It was the book of cat poems that Cats is based on. I read to her and she kicked and kicked and kicked. It was the most she had kicked in weeks and weeks and I thought that everything was going to be OK. Later that night I got my Cats DVD out and watched it. The next morning I woke up from dreaming of Kat as a grown woman standing on a dark stage singing Memory. I was positive for one moment that she had died. I immediately pushed the thought out of my mind and continued to feel the happy optimism that had built over the weekend. In hindsight I never felt her move again. Very occasionally I would feel... something... that I thought was a small kick. I continued to feel them for a few weeks after she was born, so I don't know what it was.
I've always believed that Kat had something to do with my mind that last week. The last ultrasound we went into was the only one we had that I expected to see her heart beating. All the others, even the three in the first trimester, I went into absolutely convinced that there would be no heart beat. Before that last one though I spent the day getting more and more nervous, thinking that I was imagining the worst. I was imagining that she wouldn't have grown a full two weeks' worth since the last one. That there was even less amniotic fluid. That there were more pockets of fluid on her body. But underlying all of it, I was looking forward to seeing her heart beat. I was expecting to see it. We sat in the waiting room at the hospital seeing people carry their babies into the paediatric clinic and saying "that will be us soon". I have always believed that Kat wouldn't let me entertain the idea that she was lying dead inside me.
Since Kat died I've struggled, more so in the beginning than now but still now to some extent, with the hope that we held for our girl. I've resented it knowing that as soon as I contracted that virus her fate was sealed and we had no way of knowing it. I had no way of knowing that something inside me had attacked my precious baby girl. But today I find myself remembering that last weekend that she was alive, remembering the hope and cherishing it. I cherish that so close to the end and all that came afterwards we had that one happy weekend.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Coming up on Monday, 19 days before the first anniversary of Kat’s stillbirth, is the anniversary of my mum’s death. 21 years. She passed away at the age of 45 after a 4-year battle with cancer.
At 12 and in year 7, I was too old to feel like a child anymore but too young to realise just how young I still was.
Whilst I mourned – and was encouraged to mourn – part of me felt that I should be happier for her than I was sad for the rest of us. She wasn’t in pain anymore. I also felt a little less entitled to grieve because we had known for so long that it was coming.
In the years that followed I would of course experience a lot of reactions to her death. I felt guilt. Her life’s wish was to see her children grown and happy. My brother was married with a baby on the way; my sister was in her final year of teacher’s college and already had a position for the following year; and there I was still in high school. I felt that if it wasn’t for me she would have had her wish. Much later, as I entered my 20s I would go through another grieving period as I saw that the people around me still had their mums, still had relationships with them. I grieved for what I would never have and for what had been taken from my brother and sister.
Mum, over the years I have missed you as I navigated being a teenaged girl and becoming a woman. I’ve missed you at my big events. I’ve seen you in my dreams and I’ve talked to you a lot. I’ve longed to have you walk through my front door, sit down at my table, drink coffee with me and talk. I saw you with babies before I knew I was pregnant. I felt you standing next to me as I stood beside my son’s cot watching him sleep. I held my daughter while listening to “Nan’s Song” and saw her lift her head to look at… something… over my shoulder and then lift her hand and wave. I’ve missed my children knowing their Grandma, wearing the clothes you would have made and eating the cakes you would have cooked. I’ve had special moments putting their hands on your tree for the first time. I’ve felt the weight of your hands on my back when I was sick. I’ve learned the lessons you tried to teach me that I couldn’t understand at the time. I cherish you telling me that I will always be beautiful, no matter how old and wrinkly I get, because I have a beautiful heart and it will always shine through to the outside. I’ve asked you to be with our girl because we can’t be.
Mum, part of me will always be that 12 year old girl who was too young to understand the enormity of her mother’s death. Part of me will always grieve for her. Just as now, part of me is forever frozen in time, a woman at a graveside watching as her daughter’s coffin is lowered into it – for how is it possible that that woman ever got back up?
Mum, there have been times when the only thing that kept me going was the sure knowledge that the world would keep turning, the sun would keep rising and we would keep going. We would eventually learn to live with the pain. I learned that from you Mum, over the course of 20 years. And I thank you for it
At 12 and in year 7, I was too old to feel like a child anymore but too young to realise just how young I still was.
Whilst I mourned – and was encouraged to mourn – part of me felt that I should be happier for her than I was sad for the rest of us. She wasn’t in pain anymore. I also felt a little less entitled to grieve because we had known for so long that it was coming.
In the years that followed I would of course experience a lot of reactions to her death. I felt guilt. Her life’s wish was to see her children grown and happy. My brother was married with a baby on the way; my sister was in her final year of teacher’s college and already had a position for the following year; and there I was still in high school. I felt that if it wasn’t for me she would have had her wish. Much later, as I entered my 20s I would go through another grieving period as I saw that the people around me still had their mums, still had relationships with them. I grieved for what I would never have and for what had been taken from my brother and sister.
Mum, over the years I have missed you as I navigated being a teenaged girl and becoming a woman. I’ve missed you at my big events. I’ve seen you in my dreams and I’ve talked to you a lot. I’ve longed to have you walk through my front door, sit down at my table, drink coffee with me and talk. I saw you with babies before I knew I was pregnant. I felt you standing next to me as I stood beside my son’s cot watching him sleep. I held my daughter while listening to “Nan’s Song” and saw her lift her head to look at… something… over my shoulder and then lift her hand and wave. I’ve missed my children knowing their Grandma, wearing the clothes you would have made and eating the cakes you would have cooked. I’ve had special moments putting their hands on your tree for the first time. I’ve felt the weight of your hands on my back when I was sick. I’ve learned the lessons you tried to teach me that I couldn’t understand at the time. I cherish you telling me that I will always be beautiful, no matter how old and wrinkly I get, because I have a beautiful heart and it will always shine through to the outside. I’ve asked you to be with our girl because we can’t be.
Mum, part of me will always be that 12 year old girl who was too young to understand the enormity of her mother’s death. Part of me will always grieve for her. Just as now, part of me is forever frozen in time, a woman at a graveside watching as her daughter’s coffin is lowered into it – for how is it possible that that woman ever got back up?
Mum, there have been times when the only thing that kept me going was the sure knowledge that the world would keep turning, the sun would keep rising and we would keep going. We would eventually learn to live with the pain. I learned that from you Mum, over the course of 20 years. And I thank you for it
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
I've been struggling again the last few days. The Remembrance Day last Friday seemed to bring grief back out a bit. I tried all day to think of it as a beautiful, positive day - which it was - but I was just so sad all day as well and haven't really picked back up since. It's 11 months today since Kat's stillbirth, so the anniversary is looming and this time last year we were in the thick of doctor's appointments, ultrasounds, tests, worry and uncertainty. It's also coming very close to the anniversary of my Mum's death - 1 November - and I'm feeling it. I very rarely cry about Mum anymore. This year is 21 years since she died. I miss her all the time, but it's been a long time since I actually cried about her. I'm feeling it this year though.
Physically I'm struggling too. I have symphisis again, which I thought for a while I'd managed to escape this pregnancy but all the lower back and hip pain I've had for most of the pregnancy are connected to it. It just took a bit longer this time for it to show up in the pubic bone area. (Charming, I know.) I've had pain from scoliosis for the first time in about 13 years as well so my entire back is really sore. I'm not sleeping very well because of it all, which makes everything else so much harder to deal with. And now, after finally getting my asthma under control with the right dosage of medication, it's playing up again. I'm fairly sure it's due to simply being at this stage of pregnancy, with bub squashing my lungs so much more. There are times I stand up and am unable to take a step. My body just freezes up in pain. All I can do is keep on breathing and wait this out. As the doctor said today, the only cure is childbirth.
I hadn't been too bad with anxiety in this pregnancy, especially in recent weeks. There have of course been some things that have been hard to deal with - breaking out in eczema at 15 weeks (all I saw at first was a red rash at 15 weeks - panic stations), that ultrasound where I was asked to come back after lunch and I didn't know what they were seeing or not seeing, getting to and past 25 weeks and going through a stage where I had trouble believing this baby was still alive or that she would be for much longer. This time there's not really any one thing I can point to as being the cause for me to feel anxious. If anything, perhaps now I'm getting to the later stages (34 weeks today) and bub's movements are starting to slow as she runs out of room I'm worrying about the decrease in movement. I know all too well what it's like to have a baby stop moving inside me. It's not an alarming slow down of movement, she has fairly regular awake times and there's no doubt I feel her throughout the day. It's just that there is a little less now than a couple of weeks ago. Also I had some contractions over the weekend, regular ones for about three hours. The same thing happened twice with Rory and I was admitted to hospital both times, at 32 and 36 weeks, then he ended up being born at 41 weeks. These contractions, while regular and getting closer together, weren't increasing in strength so I went to bed and they stopped then after about half an hour. Caira's heartbeat sounded the same nice, steady way it always does and she was moving the whole time so I wasn't particularly worried about her but I've been worried ever since about premature labour. At 34 weeks I'm sure she'd be fine, but I don't want her going into a humidicrib when she's born. I want her with me for cuddles. On that issue at least, I did get some good news today. The doctor told me that from the report of the last ultrasound, my cervical length was 3.5cm and that anything above 3cm precludes pre-term labour.
Physically I'm struggling too. I have symphisis again, which I thought for a while I'd managed to escape this pregnancy but all the lower back and hip pain I've had for most of the pregnancy are connected to it. It just took a bit longer this time for it to show up in the pubic bone area. (Charming, I know.) I've had pain from scoliosis for the first time in about 13 years as well so my entire back is really sore. I'm not sleeping very well because of it all, which makes everything else so much harder to deal with. And now, after finally getting my asthma under control with the right dosage of medication, it's playing up again. I'm fairly sure it's due to simply being at this stage of pregnancy, with bub squashing my lungs so much more. There are times I stand up and am unable to take a step. My body just freezes up in pain. All I can do is keep on breathing and wait this out. As the doctor said today, the only cure is childbirth.
I hadn't been too bad with anxiety in this pregnancy, especially in recent weeks. There have of course been some things that have been hard to deal with - breaking out in eczema at 15 weeks (all I saw at first was a red rash at 15 weeks - panic stations), that ultrasound where I was asked to come back after lunch and I didn't know what they were seeing or not seeing, getting to and past 25 weeks and going through a stage where I had trouble believing this baby was still alive or that she would be for much longer. This time there's not really any one thing I can point to as being the cause for me to feel anxious. If anything, perhaps now I'm getting to the later stages (34 weeks today) and bub's movements are starting to slow as she runs out of room I'm worrying about the decrease in movement. I know all too well what it's like to have a baby stop moving inside me. It's not an alarming slow down of movement, she has fairly regular awake times and there's no doubt I feel her throughout the day. It's just that there is a little less now than a couple of weeks ago. Also I had some contractions over the weekend, regular ones for about three hours. The same thing happened twice with Rory and I was admitted to hospital both times, at 32 and 36 weeks, then he ended up being born at 41 weeks. These contractions, while regular and getting closer together, weren't increasing in strength so I went to bed and they stopped then after about half an hour. Caira's heartbeat sounded the same nice, steady way it always does and she was moving the whole time so I wasn't particularly worried about her but I've been worried ever since about premature labour. At 34 weeks I'm sure she'd be fine, but I don't want her going into a humidicrib when she's born. I want her with me for cuddles. On that issue at least, I did get some good news today. The doctor told me that from the report of the last ultrasound, my cervical length was 3.5cm and that anything above 3cm precludes pre-term labour.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Little kitty Kat, I'm absolutely positive you spent some time with us last night.
We lit a candle in your memory for the International Wave of Light as part of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. The idea is to light a candle at 7pm and leave it burning for one hour, so that around the world there will be a continual light burning for a 24 hour period in memory of lost babies.
We took some photos of your candle to contribute to online forums about the Wave of Light and as I held the camera up there was a bar of silver white light right in front of the candle. I moved the camera around and it disappeared... it was only in front of the candle. I got the kids to turn off the lamps behind me, but it was still there. Nothing came up in the photos though, but that bar of light didn't move from the camera screen. Later in the night when I wanted to get a picture of Rory and Lenin it was gone.
I thought almost at once that it was you Kat.
Then I saw you in my dreams again last night. Again, I was pregnant and at the same stage that I am in reality. You looked a little less than a year old - so that would take it from your November birth date instead of the time you were due to be born. You had been a seriously sick little baby but you were home with us, sitting up and smiling. You had permanent health problems and we knew we would be looking after you for the rest of your life. We also knew that Caira was going to be born soon and that she would be healthy and go on to have her own life doing her own things. We were just so happy to be having both our girls with us. And you.... you were so incredibly happy. You were by your daddy's side, this little blonde girl, just the way I always pictured you before you died. Even the day we found out you had died, I saw you once more right there in the hospital room, by your daddy's side. I know you came to us through him. So there you were, next to daddy and smiling, smiling, smiling to light up the whole world. You were with your family. We know that was what you wanted more than anything, we know it's why you came to us - to have a family. We are your family Kat and you are in ours. Always baby girl. Always. We love you so much.
We lit a candle in your memory for the International Wave of Light as part of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. The idea is to light a candle at 7pm and leave it burning for one hour, so that around the world there will be a continual light burning for a 24 hour period in memory of lost babies.
We took some photos of your candle to contribute to online forums about the Wave of Light and as I held the camera up there was a bar of silver white light right in front of the candle. I moved the camera around and it disappeared... it was only in front of the candle. I got the kids to turn off the lamps behind me, but it was still there. Nothing came up in the photos though, but that bar of light didn't move from the camera screen. Later in the night when I wanted to get a picture of Rory and Lenin it was gone.
I thought almost at once that it was you Kat.
Then I saw you in my dreams again last night. Again, I was pregnant and at the same stage that I am in reality. You looked a little less than a year old - so that would take it from your November birth date instead of the time you were due to be born. You had been a seriously sick little baby but you were home with us, sitting up and smiling. You had permanent health problems and we knew we would be looking after you for the rest of your life. We also knew that Caira was going to be born soon and that she would be healthy and go on to have her own life doing her own things. We were just so happy to be having both our girls with us. And you.... you were so incredibly happy. You were by your daddy's side, this little blonde girl, just the way I always pictured you before you died. Even the day we found out you had died, I saw you once more right there in the hospital room, by your daddy's side. I know you came to us through him. So there you were, next to daddy and smiling, smiling, smiling to light up the whole world. You were with your family. We know that was what you wanted more than anything, we know it's why you came to us - to have a family. We are your family Kat and you are in ours. Always baby girl. Always. We love you so much.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
I had another ultrasound this morning and I'm riding the high of it going really well and being free from anxiety for another day. I knew I was nervous before having it (have been for five weeks, ever since I was referred for it) but I don't think I realised just how stressed I was about this scan until it was over and it was all good news.
To recap, I was referred for the scan because my tummy was a bit bigger than it should have been for dates. The first doctor told me that much, then smiled and said 'just to be safe!' (made me feel worse); the second doctor wouldn't even comment that far, just felt my tummy, frowned and asked when my ultrasound was booked; then finally I had one of my first doctors yesterday and he said that they have no way of knowing if my tummy size was due to baby being big or me being big. They want to be able to monitor bub's growth throughout the pregnancy and in these circumstances an ultrasound is the only way for them to do so.
I had a very nice woman doing the scan today. She told me every little thing she was doing, every measurement she was taking and why. She didn't even know beforehand what our history was, just that we had been referred for a measurement scan and that the doctor was concerned that baby might have been a bit too big. It turned out that bub is exactly the right size for dates (32w 1d), fluid level was normal, heart rate normal, blood flow in cord normal. And very definitely a girl! Her girl parts were on show and pointed out to me.
When Kat first died I was terrified of having another girl. I hoped with all my heart that we would have a boy when we eventually had another baby. We had picked out Kathryn as our girl's name almost as soon as we were together (it had been Michael's favourite since he was in primary school and I loved his Kat-with-a-K suggestion) and I just couldn't imagine us having a daughter who wasn't Kathryn. Who would our girl be if she wasn't our little kitty Kat?
While I was thinking like that I also had the presence of mind to know that it was just one indication that I was nowhere near ready to have another baby. I couldn't have with any conscience tried to have a baby when I was terrified of the 50% chance that it would be a girl. I knew I couldn't have a baby until I was ready to welcome a CHILD, not just a boy.
I became somewhat obsessed with trying to pick out another girl's name. In my mind, if there was a name to attach to a future girl I could start to imagine a girl who wasn't Kat and I could be closer to being ready for another baby. I must add that all of these thoughts were occurring over the course of the first few days, not weeks.
During the week after Kat died, when Michael's parents were staying with us, the four of us were talking and listening to music in the lounge room one day. Michael had album covers displaying as a slide show on the TV while the music played and I was only half-heartedly there at all. I wasn't really paying attention to either the conversation or the pictures on the screen. My mind was drifting. This one particular album cover came up and, in my memory stayed on the screen for a lot longer than any of the others did. I kept seeing it out of the corner of my eye and was drawn to keep looking back at it. Eventually I looked at it properly and just stared at the whole thing without really seeing it for a while. Finally, I read the name. It was "Ca Ira - There is Hope". As I read those words something inside me clicked and I said "that's our girl's name". Michael's Dad was equally drawn to the cover and asked Michael what it was. This seemed to add to my sense that the name was important. Then Michael answered his Dad and I was sure of it - Ca Ira is an opera (which Michael loves) that was written by Roger Waters (who Michael loves, from Pink Floyd who he adores). As soon as we were alone I turned to Michael and said "those two words run together into one name - that's our girl". He loved it instantly. Our girl would be Caira.
For a while I had gone off the idea of a middle name. Rory, Sienna and Kat all have middle names that hold special meaning for me in relation to their deceased grandparents without simply repeating their names. When Kat first died we toyed with having Kathryn as a middle name, but then we found Caira and didn't like the sound of Caira Kathryn so we thought perhaps we would have Caira Rose. After a little while I went off using Rose as I didn't want to start just continuing someone else's name when I had deliberately not done that with the other kids. Caira will have both of our last names - mine effectively as a middle name - after I decided the day Kat was born that I wanted her to carry both our last names. To me, Caira wouldn't have had my last name as one of hers had it not been for Kat, plus the mother's maiden name as a middle name is a family tradition in my maternal grandmother's family, so I felt that I was continuing my tradition of meaningful middle names.
A couple of months ago though, Michael brought up middle names so we got talking about them again. When I was first pregnant with Kat I had the song Hey Jude stuck in my head for days and as I heard the words "under your skin" I had such a strong feeling I was pregnant - which of course I was. Jude became our boy's middle name - Dylan Jude - both from the song and after Michael's mum. By the time I was pregnant again I'd changed my mind again about Jude and liked Michael with Dylan. But I kept thinking Jade for a girl. I've always quite liked the name, especially as a middle name - it sounds nice with so many other names - and it runs together Jude (as a nod to the pregnancy with Kat) and Jan (the name my mum was known by).
So - now we are on the 8 week countdown to meeting our Caira Jade!
To recap, I was referred for the scan because my tummy was a bit bigger than it should have been for dates. The first doctor told me that much, then smiled and said 'just to be safe!' (made me feel worse); the second doctor wouldn't even comment that far, just felt my tummy, frowned and asked when my ultrasound was booked; then finally I had one of my first doctors yesterday and he said that they have no way of knowing if my tummy size was due to baby being big or me being big. They want to be able to monitor bub's growth throughout the pregnancy and in these circumstances an ultrasound is the only way for them to do so.
I had a very nice woman doing the scan today. She told me every little thing she was doing, every measurement she was taking and why. She didn't even know beforehand what our history was, just that we had been referred for a measurement scan and that the doctor was concerned that baby might have been a bit too big. It turned out that bub is exactly the right size for dates (32w 1d), fluid level was normal, heart rate normal, blood flow in cord normal. And very definitely a girl! Her girl parts were on show and pointed out to me.
When Kat first died I was terrified of having another girl. I hoped with all my heart that we would have a boy when we eventually had another baby. We had picked out Kathryn as our girl's name almost as soon as we were together (it had been Michael's favourite since he was in primary school and I loved his Kat-with-a-K suggestion) and I just couldn't imagine us having a daughter who wasn't Kathryn. Who would our girl be if she wasn't our little kitty Kat?
While I was thinking like that I also had the presence of mind to know that it was just one indication that I was nowhere near ready to have another baby. I couldn't have with any conscience tried to have a baby when I was terrified of the 50% chance that it would be a girl. I knew I couldn't have a baby until I was ready to welcome a CHILD, not just a boy.
I became somewhat obsessed with trying to pick out another girl's name. In my mind, if there was a name to attach to a future girl I could start to imagine a girl who wasn't Kat and I could be closer to being ready for another baby. I must add that all of these thoughts were occurring over the course of the first few days, not weeks.
During the week after Kat died, when Michael's parents were staying with us, the four of us were talking and listening to music in the lounge room one day. Michael had album covers displaying as a slide show on the TV while the music played and I was only half-heartedly there at all. I wasn't really paying attention to either the conversation or the pictures on the screen. My mind was drifting. This one particular album cover came up and, in my memory stayed on the screen for a lot longer than any of the others did. I kept seeing it out of the corner of my eye and was drawn to keep looking back at it. Eventually I looked at it properly and just stared at the whole thing without really seeing it for a while. Finally, I read the name. It was "Ca Ira - There is Hope". As I read those words something inside me clicked and I said "that's our girl's name". Michael's Dad was equally drawn to the cover and asked Michael what it was. This seemed to add to my sense that the name was important. Then Michael answered his Dad and I was sure of it - Ca Ira is an opera (which Michael loves) that was written by Roger Waters (who Michael loves, from Pink Floyd who he adores). As soon as we were alone I turned to Michael and said "those two words run together into one name - that's our girl". He loved it instantly. Our girl would be Caira.
For a while I had gone off the idea of a middle name. Rory, Sienna and Kat all have middle names that hold special meaning for me in relation to their deceased grandparents without simply repeating their names. When Kat first died we toyed with having Kathryn as a middle name, but then we found Caira and didn't like the sound of Caira Kathryn so we thought perhaps we would have Caira Rose. After a little while I went off using Rose as I didn't want to start just continuing someone else's name when I had deliberately not done that with the other kids. Caira will have both of our last names - mine effectively as a middle name - after I decided the day Kat was born that I wanted her to carry both our last names. To me, Caira wouldn't have had my last name as one of hers had it not been for Kat, plus the mother's maiden name as a middle name is a family tradition in my maternal grandmother's family, so I felt that I was continuing my tradition of meaningful middle names.
A couple of months ago though, Michael brought up middle names so we got talking about them again. When I was first pregnant with Kat I had the song Hey Jude stuck in my head for days and as I heard the words "under your skin" I had such a strong feeling I was pregnant - which of course I was. Jude became our boy's middle name - Dylan Jude - both from the song and after Michael's mum. By the time I was pregnant again I'd changed my mind again about Jude and liked Michael with Dylan. But I kept thinking Jade for a girl. I've always quite liked the name, especially as a middle name - it sounds nice with so many other names - and it runs together Jude (as a nod to the pregnancy with Kat) and Jan (the name my mum was known by).
So - now we are on the 8 week countdown to meeting our Caira Jade!
Friday, September 24, 2010
It's been a while between posts. I haven't really felt the need, or known what, to write. In the last few weeks there have been the usual ups and downs. I've cried about Kathryn, I've laughed with the kids as they feel the baby moving inside me, I've had a really bad doctors appointment that upset me a lot, I've been in a lot of physical discomfort (actually, forget discomfort, I've been in a lot of pain from my back) and I've had a few moments where the pain has reduced and I've really enjoyed the physicality of being pregnant. All of this is just my normal life now. I have a lot of emotions coexisting and some of them seem to contradict each other but they're all there. This is not a bad thing, it's not negative to feel dark emotions. This is just my new normal. I can not for one second feel guilty about wanting and loving our new baby as much as I do. I'm incredibly excited about meeting her and I adore feeling her move, wondering what she is experiencing inside me, thinking about what she will look like and be like. I love her. I know rationally and reasonably that if Kathryn had have survived I would in all likelihood never have had another child - and certainly not at this point in time. But I can never for one second stop missing Kathryn and wishing that there had have been some way we could have had both our girls stay here with us. I can accept that there was a reason I don't understand that Kathryn's spirit needed the experience of having a body, having parents and a family, but that she did not live outside of me. I believe she wanted to and intended to. I have nothing to base that belief on other than the conviction that Michael and I both feel incredibly strongly that she tried to live and wanted to live. The reasons she couldn't and didn't aren't for me to understand right now and I accept that. What I will never accept is the idea that her death was in some way for the best, or part of some grand design that included the birth of our new baby in Kathryn's place. I have four children - one of whom is with us only in spiritual form. Likewise, I don't need to understand the myriad emotions I feel. I don't need to process them or move past them or try not to feel the darker ones. I just accept that I have them.
One thing I am very sure of - this is our baby's time. The baby that is kicking me as I write this, that is. Of course I think about Kathryn. I get anxious about the progress of this pregnancy because I have had the experience of a baby dying inside me. It is not an irrational fear or anxiety - it is the memory of loss, the anxiety that it could happen again and the desperate hope that it doesn't. I also think about my other two children. And Michael, my dad, my parents-in-law, the rest of my family, my friends, the kids' school and activities, what to eat for dinner.... missing Kathryn is just one aspect of my daily life now. I don't think it's ever going to change. I will always miss her because she will always be physically missing from our family. But just as when she died I promised her and myself that it was her time and she would have it - the birth of our new baby is this baby's time. I do not see this baby as some kind of gift from Kathryn - even though I do believe that Kathryn was involved in leading this baby to us. I don't feel the need to 'remember' Kathryn in every activity involved with this baby. This baby was very deeply wanted by both of her parents for her own sake. She is not - and will not be - "Kathryn's sister". That would be too much of a burden to place on such small shoulders. My shoulders are more than broad enough to bear both grief and love at the same time.
One thing I am very sure of - this is our baby's time. The baby that is kicking me as I write this, that is. Of course I think about Kathryn. I get anxious about the progress of this pregnancy because I have had the experience of a baby dying inside me. It is not an irrational fear or anxiety - it is the memory of loss, the anxiety that it could happen again and the desperate hope that it doesn't. I also think about my other two children. And Michael, my dad, my parents-in-law, the rest of my family, my friends, the kids' school and activities, what to eat for dinner.... missing Kathryn is just one aspect of my daily life now. I don't think it's ever going to change. I will always miss her because she will always be physically missing from our family. But just as when she died I promised her and myself that it was her time and she would have it - the birth of our new baby is this baby's time. I do not see this baby as some kind of gift from Kathryn - even though I do believe that Kathryn was involved in leading this baby to us. I don't feel the need to 'remember' Kathryn in every activity involved with this baby. This baby was very deeply wanted by both of her parents for her own sake. She is not - and will not be - "Kathryn's sister". That would be too much of a burden to place on such small shoulders. My shoulders are more than broad enough to bear both grief and love at the same time.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Father's Day
Today has brought many mixed emotions. Obviously there is sadness for Kat. Last year I was so excited to wish Michael a happy Father's Day for the first time as we anticipated our baby's birth in a little under six months.
It was that weekend that I was saying 'look at these red spots. They're all over my chest and on my arms and face'. Michael thought they looked like a heat rash and put it down to a hot shower. The next day they had turned white and pussy and I put it down to a pregnancy break out. The day after that they had disappeared.
Also that weekend was appalling with Rory. I think I've written before about how the kids had been behaving in very disturbing ways since their father announced his move to Canberra earlier that year. Father's Day brought it all back out again. Well, it hadn't stopped at any point since February, but Father's Day was bad. Rory was saying, among other things, he wanted to cut our heads off. The next day was the first day of three that I just couldn't wake up. For three days in a row I went straight back to bed after putting the kids on the school bus, woke up around lunch time and had something to eat then went back to bed for a couple more hours until the kids got off the bus. I put it down to stress. The kids and I had just had whooping cough; Michael had been travelling for work for three weeks right when I was at my sickest and so I'd had to do it all on my own; I was getting all Ds and HDs at uni; and the kids behaviour had been seriously worrying (I had them in counselling - it was beyond anything we were capable of dealing with alone) for seven months. Of course I was stressed. And thought I probably had a touch of post-illness fatigue after the whooping cough, which I also attributed the increased vomiting to. Stress and fatigue. It didn't worry me as such because at that stage of pregnancy (15 weeks) I'd still been throwing up every day with both Rory and Sienna.
So, this weekend, this day, I can't help but remember all that. But we also have so much to celebrate.
Of course there is the baby that is now growing inside me. We are both just so excited about this pregnancy and love our baby so much already.
There is also the change we can see in our family. We feel like we've finally gotten past the 'settling in' or 'teething' of creating a step-family. When the kids drive us crazy now it just feels like normal kid shit. They don't give off the aura anymore that there is any underlying cause for any bad behaviour - it's just something that all kids do every now and then. And most of the time they really are fantastic now and are a joy to be with.
We both still have our fathers with us - something neither of us takes for granted.
So, all in all we have felt that today we have plenty to celebrate while still taking the time to acknowledge the grief we feel that someone is missing. We think that's just how special days are going to be from now on.
On a slightly different note, but something that's been on my mind all day... the kids rang their father this morning for Father's Day. When Rory asked to speak to Dad he was asked who was calling. We assumed we had gotten a wrong number - until a moment later we heard him saying 'hi Dad'. At which point we just looked at each other in disbelief. A child calling that house asking to speak to Dad... and whoever answered the phone didn't know who he meant? Then Sienna asked him if he received the presents they sent - framed photos of each of them and cards they made. Yes, he had received them. Just apparently didn't feel the need to say thank you or otherwise acknowledge them.
I'm always grateful that Michael is in my life and I have always felt very good about bringing him into my kids' lives. But then sometimes I have moments of deep gratitude that my children do at least have one great 'dad' in their lives.
It was that weekend that I was saying 'look at these red spots. They're all over my chest and on my arms and face'. Michael thought they looked like a heat rash and put it down to a hot shower. The next day they had turned white and pussy and I put it down to a pregnancy break out. The day after that they had disappeared.
Also that weekend was appalling with Rory. I think I've written before about how the kids had been behaving in very disturbing ways since their father announced his move to Canberra earlier that year. Father's Day brought it all back out again. Well, it hadn't stopped at any point since February, but Father's Day was bad. Rory was saying, among other things, he wanted to cut our heads off. The next day was the first day of three that I just couldn't wake up. For three days in a row I went straight back to bed after putting the kids on the school bus, woke up around lunch time and had something to eat then went back to bed for a couple more hours until the kids got off the bus. I put it down to stress. The kids and I had just had whooping cough; Michael had been travelling for work for three weeks right when I was at my sickest and so I'd had to do it all on my own; I was getting all Ds and HDs at uni; and the kids behaviour had been seriously worrying (I had them in counselling - it was beyond anything we were capable of dealing with alone) for seven months. Of course I was stressed. And thought I probably had a touch of post-illness fatigue after the whooping cough, which I also attributed the increased vomiting to. Stress and fatigue. It didn't worry me as such because at that stage of pregnancy (15 weeks) I'd still been throwing up every day with both Rory and Sienna.
So, this weekend, this day, I can't help but remember all that. But we also have so much to celebrate.
Of course there is the baby that is now growing inside me. We are both just so excited about this pregnancy and love our baby so much already.
There is also the change we can see in our family. We feel like we've finally gotten past the 'settling in' or 'teething' of creating a step-family. When the kids drive us crazy now it just feels like normal kid shit. They don't give off the aura anymore that there is any underlying cause for any bad behaviour - it's just something that all kids do every now and then. And most of the time they really are fantastic now and are a joy to be with.
We both still have our fathers with us - something neither of us takes for granted.
So, all in all we have felt that today we have plenty to celebrate while still taking the time to acknowledge the grief we feel that someone is missing. We think that's just how special days are going to be from now on.
On a slightly different note, but something that's been on my mind all day... the kids rang their father this morning for Father's Day. When Rory asked to speak to Dad he was asked who was calling. We assumed we had gotten a wrong number - until a moment later we heard him saying 'hi Dad'. At which point we just looked at each other in disbelief. A child calling that house asking to speak to Dad... and whoever answered the phone didn't know who he meant? Then Sienna asked him if he received the presents they sent - framed photos of each of them and cards they made. Yes, he had received them. Just apparently didn't feel the need to say thank you or otherwise acknowledge them.
I'm always grateful that Michael is in my life and I have always felt very good about bringing him into my kids' lives. But then sometimes I have moments of deep gratitude that my children do at least have one great 'dad' in their lives.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Doctor's appointment this morning could have gone better.
I've been referred for another ultrasound, to be done at 32 weeks (five weeks' time). The doctor said he was unable to accurately measure the size of my uterus and so he wanted an ultrasound to measure baby - just to be on the safe side, as everyone is so fond of saying to us - and that depending on the outcome of that one, probably another scan at 36 weeks. Oh and, he wants it done at 32 weeks because there's not much point doing it now. Because they're not going to be looking at delivering the baby now anyway.
WTF???
I'm so tired. I'm not even feeling particularly anxious and certainly not panicky. Breaking out in eczema - which looked like a red lumpy rash - at 15 weeks made me panic. Being told to come back at lunch time to continue an ultrasound made me panic. I know that there have been no indications whatsoever at any point of this pregnancy that anything is wrong. I know that all the doctors want this pregnancy to be very closely monitored. This unfortunately is the reality of being very closely monitored. Of course I don't feel good about being told I need another ultrasound, but I've been kind of expecting to have more at 30+ weeks.
What I don't like is the way doctors speak. I was effectively just told to keep on keeping on because if something's wrong they can't do much at the moment anyway and just hope that everything is still OK in a month.
Someone wake me up in November....
I've been referred for another ultrasound, to be done at 32 weeks (five weeks' time). The doctor said he was unable to accurately measure the size of my uterus and so he wanted an ultrasound to measure baby - just to be on the safe side, as everyone is so fond of saying to us - and that depending on the outcome of that one, probably another scan at 36 weeks. Oh and, he wants it done at 32 weeks because there's not much point doing it now. Because they're not going to be looking at delivering the baby now anyway.
WTF???
I'm so tired. I'm not even feeling particularly anxious and certainly not panicky. Breaking out in eczema - which looked like a red lumpy rash - at 15 weeks made me panic. Being told to come back at lunch time to continue an ultrasound made me panic. I know that there have been no indications whatsoever at any point of this pregnancy that anything is wrong. I know that all the doctors want this pregnancy to be very closely monitored. This unfortunately is the reality of being very closely monitored. Of course I don't feel good about being told I need another ultrasound, but I've been kind of expecting to have more at 30+ weeks.
What I don't like is the way doctors speak. I was effectively just told to keep on keeping on because if something's wrong they can't do much at the moment anyway and just hope that everything is still OK in a month.
Someone wake me up in November....
Sunday, August 29, 2010
I've been feeling really emotional and fragile the last couple of days. Thirteen and a half weeks til due date seems so far away and each day is dragging past. The 'count' is more and more on my mind. Several times a day I remind myself of exactly how many weeks/days I am and how many weeks/days til due date. It feels like I've been 26+ weeks for at least a fortnight but I'm now only 26w 4d. I hope the rest of the pregnancy isn't going to be like this.
On another train of thought, but kind of related, I feel like I've been pregnant for sooo long. Which I have. It's been 12 months out of the last 15 now that I've been pregnant; by the time this baby's born I will have been pregnant for 15 months out of the previous 18. I've been waiting so long to have our baby in my arms and to see Michael holding our child - our child who is alive and well that is. I'm just so ready to meet our girl and sick of waiting. But desperate for her to still be inside me for at least another 10 weeks or more.
On another train of thought, but kind of related, I feel like I've been pregnant for sooo long. Which I have. It's been 12 months out of the last 15 now that I've been pregnant; by the time this baby's born I will have been pregnant for 15 months out of the previous 18. I've been waiting so long to have our baby in my arms and to see Michael holding our child - our child who is alive and well that is. I'm just so ready to meet our girl and sick of waiting. But desperate for her to still be inside me for at least another 10 weeks or more.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Well, I've made it past the point of pregnancy that Kat was stillborn. Even though my first two pregnancies resulted in full-term births of healthy babies it has still been really difficult in the lead up to 25 weeks to imagine that this baby is still alive, or that she will be next week or next month or in December. Here I am though, two days short of 26 weeks and actually enjoying being pregnant more than I have out of four pregnancies. Yes, there has been plenty of anxiety. I've been really positive as long as everything's on an even keel; as soon as anything rocks me just a little I freak out. But so far the things that have freaked me out have proved to be unfounded. This is the first uncomplicated pregnancy I've ever had. The only one that hasn't started with multiple ultrasounds because doctors are concerned about the baby. The only one that hasn't started with doctors telling me not to get my hopes up about the pregnancy continuing. I've been the least sick and the most physically comfortable (although comfort is a relative term in pregnancy - there really is no such thing as "comfortable") out of all four. There's plenty of movement from bub and she has a nice steady heartbeat. I've been really enjoying the experience of carrying her inside my body. Every time I feel her move I get the most incredible rush of love for her. I feel a very close bond with her already. All indications now are that we really will be holding our living, breathing baby in about three months' time.
I hope so anyway...
I hope so anyway...
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Dear Kat,
Today it's nine months since you left my body. You were so tiny and perfect. When I think of how you looked I always remember your precious little mouth and your tongue, so perfectly finished inside it. Your head and face were the same shape as your Daddy's. Your arms were the same as his as well.
Today I am 25 weeks and 2 days pregnant. Exactly the same as I was the day we found out your heart had stopped.
Tomorrow I will be 25 weeks and 3 days pregnant - exactly the same as I was the day you entered this world without ever seeing it.
We feel so strongly that you wanted so much to live, little kitty Kat. You wanted to be here with us, you wanted a life in this world. You wanted to grow. We feel like you tried so very hard to be here... but you just couldn't. That virus came along and robbed you of your body. It just couldn't cope and it... stopped.
We feel so strongly that you go on. We feel like you still want so much to be a part of this family. You don't want us to ever forget that you are our daughter, that you are Rory, Sienna and bub's sister. We will never forget Kat. You will always be part of our special celebrations. You will always have days that we devote to your memory. We will buy a new rose every year to add to your garden and every single bloom will be for you. The baby that is growing inside me right now will know she has another big sister. And Rory and Sienna will never forget the little sister they never got to see but who they love all the same.
With much love now and forever to the tiny baby that is safe in my heart.
Mummy. xx
Today it's nine months since you left my body. You were so tiny and perfect. When I think of how you looked I always remember your precious little mouth and your tongue, so perfectly finished inside it. Your head and face were the same shape as your Daddy's. Your arms were the same as his as well.
Today I am 25 weeks and 2 days pregnant. Exactly the same as I was the day we found out your heart had stopped.
Tomorrow I will be 25 weeks and 3 days pregnant - exactly the same as I was the day you entered this world without ever seeing it.
We feel so strongly that you wanted so much to live, little kitty Kat. You wanted to be here with us, you wanted a life in this world. You wanted to grow. We feel like you tried so very hard to be here... but you just couldn't. That virus came along and robbed you of your body. It just couldn't cope and it... stopped.
We feel so strongly that you go on. We feel like you still want so much to be a part of this family. You don't want us to ever forget that you are our daughter, that you are Rory, Sienna and bub's sister. We will never forget Kat. You will always be part of our special celebrations. You will always have days that we devote to your memory. We will buy a new rose every year to add to your garden and every single bloom will be for you. The baby that is growing inside me right now will know she has another big sister. And Rory and Sienna will never forget the little sister they never got to see but who they love all the same.
With much love now and forever to the tiny baby that is safe in my heart.
Mummy. xx
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Double post day!
I've been feeling really angsty today and not able to wrap my mind around this baby being alive. I've been feeling all day like SOMETHING is about to blow up in my face and it will all be over. Then I just realised that today is the exact point in the pregnancy that, in hindsight, I believe Kat's heart stopped. It's three days until the same point we had the last ultrasound and were told she had passed away. And that day happens to fall on the 20th - nine months since Kat was born.
But then my doppler arrived this afternoon and I just lay in bed listening to our lil babe's heartbeat and I'm feeling a lot better now. I can see myself being glued to that doppler for the next fifteen weeks though...
I've been feeling really angsty today and not able to wrap my mind around this baby being alive. I've been feeling all day like SOMETHING is about to blow up in my face and it will all be over. Then I just realised that today is the exact point in the pregnancy that, in hindsight, I believe Kat's heart stopped. It's three days until the same point we had the last ultrasound and were told she had passed away. And that day happens to fall on the 20th - nine months since Kat was born.
But then my doppler arrived this afternoon and I just lay in bed listening to our lil babe's heartbeat and I'm feeling a lot better now. I can see myself being glued to that doppler for the next fifteen weeks though...
Monday, August 16, 2010
I had an ultrasound yesterday, which was fine in that everything is looking good with the baby, but was very stressful. It was the follow-up scan after the 20 week one when they couldn't get clear pictures of the baby's head and face. We knew that was the only reason we were being sent back for another scan, but couldn't help feeling a little off about needing another scan after needing so many with Kat. So there we were having the scan - and it just kept going and going and going. The woman doing it spent ages around the baby's head, taking measurements and so on. And then doing all the other pics and measurements as well. After an hour in there, she asked me if I could come back at lunch time. Alarm bells started ringing. She said that she had well and truly exceeded her time doing the scan and she still wanted to get some more pictures of the baby's face. Why? What was wrong? She told us that given our history she just wanted to be really thorough and get everything she could. So off I went to wait for an hour and a half all the while wondering what was wrong with our baby. And thinking "here we go again". Went back and had another half-hour scan. Bub had turned 180 degrees (! - I hadn't even felt it) and was now feet down, so getting the pics of her face was easy. There was even a moment when her whole face just appeared perfectly on screen, almost looking 3D. It was amazing - and very cute. Anyway, the woman doing the scan then went looking for bub's feet. She asked if we got good shots of the feet last time - which we did - but she still spent about 20 minutes trying to get a good clear shot of both feet. It was reassuring in that if she spent that long looking for feet we felt that she really had just been meticulous in the face shots as well.
I guess this is the reality of what the doctors have been saying - that they want to monitor me very closely so that everyone is doing everything they can to make sure another stillbirth doesn't happen. I just wish that didn't involve being asked to go back for second and third ultrasounds. It stresses me out. I just kept thinking that we were so innocent and optimistic about all the scans with Kat. We just kept saying "oh, she's just a bit small" and so on and so on. This time there really was nothing wrong, but I couldn't help but imagine the worst.
I guess this is the reality of what the doctors have been saying - that they want to monitor me very closely so that everyone is doing everything they can to make sure another stillbirth doesn't happen. I just wish that didn't involve being asked to go back for second and third ultrasounds. It stresses me out. I just kept thinking that we were so innocent and optimistic about all the scans with Kat. We just kept saying "oh, she's just a bit small" and so on and so on. This time there really was nothing wrong, but I couldn't help but imagine the worst.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Contemplating today how almost anything can get easy with practice.
Rory had a friend over after school yesterday. The boy's mum dropped him off (we hadn't met before) and commented immediately on my pregnancy, asked how everything was going and said "so this is number three?" Without even thinking about it I said "no, number four". I realised straight away that she had only seen two children here, which was why she assumed this was my third child, so I told her that our daughter was stillborn last year so this is number four.
When we first moved here and I was starting to meet people at school the question of how many children we have was just a polite conversation point. The first time I was asked was so difficult to deal with. I started to say that I had two, but I simply couldn't leave it at that. It felt so wrong. So, with my heart pounding and my voice and hands shaking I instead said that I had two children at school and that I'd had a daughter last year who was stillborn, so I have three children.
And now here I am, six months after that and saying that this is my fourth pregnancy and child just rolls off my tongue without thought. It actually takes me a moment to realise that it causes a little confusion when people only see me with two older children.
Rory had a friend over after school yesterday. The boy's mum dropped him off (we hadn't met before) and commented immediately on my pregnancy, asked how everything was going and said "so this is number three?" Without even thinking about it I said "no, number four". I realised straight away that she had only seen two children here, which was why she assumed this was my third child, so I told her that our daughter was stillborn last year so this is number four.
When we first moved here and I was starting to meet people at school the question of how many children we have was just a polite conversation point. The first time I was asked was so difficult to deal with. I started to say that I had two, but I simply couldn't leave it at that. It felt so wrong. So, with my heart pounding and my voice and hands shaking I instead said that I had two children at school and that I'd had a daughter last year who was stillborn, so I have three children.
And now here I am, six months after that and saying that this is my fourth pregnancy and child just rolls off my tongue without thought. It actually takes me a moment to realise that it causes a little confusion when people only see me with two older children.
Monday, August 9, 2010
I saw you in my dreams Kat. I held you.
A few days ago I had the song My Heart Will Go On stuck in my head for days. Not the whole song, just the lines:
Every night in my dreams I see you, I feel you. That is how I know you go on.
Over and over again in my head I heard those words. I've never associated that song with anyone in particular, but it felt like the words were being sent to me. It just felt significant. And then after a couple of days I saw you and I held you. In my dream. I dreamed Daddy and I were at a party, I was pregnant at the same stage I am now and holding a 6 month old baby girl in my arms. I was telling people at the party that this was my fourth pregnancy and that my third child had been stillborn. And yet there was this gorgeous baby girl held close in my arms.
That's what it's like baby girl. I carry you with me everywhere I go.
I love you.
A few days ago I had the song My Heart Will Go On stuck in my head for days. Not the whole song, just the lines:
Every night in my dreams I see you, I feel you. That is how I know you go on.
Over and over again in my head I heard those words. I've never associated that song with anyone in particular, but it felt like the words were being sent to me. It just felt significant. And then after a couple of days I saw you and I held you. In my dream. I dreamed Daddy and I were at a party, I was pregnant at the same stage I am now and holding a 6 month old baby girl in my arms. I was telling people at the party that this was my fourth pregnancy and that my third child had been stillborn. And yet there was this gorgeous baby girl held close in my arms.
That's what it's like baby girl. I carry you with me everywhere I go.
I love you.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Yesterday took a b-i-g nose dive and I'm still feeling pretty awful now. I had my first appointment at the high risk clinic yesterday morning. That all went really well. I left the house feeling happy and confident, something that's pretty rare in itself and amazing considering I was on my way to a doctor's appointment. The clinic was fantastic, really well run by very nice and very professional people. The doctor I saw was excellent, very very compassionate and understanding of what we've just been through and how difficult another pregnancy is, but very reassuring in how professional and competent she was. I heard the baby's heart beat. Everything was fine. Then I had to make an appointment for another ultrasound...
I got a referral for another scan because at the last one they couldn't get clear pictures of the baby's head and face because of the position she was in. I had been half expecting to be referred for another scan because of it. Also, trying not to think too much about needing another scan for that reason. When I was having Kat, at the follow-up scan after they discovered that she was too small they couldn't get clear pictures of her head and I had to go back again, then it was the following one that they found the fluid on her heart. So it's unnerving, to say the least, to be reliving that scenario. I know rationally that Kat was already too small and had other problems by that time and I also know that one of the reasons the doctors weren't ruling out a genetic disorder in her was that they couldn't get clear pictures of her face, but all her genetic tests were clear and she was perfectly formed when she was born. So I'm not worried as such about needing to go back for another scan now, just unnerved by it.
Anyway, making the appointment... the doctor referred me to a different radiology place than the one I've been to for the last two. This one operates out of hospitals, plus they have rooms in Tweed. The clinic went to get me an appointment at the Murwillumbah hospital, but I want to go to Tweed. With Michael working up there it's easier for him to come with me. The clinic rang the Tweed hospital clinic twice while I was there telling them I was being referred for a scan. I gathered that they were a bit difficult to deal with on the phone - the nurse at Murbah was sitting there nodding and trying to talk but getting cut off. Apparently they were telling her that they're very busy and if other people were booked in ahead of me I would be turned away. They seemed to think I was coming over that day instead of making an appointment for 3-4 weeks time. So I came home and rang for an appointment and they wouldn't take the booking. I told them twice I was being referred by the high risk clinic at Murwillumbah hospital but they just refused to do it because they consider it a morphology scan and they don't do morphology. So I rang their rooms in Tweed - and they refused the appointment as well. Because I hadn't had the first scan there. I was told "I can tell you right now that no one here likes finishing other people's scans". Again, I had told her I was being referred by the high risk clinic. As far as I'm concerned, that should have been good enough for either place to realise that I need this scan and just do it. I then made an appointment back at the clinic I went to for the other scans, only to have them call back and say that the doctor I saw is not on their list of referring doctors, that's she's affiliated with the practice that had refused my booking. I told them that - and they were pretty appalled about it. They went on to say that because this doctor wasn't on their list I wouldn't be able to claim it on medicare. At which point I started crying and said "look, I've been through a stillbirth, I just want my scan done, I don't care about the money". So at least now I do have an appointment, but I'm just so upset by it.
I've now had three dealings with Tweed hospital and all three of them have been bad. Every person I've spoken to has been exceptionally rude and as though having to deal with someone is so terribly inconvenient. Down to when I was with the doctor yesterday (who travels down from Tweed once a week for the Murbah clinic day) she went to do my blood pressure then remembered it had already been done by the nurse. She said "I forgot, we get spoiled down here, at Tweed we have to do it all ourselves". I just think, what are they DOING up there? I feel like I'll turn up to have a baby and they will treat me as a massive burden because they have to actually do some work. I don't want to set foot in the place, but I don't really have any other options about where to have this baby. I feel good about having all my ante natal care at Murbah hospital and going there after the baby's born, but I can't deliver there. They only do midwife assisted deliveries, no epidurals and if something goes wrong, it's about 30 minutes to get to Tweed. If it wasn't for that I'd suck it up and say fine, I won't have an epidural and deliver here. But I don't want to be that far from help if something goes wrong. So I have to go to Tweed. I'm absolutely dreading having to set foot in the place. It's been really important to me to feel comfortable with my care during this pregnancy and now I'm stuck having to have this baby somewhere I just don't want to be.
I got a referral for another scan because at the last one they couldn't get clear pictures of the baby's head and face because of the position she was in. I had been half expecting to be referred for another scan because of it. Also, trying not to think too much about needing another scan for that reason. When I was having Kat, at the follow-up scan after they discovered that she was too small they couldn't get clear pictures of her head and I had to go back again, then it was the following one that they found the fluid on her heart. So it's unnerving, to say the least, to be reliving that scenario. I know rationally that Kat was already too small and had other problems by that time and I also know that one of the reasons the doctors weren't ruling out a genetic disorder in her was that they couldn't get clear pictures of her face, but all her genetic tests were clear and she was perfectly formed when she was born. So I'm not worried as such about needing to go back for another scan now, just unnerved by it.
Anyway, making the appointment... the doctor referred me to a different radiology place than the one I've been to for the last two. This one operates out of hospitals, plus they have rooms in Tweed. The clinic went to get me an appointment at the Murwillumbah hospital, but I want to go to Tweed. With Michael working up there it's easier for him to come with me. The clinic rang the Tweed hospital clinic twice while I was there telling them I was being referred for a scan. I gathered that they were a bit difficult to deal with on the phone - the nurse at Murbah was sitting there nodding and trying to talk but getting cut off. Apparently they were telling her that they're very busy and if other people were booked in ahead of me I would be turned away. They seemed to think I was coming over that day instead of making an appointment for 3-4 weeks time. So I came home and rang for an appointment and they wouldn't take the booking. I told them twice I was being referred by the high risk clinic at Murwillumbah hospital but they just refused to do it because they consider it a morphology scan and they don't do morphology. So I rang their rooms in Tweed - and they refused the appointment as well. Because I hadn't had the first scan there. I was told "I can tell you right now that no one here likes finishing other people's scans". Again, I had told her I was being referred by the high risk clinic. As far as I'm concerned, that should have been good enough for either place to realise that I need this scan and just do it. I then made an appointment back at the clinic I went to for the other scans, only to have them call back and say that the doctor I saw is not on their list of referring doctors, that's she's affiliated with the practice that had refused my booking. I told them that - and they were pretty appalled about it. They went on to say that because this doctor wasn't on their list I wouldn't be able to claim it on medicare. At which point I started crying and said "look, I've been through a stillbirth, I just want my scan done, I don't care about the money". So at least now I do have an appointment, but I'm just so upset by it.
I've now had three dealings with Tweed hospital and all three of them have been bad. Every person I've spoken to has been exceptionally rude and as though having to deal with someone is so terribly inconvenient. Down to when I was with the doctor yesterday (who travels down from Tweed once a week for the Murbah clinic day) she went to do my blood pressure then remembered it had already been done by the nurse. She said "I forgot, we get spoiled down here, at Tweed we have to do it all ourselves". I just think, what are they DOING up there? I feel like I'll turn up to have a baby and they will treat me as a massive burden because they have to actually do some work. I don't want to set foot in the place, but I don't really have any other options about where to have this baby. I feel good about having all my ante natal care at Murbah hospital and going there after the baby's born, but I can't deliver there. They only do midwife assisted deliveries, no epidurals and if something goes wrong, it's about 30 minutes to get to Tweed. If it wasn't for that I'd suck it up and say fine, I won't have an epidural and deliver here. But I don't want to be that far from help if something goes wrong. So I have to go to Tweed. I'm absolutely dreading having to set foot in the place. It's been really important to me to feel comfortable with my care during this pregnancy and now I'm stuck having to have this baby somewhere I just don't want to be.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
A few things have happened in the last week. I went for my 20 week ultrasound last Thursday and everything is looking good. Bub's exactly the right size for dates and was very active, rolling around and stretching right out. It was lovely to see. We were told they can't "see anything between the legs, so it's probably a girl". We've taken to saying "she" but are still bearing in mind that it could be a boy yet.
Having that scan go well seemed to open a floodgate and we've been a lot more open about talking about and planning for baby. We've started buying baby things. It wasn't a conscious effort not to before, but there's been a change in both of us since the ultrasound.
We went looking at baby things on the weekend for the first time this pregnancy. As we browsed around "Golden Slumbers" started playing in the shops - the song we played at Kat's funeral. Not just Golden Slumbers, but the Ben Folds version from the I Am Sam soundtrack, which is the version we played. That song isn't on any Ben Folds albums, it's only on that soundtrack and the shop wasn't playing the soundtrack, just mixed songs. Neither of us have ever heard it anywhere except when we play it at home, but there it was. We just stopped and stared at each other for a moment, had a hug and then through my shock I half smiled, shook my head and just said "hi Kat". We both felt so strongly that she had a hand in that.
Then yesterday I was hanging out the washing from the kids suitcase after their school holiday trip to their dad's. A pair of tights belonging to their little sister had come home in their suitcase. It sent a jolt right through me - realising they were the same size that Kat would have been wearing by now and that I was "supposed" to be washing baby clothes that size by now. All I wanted to do was sit in a heap and cry, but Michael was working and I didn't feel like having to explain to the kids what was wrong, so I had to just keep going and not fall to pieces. I came inside and sat down with the paper and the baby started kicking - and kept on going and going for ages. Probably the longest lot of kicks I've felt yet. I felt like there's a real connection between Kat and this baby. Kat's song came on while we shopped for baby things and then the baby kicked when I was upset about Kat.
I don't know how many people (who haven't been through it) really understand, but I wish everyone did, that having another baby after a loss doesn't do anything to take away the pain of the loss. And having lost a baby doesn't take anything away from the love for a child that comes later.
Having that scan go well seemed to open a floodgate and we've been a lot more open about talking about and planning for baby. We've started buying baby things. It wasn't a conscious effort not to before, but there's been a change in both of us since the ultrasound.
We went looking at baby things on the weekend for the first time this pregnancy. As we browsed around "Golden Slumbers" started playing in the shops - the song we played at Kat's funeral. Not just Golden Slumbers, but the Ben Folds version from the I Am Sam soundtrack, which is the version we played. That song isn't on any Ben Folds albums, it's only on that soundtrack and the shop wasn't playing the soundtrack, just mixed songs. Neither of us have ever heard it anywhere except when we play it at home, but there it was. We just stopped and stared at each other for a moment, had a hug and then through my shock I half smiled, shook my head and just said "hi Kat". We both felt so strongly that she had a hand in that.
Then yesterday I was hanging out the washing from the kids suitcase after their school holiday trip to their dad's. A pair of tights belonging to their little sister had come home in their suitcase. It sent a jolt right through me - realising they were the same size that Kat would have been wearing by now and that I was "supposed" to be washing baby clothes that size by now. All I wanted to do was sit in a heap and cry, but Michael was working and I didn't feel like having to explain to the kids what was wrong, so I had to just keep going and not fall to pieces. I came inside and sat down with the paper and the baby started kicking - and kept on going and going for ages. Probably the longest lot of kicks I've felt yet. I felt like there's a real connection between Kat and this baby. Kat's song came on while we shopped for baby things and then the baby kicked when I was upset about Kat.
I don't know how many people (who haven't been through it) really understand, but I wish everyone did, that having another baby after a loss doesn't do anything to take away the pain of the loss. And having lost a baby doesn't take anything away from the love for a child that comes later.
Monday, July 12, 2010
We looked at the photos of Kat last night. It was the second time I'd seen them, the first time Michael had. The hospital had to post the photos to us because their computers had crashed while we were there and they couldn't get the disc done. The day they arrived we picked up the mail together at lunch time and I'd told Michael that on the one hand I wanted to look at them with him but on the other I didn't know if I could wait until he got home from work that night. He said he didn't mind if I didn't wait for him, so I went home and looked at them and I guess what I said later made him not want to see them. I'm not sure if I've written about this on here before or not - I have a feeling that I have done - but the pictures are not how I remember her looking. It probably sounds like a really strange comment to make in the circumstances, but in the pictures she looks dead and I don't remember her as looking dead. She was a very dark brown colour, which surprised me. If anything I was expecting her to be blue/grey. She was tiny and obviously not "finished" yet - her arms and legs didn't really look defined, it was hard to believe there were bones in there and I was scared to move her in case I broke one of her limbs - but she was perfectly formed. Her ears were still squashed flat against her head and her nose was still flat against her face, but her face still had her own distinctive shape about it. The way her cheeks sloped towards her nose, her eye shape and mouth were all there. Her mouth was one of the things I looked at the most. It was open and I could see her tongue, which was so complete and perfect inside that miniature mouth with bow-shaped lips. But in the pictures, the flash brought out things we couldn't see. There's a large white ring around her mouth and rather than having the appearance of her mouth being slightly open it looks like it's just hanging open with this big ring around it. I don't remember her skin being sucked around the bones at the front of her skull either, but those bones are really obvious in the pictures. And the flash also brought out the translucency of her skin. In pregnancy books they talk about the blood vessels being visible under the skin and in the photos you can see that. We couldn't at all with the naked eye, she was just brown. Once I saw them I was glad we had them and I can totally understand why these photos are taken now. It's not very long ago that stillborn babies, or those that died shortly after death, were just taken away and the mum sent home to get on with it. Acknowledging that these babies lived and are loved is very recent and very important and holding the baby and taking photos is a big part of that. But I also knew that if I hadn't wanted to see her in the hospital and then later looked at the photos I would have been horrified of what I had given birth to. And so we had put them away in the box of Kat's things and didn't get them back out til last night. I very suddenly had a really strong desire to look at the pictures of her in our arms. I just wanted to see us holding our baby girl. And it turned out there was something I missed the first time I saw them. In the ones of us holding her, she was wrapped in a blanket and from the angle the pictures were taken you can only just see the top of her head. But there's one of Michael holding her where you can see the profile of her face. It looks just like what we saw at all the ultrasounds. And she's beautiful.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Just realised that it's gone a year now since I found out I was pregnant with Kat. No wonder I feel like I've been pregnant for at least a year... I'd say ha ha, but I don't really feel like laughing about it.
When I was a kid my biggest fear was the death of a family member. I used to pray that we would all die at exactly the same time so that none of us would have to go through each other's deaths. When I was about 7 I dreamed mum's death at the age of 45 after being tortured for 4 years - and she died at 45 after 4 years with cancer. When I was about 10 I saw a plaque on the cremation wall at church for a stillborn baby. It said stillborn but born still. I had to ask mum was stillborn meant and my heart just broke when she told me. Directly behind her tree at the cemetery there's a baby's grave. I've been looking at that tiny grave for 20 years now and get a shiver down my spine each time. Sometimes I feel like a part of me has always known I was going to lose my mum when I was still a kid myself and then one day lose a baby.
That parallel universes feeling is still strong. I feel like I straddle two worlds. In one I'm the me I've always been. In the other I'm the mother whose baby just died. Kat and the memory of her is so deeply ingrained in my soul. I know she will be with me and be a part of me for ever. But I'm not defined by it. All the things that make me me are still here. I'm not changed by it. I've been feeling socially awkward and prone to panic since she died - but I've experienced that before. If anything I now see it as a trauma response. It's starting to lift a little, but only a little. Still, it doesn't cause me a great deal of anxiety because I know I've been through it before and I know I can get past it. So there I am with one foot planted on one universe where I'm still myself, just with the memory of another tragic experience. And then I have the other foot planted on the other universe which is all about Kat. Sometimes I can't believe I'm that woman who sat beside Kat's grave and sobbed as her coffin was lowered. I can't believe I'm the person who heard the doctor say "no heartbeat". How is it possible that that woman is up, walking around, breathing, laughing, crying about things other than Kat, having another baby, getting the kids through each day's routine, making plans for the future? It just seems too... weird.
When I was a kid my biggest fear was the death of a family member. I used to pray that we would all die at exactly the same time so that none of us would have to go through each other's deaths. When I was about 7 I dreamed mum's death at the age of 45 after being tortured for 4 years - and she died at 45 after 4 years with cancer. When I was about 10 I saw a plaque on the cremation wall at church for a stillborn baby. It said stillborn but born still. I had to ask mum was stillborn meant and my heart just broke when she told me. Directly behind her tree at the cemetery there's a baby's grave. I've been looking at that tiny grave for 20 years now and get a shiver down my spine each time. Sometimes I feel like a part of me has always known I was going to lose my mum when I was still a kid myself and then one day lose a baby.
That parallel universes feeling is still strong. I feel like I straddle two worlds. In one I'm the me I've always been. In the other I'm the mother whose baby just died. Kat and the memory of her is so deeply ingrained in my soul. I know she will be with me and be a part of me for ever. But I'm not defined by it. All the things that make me me are still here. I'm not changed by it. I've been feeling socially awkward and prone to panic since she died - but I've experienced that before. If anything I now see it as a trauma response. It's starting to lift a little, but only a little. Still, it doesn't cause me a great deal of anxiety because I know I've been through it before and I know I can get past it. So there I am with one foot planted on one universe where I'm still myself, just with the memory of another tragic experience. And then I have the other foot planted on the other universe which is all about Kat. Sometimes I can't believe I'm that woman who sat beside Kat's grave and sobbed as her coffin was lowered. I can't believe I'm the person who heard the doctor say "no heartbeat". How is it possible that that woman is up, walking around, breathing, laughing, crying about things other than Kat, having another baby, getting the kids through each day's routine, making plans for the future? It just seems too... weird.
Monday, June 21, 2010
A double-post day! Feeling like I left it all a bit too negative-nellie before when really, some great positives came out of yesterday too. Namely, my family. I love them so much. I love being one half of Team Jen & Michael: Together we can do Anything!!! (Maybe we should get matching capes and wear our undies on the outside.) He really is the love of my life, a love greater than anything I ever dreamed possible. I have two beautiful, healthy, intelligent, loving, caring children who literally taught me what love is. They challenge me and being a mum is sometimes harder than anything else I've ever done. Sometimes I just want a break from constant "kid-shit". But always there is an incredible amount of love. (Something that parents the world over understand.) I had a beautiful baby girl whose entire existence was contained inside my body... what a very special privilege it was to be her mum. And I have a baby growing inside me who I feel move and already love just as much as each of my older children. I have my dad, who I've always admired and respected as much as loved. I have a sister and brother who I like as people as well as love as family - and my brother, well I've always adored him... he doesn't say much but who needs words when he will jump on a plane to be with me when my daughter died? I've been an auntie to some adorable little kids since I was not quite 13. Most of them aren't kids anymore and they are lovely people. Michelle... I'm so proud of you. I have a best girlfriend who is my adopted sister, we've been friends for 24 years. And I have the most amazing in-laws ever, truly wonderful people who I love very much.
A few years ago I couldn't imagine having this much love in my life and I am deeply grateful for it every day.
A few years ago I couldn't imagine having this much love in my life and I am deeply grateful for it every day.
Another post today that isn't Kathryn-related, or pregnancy-related, but is just about things that have happened that I want to get out. And that, as much as anything, is why I started writing this. It's the every day life of a woman who has experienced the horror and heartbreak of burying a child. It's a life that includes love, children, family, highs, lows, dramas, comedy - just like anyone else's.
We've had a really lovely few days at home with the kids, starting from Saturday afternoon they've just been a joy. Rory's been very cuddly and chatty which warms my heart to see after so long seeing him so sucked into himself. Over the last few weeks things have been really good with them during the school week but they tend to get a bit ratty over the weekend. Which is all good and normal kid behaviour, it's fine and easy enough to deal with. But it took a good six weeks after getting them home from their last trip to their dad's for them to even start to settle down. And it's been like that for two and a half years now, since I first moved away from the town he lives in. Every visit to him was fraught by them getting very anxious (and naughty) before they left and then very unsettled (and sometimes disturbing) when they got back. I'm so tired of it. I'm tired of the constant interruption to family life. I worry about how unsettling it is for the kids to go through this every few months. The only time they have ever come home and settled straight back into our family life was after spending a two week block with him last year. They really need those longer blocks of time with him, to make it more meaningful for them to be spending time with him and to make them more settled before and after the visit. But he has never yet in three years stuck to any agreement we make about his time with the kids and so it is always arranged from one holiday to the next and no matter what amount of time I suggest they go to him for, he goes into "negotiation" mode and comes back with a counter offer of about half what I suggest. For fuck's sake - I'm not trying to screw him over, I'm trying to get him to spend more time with his children!!! If I suggest two weeks his first response is always to say one week (even the time he did end up having them for two, it was only after initially saying he was only doing a week and me then pointing out that they hadn't seen him at all for six months and so I thought it would be less unsettling for them to have a longer time with him - miracle of miracles he agreed); if I suggest a week he comes back with four days. Sometimes five. I just don't get it and I never will. All I know is that it's the same attitude from him that appeared after Sienna was born. I'd been out of action for the duration of the pregnancy, firstly due to continued threatened miscarriages from five weeks on and then due to daily vomiting for months on end and an excruciating condition that had me crying myself to sleep every night. (Yes I know, terribly selfish of me to not be able to cook and clean and him having to do it all for 7 1/2 months.) The day Sienna was born was the day he "checked out". It really was like it had been a conscious decision on his part to never again do anything I asked. I could go on and on with examples of it, but that's a whole other therapy session. Suffice to say that he seems to see me suggesting he spend time with his children as me "asking" him to do something and so his immediate reaction is to do less than I ask. He has never once shown any understanding that his time with the kids isn't about him - it's about them and their right to know and have a relationship with their father. I know that in the long run he's only hurting himself. But right now he's hurting my babies...
To top it off, I found out - or rather had it confirmed (I already knew) - that he lied to me yet again last year. Within days, I can't remember the exact timing but it would have been only a few weeks, of Kat's death he informed me that he would be paying me drastically reduced amounts of child support, as he was no longer working full time. I told him that he needed to contact the Child Support Agency (CSA) to update his details, so that my Family Tax Benefit would be adjusted to allow for the reduced amount of child support I received. He refused to do it. He said that the CSA had told him that if he changed his income estimate at that time I would end up owing money due to an overpayment of FTB. Didn't make sense to me - I would only end up with a bill from them if his income (and therefore child support payments) were going up, not down. And so we made an agreement that he would pay me a third of what he had been until July. But the cost to me in not having my FTB payments adjusted was going to amount to about $1000 - which he personally owed me in July. He told me that he was definitely going to be back in full time work in one of two jobs he had offers for by February (and I made the offer of him continuing to pay lesser amounts until July instead of as soon as he was back in full time work because I wanted to give him the chance to get back on his feet) and that he would provide the CSA a new income estimate in July, as per his "discussion" with them. I rang them yesterday to get the ball rolling on the whole "new estimate" thing, since I know that left to his own devices it wouldn't get done, only to be told by them that it was indeed all bullshit and they wouldn't have told him any such things. Do you know what? I'm past being sick of being lied to by him. I'm past being tired of being lied to by him. I'm just resigned to knowing that I cannot believe a single word he says. And sick to the stomach every time I think that the kids are 7 and 8 - I still have at least 10 years ahead of me of actively dealing with him. Anyway, I get the feeling that all that full time work I was told about in December has failed to materialise - or possibly even that he is deliberately working less purely to avoid paying "me" money. Nothing to base that on, just a gut feeling. And let's just say I have these gut feelings that he is about to pull some shit frequently and I have never once been wrong. As far as the money goes - it's not like it lines my pocket and pays for me to luxuriate. It's his financial contribution to the daily lives of his children. But it was so little anyway that yes, we have to stop and reconsider how to pay certain things, and we have very little room to move as it is, but it's doable. The point is, I feel he is deliberately handing over full paternal responsibility to Michael. Who is willing and happy to take it on, something I've actually struggled with a little, seeing him so whole-heartedly take on financial, emotional and practical responsibility for my children. More and more all the time, we are the family and their father is just someone they know.
We've had a really lovely few days at home with the kids, starting from Saturday afternoon they've just been a joy. Rory's been very cuddly and chatty which warms my heart to see after so long seeing him so sucked into himself. Over the last few weeks things have been really good with them during the school week but they tend to get a bit ratty over the weekend. Which is all good and normal kid behaviour, it's fine and easy enough to deal with. But it took a good six weeks after getting them home from their last trip to their dad's for them to even start to settle down. And it's been like that for two and a half years now, since I first moved away from the town he lives in. Every visit to him was fraught by them getting very anxious (and naughty) before they left and then very unsettled (and sometimes disturbing) when they got back. I'm so tired of it. I'm tired of the constant interruption to family life. I worry about how unsettling it is for the kids to go through this every few months. The only time they have ever come home and settled straight back into our family life was after spending a two week block with him last year. They really need those longer blocks of time with him, to make it more meaningful for them to be spending time with him and to make them more settled before and after the visit. But he has never yet in three years stuck to any agreement we make about his time with the kids and so it is always arranged from one holiday to the next and no matter what amount of time I suggest they go to him for, he goes into "negotiation" mode and comes back with a counter offer of about half what I suggest. For fuck's sake - I'm not trying to screw him over, I'm trying to get him to spend more time with his children!!! If I suggest two weeks his first response is always to say one week (even the time he did end up having them for two, it was only after initially saying he was only doing a week and me then pointing out that they hadn't seen him at all for six months and so I thought it would be less unsettling for them to have a longer time with him - miracle of miracles he agreed); if I suggest a week he comes back with four days. Sometimes five. I just don't get it and I never will. All I know is that it's the same attitude from him that appeared after Sienna was born. I'd been out of action for the duration of the pregnancy, firstly due to continued threatened miscarriages from five weeks on and then due to daily vomiting for months on end and an excruciating condition that had me crying myself to sleep every night. (Yes I know, terribly selfish of me to not be able to cook and clean and him having to do it all for 7 1/2 months.) The day Sienna was born was the day he "checked out". It really was like it had been a conscious decision on his part to never again do anything I asked. I could go on and on with examples of it, but that's a whole other therapy session. Suffice to say that he seems to see me suggesting he spend time with his children as me "asking" him to do something and so his immediate reaction is to do less than I ask. He has never once shown any understanding that his time with the kids isn't about him - it's about them and their right to know and have a relationship with their father. I know that in the long run he's only hurting himself. But right now he's hurting my babies...
To top it off, I found out - or rather had it confirmed (I already knew) - that he lied to me yet again last year. Within days, I can't remember the exact timing but it would have been only a few weeks, of Kat's death he informed me that he would be paying me drastically reduced amounts of child support, as he was no longer working full time. I told him that he needed to contact the Child Support Agency (CSA) to update his details, so that my Family Tax Benefit would be adjusted to allow for the reduced amount of child support I received. He refused to do it. He said that the CSA had told him that if he changed his income estimate at that time I would end up owing money due to an overpayment of FTB. Didn't make sense to me - I would only end up with a bill from them if his income (and therefore child support payments) were going up, not down. And so we made an agreement that he would pay me a third of what he had been until July. But the cost to me in not having my FTB payments adjusted was going to amount to about $1000 - which he personally owed me in July. He told me that he was definitely going to be back in full time work in one of two jobs he had offers for by February (and I made the offer of him continuing to pay lesser amounts until July instead of as soon as he was back in full time work because I wanted to give him the chance to get back on his feet) and that he would provide the CSA a new income estimate in July, as per his "discussion" with them. I rang them yesterday to get the ball rolling on the whole "new estimate" thing, since I know that left to his own devices it wouldn't get done, only to be told by them that it was indeed all bullshit and they wouldn't have told him any such things. Do you know what? I'm past being sick of being lied to by him. I'm past being tired of being lied to by him. I'm just resigned to knowing that I cannot believe a single word he says. And sick to the stomach every time I think that the kids are 7 and 8 - I still have at least 10 years ahead of me of actively dealing with him. Anyway, I get the feeling that all that full time work I was told about in December has failed to materialise - or possibly even that he is deliberately working less purely to avoid paying "me" money. Nothing to base that on, just a gut feeling. And let's just say I have these gut feelings that he is about to pull some shit frequently and I have never once been wrong. As far as the money goes - it's not like it lines my pocket and pays for me to luxuriate. It's his financial contribution to the daily lives of his children. But it was so little anyway that yes, we have to stop and reconsider how to pay certain things, and we have very little room to move as it is, but it's doable. The point is, I feel he is deliberately handing over full paternal responsibility to Michael. Who is willing and happy to take it on, something I've actually struggled with a little, seeing him so whole-heartedly take on financial, emotional and practical responsibility for my children. More and more all the time, we are the family and their father is just someone they know.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Doctor's appointment today, everything went well. I heard the heartbeat! Then had a cry. I get so shaky and nervous before appointments and go in convinced it's all going to be over again. The rest of the time I'm fine and I've felt so positive about this baby right from the start. I saw a really great doctor, exactly the kind I would like to be seeing all the way through (plus, I really wanted to have just one doctor so I didn't have to keep going over what happened to someone new on each visit) but he's referred me to the high risk clinic at the hospital. Not because there's any reason to suspect that this pregnancy is high risk as such, just that having had a stillbirth he thinks I should be seen by obstetricians. If they're happy to do shared care I'll split appointments between the clinic and the GP.
I saw a newborn baby girl at school this afternoon and it took me a while to realise that seeing a new baby made me smile instead of want to cry. I just sat there thinking "that will be us soon", it didn't even tear at my heart that it was a girl. This is a huge change from a few months ago.
I saw a newborn baby girl at school this afternoon and it took me a while to realise that seeing a new baby made me smile instead of want to cry. I just sat there thinking "that will be us soon", it didn't even tear at my heart that it was a girl. This is a huge change from a few months ago.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
15 weeks today. I know I've already passed the point in the pregnancy where last time I'd broken out in the rash, but always looking back on when I got sick with Kat I think of it as being at 15 weeks. So this week marks one of the milestones I've been expecting to hold my breath over. It's kind of different though to how I expected it to be. I thought I would be panicking about this pregnancy, but I'm not. I know I don't have any rashes, I haven't suddenly started throwing up more, no nosebleeds and, even though I'm tired and have a sleep most days it's not like it was that week with Kat where I just couldn't wake up. And I'm feeling the baby move every day. Not as much as I'd like, but it's still so early to be feeling it at all so it's nice to be feeling it each day. So I know mentally there's nothing wrong with this baby and all my thoughts have returned to Kat. I know I keep saying it, and it's a completely useless thing to say and think, but I just wish so much there had have been some way we could have both our babies here with us. I miss her. We miss her. I don't know if it's time, or the way my mind works, or both, but I've found myself reflecting more on the time surrounding her death. I know that's something I've always done - kind of deal with the most immediate thing first and then it's only later (often months later), once the immediacy has passed that I start to process my more emotional responses, or realise that there were other layers I didn't really give much attention to at the time. Maybe it's a bad thing to give things so much thought so long after the event. I don't know. This is hardly the usual, run-of-the-mill event though. And here I am finding myself going over various people's reactions at the time. Some are painful and hurtful. I don't think people set out to hurt us, but there were a couple of people that unfortunately did. I'm sure I've written on here before about Michael's cousin telling us at the time that people would say things that hurt because they didn't understand and to remember that it was about them and not us. It was the best advice I received, but I've found it hard to live by. I find it hard to offer other people my understanding of them and their responses. My mind's been kind of stuck on those things for the last few days and there's nothing else to turn over. A few people said or did some really insensitive things and, for now at least, those people are not as big a part of my life as they were before. Today I've been remembering the amazing people and things that happened. It's not like I didn't acknowledge them at the time - I really did - but today I'm just remembering. My brother took my breath away. I still don't even know what words to use to describe hearing that he was coming and then to see him at my door. I flew into his arms, held on tight and sobbed on him. Even now, I'm sitting here with tears rolling down my face just thinking of it. No matter what else either of us does in the rest of our lives, THAT will always be how I sum up the person that my brother is. Michael's parents were just shining lights for both of us. They dropped everything and came to be with us in Newcastle and then at home. Everything they did was done so quietly, they didn't go around announcing that they were cleaning our house or doing the ironing or taking the kids out or going shopping for us. We would just find those things done or being done. Their presence was an enormous comfort to both of us and to the kids. My girlfriend and her husband travelling up from Muswellbrook; a friend of Michael's flying up from Sydney the day after receiving good test results after her cancer treatment; a lawyer from another practice and one of the Court ladies coming to the funeral; Michael's friend who organised the flowers for us and another one who just sat and talked about Kathryn with us over coffee; the boy in Rory's class who approached Rory to say he was sorry about Rory's sister and then also went looking for Sienna in the playground to say the same to her as well; the people who sent us flowers and cards and the people who sent us messages on facebook, all saying the same thing, that they knew there was nothing they could say, but just to get those little, one-line messages meant more than I could tell them - these people were all beautiful. And in the long run I really do think that it's these memories that will stay with us.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
A very brief post tonight. I just realised today marks a crazy coincidence. It's a year today since the date of Kat's conception and I'm at the same point of pregnancy, to the day, that I broke out in the rash that I could never have imagined was killing my daughter. I don't even know what to say other than it's a very weird feeling. And I've been periodically checking for spots.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Back down a bit today. There's no particular thing that's wrong, except maybe that missing Michael when he's away is a hundred times harder to deal with since Kat died. The first time he had to go away after she died I just remember crying on the phone "I miss you and I miss Kat and I miss you". Missing two people at once isn't fun.
Not that there's any reason for this, but I've found myself dwelling a little today on the things I wish people wouldn't say or do after a loss like this. Firstly, I'm not depressed - I'm grieving. Don't try to cheer me up or take my mind off it or suggest that being busy or a change of scenery is good for me. My daughter died. That is not something I will get over, it's something I have to live with. I am living with it and I think I'm doing a good job of it. I also don't think there's such a thing as doing a bad job of it. Grief is grief and we all deal with it differently. Sometimes I feel better and sometimes I feel worse but most of all I need to be allowed to feel whatever it is I feel at any given moment. Secondly, I did not have a miscarriage. I did not "lose the baby". My heart goes out to people who have had miscarriages; I can't understand what it would be like because I've never had one. I will always be in a high risk category for miscarriage because I've had endometriosis and each time I've been pregnant I've been very aware of that and have held my breath throughout the first trimester, expecting that any day it's going to be all over. But I have never suffered a miscarriage. My daughter contracted a virus when I was pregnant with her and she died in utero. I have tortured myself with questioning whether or not she was in pain, whether she suffered. I'll never know the answer to that. I can only hope that her body slowed down until it reached the point that it stopped and that she didn't feel anything. This, I imagine, will be the single biggest tragedy in my life and I find I just don't want people in my life who seem to have the attitude that I lost the baby and it must have been for the best. I will never believe that Kathryn's death was for the best. I will always grieve for the life she didn't get to live.
Not that there's any reason for this, but I've found myself dwelling a little today on the things I wish people wouldn't say or do after a loss like this. Firstly, I'm not depressed - I'm grieving. Don't try to cheer me up or take my mind off it or suggest that being busy or a change of scenery is good for me. My daughter died. That is not something I will get over, it's something I have to live with. I am living with it and I think I'm doing a good job of it. I also don't think there's such a thing as doing a bad job of it. Grief is grief and we all deal with it differently. Sometimes I feel better and sometimes I feel worse but most of all I need to be allowed to feel whatever it is I feel at any given moment. Secondly, I did not have a miscarriage. I did not "lose the baby". My heart goes out to people who have had miscarriages; I can't understand what it would be like because I've never had one. I will always be in a high risk category for miscarriage because I've had endometriosis and each time I've been pregnant I've been very aware of that and have held my breath throughout the first trimester, expecting that any day it's going to be all over. But I have never suffered a miscarriage. My daughter contracted a virus when I was pregnant with her and she died in utero. I have tortured myself with questioning whether or not she was in pain, whether she suffered. I'll never know the answer to that. I can only hope that her body slowed down until it reached the point that it stopped and that she didn't feel anything. This, I imagine, will be the single biggest tragedy in my life and I find I just don't want people in my life who seem to have the attitude that I lost the baby and it must have been for the best. I will never believe that Kathryn's death was for the best. I will always grieve for the life she didn't get to live.
Friday, May 28, 2010
I'm feeling a little more light-hearted today. I finally went and picked up my ultrasound pictures from last week and read the report. We've been having lots of giggles about the report stating that our baby "appears grossly normal". My chromosomal abnormality tests came back with very low risk, which we basically already knew. At the ultrasound we were told that visually everything looked fine. And while previous (genetically) healthy children are by no means a guarantee, it's always been kind of a comfort that all of Kat's genetic tests came back clear.
I've been feeling the baby move for a while now. It's very early I know, but it's unmistakable. I felt Rory at 16 weeks, Sienna at 12, Kat at 13 and this one at 11. Well, I started feeling little flutters, very lightly, and the tight sort of gassy feeling that comes early on and I've felt them every day for a couple of weeks now. I had definite kicks (and heaps of them!) at about 12 weeks. I was lying in bed and I couldn't help just lying there laughing. It was very cool. And already, baby often moves when Michael rests his hand on my belly. That is uber-cool.
I've been feeling the baby move for a while now. It's very early I know, but it's unmistakable. I felt Rory at 16 weeks, Sienna at 12, Kat at 13 and this one at 11. Well, I started feeling little flutters, very lightly, and the tight sort of gassy feeling that comes early on and I've felt them every day for a couple of weeks now. I had definite kicks (and heaps of them!) at about 12 weeks. I was lying in bed and I couldn't help just lying there laughing. It was very cool. And already, baby often moves when Michael rests his hand on my belly. That is uber-cool.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
It's six months today since Kat was born. From here on out every day that passes makes it closer to years than weeks or months since she was with us. I have a very strange sense of the surreal today. It doesn't seem possible that for six months we have been going about our lives having gone through the experience of burying a child. It doesn't seem possible sometimes that I'm still breathing, eating, talking, sleeping, walking around, feeling sunlight. I've always been a person who thinks in pictures and when I think of the death of a child I see a messy, torn, gaping wound, like the maul marks of a lion or a bear. Something huge and wild, untameable. It's rough and dirty and primal. And no matter how much time passes, no matter if the wound closes over, the scar it leaves will always be a jagged and constant reminder.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
I went for a blood test today - the first step apparently before having the nuchal fold ultrasound. They do a blood test three days before the scan. I've spent the day teary and shaky. I cried in Coles for the first time since the first time I went there after Kat died. That day it was because walking around Coles was so... normal. I had a lot of trouble dealing with normal at first. So much of my life was routine as usual and all I wanted to do was scream and cry that my baby just died. Today it was emotion bubbling over about going through the medical processes of pregnancy. I was really shaky before my last doctor's appointment too. Otherwise I'm feeling pretty good and positive, but doctors appointments etc make me shake.
The day wasn't helped by being in the situation for the first time where I didn't tell someone about Kat. The woman who took my blood asked if this was my first pregnancy and I told her it's my fourth. Her response was "oh my god, you're STILL going back for more?" I'd already been teary on and off and I knew that if I said at that point "well, actually, my last pregnancy ended in my daughter being stillborn" I'd sit there and cry. And I didn't really want to. And this woman was laughing and I knew it would make her feel really bad and it just seemed easier to let it go. I felt awful. It turned out she has twins and was extremely sick, throwing up every single day of her pregnancy including in the theatre when they were born at 34 weeks. So for her, pregnancy was a horrible, one-off experience. That's where it was coming from. It's just that it was the first time I've ever just let it go and not told someone about Kat. I didn't like it.
The day wasn't helped by being in the situation for the first time where I didn't tell someone about Kat. The woman who took my blood asked if this was my first pregnancy and I told her it's my fourth. Her response was "oh my god, you're STILL going back for more?" I'd already been teary on and off and I knew that if I said at that point "well, actually, my last pregnancy ended in my daughter being stillborn" I'd sit there and cry. And I didn't really want to. And this woman was laughing and I knew it would make her feel really bad and it just seemed easier to let it go. I felt awful. It turned out she has twins and was extremely sick, throwing up every single day of her pregnancy including in the theatre when they were born at 34 weeks. So for her, pregnancy was a horrible, one-off experience. That's where it was coming from. It's just that it was the first time I've ever just let it go and not told someone about Kat. I didn't like it.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Mother's Day
So it's Mother's Day today. It's a bittersweet one. Looking back over the last few: three years ago I had just found out about things Rick was doing and saying when I wasn't around, I would say that we'd been fighting for two days but really it was me crying and him ignoring me while feeling smug that my tears were proof of why he was justified in doing the things he did and on the Saturday night I told him that the kids were excited about Mother's Day the next day so we would have the day and then he would pack and leave on Monday. The only resolution that night ended up being that we weren't separating but he still wouldn't talk to me or acknowledge that we had been fighting/not talking for a year. I barely slept for the next two weeks before making the final split. Two years ago he was rostered off on Sundays in May so the kids were going to his place on Saturday nights. He offered to give up that Sunday so they could be with me on Mother's Day but because there was only that one month that they could see him each week I didn't want them to miss out on one. We did Mother's Day on the Saturday instead. I had been seeing Michael and it had been during the week before that we had said we were together and he met the kids. So I had a brand new honey so that was exciting but he went away for the weekend and I was on my own. With period pain. Last year I was in the process of moving in with Michael. It was a gorgeous sunny Sunday morning, as only sunny Sundays in the place we lived in last year can be. I was wrapped up in a new super-soft gown, had a new book to read. A yummy breakfast. I had a whole new chapter opening up before me. I knew we would be trying for a baby by the end of the year and I was so excited to think that the following Mother's Day I might be pregnant. Then of course, we started trying a few months earlier than planned and it happened immediately, so I was looking forward to already having another baby by Mother's Day this year. And now here we are. I'm 10 weeks pregnant and so very happy about it. Even though it's very early, I've been feeling little tickles in the same spot for the last few days and I'm sure it's our baby. Every day I am so thankful for the people I have in my life. I feel like my life is so incredibly rich and it's because of the love I give and receive every day. For me, it really is my family that fulfills my soul in a way that nothing else can. The losses I've experienced seem to make me appreciate what I have all the more rather than just make me sad for what's gone. But..... god I miss our girl. I wish with all my heart and soul, knowing it's the most futile thing I can do, that there was some way we could have had both Kat and this baby here. This child is always going to know that having them was my wish and dream to have four children come true. I would never want them to think or feel for one moment that they wouldn't be here if Kat had survived. But.... I miss her.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
I'm counting the days (10 to go) until my first ultrasound for this pregnancy. I'm getting a little anxious about it and keep thinking - I hope everything's OK. Please let there be a heartbeat. Then I remind myself that before every ultrasound I've ever had I was expecting to hear bad news. Of course, now I've experienced hearing the worst possible news at a scan and that becomes a two-pronged thing going into another one. On one hand, as long as there's a heartbeat and everything more or less in all the right spots, nothing could ever be as bad as "no heartbeat". On the other hand - what if? Is everything going to be OK this time? I keep telling myself to relax. It's like a mantra - don't stress, don't stress, don't stress, don't stress. Every time I feel sick (which has really settled down again after just one bad day) I get a rush of - OK, I feel sick, I'm still pregnant, bub's still hanging on. Every time I don't feel sick I worry that it means bub's..... stopped. Every time I go to the toilet I expect to see that I've been bleeding. Even having said all that though, I'm still surprised that I'm not more nervous than I am. I really do still see what happened to Kat as something that happened TO KAT, not to us and I know that there isn't any reason to think it will happen again. Still nervous about getting into that ultrasound and not seeing a heartbeat though....
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Things still seem to be on a fairly even keel here. Sickness is getting worse with the pregnancy. In a way it's a comfort even though I feel rotten. This is still the best I've ever felt at this stage of pregnancy and earlier on the lack of nausea had me saying "why aren't I sick?" when I've been so sick through all the others. I'm tired and have been getting lots of headaches. Again, they make me feel rotten but it feels normal for me and pregnancy.
We're going to Tamworth for a flying trip this weekend. We just decided last night to go. Michael's been talking about it since my last round of assignments - going down and spending a day at the UNE library getting some books together for my next assignments. We're staying with Dad in Tamworth and the kids will spend Saturday with him while we travel up to Armidale on Saturday. Michael's parents are coming over on the Sunday and we will all meet for brunch. I'm really looking forward to the weekend, but couldn't really be less interested in uni work. I know that I enjoy the work when I do it - but it's so hard to want to do it. I don't know how I would have gone if I had a job I had to return to after losing Kat. I thought that by the time uni started up this year I'd be really wanting to get back into it - but I just don't. The only thing keeping me going with it now is the personal challenge to myself to not give up.
I've noticed that I get more teary about Kat now than I think I did earlier. I mean, early on I would sit and cry, sometimes for hours, but even though I think about Kat every day I haven't really cried every day. Now, it's not so much "crying" as getting teary when I think about her. It seems to happen most often when I'm in the car on the way to get the kids from school. Michael thinks that it's because of school being such a child-related place. I think it might also be some anxiety about crowded places. I still don't handle that too well. The school disco about a month ago was excruciating. The last thing I wanted was to make small talk and laugh.
It feels a little strange sometimes to think that there's another child growing inside me and that we are going to see this one grow up, get to know him/her, have another family member here with us... when we didn't get to do that with Kat. I just keep saying over and over again "please let us keep this one..." Having said that, I still feel really positive about this pregnancy. I know that there's no reason to think that what happened to Kat will happen again. As we were told repeatedly by doctors when she died - from a medical point of view, what happened to her is the best case scenario in the circumstances because there is no fear about another pregnancy ending the same way.
We're going to Tamworth for a flying trip this weekend. We just decided last night to go. Michael's been talking about it since my last round of assignments - going down and spending a day at the UNE library getting some books together for my next assignments. We're staying with Dad in Tamworth and the kids will spend Saturday with him while we travel up to Armidale on Saturday. Michael's parents are coming over on the Sunday and we will all meet for brunch. I'm really looking forward to the weekend, but couldn't really be less interested in uni work. I know that I enjoy the work when I do it - but it's so hard to want to do it. I don't know how I would have gone if I had a job I had to return to after losing Kat. I thought that by the time uni started up this year I'd be really wanting to get back into it - but I just don't. The only thing keeping me going with it now is the personal challenge to myself to not give up.
I've noticed that I get more teary about Kat now than I think I did earlier. I mean, early on I would sit and cry, sometimes for hours, but even though I think about Kat every day I haven't really cried every day. Now, it's not so much "crying" as getting teary when I think about her. It seems to happen most often when I'm in the car on the way to get the kids from school. Michael thinks that it's because of school being such a child-related place. I think it might also be some anxiety about crowded places. I still don't handle that too well. The school disco about a month ago was excruciating. The last thing I wanted was to make small talk and laugh.
It feels a little strange sometimes to think that there's another child growing inside me and that we are going to see this one grow up, get to know him/her, have another family member here with us... when we didn't get to do that with Kat. I just keep saying over and over again "please let us keep this one..." Having said that, I still feel really positive about this pregnancy. I know that there's no reason to think that what happened to Kat will happen again. As we were told repeatedly by doctors when she died - from a medical point of view, what happened to her is the best case scenario in the circumstances because there is no fear about another pregnancy ending the same way.
Monday, April 19, 2010
It's been a while between posts, mostly because I haven't really had anything to write about. Everything has just been... the same. This is the new normal for me and for us.
I started this blog because I wanted to share our story, to go some way to lifting the secrecy surrounding stillbirth and miscarriage and to offer up an account of living with grief. Not just of the immediacy of the loss and not as a reflection. I wanted to write it all, as it was happening and share some of the myriad thoughts and emotions that happen after a baby dies. I wanted it to continue on past the first couple of months to provide a picture of lives resuming after unimaginable pain and loss. I find I have less to write now though, because I've already said it. I expect that there will continue to be dips and peaks of emotion. The last dip (for the month surrounding Kat's due date) took me by surprise as I thought I had already reached a stage where bad times would be measured in days and not weeks. Now I won't be surprised if that happens again. But nor would I be surprised if it doesn't. I just don't know. What I do know is that every day I miss her. Every day I wish she could have stayed with us. I don't expect that to ever stop or change.
Being pregnant again DOES NOT ease the pain. It does not offer up new hope. That is far too much responsibility to place on the shoulders of a tiny baby. This baby is here for his or her own purpose and is wanted for his or her own sake. It will not bear the burden of healing its parents pain or giving us hope. One of the things we heard repeatedly after Kat died was "you will have another baby one day and that will go some way to healing this pain". But it's not like that at all. I didn't expect it to be and I didn't want it to be - and it's not.
We often see people with prams and say "that will be us soon" and then remember and add "it was supposed to be us now". It's a strange co-existence - that feeling again of having our feet straddling two different worlds.
I think about Kat every day. Sometimes I look at her hand and foot prints or I open the box of her things and gently look at them. Sometimes I remember some of the lovely things people said and did after she died. Mostly I just miss her and I feel *her* - the experience of her - nestled deep in my bones. I haven't been measuring time as closely as I had been. In fact it only just occurred to me that today's the 20th. I don't keep track of how old she would have been, although I don't consider her "age" to be from the date she was delivered; rather if I think about it I think of the time she would have been born if she (and I before her) had never gotten sick. I saw a baby in the shops the other day who looked about the right age to have been born in late February/early March and had a moment of thinking "that would be where we were up to with Kat". It was sad and there was longing, but I also actually enjoyed seeing that baby with her mum.
I don't suppose there's really much point to this post. Just a few reflections five months on.
I started this blog because I wanted to share our story, to go some way to lifting the secrecy surrounding stillbirth and miscarriage and to offer up an account of living with grief. Not just of the immediacy of the loss and not as a reflection. I wanted to write it all, as it was happening and share some of the myriad thoughts and emotions that happen after a baby dies. I wanted it to continue on past the first couple of months to provide a picture of lives resuming after unimaginable pain and loss. I find I have less to write now though, because I've already said it. I expect that there will continue to be dips and peaks of emotion. The last dip (for the month surrounding Kat's due date) took me by surprise as I thought I had already reached a stage where bad times would be measured in days and not weeks. Now I won't be surprised if that happens again. But nor would I be surprised if it doesn't. I just don't know. What I do know is that every day I miss her. Every day I wish she could have stayed with us. I don't expect that to ever stop or change.
Being pregnant again DOES NOT ease the pain. It does not offer up new hope. That is far too much responsibility to place on the shoulders of a tiny baby. This baby is here for his or her own purpose and is wanted for his or her own sake. It will not bear the burden of healing its parents pain or giving us hope. One of the things we heard repeatedly after Kat died was "you will have another baby one day and that will go some way to healing this pain". But it's not like that at all. I didn't expect it to be and I didn't want it to be - and it's not.
We often see people with prams and say "that will be us soon" and then remember and add "it was supposed to be us now". It's a strange co-existence - that feeling again of having our feet straddling two different worlds.
I think about Kat every day. Sometimes I look at her hand and foot prints or I open the box of her things and gently look at them. Sometimes I remember some of the lovely things people said and did after she died. Mostly I just miss her and I feel *her* - the experience of her - nestled deep in my bones. I haven't been measuring time as closely as I had been. In fact it only just occurred to me that today's the 20th. I don't keep track of how old she would have been, although I don't consider her "age" to be from the date she was delivered; rather if I think about it I think of the time she would have been born if she (and I before her) had never gotten sick. I saw a baby in the shops the other day who looked about the right age to have been born in late February/early March and had a moment of thinking "that would be where we were up to with Kat". It was sad and there was longing, but I also actually enjoyed seeing that baby with her mum.
I don't suppose there's really much point to this post. Just a few reflections five months on.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Doctor's appointment was fine. All just routine - which was what I wanted, really. In all three of my other pregnancies I had at least two ultrasounds in the first trimester because of concerns about my babies. So it's nice to be pregnant and not be rushing off for scans because I'm being told that the pregnancy is at risk or I'm being told to not get my hopes up about carrying past a few weeks. On the one hand it would be nice to see a heartbeat and have that reassurance that there really is a space prawn growing into a baby inside me! But routine and normal is nice too.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Michael and I were discussing our babies before and it occurred to me that our perspectives have shifted since Kat died. There was a bit in her funeral service that I didn't really understand at the time, about grief being a kind of privilege. I think I get it a bit more now. I feel so privileged to have been Kat's mum. Her entire life was lived inside my body. Her entire experience was inside me. I got to experience the sheer joy of sharing my pregnancy with Michael and it was such an incredibly special time. We loved her so much and we had so many dreams for our future family life. Without that love and without those hopes and dreams the grief we feel wouldn't be anywhere near as intense. And so it is a kind of privilege. It reminds us of what we made together, it reminds us that we had a beautiful baby girl who we loved and wanted with all our hearts and it reminds us of love in its purest form. Love for someone not because of our interactions with her or because of the things she said or did, just love for no other reason than that she existed.
I'm so incredibly grateful and feel so lucky to be pregnant again. I dreamed for years of having four children. Then until now I never thought I would get to have four. For a few years I thought there would be three and then for a long time I didn't think I would ever have more than two. When I met Michael I was so excited to think about having another child but despite a brief musing before I was pregnant with Kat that I wouldn't mind having another two I didn't ever really think that there would ever be more than another one. I can't describe how much I wish there was some way we could have both Kat and this baby here with us - I never thought my four children would happen in these circumstances and I certainly wish it was different - and I can't really describe the depth of feeling when I think of that wish. The depth of how futile a wish it is, but wishing it anyway. But how many people get to live out something they dreamed of as a kid?! I feel so lucky.
I'm so incredibly grateful and feel so lucky to be pregnant again. I dreamed for years of having four children. Then until now I never thought I would get to have four. For a few years I thought there would be three and then for a long time I didn't think I would ever have more than two. When I met Michael I was so excited to think about having another child but despite a brief musing before I was pregnant with Kat that I wouldn't mind having another two I didn't ever really think that there would ever be more than another one. I can't describe how much I wish there was some way we could have both Kat and this baby here with us - I never thought my four children would happen in these circumstances and I certainly wish it was different - and I can't really describe the depth of feeling when I think of that wish. The depth of how futile a wish it is, but wishing it anyway. But how many people get to live out something they dreamed of as a kid?! I feel so lucky.
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