Today marks four months since you passed away. I have absolutely no idea how I’ve managed to carry on since the moment that they told me that you died, the moment that my life was forever changed.
I look back on the last four months, and the nine months before that and I can hardly recognise the person that I was before. My whole life changed when I found out I was pregnant; the moment that stick turned positive, in some way I became a mother. Nine long months we spent preparing for you. I’ve just been reading back old posts from my birth forum. They start off as so uncertain, as I was afraid to bond with you too soon incase we lost you. I gradually gained in confidence that you were ok, especially after we reached 24 weeks, which is when they say a baby is viable for life outside of the womb. It never occurred to me that we could lose you after that. I knew stillbirths happened, but I didn’t know that a baby could die so soon after they were born at full term like you did. I had no real idea that a mother could go through labour and delivery, and in the moment that their child is born, everything goes so terribly wrong. Instead of having you handed to me, I was left asking your daddy why you weren’t crying. Desperate to know what is going on. I could hear the doctors talking and trying to resucitate you, but none of it made any sense. I could not process in my mind how quickly everything changed.
Four months and three days ago you were born. All I wanted was to hold you. Then when I did, I didn’t want to let you go. But I had to, so you could go to the NICU. I was so hopeful that you would be ok.
Four months ago they told me that you didn’t make it. In the immediate days after losing you, I thought I would be completely consumed with my grief. Though at the time I think I was still in shock and disbelief. I was still reeling from the trauma my body went through, and seeing all of the changes that happen to a woman who gives birth. My body didn’t know that you were no longer here, and my brain couldn’t really process it either. My world was forever changed, but at the time I didn’t realise just how deeply it would effect me.
In these last four months, I think I’ve come to realise exactly what losing you would mean. You really aren’t coming back. I am a mother without a baby. Your first Christmas won’t take place in Naples with your nan, Ian and Auntie Sadie like we planned. I won’t be happily enjoying my maternity leave, out walking with the pram and taking a million photos of you like I had hoped and planned to do. I will never see you in any of the clothes that we picked out for you. I will never know what colour your eyes would have been or what your cooing, giggling or even your cry would sound like. I will never know if you would be clever, musical, sporty, or artistic. I will never see you graduate high school, go to college, get married or have children of your own.
I guess that’s why losing you has been so hard. The moment the second line appeared on the pregnancy test, a million plans were made in my mind. Images of how things might play out. It is so hard to let go of those hopes I had for you, knowing that none of it can ever happen now.
I think these two photos show just how much a difference a few days can make:
| 22 March 2012
38+4 – the day my waters broke.
| 27 March 2012
The day after Finley died.
I’m so sorry that we can’t be together baby boy. I love and miss you so much.
Love mummy xox