I've had a thought occur to me.
I think this has been forming for some weeks/months now, but I've not been able to quite lay a finger on what was going on for me.
In recent discussion with another friend who is also pregnant after losing her first child soon after birth (full term), I started to think about all the innocence lost for me on this journey, and for Steve no doubt although I haven't talked with him specifically about this that I recall.
Babies have always enraptured me. Children have always enthralled me. How they play, how they learn, interact, concentrate.... all of it. I find it so completely intriguing and I have in the past been able to sit and just absorb them - I thought that working in child care centres after school from the age of 15, and then as a first full time job, would be my perfect career. I found though that, as with so many organisations, there was always red tape, always a monkey on the back so to speak, and the more responsibility that was given me in these positions the more I wasn't actually able to sit back and watch them for the pure enjoyment of being in their presence. I had kind of hoped it'd be more than washing out bottles of clag and wiping down floors and tables..... before anyone weighs in here and says "Ahhh but that's what a mother does, they're forevvvver cleaning up after their children", I beg you to stop and give me some credit that I do know that is part of it. Part. It's one thing to clean up after your own child, though, and quite another to clean up after 30-odd children who are not your own.
Anyway, that career path wasn't meant to be. And I'm glad of it. But the point is, it didn't happen and I spent the next several years (after leaving the last centre I worked at in 1994) saying it was the for the best because it could have ruined this love I have of children.
What I have recently come to realise though, is that I think my love of children - while not lost - may be very well hidden after all these years of heartbreak, losing so many babies and of course losing Ellanor. So while it didn't happen by way of breaking my spirit and passion for learning from/being around children and babies in child care where I was worked to my bare knuckles, I think it may have happened inadvertently just by living with all this surrounding us.
I was trying to think back to when I had my last moment/s of pure joy at experiencing a baby or child simply "being", not tinged with sadness or lost hope or anything, and recall it must have been around my nephew's first birthday in February 2000. I suffered my first miscarriage less than two months later, but had been nervously waiting to test and having an inkling that I was pregnant the day I was celebrating the first year of life of a baby boy who I adored. The first year I spent watching him grow, actively involved virtually every weekend in playing with him, watching him with his parents, discovering new things... I loved it. I was overcome with the feeling that this was a new little being - I hadn't really seen it that way before. That here was this perfect, clean slate, waiting to grow his knowledge and character and experience in everything life had to offer. It was really overwhelming to me.
Of course, that first miscarriage hit the worst. It was in April 2000. At my birthday in June, I remember sort of jollying over the subject when Dad gave me one of his big Dad-bear-hugs and he profoundly said to me, very softly, "Don't laugh it away, you have been through something huge". I broke down then. For the first of many times. It was as if I had been given permission.
Permission that I didn't have to pretend it hadn't mattered, pretend that words that I know were attempting to offer me comfort from people close to me sometimes missed the mark so badly that it just added to the pile of rubble that had become my dreams. It hurt. In massive amounts. So much so that we didn't even try to conceive again for the next two years.
The start of 2002 brought with it new hope and new options. In January, the very first month we tried - don't you hate me, I'm so sorry - I became pregnant. We lost it sooner than we had lost the first (under 5 weeks) and I thought then that something wasn't right. I was born to be a mother! Destined to be around children, so eager to experience the phenomenal development of a baby of my own. It sounds very sappy, so Little House On The Prairie, of me to say but it really was/is in my bones, in my makeup. So I couldn't figure out why the map had gotten me so terribly lost. The irony that my chosen partner in life, my very right limb of a husband and my bestestest friend (for real, no shit), has a condition that prevents "easy" conception is not lost on either of us. We believe it makes our relationship even more special than it would have been if we'd simply met up and had a very smooth sail through our lives together.
The third miscarriage came quite soon after the second. So by March 2002 I was pregnant again. We lost that one at around 5 weeks - just in time to greet our niece who came into the world the following month. I've since been told, and almost accusatorily, that I was different with her than I was the first time a new member of the family was born. Hmmmmm *taps chin* you know, I wonder why???
What ensued was a trip to a Genetics Counsellor in May of 2002, where we learned of Steve's balanced translocation. You can bore/educate yourselves on that
here. Armed with the knowledge that we not only had more chance than anyone to experience more miscarriages than successful, healthy pregnancies (we're so lucky, ner ner nee ner ner to all of you), we also had to brace ourselves for some pretty heavy duty abnormalities and a child who most likely wouldn't reach adulthood if by some freak of nature we managed to conceive a baby that had juuuust enough correct genetic information to prevent it from spontaneously aborting.
My fourth miscarriage was the third I'd had in a year (2002 was a bumper year for us) and it saw us deflated but not defeated. Those around us started to sit up and take a bit more notice, I think, that this was going to be tough for us. And all throughout this time, albeit less than before, I made absolutely sure we were making a dent in the lives of the little people around us - as much as I could emotionally give, and I gave a lot quite frankly.
The one and only pregnancy of 2003 was our miracle, Ella. Nary a warped chromosome in sight, nor an abnormality that could be put down to the translocation, she was taken from us as well anyway. You all know
that story.
But it wasn't until after Ella died that it really became quite impossible for me to be around children and babies as freely as I had done before. My armour had that many chinks in it by then, it was too much to even get in the car somedays. Three babies were born to family or friends that same year, and we also managed to fit in two more failed pregnancies in May (at 6 weeks) and again in December (at 10 weeks). What was so horrific about the arrival of the first baby after we lost Ella was that we, Steve and I both, were still grappling with the fact that our daughter was gone. I could still feel her scratchy fingernails exploring my bare chest when I lay in bed at night. I physically felt her little body weighing down on my breast and would wake to find it was just my enormously heavy heart. Amongst this, we knew the love affair that we had with our child did not diminish that same love that other new parents were experiencing around us. And honouring that, we
did try.
Have tried. To encourage and congratulate.
But only five months after Ella died and two months after my 5th miscarriage, I had another new mother on the phone sympathetically telling me she understood (not having lost a pregnancy or baby, I wondered how she could) and that she thought that by the 12 month mark of her baby's life, we should be pretty much all better and able to be "normal" around the baby at that point. I was astounded as I then listened to her go on about how I was also very different after my niece was born. I knew in an instant that this person had never witnessed my relationship/interactions with my niece and it was apparent that conjecture by someone else had led them both to conclusions about me and where I was "at" at both those times in my life that I felt they were unqualified to make. I'm afraid I saw red (but stupidly didn't advocate my feelings at the time, which apparently means it's quite ok to say all those things if you say them with enough empathy in your voice or intention) and it still makes my skin heat up to recall how I felt in that instant. I knew exactly what had happened - that not only had two women in my family got together and talked about me and my mental state without ever having experienced loss anywhere near what we had, but that now, on top of all that they had concluded, my feelings about her newborn after losing my Ella was being compared to when I had had that third miscarriage two years before and found it challenging to cope with seeing a newborn only weeks later.
After this, those close to me went in one of three directions - carry on as normal as possible and don't talk about "the taboo daughter" (what, because by the off-chance I'm not thinking about her in that moment you don't want to be the one who reminds me that, oh yeah, I had a baby and, oh yeah, she died? Get over yourself!); or talk about yourself even more than before so that I can get my mind off my 'woes' for 5 minutes; or come and be with me in whatever state you find me, with your child/baby and sometimes without, but come hell or high water stay by me and trudge through the mud and the meadows of flowers and change your moods alongside me, as often as the Melbourne weather, so that when I get out the other side, you've still got me like I've still got you.
And that last lot, that blessed last lot (the majority of our friends and family), are the only ones around us now. Even people we've met and befriended since losing Ella, perhaps not surprisingly as I believe it's all we attract now, do that last step with us. Over and over, repeat as necessary. I thank all of them and all their cotton socks for it.
So, back to my point (if I can find it). This loss of innocence and wonder about children, ah yes. I do still love children and babies, I know I do. But I can't allow myself to dive right in and collect them up and lavish attention and joy on them as I did before. They are not my children. I know now the difference between watching other children and marvelling at my own. No parent would surely ever know more love for anothers' child than the love they have for their own and I believe it's quite absurd that anyone even expects grieving parents to give anything more than they are able to a child that is not of their own creation. I think some have taken offence to this, still others have taken offence from a distance without even allowing me to show that I can somedays have everything to do with their precious young charges (the assumption here is, I gather, that I have a "problem" with those children simply existing but this is just not the case, not that I have been afforded the opportunity to simply "be" and co-exist in any sort of meaningful relationship with them at my own comfort level). And the rest aren't insecure enough to need me or Steve to dote on their babies. Because they get that our needs in this moment in time are greater than theirs, especially when the needs of "those others" really boils down to them wanting recognition from us for creating their miracle, the same as that which we created and held for that fleeting month in 2004.
I need to give myself a break. I have lived through beating myself up for apparently not having as much of myself to give the second baby of the new generation of our family after we'd suffered the loss of three of our own at that stage. I have lived through now losing several people I have loved and willingly devoted a lot of time and energy to over the years, as well as a few more who were never really there for me or Steve in the first place. And so we wonder... have we really lost at all? Well, yes and no, there's no definitive answer. But I can say one thing for sure: I am still growing and thriving, thanks to a gorgeous little angel who chose me to be her mum and begin the path to finding my true, stand-alone self. I couldn't have done it following the same family-bred pattern over and over. And I wouldn't have even attempted to start that path without the strength she's given me.
So now all we need to do is hibernate for a time. I feel like I'm readying to rediscover that mystery of children, the awe I have had in the past... it's been so buried by sadness and fear of being rejected by yet another baby that I would be forgiven for thinking I've lost the sense completely. But I think deep down, I know it's there. Just waiting to savour every blessed moment with this little.............. boy or girl?
And for good measure, and also because I'm feeling generous with the photos today, I give you:
Is it me, or does it look like he sees things through a fish-eye lens from his height??
