Sunday Thought July 5, 2015: Live It For Georgie

Today’s Sunday Thought is dedicated to a very special little boy, Georgie, his Mummy Oana, and the rest of their family to ask you to #LiveItForGeorgie.

Georgie was born in January 2014, and was tragically diagnosed with leukaemia when he was just three months old.

A year ago today, beautiful Georgie left this world.

Gorgeous Georgie

A kiss from Mummy

Oana is a special Mummy whom I have got to know over social media over the past year. We bereaved mummies have a kind of shorthand that only we understand, a sense that while our journeys, our experiences are different we get it. We don’t have to explain.

I was delighted to meet Oana at BritMumsLive last month and give her the hug I’ve been saving up for her. We spent time talking about our boys.

Hugo’s death made us realise how very precious life is. It made us appreciate what is important in life – and those things are often the simplest, most humble things.

Things that Hugo was never able to do, enjoy, or experience.

Things that Georgie will never be able to do, enjoy, or experience.

That’s why Oana is asking people to #LiveItForGeorgie today.

Do something, anything, that you enjoy today. Take a photo and post it on social media (Twitter, Facebook, or Instagram) with the hashtag #LiveItForGeorgie.

I’ve already been posting photos of things I enjoy, things that I wish Hugo could be with me enjoying: flowers, eating an ice cream, a stunning field of sunflowers on holiday. The most spectacular sunset.

My Instagram photos are compiled in the right hand sidebar of my blog, so you can have a nose if you wish.

The things we tend to take for granted will never be enjoyed by Hugo, Georgie, Matilda Mae, Mabel, Anderson, Aneurin, Freddie, Angus, Isabella, Finley, Florence, Abigail, Frankie, Hattie, Flic – and all other babies in the stars.

Get out there today. Have fun. Enjoy life.

#LiveItForGeorgie

 

The Loneliness of the Empty-Armed Mother

Yesterday was a bad day. Not for any particular reason. Grief can be lonely – even in a room full of people, fellow grievers say. Yesterday that loneliness, combined with anger, resentment and deep sorrow at being an empty-armed mother threatened to erupt.

Stumbling upon a post by a fellow mother with no living children was a huge relief. Her words really resonated with me.

This excerpt, about what it is like to live as a mother with no living children is especially poignant:

While you’re reading this I want you to take a moment to close your eyes and think of the moment you felt most unwelcome, out of place, vulnerable, and confused.  Think of a time where your identity was stripped from you. When you lost the single thing that gave you hope, purpose, and made sense of your life. Where everything you once thought your life would be, suddenly wasn’t. I know it’s a scary place to go back to – no one likes revelling in their most uncomfortable moments, but for me, just take a second and breathe, and remember when life violated you on a primal level.

You got it?

That’s what life as a Mother with no living children feels like. Every. Single. Day.

I like the author’s softball analogy. Too often I feel stuck in the fielders’ position, away from the action.

Don’t get me wrong – I have many wonderful, kind, sensitive friends, both in real life and on social media. You all remember Hugo, mention his name regularly, and doing that give invaluable reassurance that he will never be forgotten. I am grateful to and appreciate every single one of you.

Thankfully, very few of you understand, and I mean first hand, how it feels to lose a child.

Even fewer know how it feels to lose your only child.

To be a parent with no child to care for. No living child to bestow so much love on. A house that is too quiet. A home bereft of toys and baby paraphernalia.

As I have mentioned in similar posts, there is no better or worse with baby and child loss. There are no points to be allocated, there is no ranking system.

Me and Hugo

I miss – without ever having truly experienced it – the camaraderie parents of living children share. Trading stories of sleepless nights, poonamis, tantrums. Proudly sharing the good stories, too.

It is why such posts, and sites such as Still Mothers are so valuable to me.

Hugo was born at 24 weeks, so I am a mother with little knowledge of the discomfort of carrying around a big bump. I missed feeling all the big kicks and turns of Hugo in my tummy. I missed waiting for 40 weeks, wondering what birth would be like.

I miss taking my baby home. Being a bewildered, scared new mother rather than a bewildered, scared bereaved mum.

This is something that I deal with most days. It’s life, I have to. It’s either that or hide under the duvet. A residual sense of guilt that I am alive when Hugo is not (and my own two weeks in hospital testament to how close I came to not being here myself) is motivation, too.

As the author of the post says about her daughter I fight for Hugo, defend his memory, and make sure I am the kind of woman he deserves to have as a mother.

It is why I work so hard on this blog, on Hugo’s Legacy. It is why I cannot help but take personally any incidence of feeling like Hugo has been ‘left out’ of something.

I’m not fishing for compliments. My readers leave kind comments, such as on this post. Many of the comments are humbling.

I don’t always feel like the woman described in these comments. Like yesterday, I was tired, so tired from grief, from fighting to show that Hugo matters, to feel that I am still a mother. I wanted it to all go away, to be better, to have my son back. I wanted to be sleep-deprived, and with toys all over the house.

Knowing that is impossible does not make me want it any less.

Having to acknowledge that is impossible can feel like a rude reminder, a painful poke in the ribs.

I am unlikely to ever say that these feelings are ‘ok’. They are not, because the reason those feelings are with me are very much not ok. That said, I am accepting, acknowledging that sometimes I am allowed to feel sorry for myself, to take time out.

That’s what I did yesterday. Retreated to the sofa with the cat. Avoided social media. Received kind support from lovely people.

Recharged the batteries, ready to survive another day.

Still an empty-armed mother. Still in a fielding position. But feeling better able to cope with that.

Sunday Thought May 10, 2015 – Mother’s Day (internationally)

Today is Mother’s Day in the rest of the world (I got it wrong last week, sorry folks).

Today’s Sunday Thought is a tribute to all the mothers with a part of their heart missing. It is for all the mothers who are spending the day missing a part of their lives, their heart.

For all the mothers who had to give a child back.

If, like me, you had a baby but your arms are now empty you are a mother too.

Today’s thought is for all you mamas who are hurting today. I understand how today is in many ways just another day on the calendar, yet it rubs salt in to those open wounds.

In the UK, Mother’s Day is in March. My first Mother’s Day was just two days after Hugo died. The previous week, Hugo’s condition had improved and I had been so full of hope that I would spend that day giving my baby a cuddle. Instead, I spent it in bed, sobbing, and not wanting to see a soul.

This year’s Mother’s Day was difficult too.

My Mother’s Day was eased by the balm of kindness. Kind family members, friends (both real life and those who I have come to know on social media) sent me messages to say they were thinking of me, thinking of Hugo, and that I would always be a special Mama.

I had to give Hugo back. There will always be a Hugo-shaped hole in my life. Such small kindnesses make the pain a tiny bit easier to bear.

So if you know a mother missing a part of her heart today, send her a message. Let her know you are thinking of them. Mention the child’s name. Hearing her child’s name won’t upset her any more than she is already – I know that can be a common fear. Believe me, it will mean the absolute world to her.

It doesn’t matter what part of the world you are in – whether Mother’s Day is today where you live, or whether the day has been and gone. While knowing you are being thought of on symbolic days is comforting, mothers whose children live on in their hearts rather than in their arms endure the pain every single day.

 

Sunday Thought May 3, 2015: International Bereaved Mothers’ Day

Today is apparently Mothers’ Day in most parts of the world. Here in the UK, Mothers’ Day is in March. Who sets the dates for these things?

But that doesn’t matter. Today is also International Bereaved Mothers’ Day.

Today’s Sunday Thought is with the latter in mind. The thought comes from Angela Miller, the author of the wonderful I Am The Mother of All Mothers book that my heart and soul really needed so very much.

 

It is human nature, I think, to offer advice when someone is hurting. It is a kindness, we may think, to make the pain go away, to make the person better. Sometimes it’s appropriate, sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

The bereaved get a lot of well-intentioned, unsolicited advice. I hate being told what I ‘should’, or ‘should not’ do. Too many times I have had someone talk at me. Perhaps they were trying to comfort me. But what I wanted to do was to tell my story, my way, in my own time.

They have assumed they know how I feel – assumptions based on their own experiences, perhaps, or things they have read.

We all grieve differently, in our own time, in our own way.

There is no right or wrong.

No ‘shoulds’ or ‘shouldn’t’.

As a result, I can be reticent to tell my story face-to-face, especially to people I don’t know, or trust.

Mothers who have lost a child suffer enough. Try not to offer advice if it is not asked for, however well-intentioned it may be.

Just be there.

Listen.

Hold their hand.

Give them a hug.

Send them a note, a message, a text to let them know you are thinking of them.

Because my world ended when Hugo died. My world has been clouded in the world of grief, a miasma of swirling greys.

Thank you to everyone who has been walking with me, helping me to see in colour again.

I imagine other bereaved mothers hold similar sentiments. If you know such a mother, please hold their hand, too.

A Celebration of Life

When Hugo died, we were disconsolate, heartbroken.

Our son had changed our lives, and shown us what true love is.

We knew that at his funeral we wanted to celebrate his life. What Hugo meant to us, what Hugo had taught us.

To show off our baby boy like the proud parents we are.

Hugo

While we are not religious, I had an urge to hold Hugo’s funeral at our local church. It is the same church where I was christened. The church turned out to be a good choice: the curate was lovely and very helpful.

The funeral directors were also incredible. There wasn’t enough they could do for us. Hugo’s funeral was held on a Monday, and they opened specially for us the weekend before so we could spend time with Hugo in the viewing room.

I cuddled and sang to Hugo, and admired his beautiful face. Both Martin and I read to Hugo. We left a range of toys and books in his casket with him, as well as some photos of us, and letters we had written to him. He also had a star scarf that I had in my wardrobe wrapped around him, and some scattered stars (of course!).

Hugo looked so incredibly handsome. Like he was just asleep.

Some of the toys, photos, and books that keep Hugo company in his casket.

On the Sunday afternoon I had my final cuddle. I was so reluctant to let him go. I knew he was dead of course, but we had such little time together and I wanted to make every moment matter. I gently stroked his face, and his dark hair – so beautifully soft. It is his warmth while he was alive I try to think of, not how cold he was then.

We issued a general invitation to the church funeral service, with close family only at the burial, followed by a wake at our local pub.

Our guests were asked to wear bright colours – no black. We also invited them to wear their team’s football shirt if they wished. It was about celebrating your individuality, being who you want to be, in honour of Hugo’s determination.

I wore a bright pink dress. The dress was special because I had worn it during a cuddle with Hugo, him tucked down the front. Martin wore a brightly-patterned shirt he had bought specially; he was quite particular about it. While shopping in John Lewis, the shop assistant making small talk asked what event the shirt was for. I imagine he was expecting to be told it was for a wedding, or garden party or something. He responded well when told the shirt was for our son’s funeral.

The day of the funeral was a beautiful bright sunny April day. The funeral car arrived with Hugo’s blue casket, and the flowers. We all walked behind the car – the church is only around the corner, and I needed the walk, the air.

Martin carried Hugo’s tiny little casket into the church. I followed behind carrying Hugo’s star-shaped flower tribute made by a local florist – it had exceeded my expectations.

A close-up of the star.

We couldn’t believe there were more than 60 people in the church. The number included our family, friends, work colleagues, and people we hadn’t seen for years. Daily updates about Hugo’s progress had been shared on Facebook, and our tiny boy had captured so many hearts.

Martin and I both wanted to read what we had written for Hugo. I had written this poem, and Martin had written a eulogy describing how much he loved Hugo, what Hugo had taught him, and how he hopes Hugo is enjoying his adventures up in the stars. We took in in turns to read lines so we didn’t become too overwhelmed.

Uplifting hymns, such as ‘Lord of the Dance’ were sung, and we had a contemplative moment listening to Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s hauntingly beautiful version of Somewhere Over The Rainbow.

We had to travel to the cemetery for the burial. The burial is not something I like to think about very much: the hole in the ground, my baby being lowered into it. Wracking sobs from me.

It was the first time I had seen the baby and children’s section at the cemetery. I was overwhelmed at the number of graves. So many. Too many.

Meanwhile, our guests had gathered at the pub. Our pub doesn’t usually open on weekday afternoons, and nor does it serve food, but he kindly opened specially and provided a buffet for us.

The remembrance book.

Our guests, while drinking and eating, were also busy drawing and writing with coloured pens in a remembrance book I had provided. It is a beautiful book, blue hard-backed, with blue ribbon ties. People were invited to write about Hugo, or about life in general.

The book is an emotional read: I feel so proud that my tiny boy, who weighed no more than a tin of baked beans and who so few people were able to meet in person, had touched deeply so many people’s hearts. Comments included how Hugo had made them laugh with his antics; how impressed they were with his physical strength, and his resilience. How they will never forget him.

These are small, but valuable comforts.

The inside pages of the remembrance book.

The day of Hugo’s funeral was one of the most challenging of my life.

We celebrated our son’s life. The life of a special boy whose impact and legacy belies his size, and his short life.

That thought is the one about that day that I try to remember.