When everyone but you is having babies

When everyone but me is having babies – a baby is what I want most in the whole world – my heart breaks a little bit more. Yes, I am a mother, I have (had?) a baby – a gorgeous little boy called Hugo – but he died. I miss Hugo so much, I dearly want him back in my arms. But I know that is not possible.

With most people living their lives on social media these days, the baby news, the scan photos, the bump updates are like salt in the wounds. What to do?

Other women have every right to share their baby news, their photos, and their updates. Photos in particular have an uncanny knack of appearing on my timeline when I am having a particularly low moment. Rather than continue to torture myself, I have started unfollowing, for now, on Facebook some women and some baby- and pregnancy-related organisations.

It is not personal towards them – it is about my sorrow, my heartbreak, and me avoiding further sorrow and heartbreak by underlining what I no longer have. It also helps prevent additional emotional torment – at these low moments, I have found myself muttering under my breath uncharitable words, jealous words, resentful words. This isn’t ‘me’, and while I can reassure myself such reactions are understandable in the circumstances, those thoughts make me feel guilty. It is not these other women’s fault that I do not have my baby (it is no one’s fault): they have been incredibly kind towards me. What a mess.

Hugo and me, shortly after we received the news that there was no more hope for him.

 

I have also unfollowed a Facebook group for HELLP syndrome survivors. At first, I was excited to have found this group “At last, a place full of other women who get it!” The other women understand the terror of the condition, but mercifully, many other survivors were able to take their precious babies home.

These mothers understandably like to post photographs of their HELLP babies. Some of these babies, like Hugo, were born at an early point in pregnancy, so their mothers are justifiably relieved to still have them in their arms. The problem for me was that these photos kept popping up on my timeline and it was as though there was a subconscious message accompanying them: “Look, I  took my HELLP baby home, you didn’t!” Of course, the photos say no such thing, it is what my grief is reading in to it. Those mothers would probably be mortified to know my grief reaction to their posts. I try to be compassionate to myself about these feelings, but it is difficult.

HELLP syndrome can affect pregnant women arbitrarily; there is no rhyme or reason behind it. Women can have had numerous babies without any form of complication before HELLP strikes them in a subsequent pregnancy. I read with resentment posts on various forums  that say things like how devastated they are baby number four (they have taken their baby home) has to be the last because of HELLP syndrome; their doctor has recommended they don’t get pregnant again. An uncharitable thought pops in to my head: “Oh boo hoo, go and cuddle one of your numerous other children. All I want is one baby, just one, to take home and care for.”

This is uncharitable because I know how utterly terrifying HELLP syndrome is. It is terrifying irrespective of how many pregnancies you have had. I can imagine if you have had several babies without complications having a pregnancy that is affected by HELLP syndrome would be a shock. I understand, too, that grief is not necessarily limited to what you no longer have: one can also mourn what they do not have, or what can never be. In this context, a devastating condition has denied these women the option to add to their family, if they so choose. It is also grieving a loss of innocence that awful things can happen, and to you. Perhaps they also mourn the loss of their ‘normal’ (for want of a better word) birth of that final child.

It is such rational thoughts I try to bear in mind when I read of women who say how desperate they are for a little brother or sister for their existing child, and how sad they feel when they see the pregnancy announcements and bump updates. I want to shout “But you have a child in your arms! Be grateful!”, and to be fair, most such comments from these mothers do include an acknowledgement of being grateful for what they do have (these are women who have not suffered a loss). I try to temper my frustration with the thought that these mothers are perhaps mourning for something they took for granted: that it is not always easy to get pregnant, that life is not always under your direct control. That life is not fair.

When a friend reveals she is pregnant, while I cannot pretend it does not hurt – it does, a lot – I offer simple congratulations. I try to remember how I felt when I announced I was pregnant with Hugo. Full of joy and excitement, and a desire to share my joy with the whole world. It had taken two years to get pregnant, two years of reaching for the tampons every month instead of delight at a little blue line, and resentment of a different sort in response to baby announcements. I was over the moon. I try to think that I will once again be able to share a scan photo, a little brother or sister for Hugo, in the future.

I know I am not alone in feeling this way. When a baby is your greatest desire, and everyone but you seems to be having them it feels really painful. No matter what your situation is, I say do whatever is right for you. You don’t have to avoid social media; take advantage of Facebook’s ‘unfollow’ button (it means you don’t have to unfriend an individual, but their updates won’t appear in your news feed).

Try to remember you are human – jealousy, resentment, and anger are all emotions that are natural under the circumstances, and do not make you a bad person (this is something I try to remind myself regularly).

Your real friends will understand.

The ‘unfollow’ strategy doesn’t help in real life, of course – if anyone has such a strategy, please do let me know!

When everyone is having babies but you – do whatever you can to be kind to you.

 

What is the ultimate taboo? (clue: it’s not ‘shunning motherhood’)

Over the weekend, Mumsnet Bloggers’ Network posed the question:

Catch up on @jabberworks guest post on not having children. Is shunning motherhood the ultimate taboo? http://t.co/ysSlqBbPnR

— Mumsnet Blog Network (@MumsnetBloggers) September 7, 2014

There is a simple answer to that question: no. Of course it isn’t ‘the ultimate taboo’. For goodness’ sake, there are so many more important issues to raise awareness of.

To me, it felt like a non-issue because I couldn’t see why someone’s personal choice should be an issue. However, any matter that generates debate is an issue – especially when someone then feels like they have to defend their beliefs as Sarah McIntyre, the author of the original guest post, wrote in her response.

That said, I fail to see why a woman’s rational decision to not have children becomes bait for public debate and judgement.

I know many women who have not had children for one reason or another. Some have decided children don’t fit in with their lifestyle – fair enough. Some haven’t been in a relationship with the right partner.

Newsflash: it’s no one else’s business.

Actress Maxine Peake has been quoted as saying ‘having children is very selfish’. This story seems to be the inspiration for the introduction to the guest post. In a classic case of reading the headline out of context with the rest of the article, many (including Mumsnet) have ignored that the actress has said she has ‘admitted defeat’ after enduring IVF and two miscarriages.

She is said to have commented that friends have thanked her for speaking out about her infertility, because “it is often viewed as something shameful.”

This is the crux of the matter: An issue becomes a taboo when it is not possible to have an open and honest discussion about it. Taboos can therefore be damaging because it often means people suffer in silence, worrying what people might think and how they will be judged if they ‘come out’ and speak about it, whatever it is. Taboos and stigma go hand-in-hand, and thrive in that silence.

Infertility is a huge taboo. It shouldn’t be – many couples experience infertility for all sorts of reasons. I experienced unexplained fertility for two years before conceiving my baby. Infertility can often feel like something shameful because it felt to me like I had failed. Just like the decision to remain childless, many people had (well-meant) opinions about it, and liked to quiz me on the subject. I had reached my mid-30s without ever having been ‘with child’: “But I thought you loved children!” “Are you still trying?”

It was pretty irritating, no matter how well-meant it was. It was irritating because people are asking you to discuss the intimate workings (or, more to the point, how they’re not working) of your reproductive system, and about your sex life. It’s not that I was bashful in talking about it, it’s because it was too often according to someone else’s agenda, and at a time I just didn’t feel like talking about it.

Again – it is no one else’s business.

Infertility shouldn’t be a taboo because, of course, it’s not a failure. There might seem to be a double standard here: “You say taboos can be broken by openness, but you don’t want to talk about infertility.”

I am happy to talk about it, but by being more open about infertility we can help the infertile feel more comfortable about discussing it, and empower them to encourage the questioners to ask more sensitive questions in a more tactful way.

Death in general is a taboo, with baby loss in particular being an issue that all too often is not openly discussed. Many of us like to think (as I did before losing my son, Hugo) that baby loss is something that happens to someone else. The issue often gets shoved under the carpet. One consequence of that is that it can mean people do not know what to say, leading to silly and hurtful (whether or not they are intentional) comments, which can in turn lead to an increased sense of isolation for the bereaved.

I have been seeking to break down the taboo of baby loss by being open about the loss of my son, what it feels like to be a bereaved mother, and suggesting ways others can help bereaved parents.

Perhaps, as outlined in Sarah McIntyre’s response, the ultimate taboo is actually those who have children and realise after having them that they don’t want them. There are probably all sorts of reasons for regretting having children, but the comment highlighted in her post hit the nail on the head about why we should never judge others:

I don’t think not wanting to have children is a taboo at all. The real taboo is HAVING children and not wanting them… nobody talks about that feeling! I’m a mum to 4 kids who I love very much, but there were times when they were little that I felt so overwhelmed and tired that I considered giving my very difficult but DD away to a friend who I thought would do a better job of bringing her up! Of course I now know that I am absolutely the right and best person to be her mother and I’m glad it was no more than a passing thought, but if it had been ok to say “I don’t want children… but I’ve got some!” I would have felt so relieved to be allowed to admit it and get help. So I think THAT’S the taboo that needs talking about. Mums need to be able to be honest about their feelings without fear of being branded cold and heartless. Mums need help not judgement when they feel that way or they’ll keep their feelings inside and, as we’ve seen too often in the news, that can end in disaster.

Many mums who feel this way about their children are suffering from a form of postnatal mental illness. Like all mental ill health, this is yet another taboo. These women need help and support, not judgement.

Another thing that bothered me about the question posed by Mumsnet is that a personal decision was used as click-bait and as an invitation to provide judgement.

We should be supporting each other and praising those who are brave enough to be open about how they feel – whether it is a decision to not have children, struggling with your children, mental ill health, the sorrow of infertility or the heartbreak of losing a baby.

We should be creating places where people feel safe expressing their decisions, or talking about challenging experiences without fear of being judged, receiving negative feedback, or being trolled. This openness will help others by showing they are not alone.

It will help break down taboos, and reduce pain, hurt and isolation.

‘Shunning motherhood’ is not the ‘ultimate taboo’.

Infertility, baby loss and mental ill health are bigger taboos.

These are the issues that need open discussion, and increased awareness.

Then these issues would not be taboos at all.

 

 

Bright in mind and spirit

Hello. It’s been a while since I last blogged. I missed you, and hope you missed me too.

I last blogged in July 2013. Many of my evenings and weekends had been taken up by my coaching qualification coursework – which, I’m pleased to say, I passed, so the effort was worth it. I had a lot of activities planned over the summer, so thought I’d give myself a couple of months off and return to the blogging in September.

Along came September. My partner, Martin, and I had been trying for a baby for two years. After a year of trying without results, we’d both been for tests. The tests came back clear for both of us: the diagnosis was unexplained infertility. While it was a relief to know nothing was wrong with either of us, it was frustrating as it meant there was nothing to fix.

In early September, my consultant recommended I try a course of Clomid. Blood tests suggested I might not be ovulating, or at least, the hormone levels weren’t high enough, and Clomid helps with that. I started the tablets on the first day of my next cycle, which was just a couple of days after my appointment. It was great timing, as we were both eager to get pregnant.

After a couple of days, the effects of the drug really hit me: it was like PMT times a million. Mood swings, bloating, extreme tiredness – I was a crazy woman, and could barely string together a coherent sentence, let alone blog.

By early October, it became apparent the side-effects of Clomid were worth it. I was pregnant! Martin and I were ecstatic and excited, but we couldn’t believe our luck, especially after just one cycle. I went out and bought new pregnancy tests, in different brands, just in case they were broken.

A scan at seven weeks revealed the tests were correct – we had our own little bean, with a beating heart.

The all-day-and-all-night nausea, coupled with the sheer exhaustion of the first trimester also put paid to any blogging plans. I had plenty of other things on my mind though – the baby’s development, whether they would be a boy or a girl, who they would take after, what we would buy for them – all the usual things expectant parents get excited about.

I ate and drank all the things you’re supposed to, and none of the things you’re not, took supplements, exercised gently and got plenty of rest too.

Me at 20 weeks

Scans at 12 and 20 weeks revealed a perfectly healthy baby, well within all the normal size parameters. The latter scan also showed we were expecting a little boy. We were over the moon, and started shopping for adorable little baby boy outfits, and all the things we would do with our little boy. I was very proud of my growing bump. We couldn’t wait for him to be born, and to show him off.

At around weeks 16/17 I felt the first flutters of my baby moving – the feeling was indescribable. During the next few weeks, I felt him, and the kicks and punches grow bigger and stronger – I was a very proud mummy-to-be.

Everything was going well – I was more than half way through my pregnancy and as I’d had clear scans, had assumed it was a matter of waiting for 40 weeks, with the baby growing bigger and getting an ever-growing bump.

Little did I know that in early February 2014, events inside my body conspired against the natural course of events that I had taken for granted.

A routine visit to my midwife turned into a trip to the local hospital, where I was diagnosed with severe pre-eclampsia and HELLP syndrome. The consultant informed me that I was very sick and was likely to have to deliver my baby that night. These rare conditions only occur during pregnancy, and the only cure is delivery – without it, the lives of both mum and baby are at risk because, simply put, HELLP causes the expectant mum’s organs to fail.

I was utterly in shock. Martin and I spent the whole night sobbing. At that point, I was only 24 weeks and one day along – the chances for my baby’s survival at that stage were slim. Thankfully, over the next couple of days I stabilised, and the doctors hoped to keep me in hospital under strict supervision until around 26 weeks, to give our baby the best-possible chance. They would, however, have to transfer us to a specialist hospital, irrespective of how long I was able to hold on for.

So, two days later, I was transferred by emergency ambulance to a hospital two hours away, with Martin following by train. It was the closest hospital that had both a bed for me and a place in the neonatal unit for my unborn baby.

Sadly, by the following day, my condition had deteriorated and I was informed I had no choice but to deliver my baby by emergency Caesarean section. I was in theatre within 30 minutes and put under general anaesthetic.

The day was Thursday, February 20, 2014. At 11.19am our beautiful son, Hugo Christopher Dylan Parker was born, weighing just 420 grams. The pre-eclampsia and HELLP had affected the blood supply to the placenta, meaning he was growth-restricted.

The neonatal team resuscitated Hugo and he was taken to the neonatal unit.

Hugo at 30 days old

The next five weeks were the best and worst of our lives. The days were filled with joy and they were filled with sorrow.

Martin and I spent hours every day talking to Hugo, as well as singing to him, reading books out loud, and gently holding him. When we were allowed, we enjoyed blissful skin-to-skin cuddles – that was the best feeling in the world.

Our little family

Hugo was fortunate to avoid many of the complications that afflict premature babies: he didn’t have a brain bleed, and his bowels were fine. In fact, during his life he found a way to show everyone what he wanted, and when he wanted it, earning him the nickname Hugo Boss. He enjoyed my breast milk, and was growing bigger and stronger.

I felt very proud to be the mummy of such a determined, strong fighter and loved him more and more each day. There was nothing in the world I wanted more than for him to recover and for Martin and I to bring Hugo home and live together as a family.

Sadly, Hugo’s lungs were too premature. His doctors broke the news that despite trying every treatment possible, his lungs were never going to grow with the rest of him. His life would be full of suffering, and ours full of false hope – they recommended withdrawing treatment.

Hugo died peacefully in my arms, with a tummy full of his favourite mummy milk, at 5.54pm on Thursday March 27, aged 35 days. Martin was right next to us.

There are no words in the English language that adequately describe the decision we had to make, how it felt when Hugo passed away, or how it feels now. ‘Devastated’, ‘shattered’ and ‘heartbroken’ come close.

Now I have set the scene, I would like to use future blogs to celebrate Hugo’s life; describe our experiences as parents of a premature baby; dealing with bereavement and loss; and coming to terms with having a condition that you had never heard of before diagnosis, as well as raising awareness.

Thank you for reading this – I won’t say I hope you enjoyed it, but I do hope you will come back to read my future entries, and share them with your friends and family.

While this blog will, I hope, serve as a therapy for me in my grief, I would also like it to help others. Hugo touched the lives of many people in his short life, and his strength inspired many people. His name means ‘bright and mind and spirit’. Hugo lived up to his name, and I would like to emulate his fighting spirit.