An Open Letter to a Recently-Bereaved Mother

Dear Broken-Hearted Mama,

I see you, numb.

Yet so full of pain. Pain that you cannot even begin to describe.

You may feel like the pain is unbearable, that the pain is going to crush you, that the pain is too much.

You may feel like your life has ended. That you do not want life to carry on.

I understand. I have been there.

My son Hugo died at the age of just 35 days. He had been born when I was 24 weeks’ pregnant, my first and so far only child.

Each one of those 35 days is so precious, but not enough.

No amount of time can ever be enough.

While your life has not ended; you continue to exist, your life as you knew it has ended. The end of innocence. The harsh realisation that bad things happen in life – and not just to other people.

Bad things happen to you, too. No one is immune.

We evolve during the course of our lives, of course. But grief changes you: suddenly, abruptly, shockingly.

Your relationships may change: some for the better, others for the worst. You are likely to discover that the old adage about seeing the best and worst of people during times of crisis is true.

Some people – even those previously closest to you – may not know how to deal with your changed relationship. The changed you. Most will want to do all they can to help you but because they do not know what to do for the best may blunder, put their foot in it, utter endless platitudes, and when tempers get frayed make you feel as though you are at fault.

The knowledge that the blunders are well-intentioned is unlikely to make you feel any better. It may feel like constant salt in the wound.

Me and Hugo enjoying a cuddle.

So much of your pain cannot be expressed in words. What you may want most of all is someone to sit with you as you cry or stare into space.  Someone to understand that you don’t know how to express your emotions. That sometimes, the power behind those emotions scares you. That you think the pain will never ever end.

But many people are uncomfortable with silence. People may want to talk at you, want to tell you about their own experiences of bereavement. Or they may want to tell you what they think you should do. They want to make you ‘better’, not realising life will never, ever be better. You may well sit their patiently waiting for them to shut up – but it is fine to ask them to stop talking, too.

People may not mention your child’s name, worried it may upset you but failing to appreciate that not mentioning them upsets you more – and after all, the worst has already happened.

People may not want to talk about your child with you, filling you with frustration. They were your beautiful, perfect child who you grew and love with every cell of your being, now and forever more. You want to talk about them, how proud you are of them, irrespective of the time you spent with them. This reticence from other people may lead to resentment.

It may lead to a feeling of isolation. A feeling that it may, as a consequence, be better to avoid certain people, certain places, certain situations not because you want to, but because you need to protect yourself from further hurt.

The knowledge that you are now ‘different’.

That is enough negativity for now. As I said, you will see the worst in people – and the best, too. The kindness of people can know no bounds. Compassion, empathy, the compulsion to reach out and help – the help you need, not what they think you need.

Those who will sit with you as you cry, as the cascade of tears fall, holding your hand and passing endless amounts of tissues..

And those people can often come from places you least expect; relationships can take on a new depth, friendships and acquaintances can be strengthened, new friendships forged often with strangers with whom you may now share a common experience.

Those who share the common experience, those who ‘get it’ are invaluable. It often does not matter if you have never met them, it does not matter if their child died in circumstances that are completely different – they understand. You may find you have a certain shorthand with them, and not having to explain is liberating.

You may feel the value of liberation: grief is exhausting. It seeps in to your pores, into your bones. The simplest of tasks can seem challenging; your memory unreliable, turning even the smallest thing that makes your life a tiny bit easier into a precious gem.

You may feel like you will never be happy again, never smile again. Indeed you may feel like you do not want to be happy again, nor smile again – or that you deserve to.

The feeling of guilt can feel all-encompassing. The knowledge that rationally, you know you have no reason to feel guilty – that you did everything you could, and would have done more, if only, what if – is irrelevant.

I still feel like I failed my child. I did not keep him safe. Even though I know, rationally, if he had not been born when he was we both would have died.

Emotional torment.

And the anger – oh, the anger. So raw, so visceral. Anger at the world in general, at the hand life has dealt you, at the world being so bloody unfair. Anger at those who embellish and become melodramatic over trivial everyday annoyances (no, spilling your coffee is not the worst thing ever.)

Anger at those who seem not to appreciate their children, take them for granted. But in the same breath, thinking you are glad that other people are blissfully unaware of such heartbreak.

More than a year on after Hugo died, I have learned to feel happy again. It is a different sort of happiness than before. A happiness borne out of different priorities and perspectives.

But that does not mean that I am better, or that my life is better. No, not by a long shot. I still get bad, low, devastating days as a result of a trigger, or of nothing at all. Those days can make me feel like I am back to the beginning, back to the darkest days, all my progress out of the window.

I have to remind myself I am not back at the beginning, that it is the fault of the path of grief. Grief does not progress in a straight, orderly line. It is a mass of intertwined squiggles that make no sense, with no end.

And that is part of the reality. Grief has no end. There is no better, only different.

You may discover within you a strength you wish had lain forever dormant. That strength comes from intense love, intense pain, and it can take on the world.

I am not going to tell you what to do, how to grieve. I cannot do those things, because while we may share a similar experience in common our individual journeys are so very personal.

But I would like to share with you a few points that have worked for me, take them or leave them as you will:

• One day at a time.
• Don’t expect too much of yourself.
• Whatever is right for you, whenever is right for you.
• Find people you can trust to confide in, or just to listen.
• Be open and honest with your partner about your feelings, no matter how much it may cause extra tears – you need to be honest so you can support each other.
• Find a way to express your grief – whether that is drawing, writing (on a blog or in a private journal), talking to someone, raising money for a charity.
• Try to be gentle to yourself, and take time for self-care. Grief is exhausting, meaning you need to find ways to recharge your batteries.
• Take time for your grief – ignoring it does not make it go away (as I discovered to my cost).
• Being selfish when you need to be is acceptable – often life after loss is about personal survival.
• There will be days when just getting out of bed is an achievement – and there will be days where you feel you can take on the world.
• Bad days can come from nowhere.
• You are not a bad person. You deserve love and happiness, even if it may take time to return, take a different form and be fleeting.
• There is no ‘normal’, no better. Just different.

You will get there, Mama.

You can survive.

We are all here for you.

With love,

Hugo’s Mummy, Leigh xxx

I Wish

I wish you were in my tummy for the full 40 weeks.

Or if not, that you could have come home with Daddy and me.

I wish we had thousands of photos of you tracking every day of your life, every milestone, every special moment.

I wish I was able to watch you grow.

I wish we were able to watch that feisty personality grow, develop, form you from baby to little boy.

I wish I were able to sing you to sleep.

I wish I were able to give you a bath, watch you play with your toys and you insist on having a bubble bath punk hairdo.

I wish we were able to have cuddles, so many cuddles, breathing in your smell.

I wish my house was full of your things, clothes, nappies, wipes everywhere. Toys strewn across the house.

I wish I had more than my handbag to think about when I leave the house.

I wish I could see which new food you wanted to try next. Which you spat put.  How much you just chucked on the floor.

I wish I could see how you got on with Fat Cat.

I wish I could take you to the park.

I wish I could read books with you.

I wish I could be running around after you, and celebrate you taking your first steps.

I wish I needed eyes in the back of my head as you took every opportunity to show off your walking.

I wish I could try to have to figure out what your babbling meant, marvelling at you trying to form words.

I wish I could splash in puddles with you.

I wish I could comfort you when you needed that.

I wish I could see the look on your face when you saw something that excited you.

I wish I could see what most interests you.

I wish you, me and Daddy could be a normal family.

I wish I could feel your arms around my neck, your head on my chest.

I wish I could stroke your beautiful dark hair.

I wish we didn’t have to visit you in the cemetery.

I wish I didn’t have to think when buying you a present whether it will withstand the elements outside.

I wish you didn’t have to be born so early.

I wish there had been a magic cure to save you.

I wish I could cuddle and tickle you and hear you giggle.

I wish I could see you and Daddy playing together, forging a special bond.

I wish life was not so unfair.

I wish I did not have to talk about you in the past tense.

I wish I did not have to put up protective barriers around myself, because since you died I have been broken.

I wish I did not have this leaden weight in my chest.

I wish I did not have this darkness in my mind.

I wish I did not have to see symbolic signs of you everywhere, because real, tangible signs exist of your real, living presence.

I wish I did not know such pain, such sorrow, such longing.

I wish I knew such burning love, a Mother’s love that I could express to a child in my arms.

I wish I could cover you in kisses.

I wish I did not have to wonder what you would be like in the future.

I wish I did not have to miss you, Hugo.

I wish.

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

 

Supernova

At first –

You were a twinkle in my and your daddy’s eyes.

When we saw the two blue lines –

You were a joy we loved and treasured from the very beginning.

When you were in my belly –

You would kick me as I sang Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star

Then you were born –

You were to us as the sun is to Earth, a star brightening up our lives.

During your life –

You were like a supernova, radiating as much energy as any star – or other living being – could hope to emit in a lifetime.

But, like a supernova that brilliant energy is too brief, far too brief. It explodes, and it disappears from the galaxy. Physically, at least.

When you had to go –

It was like being sucked in to a black hole. All joy, pleasure, hope extinguished. No hope of escape.

It was like being sucked into a wormhole. Transported to a parallel universe. A universe where everything was inside out, back to front. All wrong.

But you are not completely like a supernova, Hugo. ‘Simple physics’ is an oxymoron that can be applied you too. Your energy defies explanation.

Your star shines so brightly, your energy so fierce that while your physical presence is no longer with us your legacy can never die.

You are with us all the time, Hugo. In my heart, in my mind, in my determination to have climbed out of that black hole, and to resist its strong magnetic pull.

You are with us all the time, Hugo. In your legacy, in how people are caring differently for other families like us.

You are with us all the time, Hugo. In the flowers, in the birds, in the bees, in the sunshine.

In the stars I find everywhere.

You are with us all the time, Hugo. But not in my arms, where I want you to be the most.

I love you all the way to the moon (which is made of cheese and you get to in a spaceship) a million times and back. And that’s a lot.

I miss you even more than all the stars in the sky.

 

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The Star Boy’s Presence Never Dies

Do you remember I told you about Star Wars, Hugo? I loved to read to you. We had only a couple of books and I’d read them so many times I’d got a bit bored with them.

So, I told you the story of one of my favourite films. I’d watched them so many times when I was a little girl, and looked forward to watching them with you, too.

Both Luke Skywalker and the baddie, Darth Vader, said they could feel one another’s presence. That’s partly because they are both Jedi knights (or Darth Vader used to be before he turned to the Dark Side, anyway), and they have special powers. But then we find out that Luke is actually Darth Vader’s son.

Being a Jedi is pretty special. The Jedi share a special bond.

But it’s not as special as the bond between you and me, Hugo.

Me and Hugo, on the day he died.

You could sense my presence when I entered the nursery. I had to wash my hands as soon as I came into the nursery, and on a couple of occasions when I paused to chat to a nurse or another mum before coming to your incubator you expressed your displeasure by dinging your alarms. You wanted your Mummy! And I wanted you.

My presence helped calm you. A touch from me, some words either spoken or sung would help make you feel a bit more settled. Skin-to-skin cuddles were even better. You should still have been in my tummy, present with me all the time, and those cuddles were the next best thing.

Hugo gripping Mummy’s finger.

Daddy and I would say you were like Yoda. Not because you were green with pointy ears, but because very strong and brave you were, just like the Jedi Master.

“Size matters not…Judge me by my size, would you?” said Yoda when Luke doubts he can lift his ship from the swamp. And so it was with you, Hugo. You may have weighed no more than a tin of baked beans, but your size belied your strength and courage.

All the strength and bravery in all the universes were not enough, just like with Yoda. You left us, a year ago.

You are not physically, here, Hugo. But I can still feel your presence. Even though I constantly feel like I have forgotten something, hold a constant sense of loss, there is always a heavy feeling in my heart, there is also a sense you are always with me. Always present.

You are part of the energy of the universe. Or, Yoda would describe it as the Force, of course:

For my ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. You must feel the Force around you; here, between you, me, the tree, the rock, everywhere, yes. Even between the land and the ship.

It’s a funny old world, Hugo. I chose your name from a baby name website. The name leapt out at me, intuitively I knew it was the perfect name for you. ‘Bright in mind and spirit’ it means, and it suits you perfectly.

Daddy and I were not to know how your name would ensure you made your presence be felt after you were gone, though. Your nurses nicknamed you Hugo Boss because of your feisty determination; I’d not considered the reference to the designer but again, it was perfect. That means that seeing Hugo Boss branding has the power to stop me in my tracks. The branding is there anyway, of course, but it now has such a special resonance. The other day a mention of Hugo Boss in a book I was reading took my breath away for a moment. I am trying to see these things as a sign of your presence.

A mention of Hugo Boss in a book.

Daddy and I like science fiction. Not just films like Star Wars, but science fiction books, too. Did you know that a prize given for science fiction books is called the Hugo award?

All of this relates to the symbol we have for you, Hugo – the star. The star came about because I sang ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’ to you so often. It’s also because you are our special star. Daddy and I like to think you are having adventures among the stars, getting up to all sorts of mischief no doubt. Playing with all the other babies in the stars, but looking down on us too. We call you our Star Boy.

That’s why I cried when I watched Guardians of the Galaxy. The man’s Mummy had written him a letter saying he was her Star Boy, and that she was sure he was having adventures in the stars.

Your presence is everywhere, Hugo.

I always appreciated nature, but now the birds, the bees, the flowers and the trees are extra special. Your spirit flows through them all, their colours shine brighter because they make me think of you.

The yellow flowers, and name of the boat made me think of Hugo.

We have stars, symbols of you in every room of the house, to mark your presence even though you never physically lived here. Your hand and footprints on the star necklace I wear around my neck.

How much I wish you were present with me, so I could feel your strong grip, feel your warm little body, smell your skin.

All that remains of your physical presence are your little woollen hats (one of them goes with me everywhere). They still carry your smell. So, so precious. A lock of your hair, so rich and dark. Your hand and footprints. Photographs. So few things. But nothing would ever be enough.

Symbols of Hugo at home.

Mementoes of Hugo, me and the handprint star-shaped necklace I wear always.

It is a year tomorrow since you left us, Hugo. It is a year since the worst day of my entire life. Your physical presence left us. But your spirit will never die.

Your presence remains in your spirit, in your legacy, in how much everyone admires this beautiful little boy.

With all my love always (I love you to the moon and back a million times),

Mummy xxxxxxxxx

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