In What or Whom Do You Trust?

As much as we might like to kid ourselves otherwise, we do not have complete control over everything in our lives.

Instead, we hold hope, faith, wish for luck. We trust.

Without trust, our society, our lives would be very unpleasant indeed. We trust our partners and spouses to remain faithful.

We trust our children to behave themselves when out on their own, or with others.

We trust that when we get in to our car to drive somewhere other drivers will safeguard our lives by driving sensibly, obeying the rules and laws.

We trust that when we go to work, we will get paid what we are owed at the end of the month.

We trust that when we go to sleep at night, we will wake up the next morning and carry on with the day we had planned. Not having trust in these things would make life pretty challenging, wouldn’t it? We would always be on our guard, suspicious. We might be disinclined to leave the house. Doesn’t sound like much fun to me.

Trust is good. But trust means letting go. Something we probably don’t trust as much as we should is ourselves.

We have forgotten to trust our instinct, to trust ourselves to make the right decision. We don’t let go. Of what others think, of what we feel we ‘should’ or ‘shouldn’t’ be doing.

We choose not to trust our individual nature, instead steering ourselves towards conforming to norms dictated to others.

But sometimes we trust too much. We put trust in people who are undeserving. People who have hurt us. People who hurt us again, and again. We submit to the plea to give just one more chance. We do not trust our instinct, we ignore it, pretending that we can have a future with someone who is not worthy of our trust. Most of us will have given our trust to someone who doesn’t deserve it at some point in our lives.

We need to let go, but know when to reel it in.

A fine balance indeed.

We can put too much trust in expecting there to be an infinite amount of tomorrows.

Putting too much energy in to worrying about things, what we’ve done, what we should do, what we would like to do. Thinking about regrets rather than aspirations.

But we cannot be so fearful of there being a limited amount of tomorrows that we forget to live. Not to just exist, but to live. Really live.

In whom or what do I trust?

To be honest, I don’t know. I trust in people following our society’s everyday rules, that harm will not come to me when I leave the house, but my anxiety would like to tell me otherwise. Anxiety, expecting the worst is exhausting. I try to control it rather than it controlling me.

I have to trust.

I have learned to let go, to not care too much what others think. I try to trust myself: my instinct, remaining true to my nature. I am learning, where my trust is invested most wisely.

These investments offer rich rewards.

The hardest lessons to learn are those where my trust is not deserved. Those lessons can be learned only the hard way.

I trust that when I go to sleep at night, I will wake up in the morning and that I will go about my day as planned.

But my life has shown me that the universe does not always play by the rules. The universe can take your trust, rip it up, stamp on it, spit on it.

The universe doesn’t always care about what you have put your trust in. Where your hopes are stored. What luck you hope for.

Another important lesson to learn.

So, what do I do?

I try to be kind to myself. I tell myself that I am permitted to be furious at the hand I have been dealt.

But I also try to remember everything that is good. To be grateful for the time I had with Hugo. To be grateful for my family, my friends. To be grateful for the skills I have, for the positive contribution I can make on the world with Hugo’s legacy.

Remembering everything that is good, having hope, doing everything I can to truly live helps me to keep going.

Remembering that I have kept going when I could easily have hidden under my duvet.

Remembering that there is hope inspires me to never give up.

None of us knows what might happen even the next minute, yet still we go forward. Because we trust. Paulo Coelho

I am not especially religious. I believe there is ‘something’, particularly since Hugo died feeling that there is an ethereal something, someone looking after him is a comfort. Feeling that Hugo is still with me, us, is also a comfort.

But I do not subscribe to a particular religion, or believe there is a ‘higher purpose’. For me, never giving up means trusting in the future.

It means trusting that while the past cannot be mended, things can never be put right, the future can bring happiness and joy.

When the past includes such sorrow, trusting in a positive future in an uncertain world is faith indeed.

Self-Care

This week has been about self-care. And about time, too.

Where I live, we have been fortunate to enjoy some beautiful spring sunshine, and it has been very warm indeed. Despite my reservations about spring, I have now been enjoying the array of flowers and blossom, and trying to see them as symbols from Hugo.

Beautiful blossom.

On Monday evening, I found myself thinking on that day twelve months earlier I had last held Hugo, last sung to him, last read to him. I had last looked at his beautiful face, last stroked his lovely soft hair. It was the last time I had seen my gorgeous baby.

I miss Hugo so very much.

Tuesday marked the first anniversary of Hugo’s funeral. The last of the first anniversaries. Tuesday’s glorious sunshine mirrored the weather of the same day last year. I visited Hugo’s garden, and found it hard to believe that my baby had already been there for a whole year. The windmills and solar-powered butterfly were spinning away in the strong breeze, and combined with the toys, stars and vibrant flowers made his garden seem full of life and activity. The new little stones in the hexagonal planter were sparkling in the sunshine, but the camera doesn’t really pick it up.

Hugo’s garden – I captured the shadow of the solar-powered butterfly on the wall of the planter.

Hugo’s toys, and the sparkly stones.

The day of Hugo’s funeral was a celebration of life, and love. Hugo’s first birthday was spent at the laptop getting #HugosLegacy trending (with the help of so many wonderful people); the first anniversary of his death was spent sprucing up his garden.

This anniversary was about love for me. Self-care. As well as visiting Hugo in his garden on Tuesday, I tried to keep myself busy with various things. I went to the gym and had my nails done with pretty new sunshine colours. I sat in the garden with my book, which to be honest I found difficult to get in to – and ended up falling asleep.

New nail colour.

A sleep in the sunshine is restorative. A bit like being that solar-powered butterfly in Hugo’s garden.

Self-care doesn’t solve everything, nor does it make things better. But feeling revived and a bit more full of life, even if only for a while is good, so I’m aiming to do more of it.

 

The Reality of Life as an Empty-Armed Mother

Being an older expectant mother, I thought I had my eyes wide open about the realities of motherhood.

Part of my body that would never again be the same.

Lack of sleep.

Lots of nappies.

A shoulder permanently adorned with sick.

Hair, unwashed for days white with dry shampoo.

Never being able to go for a wee alone.

Lots of cuddles, singing, reading books, walks out in the pram.

Everyone wanting to talk about my baby, ask about him, look at pictures of him, marvel at him. Conversations are easy, full of joy.

Being his Mummy. Doing everything I could for him.

Not knowing why my baby is crying, or what to do to make it better. Feeling tired, emotional and that I surely must be the world’s worst mother.

But – for all this, being filled with the most incredible, unparalleled, unconditional love for this little human being.

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Life as a neonatal mummy provided a completely different reality to the one I was expecting.

Parts of my body that would never again be the same.

Lack of sleep.

My baby was in a plastic box. Covered in wires. Not allowed to touch him without permission.

Lots of nappies.

And – there was lots of singing, reading books, and as many cuddles as we were able to have.

Everyone wanted to talk about my baby, ask about him, look at pictures of him, marvel at him.

Conversations are uneasy, wanting, needing to be hopeful – but uncertain.

As his Mummy, wanting to make things better for him. Being unable to. Feeling powerless.

In this reality, I was tired, emotional, and thought I surely must be the world’s worst mother. My baby was in this plastic box – surely I must have failed him?

But – I was filled with the most incredible, unparalleled, unconditional love for this little human being. My son, Hugo. That love was more powerful than I could have imagined.

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After.

A reality paradox: I know it is real, yet it feels unreal. I wish it was not real. Perhaps if I close my eyes really tight and count to ten when I open them again I will find out it is not real?

If only.

What happened feels like one of those made-for-TV melodramas. Surely it cannot be real?

But it is.

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Now.

I had my eyes wide open about the realities of motherhood. Empty-armed motherhood is my current reality. It is not what I signed up for.

Parts of my body that will never again be the same, but with no baby to show for it.

No cuddles, reading, or singing songs. Only precious memories of doing these things with Hugo. No walks out in the pram.

Many people do want to talk about my baby, ask about him, look at pictures of him, marvel at him. But so many others do not. They do not know what to say, it makes them feel uncomfortable, conversation is awkward. So they say nothing. Ignore the topic. It hurts.

Being Hugo’s Mummy. Doing everything I can to keep his memory alive, to show the world he matters.

Feeling tired, emotional and that I surely must be the world’s worst mother. Not knowing what to do, or why this happened to us.

But – I am filled with the most incredible, unparalleled, unconditional love for this little human being. My son, Hugo. This love is more powerful than I could have imagined.

It endures.

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So.

The reality of motherhood is in some ways what I anticipated.

Nappies, lack of sleep, self-doubt, cuddles, singing, reading. Love.

A mother is a mother.

But my arms ache with emptiness, not with hours of cuddling.

My memories are finite.

Different rules apply when your baby has died.

Conversations are often awkward.

Life feels unreal.

This is the reality of being an empty-armed mother.

 

 

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Linking up with Mum Turned Mom – prompt word ‘Reality’

A Year Ago Today

A year ago today I awoke from a fitful night’s sleep. For the past few days I had been suffering from what I thought was heartburn. It was worse at night, and I had been sleeping poorly since it started.

Normal heartburn medicine had no effect. At 24 weeks’ pregnant, I thought heartburn was a normal part of having a baby. I had never been pregnant before, nor had I had heartburn. I did not know any different.

I called in to work sick. I felt utterly rotten. I had a routine midwife appointment later that day, where I was going to beg for stronger, prescription heartburn medicine. All I needed was for the heartburn to subside, and for a decent night’s sleep, I thought. I would then be right as rain and would potter along as planned for the remaining 16 weeks until I got to meet my baby boy.

The majority of the day was spent feeling rather sorry for myself, huddled on the sofa under my favourite snuggly blanket. I stroked my bump, and chatted to my baby as I did every day. I watched the Winter Olympics – it was luge or bobsleigh that day. My memory is hazy on the details, but I remember enjoying watching people hurtle down mountain tunnels at incredible speed.

Even though I was feeling so rotten, they were actually my last moments relaxing as a pregnant woman. An excited (though nauseous) expectant mother.

Late afternoon, I got myself ready to go to the midwife. Martin came with me, as he did to all appointments. I grabbed my handbag, making sure my notes were in there. I needed a wee, but saved it for the sample I’d need to get once I arrived.

I thought I would be out of the house for about an hour. In no time at all, I would be back on the sofa under my blanket watching the Olympics. Even better, I would have medicine that would make the awful heartburn go away.

Me at 20 weeks

It didn’t work out that way. The wee sample suggested a serious problem, as did my ridiculously high blood pressure. I got sent straight to hospital. No passing ‘Go’, or collecting £200.

I was a lot longer than an hour away from home. Six weeks away from home, in fact.

Most of you will know the story, but for the benefit of those who don’t soon arrival at hospital I was diagnosed with the rare, life-threatening pregnancy complications pre-eclampsia and HELLP syndrome. The only cure is for the baby to be born. I was so sick the doctors thought my baby would have to be born that night. He wasn’t born that night thankfully, giving him an extra few precious days inside my tummy.

But even given those few extra days, Hugo was born too early. Far too early.

Blissfully, I was away with the fairies for the worst of the time as an inpatient, thanks to the cocktail of drugs I was on. Martin bore the brunt of the terror, as did my family and friends. I had no idea how seriously ill I was. My focus was on my baby. It only hit me much later, after Hugo had died.

A year ago today, my life changed completely and irrevocably. Our innocence ended. It turned out that bad things happen not only to ‘other people’. They can happen to us, too.

A year ago today, I learnt that life can change in an instant.

Life can change for the worse. I nearly died, Martin nearly had to face returning home alone.

Our precious son fought so hard. I cried all the time. I missed Hugo. I missed him being in my tummy, where he belonged and where he should have still been. I missed being pregnant. I hated being apart from him, even though we spent as much time as was possible with him. I missed the third trimester of my pregnancy, looking forward to his birth. I missed all the things I was looking forward to doing with my new baby, and his daddy.

We returned home without Hugo.

I missed Hugo even more. Not being able to visit him in his incubator. No cares, no singing, no reading, no cuddles. No hope.

I am nostalgic for my dreams for the future. Dreams untarnished by heartbreak, fear, terror.

Mostly, life has just changed. Not better, or worse as such. Different. Fewer expectations; less patience, yet more patience; more determination, yet a greater appreciation of my limits.

A year ago today, I woke up as any other pregnant woman. Unremarkable in the grand scheme of things. I thought I was pretty special of course; I loved being pregnant, pregnancy was so special to me. Knowing a brand-new life that I had helped make was growing inside me.

Happy and healthy, both my baby and me.

Such a simple concept, so greatly missed.