Lessons from Grief and Loss

 As another day breaks, it marks the passing of day 365 of another year. A relentless passage of time that refuses to recognise the enormity of the moment. I find myself again transported to replay the moments I have lived countless times before, to the dawn of that day; this day 9 years ago, the sky still black, the sun’s rays just barely beginning to peep over the horizon. 

We made our way to the hospital, 38 weeks pregnant (…and 5 days- every day counts!). Retracing the path we had taken barely 12 hours before. Then, we had been quietly hoping that everything was still okay, …and it was… but now, that quiet hope had turned to desperation. They took us into a darkened exam room and tried a CTG and then a bedside ultrasound. I knew before they even said the words, the small black and white screen was so still. No more flickering heartbeat, confirming the stillness I had been so afraid to acknowledge. Because to acknowledge it meant no turning back, no more hope for one more day, for one more chance to save her in time, to do something different to chose the other path. 

It’s the finality of death that is so hard to take in. How can life become “not life” in the blink of an eye? I wonder if we struggle with finality because we posses eternal hearts. Separation without end is inconceivable, because end itself makes no sense. We weren’t designed with ending in mind, but with beginning and eternity. It’s not meant to be this way.

 Like my own sliding door moment, sitting in that room with eyes watching for my reaction, I could see how we would have continued if not for that still and silent screen; the safe arrival of our anticipated 2nd daughter, sister to 4.5 year old Elianna, adored from the moment we became aware of her presence. Melinda Grace, our little melody, a gift, like the grace notes on a music sheet, there to make life that much sweeter because we got to share it with her. I could see myself introducing her to our family, our church, taking her along for kindergarten drop off and mundane errand and appointments. 

With appalling clarity I could see how life could have been and yet was not. Instead we proceeded down another path altogether, the arrival of our much beloved and beautiful daughter to a room silent apart from our tears. Photos with our newborn daughter, turned black and white to reduce the shocking impact of death where there should be life. (Should we smile for the camera? To show how much we love her and how proud of her we are? Or cry, for an unnecessary record of the grief and pain of that day) Her first bath; dressing her, introducing her to our family, our church… but in the hospital chapel, not at home with tired eyes from nighttime feeds and cuddles, but eyes red from crying, skin raw from wiping tears. Then leaving the hospital, carrying a bear, holding one another as our midwives cried over the tiny body they held so lovingly, waving in farewell. An empty car seat, an empty nursery, an empty spot where her life should have lived. It’s not meant to be this way. I feel the truth of these words deep into my soul, And yet this is the way it is.

It’s the finitude of grief that gets me, limitless, it permeates every aspect of life; boundless in its transformative power; all consuming, until no part of us was left unchanged. The finitude of absence, the hopeless finality of death. There’s not a lot like it in this world that turns your life upside down-inside out, and leaves you breathless with helplessness. And it seems there’s nothing to do but to ride it, bareback and untamed, holding on with desperate hope for movement forward, out of the pain. Fighting the truth makes no difference, death is impervious to the screams of denial and beating of fists. Along the way as we grapple with grief we confront the deeper truth that our nicely ordered life was only ever an illusion, that we no more have control over life and death than we do the rising and setting of the sun. And now we grieve that loss of control as well, because the world suddenly seems more wild than it did before; more unpredictable and more dangerous, and we wonder how we will live with this new awareness. It is tempting to return to the patterns with which we attempted to control life in the before, but the infinite absence reminds us we are living in the after. We realise there is no back, only forward, we must find a new hope to sustain us. Hope in a story bigger than our own. 

Someone grabs our hand. A community reaching out in love, anchoring us, directing our feet to find a rock of truth on which we can shakily climb to our feet. In the demonstrative acts of generosity and grace we find something bigger than ourselves to put our trust in, someone who pursues our heart with tenderness, someone who sees, knows and understands; who saves, heals, protects and provides. And we come to understand that surrender of control may in fact mean sweet release, and not defeat.

And with this surrender, a new sense of freedom bringing with it an ability to appreciate immense beauty in the fleeting things, a meal shared with loved ones, a rainbow, a sunset sky painted in all of the hues of an artist’s pallet, a shared laugh watching Netflix, a warm afternoon, the giggles of our children. And the willingness to look for meaning in a moment, to search out the awe and wonder that makes life so much more rich and abundant. Is there a gift in the change that grief so unrelentingly wreaks in us? I think so, I hope so. A new person emerges, fragile and raw, sensitive and responsive, her strength (I suspect) will lay in her willingness to lean into the one who loves her. 

When the toolbox is empty and hope hurts

My baby dies every single day.

In my mind I feel it with upmost certainty; that I missed it, that the signs have been and gone and once again it's too late... I get hot with panic, I sweat, my heart races and I mourn the loss and I berate myself for the hope.... The hope that is still waiting for the kick, the sign that I was wrong. I have been pregnant for 30 weeks. This started from about 18 weeks. I have had 84 days of abject fear rolling to elation with life signs and then back to helplessness, despair and fear. Potentially 50 days to go. 

Night time is the worst. The weight of responsibility sits heavily on my shoulders. I'm the only one who can see the signs. Most stillbirths occur in the early hours of the morning, I must remain alert, at all times feeling, thinking, comparing. Is tonight the night they are going to be tangled in their cord and die? Was that movement I felt a few minutes ago the last one I will feel. The house is dark, the husband and daughter are sleeping soundly, but I'm sitting guard, I will wait.  

2 out of three of my babies have died, on my watch. Not due to any fault of mine... And yet they were my responsibility. In my mind I have a 30% chance of bringing my baby home.

No one wants to hear that. They tell me I have to think positive, not to let the fear win. 

I wish it was a matter of permission. Trust me, I don't want the fear to win and I am fighting it.

I hear stories of premature babies being born after 29 weeks and I think "you are so lucky" your baby has a 96% chance of survival... As the weeks pass those statistics improve everyday. Stacked against my 30%, those odds look mighty desirable. And yet this is a choice I couldn't make. Logically I know the path for a premature bub is challenging and those risks are very real compared to my own... But logic doesn't rule my heart. If they were here safely we could watch them better, keep them safe easier. 

Over the years of living with an anxiety disorder I have accumulated a toolbox full of strategies. Can you trust me when I say I am using them all... Constantly and with varying degrees of success; CBT techniques, framing, mindfulness, affirmations, meditation, prayer, distraction, exercise, journaling. The hardest part about all this is the resistance I carry, to hope. 

I know that sounds incredibly counterproductive. But on the days that I'm doing well managing the anxiety, when we've had a check up and lots of movement and hope starts to flower, the brakes come on... Because it's a lot further to fall once hope has buoyed you up, a lot harder to reconcile your lot in life when you've come from a place of hopeful expectation and landed in hopeless darkness. Trust me, I know.

Some have said that they KNOW this time is going to be different, that this time we will have our happy beginning. And I love them for their optimism at the same time as I want to scream in frustration at their lack of understanding. No one knows...no one can know... Well, God knows but thus far he hasn't let me in on his verdict. 

Some have suggested that I need to live as though we're bringing them home, because to do otherwise is merely to deny the joy of the time we have with them. This approach appeals to me the most because it doesn't deny the reality of the situation completely. But it's hard. So bloody hard. I stumble on the words that suggest I believe we're having a baby in October, I find it hard to buy anything we may need, because the reality is we bought it all for Melinda and it really sucks to stare at it or days or weeks after you have failed to bring your baby home before you muster the courage to pack it all away or to have to take it all back to the store for a refund. I don't want to do that again. I don't want to have a baby shower and then potentially let my friends and family down again.

We have named our baby, we talk to them, we giggle at their antics from within the womb. Each day we fall more and more in love with them. Each day more of my heart becomes inextricably intertwined with every beat of theirs... The hope is excruciating. But Love is never wasted

50 days to go. One way or another. We will know the outcome then. So I will keep watch over them, I will continue doing everything in my power to bring them home, I will advocate for monitoring and scans and anything that will improve our odds. I'm not giving up the fight. I just need some understanding, that my capacity for engaging in life's great adventure is greatly diminished at the moment. Please pray for us, intercede for us, encourage us and be there for us. Ask my husband how he is going, love my daughter, wipe my tears. 

We couldn't have done this without your support. 

Just what is perfect?

We have this ridiculous expectation of perfection in our society,

The perfect job

The perfect house

The perfect car

The perfect pregnancy

The perfect family

The perfect holiday

Perfect hair, skin, diet, body, outfit

Perfect mother, perfect child, perfect schedule

These things define our level of success as determined by a society that is a fickle as it is judgemental. And too often they define our opinion of ourselves. So often I hear my family and friends expressing that they do not feel like they are “enough”. Not skinny enough, not smart enough, not rich enough, not good enough. Their house isn’t tidy enough, their kids don’t behave enough, they don’t answer the phone enough, they’re not happy enough. And I want to hug them with one of those endorphin releasing, lasting longer than 30seconds, hugs and tell them they are enough. Just as they are; they are enough!

We’ve all heard the quip that comparing yourself with someone on facebook is like comparing their highlight reel with your backstage. Its apples and oranges. But we all do it to some extent. We all compare ourselves to others and come up lacking. Whether it’s the other mother whose toddler sits calmly in his stroller looking at a book while mum shops, meanwhile this mum has abandoned their stroller three shops back as they ran after their Houdini child who has learnt how to release themselves from the buckles and can run faster than you’d believe possible. Or the dad whose child is struggling to read as well as their peers, or a runner whose glow of a new PB fades rapidly upon the news that someone else has done the same distance 10 minutes faster, while pushing a double pram with two 20kg toddlers, tackling a business call and juggling a latte and posts a photo looking daisy fresh with the two sleeping cherubs in the background. It is human nature to compare, and indeed it can provide helpful feedback when the observations are objective. Which they rarely are; because we are emotional beings, us humans.

I believe that even some of the words used to compliment in today’s society speak to this epidemic of comparison; “you are so strong” “you are so smart” “have you lost weight?”. I have heard the first one a lot in the past year; my typical response is “I don’t feel strong” And I absolutely recognize that the comment comes from a place of relief that I haven’t ceased functioning, or from a place of encouragement or even acknowledgement that my journey has been impossibly hard. But I don’t feel strong, and I certainly do not believe that my friends who have struggled to get out of bed, or face a day, or even my friend who could not continue to face life, are weak in comparison. We are all just making the choices we can make with the resources at our disposal.

I have been blessed with amazing pastors and church family who support and encourage my faith journey and encourage my hope in Christ. I have been blessed with a husband who supports me constantly and without hesitation, a group of best friends who remind me I am loved and valued at every opportunity they get. Two Pregnancy support/friendship groups from July 2013 who have become fast and firm friends, who always remember my daughter and who go out of their way to hold me up. I also have a community of Angel mums who know exactly what it is like to live through this, who are there with advice and encouragement and a great big hug and who can reassure me that the days and years do get easier. These are where my strength comes from. Not from me, but from God and those who hold me up, who lift me up when I fall and who cheer me on when I try those wobbly steps on my own. I am not strong. My community is strong. And I am blessed.  

Elianna gets the second as a compliment a lot “you are so smart!” and she absolutely is clever, I am constantly blown away with some of the skills she has learnt this year at school. But I am more impressed at the effort she puts in. She diligently reads to myself or Steve every single night. At the moment she is learning spelling because she finished learning all of her sets of sight words before the end of last term. And she practices, and tries even when she doesn’t get it the first time, she tries again and again until she knows how to spell it. She gets discouraged sometimes but to see her work it out fills me with so much pride. She is amazing. And she works really hard. But so do some of the other children in her class, even the ones who are still reading level 2 books and are on their fourth set of sight words, they are reading every night and practising their sight words. It just doesn’t come as naturally to them as it does to Elianna. They deserve as much encouragement praise as she does and yet no one is telling them how clever they are? How is that fair? And what message does it send? That your effort is only worthwhile if you are the best? If you are perfect?

“Have you lost weight?” I hear this thrown around as a compliment quite a lot, and in fact I am guilty of this one, even had it a bit myself (sometimes when I have in fact gained weight) but somehow it has become a universally “nice” thing to say to someone, especially if they, like me, are a little on the heavy side or have battled with their weight in the past. Because our society says thin/toned = beautiful = worthy. Usually it is coupled with a huge smile of greeting and a “you look amazing/terrific/great etc” and that sure is lovely to hear… but why do we need the association with weight to validate the compliment. Can’t we just say “you look lovely” or better yet, steer away from comments on physical appearance at all and try “it is great/awesome/wonderful to see you?” because if the sole compliment exchanged in a meeting with a friend is based around appearance, what is the underlying message? … I “see” you, validate you, when you are thin/look good… What about those days when you rush out the door without a moment to run a brush through your hair? Or you’ve put on a bit of weight (for whatever reason, who cares why), or you have had a few rough nights with not enough sleep… those tend to be the days you need a great big friendly smile of greeting, reminding you that someone is pleased to see you. No matter your physical appearance.

Now to be clear I am absolutely not refuting the need to be healthy, to look after our body, nourishing it physically, mentally and spiritually. It is important to be healthy, I just question the motivation that drives weight-loss in many situations. Too many of us link our self-worth to our outward appearance. Labelling ourselves as lazy and/or worthless; because we have internalised this idea based on our lifetime of experiences with this relationship between perfection and worthiness. You are more worthy if that number on the scale is lower???… I personally struggle with this one and overcoming this association is a huge challenge. In an attempt to re-write my internal dialogue I have figuratively “thrown out the scales” I try to remind myself daily that my goal is to be fit and healthy, to be a role-model for my daughter. I am not happy when I am on a restrictive diet, skipping social engagements to avoid temptation, refusing cake at birthdays, this is not what I want for myself. We only get to live one life; I don’t want to spend it without cake. I really like cake! And eating a piece of cake does not make me unworthy… no matter what that little voice says.

Today we learnt that the world has lost a very special person. A man who many of us grew up laughing at, tackled controversial issues and entered new worlds with, and inspired us to explore our own imaginations. It appears that the comedian Robin Williams has taken his own life at 63 years old after a battle with depression. I cannot imagine what it would be like to battle this black dog in the public eye, especially as a comedian, whose job depends upon making people laugh. The public expectations would be huge. And of course I am not suggesting that anyone would not be sympathetic to his plight. But the thing I have learnt in my journey over the past few years is that some people will turn away from your sadness or depression because they don’t want you to bring them down, or as I have been told a number of times “I don’t want to feel sad right now”. I feel that pressure. To smile, to pretend, to be perfectly okay. But boy is that lonely. To know that its not enough to be yourself. Is this how Robin felt? That he wasn’t enough? I don’t know what brought him to the point that he could no longer survive his inner turmoil, where he had lost all hope of a brighter future. I am sure his wife and children felt he was enough, believed in him, loved him as he was, just as reported by so many survivors of suicide who have lost loved ones. So how did he/ how do we end up so out of touch with the truth? (rhetorical question, I wish I had the answer…)

Scientific advances have shown us that depression and anxiety (far from being just a case of the mopes or the sads, as believed in the past) is a serious medical illness that has impacts upon physical and mental health (http://www.beyondblue.org.au/the-facts/depression). A condition that can be caused in part by chemical imbalances in the brain or in part by the reinforcing of maladaptive thought process and the brain connections involved. Thoughts of unworthiness, helplessness and hopelessness. And sometimes thoughts that life is not worth living. Onset can be sudden, progression can be sudden, loss of life even more sudden still. And devastating, always devastating.

Unworthiness. Helplessness. Hopelessness.

These words strike me at my core, because they have been me at various times throughout my life. Having experienced the loss of two very much loved ones to suicide, my heart breaks at the suffering they experienced to bring them to that point. And I will forever wonder if there is more I could have done, something I could have said or sent that could have changed that outcome. I am sure I am not the only one in this situation. And we will never know, because there are no do-overs in life and death. We cannot bring them back.

But there are things we can do to affect change for the future, to just maybe change the fate of the Shannon’s and the Kristy’s of tomorrow, next month, next year, next generation.

The first and most important thing I believe we can do is to turn our back on society expectations and pressures to be “perfect” and love ourselves. Daily do something kind for ourselves, affirm our worthiness, refute negative self-talk and set realistic and kind goals for ourselves based upon what we really want out of life. I’ve definitely found this to be a case of easier said than done, as my psychologist would attest, … but I am working on it.

The second step is to teach our next generation about true worth and value. Our children model our behaviour. So teach them to love themselves and others, without judgement or reservation. Teach them the value of making mistakes and trying again. Teach them that they have power, to help themselves and to change their own and others circumstances. Teach them forgiveness, both for themselves and to others  

The third step is to change how we relate to the persons we encounter daily: 

1. Practise kindness- return a smile to that frowning cashier; hold the door open for the person behind you, pre-pay a coffee for someone. This one is easy. Perhaps we could even set a goal of one RAOK (random act of kindness) per day  
2. Practise thoughtfulness- let those you love know that you love them. It is not possible to over-do this. I repeat… it is not possible to over-love or over-value someone. Build them up, Especially if they are vulnerable due to grief, depression, anxiety or other stressors. Simple things you can do are send them a card just because, cook a meal for them to freeze, check in with a text message, remember dates that may be triggering for them and let them know you’ve remembered. Be there for them, call them (if you are not phone phobic like me), catch up for a cup of tea, and listen, never underestimate the power of listening.
3. Leave your ego at the door- Sometimes you have to set aside your own feelings, remember it is not always about you. They may not return your call or they may refuse your invitation for a few weeks before agreeing to meet up but this doesn’t mean your efforts are not appreciated. It may just mean they are not up for leaving the house, or there may be some other obstacle motivating their silence or refusal. Don’t give up on them; you may be the only person still trying.
4. Be patient- If they have a mental or physical illness or even if they are going through a tough time; don’t rush them or use tough-love tactics. Be understanding, listen to them and validate them. Help them to find their own hope in the situations but make every attempt not to trivialise their issues. While it may be true that someone has it better or worse, it doesn’t negate the pain or stress of the situation your friend may be in.

Now it comes time for me to post this on my blog. And I’m not entirely happy with it, some of the thoughts haven’t come out right and I’m sure there is much I have not included that should be in there. Normally at this point I would archive the post to come back to it and edit it until I considered it “perfect” but not today. In support of my goal of not being “perfect” I am going to post it as is and I know that there is always going to be opportunity to come back and add another post to clarify or discuss. I’m only human after-all.   

Run Melbourne 27th July 2014

After next to no sleep on Friday night I headed to bed around 10pm Saturday night after preparing everything for the next day. I ended up taking a quarter dose of a sleeping tablet and as a result was asleep very quickly. Alarm went off at 430am and I can't say I exactly leapt out of bed... But at least I didn't push snooze, this was too important for that.

I felt awful, borderline throwing up, headachy and chills. I couldn't work out if it was just my body's reaction to getting up too early after not enough sleep but I wasn't going to miss this for anything... I would have had to have been hospitalised to not at least attempt this. 

I got the kettle boiling for a morning cup of tea in the hope that a warm drink would settle my stomach and get my digestive system moving so that I could fast track my "morning constitutional" and avoid needing to find a bathroom during the race (.. No such luck unfortunately, nothing was moving that fast that that time of the morning)  I had a protein shake with almond milk, whey protein concentrate and strawberry nesquick.

I carefully  got dressed, rubbing body glide anti-chaffing balm all around anywhere that could potentially rub and taping up my toes in anti blister bandages. I packed and repacked my post-race bag with powerade, snacks and a warm jacket filled my drink bottles and then we headed in (me,  Julie and Byron; Steve was to follow with Eli and Lisa later as he was doing the 10k which didn't start until 9:30) 

We got into the city and parked about 6am as planned and walked to federation square where a big crowd was gathering. It was freezing walking from the car but we didn't notice the cold once there. I put on my rivers gift singlet and pinned on my race bib on my front and the honour roll of babies on my back. Miraculously i spotted and met Sarah (Sarah E), another one of River's gift's runners in amongst the crowd, we took a couple of photos and then checked our bags. We then waited in a huge queue for the toilet...  (Still no sign of a #2 :-( ) and headed to the start zone.

There were so many people, we had to walk for about 10 minutes from the start line to the back of the pack so that we could join the final (and slowest) wave of runners. The first wave headed off on time and we slowly inched forward onto the track. Our wave eventually passed through the start line around 7:19; nearly 20 minutes behind the fast runners. 

I started off strong, comfortable in my space and those around me. There was a little dodging and weaving as we all settled into our pace. I found I was right near the 2hr 10min pacer (6:08 pace). I knew that I had been on target for a finish of about that time before I had become so sick and my training had been thrown out for the last month and a bit. I hung around her for the first 6km up the first couple of hills. It was the first of these hills that i remembered i had forgotten to have a puff of ventolin before the race and had to slow down to pull that out of my pouch and take it) It was a really challenging course for me; much more hilly than expected, and lots of mental blocks with loooong steady hills and longer dog-leg turns. 

I found myself alongside our other Sarah (sarah J) at about the 6km mark, and commiserated with her about her lack of timing chip which was safely stowed in her checked bag at the finish line and then I released her on her way as I knew she was much faster than me and I didn't want to hold her back, but still that was a lovely surprise :-) 

I struggled a bit with the longest hill and by the time I was back down the bottom "my pacer" was a good 500m in front of me and I was already struggling to maintain a 6:20/km pace. I had told Steve before the start that I was just hoping to come in under 2:30 but really I had wanted to surprise him with a big fast finish, but at this point I knew I didn't have it in me. So I revised my plan and told myself I could still do 2:20. I wasn't even half way yet. I pulled out my earphones plugged them in and got some tunes going, hoping they would keep me on track... I put it on random shuffle but the second and third songs were from Melinda's funeral tacks, which was both good and bad as I struggled to hold back tears but it reminded me why I was doing this.

At the halfway point my Garmin was reading 1hr 8minutes. I was still running and hadn't had to walk yet but I could feel my muscles getting fatigued. There was another hill shortly after that and I had to walk about 5 steps but quickly got myself moving again when I got a text from Steve saying he, Lisa and Eli were waiting at the start line to cheer me on. The start line was about 14km into the course, so I knew I was 2/3 of the way there when I saw their smiling faces. I sprinted to them and kissed them all. I had been running along amongst all these people encouraging each other in teams and had been feeling a little lonely. 

The sprint cost me in terms of my energy levels and my heart rate alarm (205bpm) started going off as soon as I rejoined the pack of runners at the bottom of the hill going up to the shrine of remembrance, I had to walk for 30seconds to get it under control and took the opportunity to get my puffer out in case that was part of the problem. 

I ran up and over that hill and started to feel my groove again. I knew my pace was quite slow but at this point it didn't really care so much, I just focused on keeping moving one foot in front of the other. 

A good song came on (from the planetshakers beautiful women conference resource cd) and I grooved my way along, drumming out the drum solo with my arms and lip syncing to the words, much to the amusement of the marshals. I started to flake again at the bottom of the next hill so opted to power walk it... Still keeping pace with those alongside me that were jogging, so I figured that was good enough and it gave me a chance to rest some of the bigger problem muscles. I downed 2 cups of electrolyte at the next drink table just over the crest of the hill (until then i had been having one at every drink table) and ran freely down the hill again. Next it was the long and seemingly endless dog-leg (17-19km). It was so demotivating to run all this way (seemed like well over a km, I'm not really sure how far it was) down one side of a road all the while watching the streams of runners on the other side of the rope running back in the direction you came. Once I rounded the bend I promised myself that if I just ran to the next drink table I could walk while I drank. I finally caught sight of a familiar face, Sarah, our other rivers gift runner going in the other direction and detoured to greet her and give her a high five. i was so proud of us at this point and I sped up a little making it back up to 6:30/km for about 500m before the drinks. I had another 2 cups of electrolyte and took my sweet time finishing them (well, I walked fast still but didnt have to run until I had thrown the cups in the bin.... Playing mind games on myself by now was all I had, my hips and shins were screaming with every step).

When I finally passed under the sign that said we were at the 20km mark I thought-yes! We've done it, I can run 1km! That's easy!! But it wasn't, I managed about 200m at 6:30 pace before I had to walk again, I was feeling so tired I could've curled up then and there, hare and tortoise style and slept the day away. I kept going this way; running and walking, running and walking. At the 19km point I had been running for 2hours 6 minutes and thought I was in with a chance to make it in 2hrs 20 minutes but I saw that slip away when I couldn't maintain what i considered a reasonable pace (less than 7min/km). I asked myself if I wanted to finish the race running but outside of my goal time or walking because I had smashed myself to try and get my goal... I decided I wanted to finish running and I started moving in a slow shuffle type run that conserved my energy. I watched the 2hr20min tick over just after my garmin recorded 21km, I was so close! In the end my garmin recorded the track to be just over 21.3km(I must've run the long way lol) 

When I finally made it to the finish chute I found I could run a little faster, keeping my eyes out for Lisa and Eli I ran for that finish line as hard as I could. I spotted them just down from the line, I saw them before they saw me and I ran to the side a bit to get their attention. Eli grinned at me with the biggest smile ever and yelled "yay mummy" I crossed over the line about 2hrs 45min behind the place winners . I gave the photographer a victory V and then wandered dazed looking for an exit to get to my girls before suddenly remembering and  stopping my garmin at 2:22:25. I contemplated briefly stopping at the first aid tent, I was feeling so shaky and confused and nauseous. Then I spotted the guy handing out medals as everyone came over the line and I thought "one of those is for me" I got my medal, slung it over my neck with a big smile (at least I think I was smiling) got my apple and bottle of water, surrendered my timing chip and went to find Lisa, who hugged me with the biggest hug ...and the tears came.

Julie and Byron both finished strong with respectable sub 3hr times (Julie, 2:53, Byron 2:45) I was so proud of them and so honoured to run with them, beyond moved that they would train for such an event if honour of my special princess's first birthday. 

Steve's race had started just before I finished and after meeting back up with Julie and Byron, we all pushed our way through the crowds at the finish line to see if we could catch him finishing. I wasn't sure what time he would do, as we had both barely run in the last month, he had been quite sick with a cough and the most he'd ever run in a day was 5km! I expected it would be somewhere between 1hr 20 and 1hr 30 so imagine my surprise and pride when he came running in shortly before 1hr 15! I was so very proud of him, I swallowed the lump in my throat, wiped my leaking eyes and screamed for him waving my arms like a madwoman "Yay! Steve! Go Bubby! I'm so proud of you!!"

Thanks for staying the course with us, for supporting and encouraging us, for motivating us and just loving us. Thank you for those who sponsored us, I promise Rivers gift is going to accomplish amazing things with your money, and you are a part of that. We couldn't have made it here without you all

Xoxoxo

Kath, Steve, Eli, Jonathon and Melinda 

Ps. 

Trusty Garmin stats 

Dist:21.338km

Time 2:22:25 (confirmed by run Melbourne as 2:22:08 according to the timing chip)

Calories burnt: 2064

Avg pace: 6:41min/km

Avg hr: 184bpm

Max HR:204bpm

Km 1 6.12

Km 2 5:57

Km 3 6:07

Km 4 6:03

Km 5 5:47

Km 6 6:11

Km 7 6:16

Km 8 6:10

Km 9 6:44

Km 10 6:29

Km 11 6:45

Km 12 6:52

Km 13 6:50

Km 14 6:47

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An Unexpected Journey

Today is my third anniversary

 

But its not an anniversary that I want to celebrate, or an anniversary that I sought to remember, it just blindsided me this morning as I went about my daily routine. Today is the anniversary of the day that I lost my innocence. the Anniversary of the day I became a mother to an angel.
the day I realised that being a good person does not preclude you from having bad things happen.
the day I personally realised that being pregnant didn't necessarily mean bringing home a baby, at least not a live one. the way we had envisioned when we saw that second line come up on the pregnancy test.

 

I woke on this morning three years ago with a sense of restrained excitement. I remember throwing up in the toilet, as I had ever morning for the preceding four months, and wondering if I would ever feel normal again. I remember chatting to my best friend on the phone discussing whether the scan that day would reveal our baby to be a boy or a girl. other considerations didn't enter my mind. he or she was past the magic 14 week mark and therefore safe as houses. I remember I was worried that if it was a boy I wouldn't know how to be a mother to a boy, boys just seemed so alien to me. I understood girls, I was good at girls.

 

Steve came home from work to come to the scan with me, and taking Elianna with us we went into the room to see our baby. blissfully unaware of what was to come.

 

I knew what I was looking at straight away.
I had enough experience with ultrasounds to be able to assess the picture on the screen fairly quickly. I could see my baby's legs and knees folded up into the aptly named "foetal position" I could see the round shape of the head and profile of the nose, I could see the long feet and the stripy spine. but I couldn't see the reassuring flicker of a heartbeat. The technician looked hard, we even tried and internal scan. I went to the bathroom to empty my bladder for this and I begged God, the universe, whoever to show us a heartbeat.

 

The sonographer was very sorry to have to tell us our baby was no longer alive. I was 17 weeks and 4 days pregnant. He would be "born" at 17 weeks 6 days but had died somewhere around 16 weeks 4 days

 

Elianna was still in the room with us, and I remember looking at Steve (who with tears in his eyes was holding himself together) and telling him I needed him to remain strong so that we could both be strong and get through this together. In retrospect this wasn't the best thing I could have said at that time. If I had to live that day over again I would definitely be more supportive of my husband, I would tell him how sorry I was and that it was ok to fall apart. that falling apart is a sign of strength and we could rebuild together. I would tell him that I love him more than anything.

 

So we began our own unexpected journey.

 

There was so much I didn't know then...

 

• like when your baby is this far along, you need to be induced and go through labour... but they still call it a miscarriage and your baby "products of conception", because he's not past the "magical" 20 weeks
• like labour hurts, contractions are contractions, whether at 17 weeks, 30 weeks or 40 weeks, and listening to babies being born in the room next to the one you're labouring in hurts in a whole other way.
• like the fact that your baby looks just like a baby, a tiny human who fits in the palm of your hand (plus a bit), who resembles a combination of your family traits, just like his big sister did.
• nothing prepares you for the rush of love when you first see your baby, and get told he is a boy. even though you don't get to take him home, you are still a new mother and that love is no different.
• 3 day baby blues still apply, but no one will check in on you from the hospital... because you don't have a baby
• people will be silent... and its not because they don't care, its more likely that they don't know what to say

 

There are also things I wish I had known...

 

• Like it is possible to have your baby cremated. Even though his tiny body would not have yielded much ash, I would have like to have known I had this option. Instead they told me I could either take him home and bury him in my backyard (we were in a rental property, we hadn't even finished unpacking yet) or they would dispose of him in medical waste. (*Ultimately Jonathon's tiny body was transferred to medical science after his autopsy which showed him to be in perfect health) 
• Like its okay to talk about how you are feeling, and that those who tell you to let go and move on are the ones in the wrong. Grief is an intensely personal journey and no one has the right to think they can direct your steps, even if they just think they are helping.

 

And there are things I have learnt in the past three years that I am so grateful to know, even if I didn't appreciate the mode of delivery.

 

1. There is always someone there for you; If reach out your hand and they will meet you on the journey, I promise!
2. I am stronger than I ever thought possible. Through God and his strength I can weather any storm and grow through any situation- even if the storm seems endlessly dark and cold and the growth painful and strange.
3. Death is not the end; of love or of even of life- rather it grows each day, with every beat of my heart
4. There is a whole community of women founded on love and comfort and support, where there is no place for judgement or condemnation. these angel mums constantly inspire me and encourage me and I am forever grateful for these women.
5. You can meet people in the most unlikely of ways, through the most unlikely of situations and they will be your soul mates- Lisa I am looking at you!
6. People will surprise you; In both good ways and bad. but that's the thing about people, we are not perfect, we are flawed, which is why we are better together. sometimes you have to help others to help you. Tell them how you are feeling, teach them what things comfort and what things hurt, and forgive them when they misstep. We are all walking this journey for the first time, whether as grieving mother or family or friend or acquaintance. Sometimes we all just need a little grace and forgiveness..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 9: If you have other children how has your loss affected them?

My Daughter is 4 years and 8 months old. 

We had spent the last 6 months of my pregnancy building up how great it would be to be a big sister. 

Telling her all the great things she would get to do with her, how she would be our big girl helper and how her baby sister would love her more an anyone else in the world. Eli was even practising her reading so that she could read to her baby sister when she was unsettled. 

She was one of the only people who knew the baby was a girl, she was so proud to have that secret and she kept it so well. (The only person she told was my friend's baby who was about 9 months old at the time- of course this was while we were in the car so my friend overheard by that is beside the point). 

She was excited.

Everyone we saw was greeted with "do you know I'm going to have a baby soon?" 

It was the hardest thing I have ever contemplated having to do, telling Eli that her baby sister wasn't going to be coming home with us after all. In the end Steve told her and afterward she ran into my arms crying "but I really really wanted a baby sister" I think my heart broke many many times that day, but this was one of the toughest blows. As mummies all we want to do is save our children from heartache and I felt like the worlds biggest heel for setting her up for such a catastrophic fall. 

The following day she came in to meet Melinda. Such a bittersweet moment, she was so careful with her and so accepting of her dark "lipstick" and purple "nail polish". We made sure that she understood that although she had been born Melinda was not going home with us. It's very hard to explain to a four year old who has no concept of death that even though she was "here" now it didn't mean she was here to stay. Eli had a listen to Melinda's heart with the stethoscope and we talked to her about what she couldn't hear and what that meant. And then she went off to play and draw pictures.

She is amazing and I think we adults could definitely learn a lot about grieving from children. 

She accepted it from the get go, she was (and still is at times) sad that Melinda isn't here, but that doesn't stop her from enjoying the things that have always given her pleasure. She doesn't have the problems of guilt that so many bereaved parents feel when they find themselves smiling or laughing after such a tragic loss. To Elianna it is perfectly acceptable to be happy about life and sad about Melinda at the same time. To Elianna it's ok to cry when your sad, there are no societal expectations that influence her behaviour and as a result I think she processes her grief much better than we do.

At first i was concerned that she hadnt processed what had happened at all or that it wasn't important to her.

 Now when she meets someone for the first time Elianna says to them "did you know my baby sister is in heaven" 

and I know that is her way of telling us that she loves Melinda, a little sign that her sister is still in the forefront of her mind. I wish I could have delivered her sister safely into her arms for years of cuddles and fights and whispered conversations. But I am so proud of the beautiful way she has of sharing her sister with the world.

We have had a lot of discussions about heaven lately. I can see her trying to process the idea that we are happy that Melinda is in heaven at the same time as we are sad that shes not with us. She has often asked when she gets to go, once even saying that she wished she had got to go to heaven straight away as a baby like Melinda and Jonathon did. I have explained (through teary eyes) that we don't get to decide when and who gets to go to heaven, that our job is to live our life as well as we can and know that one day we will meet there altogether again. 

We are so lucky to have Elianna, to remind us of our blessings, to remind us to stop and appreciate the little things in life and to remind us how to live without Melinda with sadness that is tempered by love and joy. 

Thank you God for Elianna, she is truly a blessing to this world 

Day 8: Do you feel you have more good days than bad ones?

I guess the answer to that question depends upon the time period under consideration. And the definition of a good day.

For the purposes of this blog post I am defining a good day as one where I can carry on my "normal life", involve myself in general chit chat, laugh at the children around me, take interest in life outside of my immediate sphere, offer support to my friends and generally appreciate all of the blessings i have received.

As for the time period in question:

If you mean have I had more good than bad days in the 83 days since Melinda died, then the answer would be a resounding no.

If you mean in the last fortnight... the answer would still be absolutely not.

If you mean the four weeks that came before the start of the last fortnight then I'd probably say the good and the bad days were about even. Maybe even the good days were starting to win

You see that's the thing about grief, I can be going along thinking I'm doing really well; I'm processing my loss, transcending it even. I'm thinking of my children with love instead of intense sadness, I'm no longer feeling a belly full of rage at the injustice of it etc etc... and then something happens. Something upsets the status quo and the wave of grief builds, washes me off my feet and then dumps me unceremoniously head first in the centre of the ocean. And once again I am lost at sea and it takes a while to get my bearings. Meanwhile I am desperately treading water trying to keep my chin above the water, slipping below the waves once or twice and wondering if i have the strength to make it through this. Eventually I realise I can just stop moving and float, allowing my friends and supports to bouy me up, Allowing the grief to gently rock me until i find i have found my bearings once more and can start swimming to shore. Once on shore I strike out full of purpose, but wary of the ocean ever at my heels. Until my confidence builds and once again I start to feel like I'm doing okay.

I am learning how to navigate my grief.
Sometimes I even manage to avoid being knocked off my feet at all. I can feel the ground starting to fall beneath my feet and I find away to re-adjust the load and step onto more solid ground.
Sometimes I can feel that the incoming wave is too big to fight and I need to allow the grief to take me along for the ride, not fighting it. Just letting all the feelings and emotions wash over me until the pull lessens and I head back to shore.

I am hopeful that in time, the periods of panicked flailing, where I am lost and struggling, will be spaced further apart and I can become friends with my grief, with the give an take that goes along with all good friendships.