Grief in Three Parts: My Baby

Mourning my baby is undeniably the most overwhelming part of my grief and, without a doubt, the most painful. The reality is that, at some point or another, there is at least a small bud of hope within the other two - I have a fighting chance of allowing them to bloom again. We have always thought that we would have more than one child, our own little Lyons pride, and even when Posy was just an idea, a mere dream, an impending excitement, she was always going to be a big sister. I hope that this will still be a possibility for us, whatever it may look like. I hope that I will be able to experience pregnancy again, a pregnancy that allows me to keep hold of my baby and enjoy another kind of motherhood. However, it is the heartbreaking truth that I will never see my beautiful Posy again; I will be mourning and missing my Sweet P for the rest of time. She will never be able to come back to us and she will never be replaced. There will always be a Posy-shaped hole in our lives and my attempts to face this fact result in a breakdown every time. It is just too hard to imagine and I don’t have the strength to accept it just yet.

I’m definitely at a stage where celebrating the small victories each day makes me feel considerably better about how I have spent my time. So, today, after I woke up to find a lovely breakfast prepared by my wonderful husband, I managed to leave the house! Yay! I got dressed (yay!), I drove into town (yay!), I did some shopping (yay!) and I’m now sat at my favourite one person table in my favourite coffee shop. This place has become a bit of a safe haven for me when I’m out and about - it gives me a coffee fix, or hot chocolate when needed, yummy cake and a place where I feel comfortable to sit, ponder and even cry at times (the ladies who work here have mastered the sympathetic head tilt!). It is also one of the few places that we took Posy so it’s quite nice to be somewhere where I can feel connected to her, where I can remember what is was like having a coffee date with my beautiful daughter.

It was all going so well, but about twenty minutes ago a group of mums came in with their prams. I wasn’t about to run away - I’m actively trying not to avoid other mums and other babies because I know it’s not a healthy habit to fall into - however, in retrospect, it might have been better if, in this case, I had. They have chosen a table close enough that means I can hear everything they are saying - cue the hunt for headphones! They are enjoying catching up, cuddling their babies and sharing stories of how they are reaching various milestones. They are comparing their ages (obviously in weeks) and talking about all the different ‘firsts’ they have had in the last month or so. As a result of my not-so-subtle eavesdropping, I’m sat here thinking: if I were to join in as a fellow mum, what would I have to say?

Posy will have been turning ten weeks old today but, instead of being able to look back and acknowledge all the ways in which she has grown and developed, I have to accept that it has been eight weeks since I last saw her pretty little face. I have eight weeks of missing her, eight weeks of longing for her and it just seems like an incredibly cruel amount of time compared with the two weeks that we actually spent with her. Instead of having a growing puddle of ‘firsts’, we have a endless sea of ‘nevers’. As I’ve said before, I am really trying not to allow this to overcome my thoughts, but when I see other babies, especially those who are a similar age to Posy, it is really difficult not to. It is impossible not to imagine what Posy would look like if I could see her now or how her character would have developed in the time that has passed. It is agonising knowing that she will only ever be two weeks old in my mind.

As I’m sat here, pondering my time with Posy, I am really trying to remind myself of her small collection of ‘firsts’. It’s not that she didn’t get any, it’s that she simply didn’t get enough and that we no longer have the chance of celebrating her reaching any more. But, in the promise of celebrating the small victories, what did Posy get to experience? In the days immediately after I had given birth, I didn’t feel that the recommendation of ‘one week in bed, one week on the sofa’ was doing me any good, so she probably got to experience more in her first two weeks than a lot of babies. She went on her first outings; she had a first car journey; she went on her first walks in the pram; she had a first dance with her Daddy; she had her first cuddles with her grandparents and family; she wore more new outfits in those two weeks than I had in the last year; she had her first pyjama days with her Mama; she napped through her first movies; she had her first projectile poop; she made her first baby noises and as she dreamed we got a first glimpse of a Posy smile. She experienced an awful lot in those two weeks and, throughout it all, she was so incredibly loved. The part that I am struggling to comprehend is that this is all she will ever get, we aren’t able add anymore to her list of ‘firsts’. That list, (shortened for your reading time), is her entire lifetime and these stories are all we will ever have to remember of her. The excruciating truth, is that most of these ‘firsts’ were also her ‘lasts’ and it is tearing me apart.

I am missing her more and more each day. I miss sharing the little things with her, I miss everything revolving around her and I wish we could have had more time together. There was so much more of this world that I had hoped to be able to share with her and it’s hard not to feel like she is missing out on an entire lifetime. There are times I still wake up in the night, expecting to hear her crying out for food but, instead of hearing her murmurs, I’m surrounded by a deafening silence.

Although they have been a small source of comfort, memories can also be extremely harsh sometimes. The week before Posy died was meant to be Michael’s final week of paternity leave and I can remember how much I was dreading his return to work. It was going to be my ultimate plunge into parenthood with Posy and the recognition that I was going to have to manage on my own was daunting; it was going to be my biggest challenge yet. I was also aware that we had quite a few appointments booked in for that week and I was intimidated by the thought of having to do them on my own. Up until then, it had been purely down to our teamwork that we had been able to leave the house at all. It had been a complete juggling act, making sure that Posy had been fed, ensuring that she had a clean nappy and clothes and checking that we had everything we needed for her before we even thought about walking out the door. I know that all these thoughts are probably normal for a first-time mum and I know that I would've managed and loved having those days with Posy, but I hate looking back and remembering my feelings towards that week. I hate that I wasn’t more excited and eager for it to start. But mostly, I hate that it never came.

In my attempt to squash these thoughts and the guilt that comes with them, I dive deep into the dozens of photos and videos that I am so grateful to have. Some days I can spend hours looking at them and watching them, trying to relive those moments. I love spending some quality time with my baby girl and remembering what it felt like to hold her in my arms. I remember my heart swelling with pride every time I looked at her and saw how beautiful she was. I wanted to show her off to anyone that would let me and tell them, ‘we made her’. I loved that she was the very best of me and the very best of Michael, that we had made someone so adorably cute. I remember wondering if she would end up looking more like me or him and secretly hoping for the latter. I loved seeing her gaze up at me with her wide, blue eyes; in those moments, I was her world and she was mine. I loved seeing her mimic my tongue poke (she had a teeny tongue tie so we were trying to encourage her to stretch it) and I imagined all the other things she would copy from us as she got older - hoping that it would be my dance moves, not his! I am devastated that all of this had to come to an end.

In the last eight weeks there has been so much good news; friends of mine are buying houses, getting new jobs or celebrating engagements, all of which makes me so happy to hear. The heartbreak hitting when I realise that we’ve gone back to signing cards from just the two of us. No bump, no Posy, just sending love and congratulations from Michael and Becca. Then, there are the baby photos and the pregnancy updates and announcements. I know that, on some level, I am delighted for them and deep down I am cheering with them, but it is all tinged with sadness. A sadness that won’t allow me to see their good news without feeling battered and bruised. I hope that, in time, my joy for friends and family will make its way to surface level however, for now, it is squished in a pile-up of other emotions. I wouldn’t say it is explicitly jealousy or resentment or anger or upset at other people’s amazing news - it is a hurt that I can’t really put into words. It’s a stomach-flipping, heart-aching, eyes-leaking, head-thumping, body-crumpling kind of pain. It’s knowing that it was us ten months ago, feeling what we’re going through now and seeing just how much Posy and I are missing out on.

Letting go of the hopes I had for Posy’s future is going to be a massive part of this grieving process. The brutality of even the smallest things, like the fact that I will never hear her call out ‘Mama’ or hear her tell me she loves me back, is breaking me right now and I can only hope that in letting go, it will encourage me to treasure the memories that we do have. I can only cling onto the knowledge that she is safe and sound and, although I know that she will be missing out on so much, I also know that she is out of harm's way and won't have to face any of the unfair cruelties of this world. She will always be my daughter, and I will always love her and do my best to keep her memory alive. I can’t bear to think of a day going by where Posy’s name isn’t mentioned so please, say her name. Ask me about her, don’t be afraid to bring her up in conversation, allow me to tell her story.

This is the inevitable grief that comes with losing a child, the tortuous grief that Michael and I are battling through, and it is a grief currently carried and shared by many.

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Becca

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