We are proud to announce the safe arrival of Florence Iris Eliza Berry, born 4th May 2017. She is perfect and we are so in love with our tiny bundle of joy!
Having taken a break from my blog to have another baby I wanted to fill you in on the last year. I decided that rather than throw myself into blogging while pregnant I would focus on just living it. Life is busy when you’re increasingly pregnant with a nearly full-time job and a four year old; however now the time has come to talk some more.
It was not an easy decision to get pregnant again. I had endured a very difficult pregnancy with Poppy in a time of immense anxiety and stress so I wasn’t in any hurry to go back there. But the truth I started to understand was that I could not go back to that time. I could only go forward and carve a new pregnancy which, although deeply informed by my previous experiences, would be new and special in its own right. I had done so much grief work and physio that my mind and body were not going to be in any better shape for the journey ahead so we took the plunge down the rabbit hole once more.
On the whole the pregnancy was smooth and I was surprised at how little anxiety I felt compared to Poppy’s pregnancy. It seems the intervening years had helped me regain some sense of calm in the sea of fear and risk that I now see as a normal part of having children. Sadly for me having a baby is not a purely joyful time, it brings up memories, regrets, sadnesses and pain that I have to deal with anew. The end of the pregnancy did have a big challenge in the form of gestational diabetes which was a real curved ball for me and made me feel like I would not ever have a stress-free or pain-free time having children… unfortunately I was proved right with Florence’s delivery.
I have to have c-sections now – a legacy of losing Evelyn to shoulder dystocia. I could give birth naturally but the anxiety of the risk of it happening again would be prohibitive so major abdominal surgery it is. I was so afraid of the spinal procedure to get you ready for having the baby and sadly it was horrible – they took 5 attempts to get the spinal block in, we were one more failed attempt from me having to have a general and not see her being born. They final got it in and I was able to hear to most beautiful sound in the world – the cry of my new baby daughter bellowing out across the room as she took her first gulps of air and glimpsed through tiny eyes her mummy and daddy. It was magical and amazing and everything I’d hoped for. She was mine, we had done it. I’d grown a human and kept her safe and alive, who was now in my arms weeing on me! #Motherhoodgoals
However, I then felt pain that couldn’t be controlled and I was forced to have a general the finish the c-section. This had several consequences for me. It meant I came round hours later in excruciating pain, barely able to acknowledge my baby let alone care for her or feed her. The next day I contracted two very severe and painful complications, which rendered me in so much pain that I couldn’t talk or move, oh or care for my baby. Finally, I was treated poorly by the staff on a busy night shift who didn’t diagnose me for hours, got me high on morphine but didn’t address my complications and separated me from my baby who I couldn’t look after anyway. My husband had to care for her while I writhed around in pain for hours until finally everything was brought under control 30 hours after the birth of my daughter. My care once I was brought back up to my own room which we had to beg for was fantastic but up until then the combination of pain and poor care was horrific.
All of this has left me with more feelings of anger, hurt, sadness and failure that I really wanted to avoid with my last foray into having children.
I don’t think I’ve fully processed what I think and feel about it all but it does give me a heavy heart that for me it seems in different ways having children has been quite frankly shit. Don’t get me wrong, I love Evelyn, Poppy and Florence with all my heart but when your pregnancies and births read like a horror story of death, anxiety, missed precious time, oh… and lot and lots of pain with them all, forgive me when I don’t gush about it. I’ve noticed I don’t even refer to Florence’s arrival as her birth – I call it her delivery. I can’t safely birth my children so I have to defer to medical professionals to remove them from me. I know I need to change this view as it robs me of the right to say I gave birth to my children but it’s very difficult for me to conquer.
This brings me to the idea of trust. We trust in ‘mother nature’, whoever this chick is, to guide our bodies through pregnancy and childbirth, and most of the time this works. Our bodies instinctively know what to do and hormones – the amazing and powerful chemicals that course through our veins – turn cells into a baby and helped our bodies birth that baby, giving life.
But for me I lost trust in my body when Evelyn died. The process of her being born is what killed her – how can that be? She was just trying to be born like everyone else and yet in trying to start her life, it ended.
For mothers like me, your baby lived in your body, grew and formed. If you had a pregnancy loss it means the baby probably died in your body too. It’s hard to trust your body again in any way when it was supposed to produce and protect life and instead it was where death occurred or where a traumatic birth led to death. How many deaths of a loved one occur in your own body? What a bizarre and life-altering experience to go through.
What I want to say to myself and to any other mothers out there, like me, struggling with traumatic births and neonatal death, stillbirths, pregnancy loss, and difficult births where the baby lived, is this:
Please know that your body wanted this for you too. She was rooting for you, hoping with you and doing everything she knew how to do to protect this baby with you. She grieves too. It is not your fault. Do not turn your anger and pain inward to punish yourselves, despite the temptation. We mothers, strong and courageous, can destroy ourselves with the strength of our belief that the buck stops with us; if no other cause is found then it remains as our fault our baby died or had a traumatic birth. Let us turn our self-inflicted conviction from a life sentence of failure and guilt to a life-long journey of acceptance that we are not to blame.
So as I look forward now to family life with two children here to care for and one to remember, I need to heed my own words and internalise what I find so hard – my mental wellbeing is paramount to my own purpose, my children’s and my family’s. Ultimately, it does not do to dwell on how they entered this world but that they did at all and they are here with us in spirit or in body. There is a time to think on it and process, grieve and be in the depth of our sorrow and there is a time for joy and celebration, gratefulness and forgiveness of apparent failure. Maybe one day I can write that I have achieved this state of mind, but I think the reality is that I will strive each day to make the choice on how to spend my time either grieving, laughing, quiet reflection or loud joy.
Until next time, do what you can to find your smile
The festive season can be a tough time for us bereaved parents. Whether you have living children or not, if this is your first Christmas without your baby or your 10th, it can be a heady mixture of extreme emotions and feelings. I think it’s a time of year when pressing into the bereaved community can really help us get through. Whether that’s reaching out online, attending a befreinding group or a fellow bereaved parent, it can help to off-load to someone who ‘knows what you mean’.
We are fortunate in Oxfordshire to have a very active Sands group and yesterday was the annual Oxfordshire Sands Memorial Service held at St Anthony of Padua church, Oxford. The service has meant a lot to me over the past 5 years as we went to the first one just over a month after losing Evie. This year I was honoured to write and read out something of my personal experience. For those of you who weren’t able to be there, here’s the speech I read out:
My name is Lydia and I have two children – Evelyn and Poppy and one on the way. But my first daughter Evie died just after she was born.
I’m sick of saying that. Of not having a ‘normal’ how many children do you have conversation with strangers. I’m sick of gauging the other person, the situation, how much time I have to decide how I answer that innocuous ice-breaker question. I’m sick of saying “Evie would have been” – she would have not long turned five by the way, I’m sick of it but I’ll keep saying it. I’m sick of my story, that this is true, I don’t want any of this to be true.
I’m so angry that she died. I’m so sad she’s not here.
But despite what happened I am a mum. I may not have all my children with me in person, but they are with me in spirit, in my heart. I am still a mum.
Just a normal mum, doing normal mum things like getting exasperated at having to explain again why an octopus doesn’t have hair and why we can’t touch gorillas; just a normal mum laughing when my child makes a funny face, bursting with love when they utter those beautifully sweet words ‘I love you’. I am not a superhero, I’m not wise beyond my years, I’m not special, I’m just a mum. An ordinary mum who suffered an extraordinary loss.
A loss of such magnitude it rocked me to my core, made me question everything about myself, the world, God, everything. A loss of such depths that I still cannot fathom how far it stretches. A loss that made me feel such sorrow that I thought I would never smile or laugh again. A loss that I did not chose.
But now, now I have a choice. I can choose how this story ends. I can choose to see the beauty in the pain, to see the love in the grief, to see my daughter and not her death. I do not believe it happened for a reason, I do not believe some thing’s just aren’t meant to be, I no longer believe Evelyn dying was a cosmic fail solely of my doing, a teaching tool for a bad pupil of life. I do not believe she died so I could learn things, but I do believe I learned things because she died.
It’s my choice how to live in this post-apocalyptic world with no Evelyn in it. What kind of mother am I in the wake of my initiation into motherhood?
I am a mum who is proud of all her children and proudly speaks their names.
I am a mum who gives everything I have for my beloveds.
I am a mum who loves fiercely and unconditionally.
I am a lioness.
I am a mum who knows what it is to truly put myself second to the needs of my baby, and for that still not to be enough to save her.
I am a mum who feels the heavy heart of grief wash over me in waves that threaten to overwhelm.
I am a mum who surprises myself with my hidden strength when tested beyond my limit.
I am a mum who cares for her living child with a reverence at the simple beauty of a life.
They say that a baby being born is an everyday miracle and they are right. It happens all around the world, every minute of every day and yet each time a healthy living baby is born it is indeed a miracle. One I marvel at and feel bitterly denied in equal measure. But I can choose to let the bitterness take hold, let the anger colour my mood, let my dismay at the ridiculous random nature of Evelyn’s death taint my appreciation for life; let her death ruin my life. Life that she was cruelly denied.
Instead I choose love. Grief is love with nowhere to go. Love brought me to this place of sadness and it also brought me to a place of such joy. I have learned they can live side by side; my heart is big enough to contain them both. We never get over the death of our babies; we just get better at living with it. We accommodate the scar, get used to the limp and we are forever changed. But we can choose how we interpret our loss, we can choose how is defines us.
That is what I learned because Evelyn Kay Rose Berry was born and died on the 27th October 2011, and I’ll never get sick of saying that.
Until next time do what you can to find your smile again.
Today is a difficult day. Today, my eldest daughter Evelyn should be going to school but she’s not. She’s not going anywhere. She’s been buried in a cemetery in Chipping Norton for nearly 5 years.
Still, she has been a constant presence in our lives, elusive and ethereal.A wisp so light and semi-transparent that dances around the periphery of my vision at all times and yet this ball of energy, this soul, carries the gravity of a planet, drawing me in, pulling me towards her trails of smoke, my hand daring to reach out and grasp her finally, only to touch nothing more than tingles of a shadow.
The yearning for my daughter, the desire to know her, feel her, experience her; to laugh with her, know her fears, learn her interests, marvel at her features, smell her skin before bedtime and a millions other ways we become experts on our children is insatiable. I am greedy, hungry for her and yet have been denied.
The milestones are always hard. Society has so neatly structured our children’s lives with markers that you cannot ignore them – they are everywhere. For me today, I feel an outsider looking in, a famished parent looking through the window with starved eyes onto a huge feast of crisp new school uniforms, obligatory pictures of beaming smiles standing statue-straight against random doors in the house, tearful goodbyes (from the parents) at the school gates, new black shoes and colourful school bags brimming with promise and expectancy. I am Separate, Different.
I have tried, quite successfully, until now, to push aside these thoughts of school, these comparisons of what would have been. I have learnt that to go down that road of wishing for the old life, wanting that previous trajectory to follow carefully and loving crafted plans is a bitter one and nothing but misery can come from it. I have learnt that I can devise new plans and carefully and loving throw out my heart into the future once more to see what wonderful things can come of it. I have learnt it and I live it… most of the time.
But today, today I must unflinchingly look once more at my grief. Unfold the memories and cry. Sob out loud my dismay, my hurt, my anger, my sadness, my love. Declaring that this sucks validates how I feel and by doing so I become less separate and different. By doing so I find a warm reception from others just like me, fellow mourners making our way through life, navigating the milestones, helping each other along the way. By doing so I also discover I am not alone and have ready comfort given by those close to me who have not lost a child. Their compassion and regard are just as valuable and reviving. For they lost Evelyn too. If it takes a village to raise a child, it also takes a village to remember and mourn a child.
So today is hard and my heart is heavy, my eyes are sore and my head is lowered but I will put one foot in front of the other.. for next year, next year I will be sat at the feast with Poppy and I can’t wait.
Until next time, do what you can to find your smile
You have taught me the beauty in the sunshine
Shown me the delicate secrets of the midnight hour
You have revealed the wonders of a bird’s songAnd the majesty of a wiggling wormYou have made it clear that life is a precious gift not to squanderAmong the dismal heap of tears laughter echoesLydia Berry, written Christmas Eve 2014
There’s a beautifully illustrated children’s book Poppy and I stumbled across in the library called Augustus and His Smile by Catherine Rayner. It follows the simple story of a tiger trying to find his smile again and is well worth a read with your little ones. He finds his joy in the little things and the free things . The patter of the rain; the birdsong in the trees; a heavenward gaze to the stars. All these things are timeless, peace-giving and cosmically bigger than us.
I too, through the experience of losing my first child in such a traumatic and dramatic way, have taken solace over the last five years in nature, in the quiet, in the beautiful landscape of my local Cotswolds. It calms me to focus on the detail of the clouds being blown by the wind across the brown and green fields or to witness the majesty of sunlight shafts filtering down through the haze to the ground. I see Evelyn in the gentle flutter of a butterfly or tiny bird which I tell myself is her reassuring me she’s ok; I find peace in the memorising pattern of a flower’s petals and delight in watching the meandering trickle of a stream.
Feeling connected to the earth somehow makes me feel connected to that perennial motherhood that I now belong to. I feel I wear the guise of mummy awkwardly after such a horrific graduation and it’s ill-fitting mantle troubles me that I could not assume my new role with the ease I was expecting. I was brutally forced into a motherhood of pain and loss right at the moment of triumph when my baby should have entered the world being joy and tears of happiness. I have not gotten peace yet with how I first become a mother.
A smooth and bright cape of Super-Mum was hanging ready for me to lift down and don proudly – I am Evelyn’s mother, fierce for my child. For me, I felt this was trampled on, destroyed and in its place a lumpy, ugly garbage bag was tied around my neck as I gazed upon her lifeless body for the first time. The first time I ever properly saw her, she took no breath, made no cry and did not open her eyes to look at her mummy. I had to live with the exposure to baby loss and the raw grief consumed me like the grim reaper’s cloak.
I have fought very hard to regain any sense of peace in my mind and to regain a sense of a new normal, for the former status quo can never be recovered. I am still trying to pick over my first experience of birth to find any joy, any goodness or wonder; anything I can cling onto to say proudly that I brought Evelyn into this world. To separate her from the manner of her death is a constant struggle. Both her shoulders became severally suck when she was crowning and she was unable to be born for 7 long minutes. My body, in the act of giving her life, prevented it. It is a sick irony that has no meaning I can fathom and yet I feel it hangs over me, a black mark against my motherhood credentials. It goes directly against nature so I try to forge the link back to make myself feel less of a killer and take my rightful place as a proud mummy to two daughters. I’ll get there…
How and where do you find joy? It’s important to find out for your own well-being, despite the struggles and our experiences, our guilt and our loss, parents like us deserve peace and happiness as much as anyone else. I found this interesting article you might like to to consider when thinking about what does make you happy. We can feel out of practice when we have been sad for so long.
Check out: Psychology Today: what’s your joy
Until next time, do what you can to find your smile again. (And now you know where I got my inspiration from for this sign-off!)
Today is Mother’s Day, a day when the focus is rightly on us mums. A day when we hear how much we are loved and appreciated by our children, a day for smiles and lots of love. The tender mome…
Today is Mother’s Day, a day when the focus is rightly on us mums. A day when we hear how much we are loved and appreciated by our children, a day for smiles and lots of love. The tender moments of watching your children express their love for you is so heart-warming and priceless, but what about mummies like me where there’s someone missing?
I’m fortunate to have a second child so I still get my fix of scrummy cuddles, cute slobbery kisses and breakfast in bed – which I have to share with said child because she’s a hobbit and needs 4 breakfasts and couldn’t bear to watch me eat something in peace and by myself.
But as I sit up in bed to be presented with my lovely card and lovingly prepared food there’s a sadness that lingers, dwells in the background, mixes with the air into a bittersweet perfume. ‘There should be two little girls with me now’ float around me dripping with my tears as I smile at my family trying and succeeding to make me know how proud they are of me.
Part of me can’t let the sadness wash over me, can’t tap into the grief to let it out and ease the pressure for a bit. I want to be normal today! I want to just be happy and smothered in love today. I don’t want to be sad and angry about what life has dealt me and robbed me of… but how to I do that without pretending Evie didn’t exist or denying that however I dress it up today is hard because I have to stare in the face the fact that one of my children has died?
- Be kind to yourself. Take things slow today and at your own pace. If you’re loss is recent then today is going to be horrible – there’s no other way of saying it. But today will pass, you will survive it and you will get through this time. For those of us a little further down the line and who have other children then it’s a mixed one -the bittersweet joy of having someone calling you mummy and saying how much they love you but the shadow of what would have been haunts the day. Don’t criticise yourself and feel guilty for feeling happy or despair for feeling deeply sad. Try to think about how you are feeling today and think what if my best friend said these things? What would I say to comfort her? Then try to say it to yourself.
- Do what feels right, not what you ‘should’ do. There’s so much hype around today – expectations society, the media and marketing put on us on how this day should look. An Instagram picture-perfect Mother’s day is unobtainable for most families let alone a family that has suffered a devastating loss. The tea spills, the kids scream and fight and the beautiful Sunday lunch at local restaurant experience has only served as a powerful contraceptive to everyone else in the vicinity. There’s no ‘right’ way to celebrate being a mum; if you want to do it quietly then do it! You want to shout from the roof tops about your children – all of your children, then do it! Putting extra pressure on yourself to act/perform a certain way when you are already in an emotional place just makes today a day to dread.
- Express yourself. If at all possible share how you are feeling with your partner, mum, friend – anyone who is close to you. Just saying it how it is can be very freeing, especially on a day like today where there’s lots of mixed emotions. They say a problem shared is a problem halved. Well grief isn’t a ‘problem’ but it does weigh us down, so sharing it with someone does lighten the load for a while – which can’t be a bad thing. Expressing how you really feel can be very freeing – you don;t have to put that smile mask on and pretend everything’s fine when it’s not. Try and see what happens!
- Be in the moment. When you lose a baby you feel like you will never smile again. Never laugh, feel joy, feel ok and feel happy. And for a time that may be true but as you get more accustomed to your grief then you realise that you can feel those wonderful emotions alongside your sadness. It’s a weird balance but you get used to it bit by bit. Something that my Evie has taught me is to be in the moment. To treasure the precious times for what they are. Not letting my mind be distracted, learning to turn off the internal monologue that continually says – this is sad, why me?, why is vie not here, this is horrible, I want to be normal, this is sad, why me? – you get the point. By tuning into what’s happening right now in front of you means you can truly experience life not watch it. In a way, see it that you don’t want to waste the life you’ve been given that was denied to your baby. Revel in the moment and see what beauty comes of it.
- Feel the love. You are a brilliant mum!!! Feel it, let yourself feel it and let yourself be pampered and doted on for the day! If you are anything like me you spend most of your time flitting between thinking you are a horrible mum for wanting to put nail varnish on, by yourself, let it dry and it not smudge; and then thinking you are not doing a good enough job because the other day your child picked their nose, you yelled, they cried and the neighbour you were talking to slinked back to their house, eyes widening with what looked suspiciously like judgment. But you know, all of that doesn’t leave much space for thinking and feeling that – you know what?… despite it all I’m doing my best, my child is loved and that’s enough – that’s more than enough. So FEEL THE LOVE TODAY. You’ve earned it!
Until next time do what it takes to find your smile again.
Listening is loving
Maybe I’ve been afraid of life and through Evie’s death I’m learning to live it.
Those who fear death, fear life