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.