“Grief never ends… but it changes. It’s a passage, not a place to stay. Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor a lack of faith… it’s the price of love.”

I’m completely over what has happened. It’s really not that bad. Way worse things happen to people all the time. It’s as if nothing had even happened at all. I’m better. I’m fixed. I’m ok. I’m a liar.

My neck and jaw ache constantly from fighting the surge of emotion that bubbles over unexpectedly… uncontrollably… with no warning… at anytime. I don’t actually know what I’m sad about. In my head I’ve come to accept and understand what has happened. I have placed it on a scale of life changing events and it doesn’t weigh up against thousands of other things that could happen. I’m safe, free and loved. But I can’t shake the feeling. It haunts me. I walk around in fear, scared of what people are thinking. Am I weak? How am I suppose to be? I’ve never ‘done’ this before? I feel unpredictable. Unstable. Who am I? I want the ‘old’ me back. Seriously… I didn’t even plan to fall pregnant. Babies don’t like me. I shouldn’t feel anything. How can the name ‘Sienna’ take so much from me? I want it back. I want me back.

Ketut hanging out with Ethel and Aggie

Grief makes us feel so out of control that we long for structure and predictability. The feeling of no control is the worse thing. Your emotions…your thoughts… your body… the circumstance… others. Once the hormones finally settled down, I started to master this thing called control. Well, at least the appearance of control. I have worked out my ‘triggers’… the chink in my armour. Unfortunately they have emerged as people and music (and lets not even delve into the Almighty yet). If I can evade both these, I’m sure to be ok… so, no radio, no church and at all cost, avoid human eye contact. I’ve become the master of busy. My house is spotless, my dog and cat are spoilt (yes, even more!) and we have welcomed two chickens, Ethel and Aggie, into our fold. I have a ritual. I have structure. I have purpose. I have control. I’m strong, I’m recovered. I’m a  liar!

Next thing to master: that room. That room with the sealed door. I fear hell lie behind that door. Many times I’d march to it, then scamper away fearing it would swallow me whole. Breathe… breathe… it’s just stuff. All the baby furniture is pushed to the corner. The clothes, bottles, toys, pram and books are collected, piled in my boot and given away. I’m unattached. These things mean nothing… liar. Hmm, two huge boxes of eco-baby wipes. That was a good idea! Some items I’ve decided to keep are shoved in haste to the back of the cupboard. Door closed. Room closed. Non-existent. Why am I still holding my breath?

Sienna’s memory box

I have also created a scrapbook and memorial box with Sienna’s things. Therapy ‘they’ say. Good way to keep busy… playing with paper. Box closed. Story over. The end. All better. I wish! I seem to be running out of things to do. I contact my work and tell my boss I would like to come back early to help me return to ‘normal life’. I’ll have to eventually face people, right? Rip it fast, like a band-aid. I start writing reports from home. Yes, reports! I sit at my dining table everyday and write, and rewrite. I love this… busy, busy, busy. See, I’m fine. Liar.

The truth is, I am a liar. A dirty, rotten liar. The shower has, however, become my place of truth. There I am exposed for what I really am. No mask. No tasks. I’m bare. I’m broken. I avoid making eye contact with myself in the mirror. I’m disgusted at what I am. I can see the truth; ‘damaged goods’. In the quiet of the night, once hubby has fallen asleep, the tears flow soundless through my pillow. It’s not ok. It’s not fine. I just want it to stop…the feeling to stop. I know the truth. Despite how busy I am, there it is like an anchor, dragging me back to the beginning, reminding me, you’ll never be the same again.

The dog somehow got into the chicken coop. My dear new friends Ethel and Aggie are gone… But the world keeps spinning. People keep living. Life goes on. Deal with it. Breathe… swallow it… keep walking… keep busy. Don’t stop for a chat or to smell the roses… walk… head high… chest out. Like nothing ever happened… This is your lot in life. Live with it. Fake it ’til you make it… and lie.

“Mourn not just for the loss of what was but also for what will never be. And then, gently, lovingly let go…”

“No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of others.” -Charles Dickens

Now what… ? I have a home full of sweet, fragrant flowers, a handful of bereavement brochures, 10 weeks off work, a ‘memories’ pack and hospital referrals. I still haven’t answered my phone but I’m deeply touched by the relentless support. Yes, I mean relentless! Those friends, who continued to call even when I wouldn’t answer, who continued to message without reply, who sent flowers and letters just so we knew we weren’t alone. Thank you. I know I’ve isolated myself, but at the same time I feel connected through all the gestures that show people are thinking of us. I just can’t carry this yet. I know it’s uncomfortable, but some friends go silent and say absolutely nothing. I guess it’s hard to know what to do.

I have a midwife visit me at home, assisting me with my ‘engorgement issues’. Yes, the milk did come and oh, how it flowed. The ‘let down’ became a constant reminder of the baby I’ll never nourish…what a sick joke… and the pain! Lucky my mum and a friend were more than happy to donate ‘stretchy’ bras as my non-existent chest suddenly tripled in size! The nurse also warns me about the ‘baby blues’ that comes with the whole ‘milk’ thing. Seriously? I’m going to feel worse? She also suggests we, “Plant a tree in Sienna’s honour.” I try my hardest to smile and nod while gritting my teeth. In my head I’m screaming, “What a splendid idea! I can watch that die too!” What have I turned into?

Red

The hospital has given me nearly 3 months off work. I fill my days mostly with crying and pleading with my husband, “when is it going to stop?” I sit on my lounge and watch the maple tree in the park across the street. Autumn is turning to Winter. Its fiery, cardinal and russet autumn leaves fall away, leaving the gaunt bare branches. I feel like I’m looking in the mirror. How that beautiful red tree has unwillingly turned into an unadorned, sad excuse. I love that tree.

I muster enough strength to reply to messages and write thank you cards. I respond to the people who have wanted to visit. I’ve come to the realisation that I’m tired of being alone and all I really want is someone to sit with me or go for a walk with me. Some came running with arms wide open… others just never came at all. I’m exhausted after each visitor as I ‘keep it together’ and convince each person how fine I am. At the end of the day, all I want to do it stay in my box… my small-minded western-styled box. The box where my biggest grievance was dealing with queues at the shops, shaking my fist at the douche who cut me off in traffic, complaining about report deadlines… when my response to sadness was sympathy. Unfortunately, I have unwilling been torn from my cosy box kicking and screaming. I have been evicted from my comfortable fortress by this thing called perspective…

“Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.” – Buddha

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear” – C.S. Lewis

I really want to skip this part. Erase it from my memory as if it never happened. Whoever said a blog was a good idea, huh? Well, we’ve come this far, and as we find in every epic tale, there is always a complication before the resolution. I promise, the story does get better, but here it starts. Welcome to hell. A hell with no flames, ash or fire. A hell with no brimstone or punishment for the wicked. This hell is a large dim-lit clinical room with an ultrasound machine. This hell is in the Feto-Maternal Unit at the hospital. I have no words to express this week. No words can do it justice. No words can capture the moment when misfortune tells you ‘no life’.

I’m reduced to a showcase in the gallery. I’m the artefact in the museum. The sad feature hanging in the broken frame. I’m already tired of the saddened gaze. The sad wrinkled doctor’s eyes, the sad gentle midwife’s eyes, my heartbreaking husband’s eyes. Hubby is kept busy in his role as message bearer, responding to the concerns of family and friends. My only message to the world; “stay away”. I needed to exert the little control I maintained and I knew in the presence of familiar faces I would collapse. My mind is numb but racing at the same time. I had hope. I had faith. I had a deal with God. I had knowledge. I had read all the books. Dr Google and I were well acquainted. I knew all the common possible ailments or conditions known. I believed in modern medicine. I believed in time and treatment. I believed in positive prognosis. I’m a pregnancy expert remember. I’m the head, not the tail. I’m not a victim. I won’t accept your pity… I’m scared. I’m confused… This isn’t how my tale was supposed to be written.

Little smudged prints by the nurse

Our baby girl, Sienna Jade was born the 5^th May 2012 at 10:29am after an eleven and a half hour labour at the Maternity Ward at Liverpool Hospital. No perinatal management viable. Born sleeping.

I was terrified when they told me they were going to bring her in. What are you suppose to expect? What will I do? What would she look like? Do I really want to go through this? What a surreal moment. She was brought in wearing her delicately knitted beanie and wrap made and donated by the sweet elderly church ladies, and I felt something for the first time this entire week. Here I found my calm in the storm. There was no pain, no fear, no sadness, no tears… I could finally breathe. It was in these fleeting moments I felt strong. I’m not sad for her… she’s not here. We admired her perfect face and were surprised at how much she looked like a tiny doll. A tiny perfect baby with hubby’s nose and my chin… and tiny little inked strained fingers with tiny little fingernails. What were we so afraid of?

I wish I could say that feeling endured, but it didn’t…. far from it. It gave me strength to perfect my act… to keep it together in the presence of people… but all I really wanted was to disappear. I’ve been initiated into a club I want no part of. The world’s not how it use to be just days ago. Calls continue to go unanswered, messages not returned and visitors turned away, however, family were now given ‘permission’ to visit. I admired the strength they showed just by sitting with us… and even further, to hold her… that would have been hard. In this case, a burdened shared is not a burdened halved. They didn’t need to carry this, nor were they expected, but they chose to. I fill the quiet moments with idle chatter. Turn the TV louder. I’m fine. This never happened. I want numbness. I don’t want to feel. I don’t want to think. I want to be normal. I don’t want this ‘history’. I want boring. I want predictable. I want mundane. I’m tired of this room… looking at that garden. I’m tired of doctors and nurses and social workers. I’m tired of this bed. I’m tired for my hubby…who has been sleeping on the hospital floor…who has been powerless…who has been pushed aside…who is hurting too.

I began belittling the situation in my mind… it’s not that big a deal… way worse things happen to people all the time… I’m fine… My moments of weakness always emerged when I was the only one in the room. When I only had to carry myself… then the tears flowed. The nurses were concerned that I wasn’t crying, until they’d finally caught me. We beg to leave 2 days later… and with hesitation, they let us. With this, we are greeted with a ‘push’ notification on our phones, “Your baby is now 21 weeks. This week your baby will learn the most biological of functions. The circadian rhythm”. Thanks iPhone… I will drown you now. Delete. I return home with an empty belly and empty arms. I hope you’re happy world… I’m empty.

“If you’re going through hell, keep going” – Winston Churchill

This was a week of milestones. Marvellous, momentous milestones. This week marked a whole 3 weeks since my last vomit (hooray!), our 2nd wedding anniversary, the grand halfway point (yes, 20 weeks!) and the anticipated appointment in which we’d be finding out the gender of our Little One. We’d decided to be one of those couples who don’t want to wait. The bets are on… boy or girl?

This momentous week began with a quick weekend away to our smallest state, Tasmania. At the foot of Mt. Wellington, we marvel at all things touristy. We explored the famous Salamanca Markets, which lie amidst the canopy of plane trees and sandstone warehouses, which tells of Hobart’s rich colonial heritage… Gosh, I sound like a walking advertisement. The Lark Distillery was a point of interest, however, was overflowing at every attempted visit… not that I minded though. In my opinion, a pregnant lady watching her hubby drink in a whiskey factory looks a little ‘wrong’. Before we knew it, our little anniversary weekend away, also referred to as our ‘baby moon’, came to an end. What a beautiful place. We’re relaxed, dined, refreshed, feel a tad more cultured and excited for the week that lies ahead…

When I booked my morphology scan many weeks earlier, I was astonished when the lady on the phone told me our appointment would be on the 1st of May… How did she know? What a sweet gift from the universe. We can celebrate 2 momentous occasions on the same day! Our anniversary and finally finding out if ‘it‘ is a he or she.

The day started like every other, however, on this Tuesday morning I was greeted with a bunch of flowers from one of my thoughtful students who obviously remembered what today was. All day, I await in anticipation for the time to tick over to meet hubby at the radiologists. After in which we would celebrate! We had the last appointment for the day so… everything… just… dragged… on. My bladder is full and ready to go.

Lying on that ultrasound table I feel sick. I’m not ill… just sick from the quiet joy which is bouncing from wall to wall… that wants to scream… that wants to cry… that wants to yell I’m so happy! I’m so scared! I’m so overwhelmed! I’m so ready…!

 The young man, who seems to be scanning forever is examining intently. Stop worrying… everything will be ok! It’s all in your crazy head. Why is he asking us these questions? It’s just standard procedure, I’m sure… Show us! Tell us! Celebrate with us! In my mind, I’m playing out the scene… * He turns the screen and says; “Congratulations, it’s a …”. *

… But instead he pauses, gathers himself and utters, “I’m really sorry… something is seriously wrong.”

20+1 weeks

Nothing more is really revealed, except that it is ‘serious’ and relating to the babies organs. I can sense pity from the sad man. We are immediately booked into the hospital for the next day with no hints, no clues, no warnings. He seems perplexed when my only response was, “Can I please have a photo.”

The sick feeling returns, but this time it’s an echoing silence of disbelief and confusion. I can already feel my skin thickening… my shell forming… my wall building… I’m scared! I’m overwhelmed, I’m quietly hopeful, I’m not ready…

That night the bubbly goes untouched, the celebrations are on hold, family and friends awaiting the good news are dragged into the dark with us. I go to sleep wishing this day never happened, hoping tomorrow never comes.

And I pray…

Happy Anniversary, my love.

I have evolved… I have evolved into a new species. Something has consumed me. A new world of discovery… of exploration… of obsession. I’m scientifically classified as an eoco-mater. To everyone one else, I’m the dreaded wannabe ‘eco-mum’.

I’m not a greenie. I actually don’t like the Greens, but I’ve always wanted to be an eco-warrior. You can just imagine it, can’t you? Hubby and I riding tandem on a trendy bicycle, storing our Farmer’s Market produce in the wicker basket hanging from the handles, sipping our free-trade organic Ethiopian coffee out of twice recycled cardboard coffee cups. To be completely honest, we did try the whole local Farmer’s Market thing for a while, but it’s so painfully inconvenient, and it seems the markets have so too evolved… high-jacked by yuppie hipsters who have turned the simple process of buying local produce into a ‘scene’. I’ve come to accept that I’m a slave to the duopoly. Coles is my prisoner of choice. Despite this, I have learned to stay away from certain ‘unethical’ brands via the ‘Ethical Shopping’ App… but if you look at it plainly, I am definitely more wanna than be… Have you every tried natural shampoo/conditioners? My point exactly…

Despite these obvious personal eco-warrior shortcomings, I have made it my mission to research and discover all the latest and greatest baby products, which are sustainable, biodegradable and as natural as possible. I have accumulated a ‘wish-list’ of all the ‘ethical’ items to purchase closer to the due date, and in my excitement, I have already ordered my eco-baby wipes in bulk while they were on sale… and samples of the most eco-friendly nappies. If I can’t succeed at saving the planet, this baby sure will! I dub thee super eco-warrior baby… What a great mum I’ll be…

As an update, around this time I was tortured by the infamous Oral Glucose Tolerance Test… I can hear your sympathy groans from here, thanks. 4 hours of my life I will never get back. Why are hospital chairs so plastic? My glutes have never experience such numbness. I’ll bring my own chair next time. My time is passed by the sensation of the flicking, bubbling, tapping, gurgling-type sensation that I’ve experienced since around the 16^th week. The baby moving. Nothing even comes close to that feeling. I’m sure it’s jumping for joy at the amazing eco-bio dome that awaits its arrival!

18th week bump

“According to Aristotle, there is always a reason for everything that happens. Your experiences are designed to shape you, define you and, hopefully, grow you into the mightiest you possible.”

I’ve always clung to this idea that everything happens for a reason. This feeling is amplified this year by the misery that has become my ‘career’. I’m tired… I’m near defeat… and it’s not because of the kids. It’s never because of the kids. I gain an escape with my growing tummy, which has validated that all this is just meant to be… this is all happening for a reason. I convince myself that God is readying me for the new role that awaits in motherhood and to accept that work is secondary. I’ve definitely come to the conclusion that happiness and health should always be chosen over wealth… always! Lesson learnt, thanks…

A part of the already packed nursery

So the word is officially out. We personally share the news with our nearest and dearest, whilst everyone else finds out the old-fashioned way… Facebook. We’re inundated with well wishes and are spoilt with a bounty of infant paraphernalia. In the span of a few weeks we have accumulated a full nursery including a cot, change table, a pram, pregnancy books, along with baby toys, bottles, nappies and tiny clothes… and we haven’t even spent a cent yet. We might be able to make a profit here? Don’t be ridiculous… We are overawed by the love and generosity shown to us by family and friends.

My OCD is now in full swing as I continue to frantically ‘google’ every pregnancy symptom and possible conditions recorded. Hubby and I have also downloaded an app that updates us on the weekly growth and changes of our baby. We’re amazed at how quickly everything is formed. Pointing to the screen and then to my stomach, I’m amazed that that is growing in there. I am now an official pregnancy expert… I need a personalised shirt and sign… Didn’t you hear? pregnancy expert, right here!

I still have no clue about babies. I haven’t quite read that far yet… maybe I’m still in a bit of denial… As ‘they’ say, ignorance is bliss. I’m still terrified when someone tries to hand me a human baby… hey… just because I’m growing one doesn’t mean I want to hold yours. This is made worse by the fact that my day-to-day conversations have now been reduced to baby talk, and those in whom have never shown much interest in my wellbeing, are all of a sudden intrigued with how I’m feeling. Wow, I don’t think I asked, but please, tell me more about your fascinating birth story…. go on…. I’m so mean sometimes… in my head. So when’s this mystical maternal drive supposed to kick in?

All jokes aside, the initial fears of parenthood and being poor forever are diminishing and we’re excited for the new direction and possibilities that will come of this little life. Everything happens for a reason… right?

It’s time for the first antenatal appointment at the hospital. You know…the one where you have to go in by yourself and they interrogate you for a few hours about your lifestyle and living conditions. I remember feeling really nervous as the midwife and student-nurse quizzed me about my relationships and whether or not I’m a drug addict or a victim of abuse. It was reminiscent of the feeling you get while walking through customs at the airport… trying to not look guilty, even though you’ve done nothing wrong. Am I convincing them? No really… I’ve never done drugs and my husband’s fantastic… I have support… No, I don’t want to hurt myself... Just believe me, ok!  It’s so very sad that these questions are actually required… are standard… are reflective of real issues in real lives… and how easy it must be to lie about it.

My midwife was quite forward… a bit abrupt and confronting. I think she could sense my apprehension and complete lack of baby knowledge. Maybe she was just feeling high and mighty having a student watching her work her magic. Maybe it was just one of those days… either way, no hard feelings, Miss Nurse Lady… Before leaving I asked when I would be having my next scan. You know, that one everyone gets to share on Facebook for the big reveal. She scoffed at me. She responded with a sarcastic snarl; “scans are not so you can have a pretty picture of your baby”. I felt so stupid for asking and thought maybe she was a clairvoyant and could sense my ‘facebooking’ intentions. I murmur back “I just want to make sure it’s still there”. She didn’t even entertain the idea and mentioned something about wasting money and blah, blah, blah… With my history and age it seems to be an absurd inconvenience on the radiologist’s time and resources. Sorry for asking…I’m just a woman with a small brain…

I enquire with my beloved family doctor about this infamous scan everyone seems to have. He backed up the idea that it’s actually only for people considered ‘high-risk’ and is completely unnecessary for me. Ok… you’re the professionals. With my growing tummy and enduring sickness, we’ve given the all clear and go public with the news. Yes, we’re having a baby!

Beginning of the 2nd Trimester

I’ve always been health conscious. Not in a whimsical Crossfit-Paleo-Mega Cleanse kind of way. Just simply staying active and eating all foods in moderation. I consistently gymed or played some type of sport and regularly took my ‘vitamins’. I’d always imagined, before falling pregnant, that I’d be the ideal pregnant woman. My body is a temple that will be housing the future wellbeing of my unborn child. I will eat well and continue to exercise.  Oh… how I would scoff at those pregnant women eating McDonalds and guzzling Coca-Cola. Don’t you know your baby is eating that? You may as well be shoving a burger in your uterus! Would you give a newborn a bottle of coke? How disgusting! That child has no chance!

How ignorant! How naïve! How stupid I was! Since early pregnancy, I have been plagued with such illness! I heave so hard that I can feel the capillaries in my face bursting… my eyes bulging… my bladder waiving… every morning… most afternoons… sick, sick, sick…  all. the. time. I have now mastered the art of vomiting and carry a plastic bag everywhere… I’ve learned how to spew discreetly in bathroom sinks and garden beds. I’m juggling nausea, constant UTIs and only truly feel awake for 6 hours of the day.

Vegetables make me gag. Salad? You’ve got to be kidding, right? All I can eat is icy poles, Sausage McMuffins and Cheese and Bacon rolls… actually, to be completely honest… anything that comes in a package, otherwise known as ‘junk heathen food’, can be mostly tolerated. Apparently ‘exercise’ can help nausea… yeah? Who came up with that brilliantly misleading fact? A man? I have to cancel my gym membership and go to bed early every afternoon just to escape the sick.  This is not how I had imagined my glowing pregnant body to respond. I’ve become everything I thought I wouldn’t be.

So, sister… (clause: *if you’re not at high-risk*)… eat that cheeseburger, indulge in that cake… yes! Do it! And while you do it, please ignore that judgemental, unenlightened twat giving you that look… and hopefully karma will get them, as it did me…

First Trimester Bump

At an estimated 8 weeks we are referred to have a dating scan to see when the little bundle is set to arrive. There on the screen we see a blob with a fast paced flicker. “There’s your baby and that’s the heart beat…” Hubby’s face is priceless. I’ve never seen such bewilderment, amazement or pride in his eyes before. There it is. It’s real. It’s true. It’s happening. No longer is it just a knowing. We now have solid evidence that something is actually growing in my belly.

There’s our baby in black and white with an anticipated arrival of the 17^th September 2012. We sit silently… transfixed… gazing at that screen. Hello Little One… 

8 weeks flickering heart beat

“As you do not know the path of the wind, or how the body is formed in a mother’s womb, so you cannot understand the work of God, the Maker of all things.” -Ecclesiastes 11:5

Now there’s a rule of thumb when it comes to sharing baby news. Everything has to be hush-hush for the first 12 weeks, as it’s known that 1 in 4 pregnancies result in miscarriage during this time. So as a social norm, to-be parents live in fear for the first three delicate months following conception worrying that sharing their news too early could lead to the chance of this unfortunate, yet usually natural, occurrence befalling upon them. And let’s be honest… no one really wants to have ‘that’ conversation, do we…

Move over Cake Boss. The culinary Queen has entered the building.

We decide, due to the above, we will only share the news with our families. It’s now Australia Day and I decide to announce our surprise in the most palatable of ways; cupcakes. Mum’s reaction was a succession of emotions beginning with confusion, disbelief and then resounding joy. Dad was clearly pleased, however, behind the big smile I could sense a sadness in his eyes that his baby girl had all of a sudden grown into a mummy-woman. Despite every father’s desperate cling to the possibility… no… it was not an immaculate conception.

“Food always taste better when eaten with family”