Where to from here?

Seven months, two weeks, and two days ago, my beloved, longed-for baby died. I left him in his hospital crib, with a kiss upon his cool lips, to be wheeled away by a stranger who did not love him as I did and who could not have possibly tended to him as his mother should have had the chance to.

Not long after that, I came here. I made this space on the world wide web where my little son could be celebrated, loved, remembered and mourned. I did not know how much I would need this space for the overwhelming flow of thoughts and emotions that spilled, and continue to spill from me. I needed it a lot. I don't know how I would have survived without this outlet. There's only so much talk therapy a girl can afford.

At the time I also did not know that there were other women like me doing the exact same thing all over the internet. I certainly searched for them in the first vile days after my baby was taken from me. They were invisible then, but slowly I've discovered other bereaved mums pouring their hearts out, too. I stumbled across one blog that resonated with me, and I followed its links to another, and then another, and then one more. There's a baby loss community out there and I've been watching it from the sidelines, silently. For even I don't know what to say to those who have suffered my fate. I am but a stranger, leaving strange words and empty platitudes on their pages. No matter my warm and genuine intent, I always feel like a stranger who has stumbled somewhere she is not meant to be, looking upon the innermost recesses of a person's heart and soul.

I desperately want to be part of that community. I want to offer my story and I want to be there to listen to the stories of others. I want to connect, I want to participate, I want to grow and learn, I don't want to be alone anymore.

The fallout of a friendship back in March, as a result of a public expression of my grief, regret and sorrow, sent me into hiding. Putting myself out there like that left me feeling very much under threat. Whilst the majority of people who had an 'opinion' on my grief were supportive, and other bereaved parents thankful that I had written such an honest piece, a couple of others, who knew the friend in question, offered unduly harsh personal attacks, saying that my nasty, evil true colours shone, well, evil-ly, I guess, in that piece. Their opinions didn't count and I know their wilful misreading of my piece was just that - a misreading. But my sense of safety and sanity did count. I was too vulnerable to ignore those voices as just background noise and I still wasn't sure what I thought or felt about anything I had written. That piece of writing was straight from the deep recesses of a grieving heart.

Given my chance again I might not write that piece in quite the same way. Given the chance, I know those feelings of unfairness and blind, seething pain at the birth of my friend's baby would have passed. As my psychiatrist said so wisely, that piece documented the beginning of a story. My friend's inability to sit with me through that messiness meant that I would never get to come out the other side of that story where I would realise that her baby was not Max, and I could develop a relationship with him, and his mother, that was apart from the loss he initially signified for me.

I didn't know how fearfully offended people are by emotional honesty and by the many faces of grief itself back then. Now, fortunately or unfortunately, I do. Few people outside the baby loss community want to hear the cries of rage, disbelief and sorrow wailed, and sometimes spat, by the grieving mother.

My closest friends and family do. Even if it is uncomfortable to see me suffer, even if I sometimes offend or hurt them by what is currently my very black and white view of the world, they want to come to this space and sit with me. It's all they can do. It's all I want them to do.

I have trusted a handful of people to come here and bear witness to my experience and to Max's life. By opening myself to them, some of those people who weren't close friends before, have become so. This blog has also kept the lines of communication open to those who were already closest to me, during times when I did not feel like talking but wanted them to know how I was. Some friends I would previously have considered some of my closest don't even know about this blog. I don't know how I decided who I could 'trust' here. It wasn't any conscious decision I made, I just had a feeling that some people would 'get' it, and wouldn't feel the need to have an opinion or a reaction to how I feel or what I write. I was right with that feeling. I was spot on.

This blog has been private since those few days I felt so threatened by people's reactions to my grief. I hid myself away like a frightened animal. I deleted my Facebook account. I completely withdrew. I haven't regretted that. My opinion of Facebook remains, at present, that I can do without it. But I want to connect with those who have been here, and those who unfortunately will find themselves in my place in the future. I don't want this to be a static space, a monologue. I want it to be a conversation about how we live with loss. Or, just, how we live, which I know now to be the exact same thing. 


I know that this blog won't always be solely a place of sorrow. It will grow and change as I do, as those who have been following from the beginning will know that it has already done so. But it will always be a place for me to find Max - to think of him, to love him, to mourn him, as I will do all the days of my life. 


You will notice this blog has a new address - http://mydearestinfant.blogspot.com.au - for that's what Max is, and what he always will be. My dearest, darling, first-born infant, for whom my heart longs. 

It's been seven months, two weeks, and two days since I lost him. But there are so many days to come. I'd like to invite you to stay with me. And please, let me know when you're here. I've enabled comments so that everyone with an OpenID can leave a note, or simply tell me that they've dropped by.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for remembering Max. Thank you for bearing witness to my love for my perfect little son, who was taken from me too soon, and who is the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I think about at night.

I love you, my darling Max. I love you so much.