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.

Thinking about 200 posts

I am soon to write my 200th blog post, here, on The Beginning of All Things. This, in itself, is cause for reflection. Many of my posts have well over a thousand words inside them. In fact, it is probably a conservative estimate to suggest that I have written 200,000 words here over the last six months. Who knew that there was so much to say about death? About grief? About longing? Six months ago my vocabulary of loss was almost non-existent. Now, I talk about loss as if it is all life has to offer. I've found a thousand synonymous ways to talk about death, and I'm still constantly finding new perspectives from which to look at life's endings.

Some may believe that this morbidity is a character flaw - that I should lighten up and start to see the positives in life instead of wallowing in grief. For example, perhaps I should be thankful that there's nothing physically wrong with me that would suggest we cannot try for another baby. To be relieved that I am not caring for a severely disabled child, as Max could have been had he lived. To be grateful that I don't have the financial pressures to return to full time work before I am ready. Of course, I'm aware of all of those smal mercies. I'm thankful always for Leslie, my house, my cat, my family, my friends. But don't you dare, stranger or acquaintance, or sometimes even friend, point me in the direction of positive things, implying that I should thank my lucky stars my tragedy was not worse. You have no right. No right at all, unless you have also had 100% of your children snatched away from you after they were born, unless you've had them lying lifeless in your arms. Some people have lost all of their children, and some people have lost even more than that. They have earned the right to advise me, perhaps, but the difference is that they never would, for they understand the folly of trying to apply comparative 'measures' to tragedy.

So don't you dare imply that I am selfish or self-absorbed in thinking and writing only of my own loss. Don't you dare imply that I should 'suck it up' and put my own grief aside so as not to offend others by having to look upon its ugly face. For once in my life I'm throwing the whole rule book to the wind. As far as I am concerned there is no longer any 'right' or 'wrong', there are just moments, and experiences, and expressions, and they will be what they will be. I will not filter so as to protect someone's opinion of me. I will not grieve politely so as to save others from embarrassment. I will not pretend to be happy and joyous at your good news if I don't genuinely feel so. I think that it is too much to ask of a person barely surviving the daily motions of life to dutifully keep her gushing wounds in check at the same time.

That is the reason for this blog - so I have a space in which to record my own experience, as it happens to me. It is as public as I want it to be (which, for the moment, is not very). I can wail and moan and express my anger and frustration as often, and as with as much detail, as I'd like. I don't have to worry about hijacking the conversation with my grief, as this is not a conversation, it's a monologue; more than that, it is a secret diary, in which I've entrusted a few special loved ones with the key. I've had to choose those loved ones carefully, as one or two I had considered part of my inner circle really hurt me by judging what I write, and applying their own standards to my experience of grief. However the people I know and love best of all, who are most of its current readers, would never deny me the right to feel how I feel, no matter if it upsets or confronts them, or confuses them. They just let me be.

The people I've invited to read here are a carefully selected few who are intelligent, feeling, thinking individuals who are not afraid to join me in my grief. They are not scared that it is a contagious disease that will infect them should they gather too close to it. They might still find it confronting, but they are not afraid to challenge their own feelings and beliefs as a result of something I've written or said. They do not take my desperate bitterness at the unfairness of what happened to me and my baby as evidence that I wish their babies dead in Max's place. They are secure enough in themselves to know that anything I say, or write, or feel, is not really about them at all, and instead all about me trying to make sense of what has happened and trying to find meaning amongst the rubble, however awkwardly, hurtfully, or unsuccessfully that plays out. They want to grow alongside me, and to integrate my experience, and my little son, into their own experience of life, so as to develop as more compassionate, loving human beings, with a deeper understanding of life.

Well, at least that is what I hope and believe of all seven or eight of you who gather here. And I'd like to hear from you - every single one of you who come to witness the the annihilation, and sometimes the rebuilding of my heart. I'm asking something of you, as a donation in kind for your continued intimate access to this inner sanctum. To commemorate the hundreds of thousands of uncensored, unedited words I've shared with you, I'm asking you to tell me where those words and images have hit. Who are you? How do you know me? Who are you to Max? Why do you read here? What, if anything, have you learned about life, or about loss, or about pregnancy, or about truth? How has my darling Max impacted on your life? What do you think about when you think about us? What do you think of what I write here, and what I have shared with you in real life? How do you think I have changed, for better and for worse?

I've asked beautiful Leslie, and my beloved Anika, to start the ball rolling, by providing a special post for my 200th entry. I think she is writing a letter. I've also asked her little Sasha to draw a picture for, or of, Max, but I'm not sure how forthcoming she will be with the request. She's such a busy little girl these days - far too busy to talk to me on the phone. I can only hope she will have a rare moment of toddler creative generosity, for my sake!

Will you write, or draw something for me to post here? It doesn't have to be long. It could even have dot points. But I want to include you here, in this special space for Max, as our experience has affected you, too. I want you to share some of yourselves, as a result, if that is not too much to ask.

Please, email me your contributions, your thoughts and feelings, to beginningofallthings@gmail.com. I'd like to start including your contributions as guest posts over the next week or so, but at the same time, don't feel like you need to rush. I'd rather receive something from you late, than not at all.

This is my way of showing you that I consider you part of this journey, and that while I know from experience that I will have to leave some people behind as I begin to build my 'new' reality, I don't intend to have any of you anywhere other than right by my side. I value your input, I thank you for your unwavering support and love, and I love you in ways I cannot even begin to explain. That is what I really want to say.