There is a child tantrumming in my head today. Today I want to scream and cry and stamp my feet and tell the world that IT’S NOT FUCKING FAIR.
A year ago we lost our second baby. This time it was so early on that the news hadn’t totally sunk in yet. We were embarking on the ultimate high following a positive pregnancy test. Delirious with happiness and more excited than I can ever put into words. We were getting our Rainbow. I was going to hold our baby in my arms. Do all those things I expected to be doing with Emily. I was going to see our little one smile, and be able to kiss their cheeks, hear their cry….. this was the beginning of my healing.
My Rainbow was here.
Snuggled up inside me, cosy, warm, and safe from harm.
I wanted to tell the world. Stuart had told me not to get too excited, but it was too late for that. What are the chances of losing another baby anyway? 5% they say…
I had been excited since my first symptom two weeks previously. Every time I felt sick, every time I craved chicken crisps and orange flavour drinks, the constant loo breaks, the red blotches on my cheeks – I remember a colleague saying to me “You look well Molly, you have a glow…” – I spent the rest of the day grinning.
I just knew. I felt it.
Five hours after we saw those beautiful pink lines, our world collapsed again.
“We’ll go again!” Stuart said, positively. Encouraging me that all is not lost. We won’t give up. We will get there.
Yes! We will. We won’t give up. We can’t. I felt so much better. This gave me the hope and encouragement I needed. It was all going to be ok. A year from now we might even have our baby. The child that would never have been born if not for Emily and our little bean.
A year later. I am still empty.
A year later and luck seems to be gracing everyone else’s doorsteps.
I cannot pretend I’m not angry. I cannot pretend I’m not confused. I cannot pretend I’m not terribly jealous of all those happily expectant couples and new parents that surround us today.
It hurts. It hurts so much I can’t find the words to express the pain.
I have been very lucky in that all of my pregnant friends and new parent friends have been extremely sensitive and thoughtful. They have been so patient with me and understanding of my feelings. And for this I am so very grateful. Little messages from them have made me realise quite how amazing people can be. Support from this particular group of friends means such a lot and brings me faith in the human race. I guess it’s that age-old “Do as you would be done by” adage which I’ve always tried to adhere to myself.
If it were me who was expecting a baby and a friend of mine was going through this nightmare, I’d support my friend in any way I possibly could. If it meant giving them time and distance then I would do that. If it meant helping them in their quest for acknowledgment than I absolutely would do that. If it meant something so simple such as a like or a comment on a Facebook or Instagram post, then I would do that.
These friends of mine have made the hurt so much less. Just knowing they have my back, knowing they support me in my quest to bring awareness to the pain of losing a child is truly wonderful and, if you’re reading this, I cannot thank you enough.
However, despite all of this support and care, despite me being ultimately happy for their joy, I cannot help but want to scream and shout and cry. Why is it ok for them, but not us? Why were we given two beautiful babies for them to be snatched away from us and then for that hope of a rainbow robbed from me? Why can so many other loss parents try again for their rainbow, and we can’t? It feels like a nasty cruel and horrible joke. A mean prank.
Please please do not get me wrong. I know full well that people are dying all over the world. There is famine, war, homelessness. Plenty of people lose more than two babies and may never ever have a child of their own. I know that my pain is nothing in comparison. This makes this even crazier because, not only do I have to deal with my personal agony, I have to deal with the thought that I am selfish and ungrateful for what I have. Not only am I angry at the world, I am angry at myself.
How dare I complain when I have two perfectly healthy children – children I fought tooth and nail to have – with my fertility issues, may never have had any children. How dare I complain when I have the house I’ve always desired, and in love with a man who has put up with me all this time and still sticks by me, despite everything. I have a job, I have my health, I have so much more than the majority of the world yet, deep down, I am still desperately miserable. How do you even begin to understand that? Let alone expect others to understand?
The Miscarriage Association has been a fabulous tool for us. It is somewhere that people like us can go to and know that we will not be judged for our feelings. It is such a crucial charity for loss parents all over the world. They understand the hurt, the jealousy, the despair and the anger. Knowing that people will continue to experience what we have fills me with dread, but also knowing that the support is out there gives me comfort. Especially for the ones, like me, who desperately need their rainbow, but that rainbow is out of reach.
My amazing boyfriend, Stuart, ran the London Marathon on Sunday. He has raised over £3000 for the Miscarriage Association and I am so very proud of him. He ran every step for our babies and for all those other lost children out there, and I will forever be in awe of his dedication, stamina, and love. Not just physically, but emotionally too.
If you have not yet seen the link to his fundraising page, here it is!
If you have read my other posts, you’ll know that our experience has been a marathon of its own. A constant roller-coaster of emotions, and Stuart has been so strong throughout. Any average human being would have walked away by now, but Stuart hasn’t. He is an absolute trooper, and he and the boys give me a reason to carry on living. Without them, I would not be here. I can absolutely guarantee that.
To those who join me in my search for that different kind of Rainbow, we will get there. It will take a lot longer for us, but we will get there one day. You will have angry days, you will have sad days, you will also have happy days. Embrace them all.
Be kind to yourself and stick with those who love and support you to get you through x