You can’t win with me

This was posted on my local Sands page and reading it was like seeing myself in a mirror.

You can’t win with me by Jane Warland 1996
If you say to me,”How are you doing?”

with such sympathy and meaning in your voice I reply,”I’m fine,” and brush you off, because to talk about my loss with you is just too painful.

If you see me and don’t mention the loss that is consuming my thoughts, I think you don’t care enough, or are too scared to mention it for fear that you might upset me.

You can’t win with me.

If you say,”I’m sorry your baby died,” it is hard for me to reply to that. What do you expect me to say? I want to say,”I’m sorry too!”or “It’s Awful!” I want to scream,”It’s not fair!!”

But I won’t because I don’t want to upset myself today, not in front of you.

So I reply, “Thank you.”

That thanks means so much more than that. It means thanks for caring, thanks for trying to help, thanks for realizing that I’m still in pain.

If you don’t know what to say to me that’s okay because I don’t know what to say to you either.

If you see me smile or laugh don’t assume I must have forgotten my baby for the moment,

I haven’t,

I can’t,

I never will.

Tell me that I look good today. I will know what you mean. I’m getting good at picking up unspoken cues from you.

If you see me and think I look upset or sad, you are probably right.

Today might be an anniversary day for me, or some event might have triggered a wave of grief in me.

If you don’t say anything I’ll think you don’t care about me, but if you do say something, it might make me feel worse.

You could try asking if I want to talk, but don’t be surprised if I say no.

You can’t win with me.

Don’t give up on me, please don’t give up.

I need your attempts however feeble, however trite you might feel they are.

I need your thoughts.

I need your prayers.

I need your love.

I need your persistence.

I need all that

but most of all

I need to be treated normally, like it used to be before all of this happened.

But I know it’s impossible. That carefree, naive person is gone forever, and I am mourning that loss too.

So you can’t win with me.


Making a Difference

When I started this blog it was a way of sharing my thoughts and experiences, therapy almost. Losing a baby is weird and hard and there is so much to try and make sense of. At times I’ve perhaps been too honest but on the whole people reading have been supportive and positive.

I also hoped that in Rory’s memory that I could help others to understand about babyloss, to know how to help others going through the same. I figured that if we helped just one person Rory’s life and death would have a purpose and meaning.

I’ve had some great feedback about the posts I have shared but the most loveliest message came today. After reading it I was overwhelmed, Rory had made a difference to two people. 

I am so proud of my little boy today. Thank you Rory for being part of our family.



I’ve not posted much recently, January and the start of February have proved to be busy with birthday parties, family stuff and work. 

February has arrived quickly and I cannot escape the fact that March will soon be here, the month where it all went wrong and our lives changed in ways unimaginable at the start of last year.
I cannot believe it is nearly a year since Rory died, it feels like forever but also like it was yesterday. 

For Rory

I thought about you today

I think about you every day

I wonder what you’d be doing

I imagine the colour of your hair and eyes

This is no different to yesterday and the day before and it will be the same tomorrow and the next day and the day after that



Bereavement Care

I saw an article on the BBC News app this morning which talked about improvements needed for the care of parents who had lost babies (link below). It made me think about the care we received.Matt and I were the lucky ones it seems. Our local maternity hospital have two bereavement midwives who supported us in hospital and at home afterwards. 
The care provided by the regular midwives at the hospital was brilliant too, everyone was sensitive, kind and compassionate and nothing was too much trouble. I probably had better support and care after Rory than I did after I gave birth to Toby.
The maternity hospital has a dedicated quiet room and ensuite bedroom in a quiet area of the ward for parents who have a baby about to die or already gone. The room it set up like a little b&b and partners can stay if they wish. The room is a bit tired, my mum has asked that the money she has raised be put to that room to make it more cosy and welcoming.
When I came home I was able to access counselling provided by a local charity quickly and easily (and for free), my GP has been very supportive and kind, particularly regarding my anxiety and depression. Finally, the local SANDS group are a bunch of awesome ladies and gents who remind me that I’m normal and not alone. The Facebook group is my safe place to rant, find solace, and support others. I’ve been to one group meeting too and it was so good to sit in a room and feel like you belong.

The only bit of my care which was poor was from the community midwife team who visited to carry out postnatal checks. The two ladies I saw obviously didn’t want to be visiting the mother with the dead baby and their discomfort and awkwardness was clear. I felt sorry for them but also angry as they were a professional person there to help me. It made me feel so awful that we cancelled the final visit. 
I am so grateful to live in an area where there is so much support and hope that gaps around the country can be filled.