... well, babies. Or baby. But I actually stopped myself typing that entirely as my heading, because seriously, have you noticed that as babyloss mama's we are so much more "at home" at using the terms "dead" and "baby" in one sentence than the rest of society? Have you noticed that we "easily" say dead baby and the shock factor just doesn't even register for us, but the look on the faces of those who are innocent around us kind of reminds you of the harshness of reality.
Not really fair is it?
:::
But what I'm actually writing about is the fact that, well, already I've lived seven weeks of waiting for my child to die. Because they do. We know. Some know "more" than others too and I get that.
However, I guess in some ways I'm taken aback by just how real the fear of Toby dying is. Because, although I hate to admit to it, I pretty much expect it. Always have. From the moment he was conceived. I never once really thought he'd make it out alive. And of course, even if he did, he'd not make it out of the L& D ward.
I spent the night before he was born in L & D because I was there to be induced. Thankfully, I didn't have to deal with spending the night in that room. I also managed to avoid that other room. The one we spent the night in after Ciaran was born. And died. Do I really need to add that? Anyway, spending the night in the room for Toby I was very much aware of what was behind the cupboard doors that were opposite my bed. I knew that in that end cupboard was the neonatal crash cart.
On Toby eve I thought about that, and wondered about it. It was just a wondering.
Yet, when I was in active labour and early stage 2 pushing I was very much aware of the activity around me. I haven't posted my birth story yet, I know, but I got to stage 2 very quickly and the midwife was caught unawares, even though I'd warned her! During those early pushes, when I was busy doing my thing and it felt like everyone else was just doing their own thing around me (how rude and inconsiderate of them..) I took the occasional quick peek from my otherwise squinted closed eyes. My OB had arrived. Then my neonatologist had arrived. She said something about the fact that she had "brought some friends". Then I noticed that her friends were in that corner. The crash cart was out.
Now I know that it's pretty standard practice for that cart to come out. It's used even when a baby is born healthy. But I also knew that the reason that her friends had the cart out was because they were there because there was a big risk that my baby, my Toby, could die. And let's face it. I figured he would.
Besides all else, it's all I knew. I knew how to get pregnant. Whether it was natural or IVF. Been there, done that. Three times in fact. Wheres my medals? I even mostly knew how to stay pregnant. Well, I did get an 'F' for that once though. I knew how to give birth. I was pretty efficient at it.
And I knew how to have a baby die.
So, then he didn't. I floundered around a lot in the past seven weeks, because that's how old he is today. My Toby. I have never felt so lost in my life. So in need of the instruction manual. Or a list of what to do next. Or something to remind me to change his clothes every day, even if he doesn't get bathed. (Yes, I know he won't die of "didn't change clothes" syndrome, so it's a bit irrelevent, but I'm just sayin'!) My sister has had more than a few silly questions, and she's just lucky that I have managed to save the early a.m. ones until a more reasonable time.
But something that hasn't gotten much better is that I "see" Toby dead. All the time. I'm not going to lie and say that I haven't touched him in his sleep to get him to twitch a finger, or something like that. I have had my heart in my mouth at least probably once a day since coming home, sure that today was the day that he was going to die.
The one I go through most though is waking in the middle of the night, with my million dollar pillow view into the bassinet beside me. And in the light of the dark of night, I see Toby. And his eyes are open. Because he's dead. Of course. My heart stops. I'm sure it does literally. I'm getting used to "seeing" this. It's the look of a dead baby. I know, because I've seen one.
I turn on the light.
And Toby has his eyes closed. Sleeping peacefully. Oh, of course. How paranoid of me.
:::
I've been thinking about this post for weeks now. I do most of my composing in the shower, but the lappie isn't waterproofed yet. And my baby brain doesn't allow me to remember all of my brilliant posts.
Funnily, or not, enough though, today I find two other babyloss mamas posting the same thoughts. I didn't realise that I wasn't alone on this one. I also am not sure whether I'm comforted or not by the fact that it doesn't just end at, say 8 weeks, but rather that the fear and paranoia continues.
You can read Christy's views here and Angie's views here. And actually, the other day I posted about the question "are you happy now?"... well, Lori has posted along the same lines here but she also mentions about their prayers that they actually get to continue to raise the one they have.
So there you have it folks. Rainbows are beautiful but they don't always stay. We know our vulnerability. We know mortality from perhaps one of the closest perspectives you can get.
:::
But to lighten the load a little, I thought I'd mention this. Since Toby was born I wake in the night, feeling him in my arms, and thinking that I have fallen asleep holding him.
In hospital I woke Shane in the wee hours of the morning.
What? he asked. Grumped actually.
Come on I said.
What???
Come and take the baby so that I can get up and feed him!!
Where is he? he asked.
In my arms! Here! I said. I mean... geesh!
Shane stood and came over and said
He's in his crib!!!
At the same time as he said it, I looked at the crib beside me, in the dark.
And saw my baby. Asleep in his crib. Not in my arms where I could feel him. Not screaming as I could hear him.
And I still do it. Except I've learned that I most probably don't have him in my arms. And just to double check before waking Shane. I did it last night. The feeling is real
Perhaps it's an angel in my arms. The one that should have been there for real once upon a time.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
Is it what you thought it would be?
I've had a few versions of this question since Toby was born. I can't say it;s always welcome, but only one of the examples I'm going to use got my goat.
My babyloss friend asked me. I didn't really know how to answer. I didn't want to flaunt the many fabulous bits about mothering a keeper. But I also didn't want to seem smug in pointing out the things about this role that I hadn't anticipated. I don't just mean the not so fun parts of real, live motherhood, but also the unresolved grief that rears it's ugly head continually and often unexpectedly.
So I havent yet really answered her. But it has provoked a lot of thought on the matter.
My sister asked me. My answer to her was that it is what I thought it would be. It is perhaps even easier than I thought. And I gave that answer after this week, that has been rather trying and tiring. She expressed surprise! She commented on what my views of motherhood must have been, if I find it easier than I expected. But I was able to point it out to her that the first two and a half years of motherhood for me was my introduction. And no matter what, learning to mother a live baby is much easier than learning to mother an angel.
But in between those two questions I was asked by another friend. Who, despite working in the industry ofbabies. And despite knowing our story, our history, and our desperate journey for another baby.
Her question, in all of it's bluntness was "So, are you happy now?"
She, I think realised the error in her words and tried to back track. But there it is folks.
Am I happy yet?
My babyloss friend asked me. I didn't really know how to answer. I didn't want to flaunt the many fabulous bits about mothering a keeper. But I also didn't want to seem smug in pointing out the things about this role that I hadn't anticipated. I don't just mean the not so fun parts of real, live motherhood, but also the unresolved grief that rears it's ugly head continually and often unexpectedly.
So I havent yet really answered her. But it has provoked a lot of thought on the matter.
My sister asked me. My answer to her was that it is what I thought it would be. It is perhaps even easier than I thought. And I gave that answer after this week, that has been rather trying and tiring. She expressed surprise! She commented on what my views of motherhood must have been, if I find it easier than I expected. But I was able to point it out to her that the first two and a half years of motherhood for me was my introduction. And no matter what, learning to mother a live baby is much easier than learning to mother an angel.
But in between those two questions I was asked by another friend. Who, despite working in the industry ofbabies. And despite knowing our story, our history, and our desperate journey for another baby.
Her question, in all of it's bluntness was "So, are you happy now?"
She, I think realised the error in her words and tried to back track. But there it is folks.
Am I happy yet?
All Roads Lead To Roam and other stories...
What do I mean Rome? Rome would probably be a lot more entertaining. But what I'm talking about is that I'm discovering that all upsets lead to Ciaran.
When things start to upset me, I'm tired, I don't know what I'm doing, Shane snaps at me, I break a fingernail or, lets face it, anything that's not all fun and happiness, eventually I will end up crying and broken hearted about my baby big boy. I guess it's like a woe is me cry. Which of course I'm not in a position to be woe is me any more. It's just that it doesn't make it all better. It helps, yes.
So there have been plenty more tears down the plughole this week.
:::
Changes.
We're moving. Shane finally got a new job!
The good points... it's a step up for Shane. He's happy. He's excited. He's validated by getting a position to match his experience, as after a year of not for ridiculous reasons like putting on someone less qualified because they were cheaper... well, that's just depressing.
The package is right. It's substantially more money, but given that we're close to the national minimum wage here at the moment, that just puts us back to the market, so I'm not talking 'rolling in it'. But hopefully it will help relieve the financial stress as I'm about out of money to subsidise us. And besides the actual wage, the rest of the package is industry standard whereas this place isn't. So the employer will pay our electricity, give us access to as much meat as we want, and subsidise our phone. That's so much help too!
It's only 12km to the closest town, as opposed to 35km. It only has 2.5km of well maintained dirt road, as opposed to 4km of unmaintained and washed out rocky goat track! And it's an easy drive to town, as opposed to our current windy mountain road. It's only 53km from our current close town which is a little bigger, and is halfway between there and a bigger town, so we have a choice of places to do our grocery shop. Oh and still only 1.5 hours from the city, and half an hour off the main Sydney to Melbourne highway.
Oh and guess what... I can take my sheeps!! The boss seems just lovely. He is very accomodating, and has expressed that he is willing to do what they can to make the house suit our needs. Within reason I think is the unspoken word of course. But still.
As you know, taking my sheeps is very important to me. Shane was hesitant to ask I think. I was afraid he would lead the boss to saying no, just by pre-empting the answer. But the boss agreed and Shane ended up explaining to him that they are very important to me as I have adopted them post-Ciaran's death. The boss has been great in that regard.
So, what's the downside then?
The house. It was described to us as a "comfortable three bedroom" home. Shane and I had heated discussions on that. He's the glass half full man here while I'm glass half empty. Anyway, I won't speculate on who was right... it probably could be called "comfortable", but we agree that it's more like a 1 1/2 bedroom home. It's awkward and small. Funny shaped. I think it must have been accomodation or quarters at some time as it's long and not wide. There are about 5 doors that lead onto the verandah, so if you picture a roadside motel with rooms side by side and doors all lined up in a row then you've got it. On the inside every second wall has been knocked out to open up the rooms, but that's just resulted in two long skinny rooms, with another couple of rooms added on in places.
There are no wardrobes, no linen press. The half bedroom will only fit a single bed in it. It has cupboards, but no hanging space. It would be a good nursery, except it's placement... when you enter the house you walk into the large concrete floor laundry, and then enter the house via a few steps and through a door. The 1/2 bedroom is actually off the laundry so to me it's more like a teenagers room, not the room that you would put a child in.
But I've decided to think of it as "it's all about the money". Because at this stage it is. The money is right. The location is right. The job seems right. And my sheeps can come. There has been mention by the boss that they may be able to add a room or two for us, so maybe in a year or so it might be more suitable. In the meantime, I'm sure I can make something of a home out of it. I don't know about our furniture... we have chunky kind of furniture and I'm just not sure how much of it will be able to fit. The rest will be stored. I like my furniture, and I don't want to get rid of it. But... trying to not worry about that too much at this stage.
:::
So, we're moving on 1st June. We've known for a week now. I haven't packed a single box. I guess this is life with a newborn. So much time is spent on the couch, which sounds ideal, but even enjoying a cup of coffee can be a challenge I realise now. I have already had several cups of coffee half made left on the bench as I've been "called away" by a certain young Toby, and never been able to return to them.
The bad news? Or really I guess it's the good news? The MIL is arriving on Sunday morning to pack for me. As always when I talk about my MIL it all sounds ideal really. I can sit on the couch and enjoy my son. Except it doesn't work like that. She stresses me. And besides anything, how can someone else pack up your house for you? Especially when you need to downsize, so I need to ensure that the things I want access to are easily accessible, and everything else is either culled or packed for storage. That's a personal thing that only I can do. And also especially when the house is as unorganised as it is right now.
Give MIL the baby to hold while I do it? I've heard it a few times. But that stresses me too because as I said to Shane... she's burnt her own bridges with me on that one, not that she'll ever know that, by telling me all about what she does with her 'local' granddaughter behind the mother's back. Namely stuff like taking her to the doctor to get antibiotics if she has a cold or a cough or anything, because her mother is more into 'natural' products rather than jumping to ABs all the time. And then swears the granddaughter to secrecy, and keeps the ABs in her fridge to dose up the young un' behind her mother's back. She carry's on as if the mother is a bad mother (she's not!). I've already caught her sticking the dummy in Toby's mouth when he was asleep and not even stirring... my thoughts are that if Toby doesn't want or need the dummy then leave it out! She's also the type to put honey on the dummy and things like that, whereas I don't think baby's need anything on dummies. My opinion but also my baby. So, needless to say, leaving the baby in her care while I go off into other rooms doesn't work for me either.
But I am grateful that she is coming, because after the week we've had God knows I need her!
:::
Two nights ago I got up to feed Toby at 2am and plugged in the oil heater in our room. We normally leave it on, but Shane had thought it was too warm that night and had unplugged it. Luckily as it may have turned out.
I plugged it in and straight away it started hissing and smoking and carrying on. I leapt away from it and said something to wake Shane. I would like to say I did something brave, but I really just turned into a panicking girl, and had no idea what to do.
Shane jumped out of bed, and the next thing the plug burst into flame. All I could see was the curtains that were just above it. Shane managed to grab the cord and pull the plug out, and put out the flame, so we have very little damage, maybe some scorch marks.
It scared the shit out of me.
I'm not over our loss of Ciaran enough to not be freaked out by things like this. I was paralysed when it was all happening. When Shane went to the smoking, hissing plug I think I said something to him like "please don't get killed". I'm afraid of electricity. I guess I thought he might get electrocted by touching something.
I grabbed Toby and came straight out to the lounge room when it was all over, which was a matter of moments. Why didn't I grab him straight away? I don't know. I don't know. The only thing I can say is that I was paralysed. I didn't know what to do. And now I feel guilty that he was the first thing I thought of. Well, I know I knew I had a clear path over the bed to him, I do remember looking at that. But I didn't do it, until the fire was out.
The smell was acrid. Toxic. Electrical mixed with plastic burnt. I refused to sleep back in there with him. Not to mention the fact that it was freezing in there now with no heater, and having had to open the windows. Shane went and found the blow heater and set it up in the spare room, with Toby's bassinet. So Toby and I moved in there.
But I couldn't sleep. I turned the blow heater off before going to bed... I wouldn't leave one of those heaters on while I slept anyway, let alone now. I lay there awake, just certain that something else in the house was about to burst into flame.
The resurrection of fear.
I blogged it.
Anyway, two hours after it happened, after laying there, cold and afraid, and watching Toby, checking on him constantly, I took the bassinet, and a blanket and moved to the lounge room.
I didn't get much sleep here either, on the short uncomfortable lounge. But we were warm. And it felt a bit safer. I'm still paranoid but not quite so much now.
:::
So, tonight is our second full night in the lounge. Shane is happily sleeping in our comfy bed. But it's too cold in there according to the gro-egg thermometer, and I can't put Toby at risk of SIDS like that. I keep thinking how I grew up in a cold, old house, with no heater in the room. When you'd wake with a cold nose. And I'm still here. But it doesn't work like that does it.
:::
I have more snippets to add, but it's a rushed post that has taken days to get to this point. Now I have a little cootie patootie (blurgh... pet names already hey. Sickening.) who is stirring and needs to feed so that I can hit the sack. Or the lounge as it is right now.
When things start to upset me, I'm tired, I don't know what I'm doing, Shane snaps at me, I break a fingernail or, lets face it, anything that's not all fun and happiness, eventually I will end up crying and broken hearted about my baby big boy. I guess it's like a woe is me cry. Which of course I'm not in a position to be woe is me any more. It's just that it doesn't make it all better. It helps, yes.
So there have been plenty more tears down the plughole this week.
:::
Changes.
We're moving. Shane finally got a new job!
The good points... it's a step up for Shane. He's happy. He's excited. He's validated by getting a position to match his experience, as after a year of not for ridiculous reasons like putting on someone less qualified because they were cheaper... well, that's just depressing.
The package is right. It's substantially more money, but given that we're close to the national minimum wage here at the moment, that just puts us back to the market, so I'm not talking 'rolling in it'. But hopefully it will help relieve the financial stress as I'm about out of money to subsidise us. And besides the actual wage, the rest of the package is industry standard whereas this place isn't. So the employer will pay our electricity, give us access to as much meat as we want, and subsidise our phone. That's so much help too!
It's only 12km to the closest town, as opposed to 35km. It only has 2.5km of well maintained dirt road, as opposed to 4km of unmaintained and washed out rocky goat track! And it's an easy drive to town, as opposed to our current windy mountain road. It's only 53km from our current close town which is a little bigger, and is halfway between there and a bigger town, so we have a choice of places to do our grocery shop. Oh and still only 1.5 hours from the city, and half an hour off the main Sydney to Melbourne highway.
Oh and guess what... I can take my sheeps!! The boss seems just lovely. He is very accomodating, and has expressed that he is willing to do what they can to make the house suit our needs. Within reason I think is the unspoken word of course. But still.
As you know, taking my sheeps is very important to me. Shane was hesitant to ask I think. I was afraid he would lead the boss to saying no, just by pre-empting the answer. But the boss agreed and Shane ended up explaining to him that they are very important to me as I have adopted them post-Ciaran's death. The boss has been great in that regard.
So, what's the downside then?
The house. It was described to us as a "comfortable three bedroom" home. Shane and I had heated discussions on that. He's the glass half full man here while I'm glass half empty. Anyway, I won't speculate on who was right... it probably could be called "comfortable", but we agree that it's more like a 1 1/2 bedroom home. It's awkward and small. Funny shaped. I think it must have been accomodation or quarters at some time as it's long and not wide. There are about 5 doors that lead onto the verandah, so if you picture a roadside motel with rooms side by side and doors all lined up in a row then you've got it. On the inside every second wall has been knocked out to open up the rooms, but that's just resulted in two long skinny rooms, with another couple of rooms added on in places.
There are no wardrobes, no linen press. The half bedroom will only fit a single bed in it. It has cupboards, but no hanging space. It would be a good nursery, except it's placement... when you enter the house you walk into the large concrete floor laundry, and then enter the house via a few steps and through a door. The 1/2 bedroom is actually off the laundry so to me it's more like a teenagers room, not the room that you would put a child in.
But I've decided to think of it as "it's all about the money". Because at this stage it is. The money is right. The location is right. The job seems right. And my sheeps can come. There has been mention by the boss that they may be able to add a room or two for us, so maybe in a year or so it might be more suitable. In the meantime, I'm sure I can make something of a home out of it. I don't know about our furniture... we have chunky kind of furniture and I'm just not sure how much of it will be able to fit. The rest will be stored. I like my furniture, and I don't want to get rid of it. But... trying to not worry about that too much at this stage.
:::
So, we're moving on 1st June. We've known for a week now. I haven't packed a single box. I guess this is life with a newborn. So much time is spent on the couch, which sounds ideal, but even enjoying a cup of coffee can be a challenge I realise now. I have already had several cups of coffee half made left on the bench as I've been "called away" by a certain young Toby, and never been able to return to them.
The bad news? Or really I guess it's the good news? The MIL is arriving on Sunday morning to pack for me. As always when I talk about my MIL it all sounds ideal really. I can sit on the couch and enjoy my son. Except it doesn't work like that. She stresses me. And besides anything, how can someone else pack up your house for you? Especially when you need to downsize, so I need to ensure that the things I want access to are easily accessible, and everything else is either culled or packed for storage. That's a personal thing that only I can do. And also especially when the house is as unorganised as it is right now.
Give MIL the baby to hold while I do it? I've heard it a few times. But that stresses me too because as I said to Shane... she's burnt her own bridges with me on that one, not that she'll ever know that, by telling me all about what she does with her 'local' granddaughter behind the mother's back. Namely stuff like taking her to the doctor to get antibiotics if she has a cold or a cough or anything, because her mother is more into 'natural' products rather than jumping to ABs all the time. And then swears the granddaughter to secrecy, and keeps the ABs in her fridge to dose up the young un' behind her mother's back. She carry's on as if the mother is a bad mother (she's not!). I've already caught her sticking the dummy in Toby's mouth when he was asleep and not even stirring... my thoughts are that if Toby doesn't want or need the dummy then leave it out! She's also the type to put honey on the dummy and things like that, whereas I don't think baby's need anything on dummies. My opinion but also my baby. So, needless to say, leaving the baby in her care while I go off into other rooms doesn't work for me either.
But I am grateful that she is coming, because after the week we've had God knows I need her!
:::
Two nights ago I got up to feed Toby at 2am and plugged in the oil heater in our room. We normally leave it on, but Shane had thought it was too warm that night and had unplugged it. Luckily as it may have turned out.
I plugged it in and straight away it started hissing and smoking and carrying on. I leapt away from it and said something to wake Shane. I would like to say I did something brave, but I really just turned into a panicking girl, and had no idea what to do.
Shane jumped out of bed, and the next thing the plug burst into flame. All I could see was the curtains that were just above it. Shane managed to grab the cord and pull the plug out, and put out the flame, so we have very little damage, maybe some scorch marks.
It scared the shit out of me.
I'm not over our loss of Ciaran enough to not be freaked out by things like this. I was paralysed when it was all happening. When Shane went to the smoking, hissing plug I think I said something to him like "please don't get killed". I'm afraid of electricity. I guess I thought he might get electrocted by touching something.
I grabbed Toby and came straight out to the lounge room when it was all over, which was a matter of moments. Why didn't I grab him straight away? I don't know. I don't know. The only thing I can say is that I was paralysed. I didn't know what to do. And now I feel guilty that he was the first thing I thought of. Well, I know I knew I had a clear path over the bed to him, I do remember looking at that. But I didn't do it, until the fire was out.
The smell was acrid. Toxic. Electrical mixed with plastic burnt. I refused to sleep back in there with him. Not to mention the fact that it was freezing in there now with no heater, and having had to open the windows. Shane went and found the blow heater and set it up in the spare room, with Toby's bassinet. So Toby and I moved in there.
But I couldn't sleep. I turned the blow heater off before going to bed... I wouldn't leave one of those heaters on while I slept anyway, let alone now. I lay there awake, just certain that something else in the house was about to burst into flame.
The resurrection of fear.
I blogged it.
Anyway, two hours after it happened, after laying there, cold and afraid, and watching Toby, checking on him constantly, I took the bassinet, and a blanket and moved to the lounge room.
I didn't get much sleep here either, on the short uncomfortable lounge. But we were warm. And it felt a bit safer. I'm still paranoid but not quite so much now.
:::
So, tonight is our second full night in the lounge. Shane is happily sleeping in our comfy bed. But it's too cold in there according to the gro-egg thermometer, and I can't put Toby at risk of SIDS like that. I keep thinking how I grew up in a cold, old house, with no heater in the room. When you'd wake with a cold nose. And I'm still here. But it doesn't work like that does it.
:::
I have more snippets to add, but it's a rushed post that has taken days to get to this point. Now I have a little cootie patootie (blurgh... pet names already hey. Sickening.) who is stirring and needs to feed so that I can hit the sack. Or the lounge as it is right now.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Irrational or rational fear?
A close baby loss friend of mine recently voiced her fears over her husband's upcoming overseas trip. She's afraid of something bad happening to him. Her fears are overwhelming.
Another good baby loss friend has often spoken of similar fears... that something will happen to her husband, her only reason for being, the only thing she feels she has left.
I've felt it myself. So, are our fears, as babylost parents justified? I think of course they are. I was fearful of things like this 'before'. But now morbidity seems so real. Shane doesn't necessarily 'get' that. I mean, I'm sure he does, but we express it differently. We fight over our driving skills, how we do things, and now that includes all things baby. Sometimes they are real fights, sometimes simply disagreements.
But however it goes down I remain with the fear that something will happen. And it will be bad.
Let me use the example of driving. Shane is a bit of an agro driver. I don't mean for you to picture him burning through the streets and weaving in and out of traffic. But to me it seems that everything is always the other person's fault. If there is a little old lady putting down the highway when he needs to get past, then she simply shouldn't be there. Or a learner driver. Whereas I'm the (mostly) calm driver who figures that there are more important things for me to stress over. If I feel Shane is going a bit too fast, or taking the corners too fast, or too close to the car in front, or if the car behind us is travelling too close or... well, you get my drift... then I try to word my request so he doesn't get defensive (fight material) about his driving. I try to point out that it's not his driving that worries me but rather it's the other person. Because you just don't know what they are going to do.
His response to anything is usually along the lines of "it'll be right".
Today we had a discussion over the dangers of four wheel motorbikes. In his opinion four wheelers are less dangerous than two wheelers. Yet, statistically there are more four wheel accidents on farms and properties. But apparently, according to my husband, that is because of the stupidity of the rider. And he's not stupid, so it would never happen to him. So, it doesn't matter that he doesn't wear his helmet, because no-one wears helmets on farms (this convo started because I was pointing out that if someone doesn't wear their helmet while they are working then they aren't covered by Workers Comp Insurance if they have an accident). It's a common enough conversation between us. Then I'm trying to "explain" that accidents are called accidents because that's what they are. I asked him then if that means when I sprained my ankle last year, but simply walking down the road and rolling it was due to my stupidity. Thankfully a) he didn't answer me :) and b) he didn't think about the fact that the reason it happened was because our big galoomf of a dog was bounding stupidly all over the place, and jumped sideways into my leg mid step which knocked me off balance!!). Anyway, I digress.
Point being that accidents and things do happen, and we don't have to do anything to cause them. Them being bad things. Planes fall out of skies, tyres on cars bust, and houses...
Brings me to the point of this post.
I got up to feed Toby this morning at 2am. The wonderful little egg-thermometer was blue, telling me that it was an unsafe cold temperature for a baby. So I plugged in the oil heater.
I hesitated when I did it, as it's run on a powerboard, and there are two plug holes to use, so I paused and wondered if it actually matters which one I use, and then plugged it in anyway.
It immediately started hissing and smoking and spitting. Holy crap! Shane was asleep but woke with whatever my reaction was, and flew out of bed. I was doing the very unhelpful girl thing of panicking. No idea of what I should do. By the time he got to it, it burst into flame.
An electrical fire, in our bedroom, at 2am, with our baby in the bassinet.
Short story is that thankfully Shane was able to pull the plug and put it out before any real damage was caused. Like our house burning down.
I'm now in the spare bedroom with Toby because there was too much smoke for me to be comfortable putting him back in there. Even here I can smell the toxicity of the smoke, but it's mild. The other thing is that with no heater in there it was cold. And Shane had had to open the windows and put a fan on, so it was even colder.
So we're in the spare room. Shane's still in our bed. He has to get up to work very early, and has an hour long drive to the other property, so he can't afford to be tired. Which he will be anyway.
:::
But me? I don't want to go to sleep now. Ever. I'm scared of something else bursting into flame. We have powerboards in this house, because there aren't all that many power points, but regardless, as we have talked among ourselves about, how hard is it to survive without power boards these days anyway? Everything is electrical. Even the double powerpoint behind the television... well, somehow it needs to run the tv, the sound system, and the dvd player in the very least. We also have to plug in the fan on the heater somewhere. Not to mention the Wii.
So, my 'irrational' or not so irrational fear has been re-awoken. That something bad will happen out of turn. So if I just stay awake forever, I can prevent it? I need to sleep. Wind down. Shall try now.
Next little cute monster feeding in approximately one hour. All welcome.
Another good baby loss friend has often spoken of similar fears... that something will happen to her husband, her only reason for being, the only thing she feels she has left.
I've felt it myself. So, are our fears, as babylost parents justified? I think of course they are. I was fearful of things like this 'before'. But now morbidity seems so real. Shane doesn't necessarily 'get' that. I mean, I'm sure he does, but we express it differently. We fight over our driving skills, how we do things, and now that includes all things baby. Sometimes they are real fights, sometimes simply disagreements.
But however it goes down I remain with the fear that something will happen. And it will be bad.
Let me use the example of driving. Shane is a bit of an agro driver. I don't mean for you to picture him burning through the streets and weaving in and out of traffic. But to me it seems that everything is always the other person's fault. If there is a little old lady putting down the highway when he needs to get past, then she simply shouldn't be there. Or a learner driver. Whereas I'm the (mostly) calm driver who figures that there are more important things for me to stress over. If I feel Shane is going a bit too fast, or taking the corners too fast, or too close to the car in front, or if the car behind us is travelling too close or... well, you get my drift... then I try to word my request so he doesn't get defensive (fight material) about his driving. I try to point out that it's not his driving that worries me but rather it's the other person. Because you just don't know what they are going to do.
His response to anything is usually along the lines of "it'll be right".
Today we had a discussion over the dangers of four wheel motorbikes. In his opinion four wheelers are less dangerous than two wheelers. Yet, statistically there are more four wheel accidents on farms and properties. But apparently, according to my husband, that is because of the stupidity of the rider. And he's not stupid, so it would never happen to him. So, it doesn't matter that he doesn't wear his helmet, because no-one wears helmets on farms (this convo started because I was pointing out that if someone doesn't wear their helmet while they are working then they aren't covered by Workers Comp Insurance if they have an accident). It's a common enough conversation between us. Then I'm trying to "explain" that accidents are called accidents because that's what they are. I asked him then if that means when I sprained my ankle last year, but simply walking down the road and rolling it was due to my stupidity. Thankfully a) he didn't answer me :) and b) he didn't think about the fact that the reason it happened was because our big galoomf of a dog was bounding stupidly all over the place, and jumped sideways into my leg mid step which knocked me off balance!!). Anyway, I digress.
Point being that accidents and things do happen, and we don't have to do anything to cause them. Them being bad things. Planes fall out of skies, tyres on cars bust, and houses...
Brings me to the point of this post.
I got up to feed Toby this morning at 2am. The wonderful little egg-thermometer was blue, telling me that it was an unsafe cold temperature for a baby. So I plugged in the oil heater.
I hesitated when I did it, as it's run on a powerboard, and there are two plug holes to use, so I paused and wondered if it actually matters which one I use, and then plugged it in anyway.
It immediately started hissing and smoking and spitting. Holy crap! Shane was asleep but woke with whatever my reaction was, and flew out of bed. I was doing the very unhelpful girl thing of panicking. No idea of what I should do. By the time he got to it, it burst into flame.
An electrical fire, in our bedroom, at 2am, with our baby in the bassinet.
Short story is that thankfully Shane was able to pull the plug and put it out before any real damage was caused. Like our house burning down.
I'm now in the spare bedroom with Toby because there was too much smoke for me to be comfortable putting him back in there. Even here I can smell the toxicity of the smoke, but it's mild. The other thing is that with no heater in there it was cold. And Shane had had to open the windows and put a fan on, so it was even colder.
So we're in the spare room. Shane's still in our bed. He has to get up to work very early, and has an hour long drive to the other property, so he can't afford to be tired. Which he will be anyway.
:::
But me? I don't want to go to sleep now. Ever. I'm scared of something else bursting into flame. We have powerboards in this house, because there aren't all that many power points, but regardless, as we have talked among ourselves about, how hard is it to survive without power boards these days anyway? Everything is electrical. Even the double powerpoint behind the television... well, somehow it needs to run the tv, the sound system, and the dvd player in the very least. We also have to plug in the fan on the heater somewhere. Not to mention the Wii.
So, my 'irrational' or not so irrational fear has been re-awoken. That something bad will happen out of turn. So if I just stay awake forever, I can prevent it? I need to sleep. Wind down. Shall try now.
Next little cute monster feeding in approximately one hour. All welcome.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Leaving the place of our memories...
Shane has a new job and we're leaving here. The move will take us about 100km away. Memories are just that. Memories. The only way to lose them is to forget them. And I will never forget him.
But there are still a lot of deep seated emotions to be leaving the place where the memories created. I'm unclear even within myself of what that means really. The memories are not proverbial. Ciaran did not stand here where I stand.
But I did with him within. I held my baby lamb, Mr Mitchell, below the balcony I stand on to snap this pic.
With Ciaran within.
I walked the paddocks before me. At dawn. In winter. Dressed in my blue dressing gown with yellow duckies on it. And gum boots. With my camera.
And Ciaran within.
I look at my writing here and wonder at the poetry of it. There is no poem in grief. But the emphasis of what is important to me lulls.
These are the photos of the last dawn in the house that Ciaran wasn't. A beautiful clear morning which is unusual as we are normally fog bound until late morning here. The mist rising as steam from a cauldron off the lake.
I was thinking of a morning that I wasn't there to see the dawn as I was in the hospital birthing my baby boy. And seeing him die.
It brings back the feeling of devastation.
I saw many dawns after that. But I couldn't appreciate any of the beauty in them. They were so very empty.
And I was thinking of another dawn that I photographed in the same way as these photos. It was the morning one year after Ciaran was born and died.
So now I photograph the morning we leave. I have one baby in the ground. I have his name in a tree below me. I have another baby just a tiny soul. I have a love heart in the tree.
And now I have my rainbow.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Miscellaneous photos...
When we were ttc for #2 (and as it turned out #3) I met a lovely group of ladies who'd also been ttc for more than 6 months. That was the criteria to "join" our group. How privelaged I was to then be able to join in the "graduates" group as well. One of the other gals, KJ, is not far from us. Perhaps two hours drive. Which isn't far considering the country we live in. Her little Olivia is a week older than Toby. This was taken at one of our little meet ups.
:::
:::
Hanging out at our local supermarket...
:::
And loving the way our little man just loves to put that arm up when he's sleeping...
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
5w1d - a photographic post...
Wearing his "Mr Mitchell" outfit :)
Thanks to our wonderful friends he has lots of clothing celebrating mummy's sheeps :D
:::
Concentrating on his "Sunshine"... the Sunshine was the first toy to receive big real smiles!
:::
Monday, May 9, 2011
Saturday, May 7, 2011
In a parallel universe...
Mummy, daddy and Toby... <3 (April 2011)
Mummy, daddy and Ciaran... <3 (September, 2008)
32 days old - a photographic post...
:::
:::
Visiting Mr Mitchell and his merry clan of sheeps for the first time... not that Toby really cared :) Daddy was enjoying the moment though!
Friday, May 6, 2011
How to make friends and influence people...
... We don't have a lot of friends locally.
My excuse is that I came to this area from 4000km away. In actual fact it's not a very good excuse at all, and I have no idea why I haven't managed to get a close group of friends happening here. I was originally from an area about 400km from here. Since leaving school I spent the next ten years in the bigger city close to where I grew up, and I had a very close group of maybe 5-10 friends. No matter what your interest was, there was someone close by to indulge with. If I wanted to go out and party, I knew who to ask. If I wanted to go to the opera, same.
Then I moved that 4000km, and was there, or within a 350km reach, for the next 4 years or so, and once more I developed a lovely close group of friends. We don't talk all that often any more, but we are always a group, no matter what. And every so many years when we get together, it's just like old times.
But then I came to this area. The city is the capital of the country. It's very politically minded. It's also very snobby. I lasted eighteen months in the city, and then begged my way out to the country. My boss told me that she knew if she didn't allow me to break my contract that they would lose me from the company. And then eventually, I met Shane in a town another 100km from where I ended up in the country. But all still in the same city area, if you get my drift.
Shane came from a small town about 600km north of here. He'd been here for about three years when I arrived on the scene. Being a stationhand on a property 1/2 hour from the small town doesn't help your friend status either. His circle of friends was pretty much limited to the fella down the road, a stationhand on the next property.
We both have plenty of acquaintences, but we don't have that close group of friends.
And in fact we alienated many of those who may have ended up our friends, by having a baby that died. Oh yes, all our fault of course. Not our fault that our baby died, but certainly how could we expect these potential friends to hang around and get past the awkwardness? Pfft to them anyway.
So, how bittersweet (what? Another bittersweet moment?) then that since we've had Toby arrive on the scene, and in a total of three outings to our local small town, it seems that every Tom, Dick and Harry want to talk to us. We're the flavour of the month. And I'm talking mostly about people we don't know.
Today we went to the supermarket. I had Toby in his little people carrier. He was looking extremely cute I must say, all foetal positioned up and sound asleep snug against my chest. I struggle to get used to the fact that as people walk past they look at him. At us. I think that I must be doing something wrong. Because I can't totally see him in there, so maybe he's squashed, or his face has turned blue or something horrible, and people don't want to tell me, but will turn to their friend and point out my terrible mothering skills.
But then there are also the people who actually talk to us. When we went back to the car today, and Shane was packing the groceries in, a car pulled out of the park two cars down. I heard a lady say "do you still have that little cute baby tucked up with you?". I turned, figuring she was someone I knew, but no. So, with me standing beside our car, and her in her driver's seat, preparing to drive forward and out of the carpark, she decided to converse like we were old friends. She asked me how old he was "now". She pointed out that I looked tired. She said "so you're breastfeeding". And then proceeded to say how there isn't much that the men can do to help when we're breastfeeding. I pointed out that Shane is great and takes one of the middle of the night feeds for me, as I express a bottle for him to do that. Our conversation was finishing up about then. Shane thought she was pointing out that he should do more to help, but I didn't think so.
The last time we went to the supermarket, at least two women felt "the need" to come and ask to have a look at "the baby". We also ran into three other people that I hadn't seen in literally years, so it was again, a very busy "show and tell" at the supermarket.
:::
But that's where a bit of that "my baby died and you won't even look at my t-shirt" anger comes up again, and has been echoing around my head a bit.
Because when Ciaran died I didn't have a little person to proudly carry around the supermarket. Where I now don't even worry about the small "baby belly" I still carry, and the fact that I have a fitted t-shirt on so it's sticking out the bottom of my baby carrier, back then I had a body that shamed me. It was not necessarily any bigger, the belly, than it is now. But instead of getting comments on my newborn, I was being asked when my baby was due.
So, your baby dies, and instead you are ridiculed by the universe because you get to keep the baby belly, that makes people think you're pregnant. Ouch. Seriously? If it was a nice universe then, besides the fact that babies wouldn't die in a nice universe, don't you think if it really had to happen, we would at least be "blessed" with after-baby-bodies of a supermodel? Just to give us a blessing in disguise?
:::
Lucky me. This time I got to keep the baby. At least so far (and please, please, please let me keep him forever). But what about the other time? What about my friends who haven't reached this point yet? Apparently, I'm popular in town now. Simply because I got to keep the baby. Nice one.
My excuse is that I came to this area from 4000km away. In actual fact it's not a very good excuse at all, and I have no idea why I haven't managed to get a close group of friends happening here. I was originally from an area about 400km from here. Since leaving school I spent the next ten years in the bigger city close to where I grew up, and I had a very close group of maybe 5-10 friends. No matter what your interest was, there was someone close by to indulge with. If I wanted to go out and party, I knew who to ask. If I wanted to go to the opera, same.
Then I moved that 4000km, and was there, or within a 350km reach, for the next 4 years or so, and once more I developed a lovely close group of friends. We don't talk all that often any more, but we are always a group, no matter what. And every so many years when we get together, it's just like old times.
But then I came to this area. The city is the capital of the country. It's very politically minded. It's also very snobby. I lasted eighteen months in the city, and then begged my way out to the country. My boss told me that she knew if she didn't allow me to break my contract that they would lose me from the company. And then eventually, I met Shane in a town another 100km from where I ended up in the country. But all still in the same city area, if you get my drift.
Shane came from a small town about 600km north of here. He'd been here for about three years when I arrived on the scene. Being a stationhand on a property 1/2 hour from the small town doesn't help your friend status either. His circle of friends was pretty much limited to the fella down the road, a stationhand on the next property.
We both have plenty of acquaintences, but we don't have that close group of friends.
And in fact we alienated many of those who may have ended up our friends, by having a baby that died. Oh yes, all our fault of course. Not our fault that our baby died, but certainly how could we expect these potential friends to hang around and get past the awkwardness? Pfft to them anyway.
So, how bittersweet (what? Another bittersweet moment?) then that since we've had Toby arrive on the scene, and in a total of three outings to our local small town, it seems that every Tom, Dick and Harry want to talk to us. We're the flavour of the month. And I'm talking mostly about people we don't know.
Today we went to the supermarket. I had Toby in his little people carrier. He was looking extremely cute I must say, all foetal positioned up and sound asleep snug against my chest. I struggle to get used to the fact that as people walk past they look at him. At us. I think that I must be doing something wrong. Because I can't totally see him in there, so maybe he's squashed, or his face has turned blue or something horrible, and people don't want to tell me, but will turn to their friend and point out my terrible mothering skills.
But then there are also the people who actually talk to us. When we went back to the car today, and Shane was packing the groceries in, a car pulled out of the park two cars down. I heard a lady say "do you still have that little cute baby tucked up with you?". I turned, figuring she was someone I knew, but no. So, with me standing beside our car, and her in her driver's seat, preparing to drive forward and out of the carpark, she decided to converse like we were old friends. She asked me how old he was "now". She pointed out that I looked tired. She said "so you're breastfeeding". And then proceeded to say how there isn't much that the men can do to help when we're breastfeeding. I pointed out that Shane is great and takes one of the middle of the night feeds for me, as I express a bottle for him to do that. Our conversation was finishing up about then. Shane thought she was pointing out that he should do more to help, but I didn't think so.
The last time we went to the supermarket, at least two women felt "the need" to come and ask to have a look at "the baby". We also ran into three other people that I hadn't seen in literally years, so it was again, a very busy "show and tell" at the supermarket.
:::
But that's where a bit of that "my baby died and you won't even look at my t-shirt" anger comes up again, and has been echoing around my head a bit.
Because when Ciaran died I didn't have a little person to proudly carry around the supermarket. Where I now don't even worry about the small "baby belly" I still carry, and the fact that I have a fitted t-shirt on so it's sticking out the bottom of my baby carrier, back then I had a body that shamed me. It was not necessarily any bigger, the belly, than it is now. But instead of getting comments on my newborn, I was being asked when my baby was due.
So, your baby dies, and instead you are ridiculed by the universe because you get to keep the baby belly, that makes people think you're pregnant. Ouch. Seriously? If it was a nice universe then, besides the fact that babies wouldn't die in a nice universe, don't you think if it really had to happen, we would at least be "blessed" with after-baby-bodies of a supermodel? Just to give us a blessing in disguise?
:::
Lucky me. This time I got to keep the baby. At least so far (and please, please, please let me keep him forever). But what about the other time? What about my friends who haven't reached this point yet? Apparently, I'm popular in town now. Simply because I got to keep the baby. Nice one.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
The view from my pillow...
... I just love, love, love it.
This is how we go to sleep, Toby and mama.
30 days old - a photographic post...
We're getting the odd smile these days. This isn't one. Not really. The ones I'm talking about are the ones that take over his whole face. It could light up the world.
I can tell you that I've cried tears over those smiles. I'm getting a bit more used to them now. But I can tell you that when they first started coming there was more than one occasion where my echoing big grin quickly became me bursting into tears. How can something so beautiful be so sad at the same time?
I guess it's like our old adage "happy for you, sad for me". It's a conflict of emotion.
Of course there are probably more of the funny faces, like this one, coming through at the moment. The ones that say... "Daddy, what the...???" Catching a real smile on "film" is an art in itself (and I haven't managed to get it right yet), but I certainly have plenty of funny faces!!
Mind you if I could put a camera in Toby's hands, I'm pretty sure he would come up with more embarrassing funny faces of mummy and daddy, than we could come up with of him!!
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
What I was GOING to do...
... was to write a post. It's been like FOREVER. And other than copying a couple of Toby related posts across from my other blog, I haven't even christened this shiny new page with news.
At the time that I was going to write the post, I had just finished feeding the young fellow. We'd had some talk time and some puke time (mmm eau de baby puke... I paid a lot of money for that stuff, and waited a very long time for it's safe delivery!). Young Toby had been happily bum changed and transferred back to his bassinet, beside his snoring daddy. I'd decided to enjoy the quiet of morning in the lounge room, with a random boob pump and some weetbix for breakfast. And a bit of a blog.
But then the boys arrived. Shane walked out with baby in arms. No, he wasn't crying. Quite the opposite apparently. He was bright eyed and bushy tailed I was told.
Sigh.
Yes, daddy. But that doesn't mean that he needs to be up again. So, now there is a tired and irritable little boy almost asleep in the rocker at my feet, while I try to quickly put a few words down here.
And as for the quiet? The parrot is screeching good morning - for some reason he tends to screech when Shane's around :). The television is on. Shane is talking. The phone has rang twice. Man stuff. And somehow it's gone from 6.30am to almost 9am. I should have gone back to bed instead.
Hoping that I will be back later. Or soon.
At the time that I was going to write the post, I had just finished feeding the young fellow. We'd had some talk time and some puke time (mmm eau de baby puke... I paid a lot of money for that stuff, and waited a very long time for it's safe delivery!). Young Toby had been happily bum changed and transferred back to his bassinet, beside his snoring daddy. I'd decided to enjoy the quiet of morning in the lounge room, with a random boob pump and some weetbix for breakfast. And a bit of a blog.
But then the boys arrived. Shane walked out with baby in arms. No, he wasn't crying. Quite the opposite apparently. He was bright eyed and bushy tailed I was told.
Sigh.
Yes, daddy. But that doesn't mean that he needs to be up again. So, now there is a tired and irritable little boy almost asleep in the rocker at my feet, while I try to quickly put a few words down here.
And as for the quiet? The parrot is screeching good morning - for some reason he tends to screech when Shane's around :). The television is on. Shane is talking. The phone has rang twice. Man stuff. And somehow it's gone from 6.30am to almost 9am. I should have gone back to bed instead.
Hoping that I will be back later. Or soon.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
27 days old - a photographic post...
My attention is very much in demand, and I have to say that I do feel sad for my precious Razz-cat, who just doesn't really understand what I've done bringing this crying, squirming "thing" into his house and taking up all of his mummy's time...
I love this look... milk drunk Toby lifts his head and plonks it onto my boob when he's finished drinking...
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