OK hands up then...

... if you are thankful that you are not one of those women who have bad things happen like babies and children dying?  Come on... I mean, I know that most of the audience are from the unfortunate baby lost community, but seriously I know you are out there. 

It seems that these people are everywhere in my life right now.  I'm sick of them.  They're driving me nuts.  Normally I can kind of gloss over them, and not let it get to me, but apparently I have an overload of them and it's eating my insides at the moment.

One discussion I've been privy to today is on the use of cot bumpers, which of course SIDS recommends against the use of.  One of the women has a baby who has just reached the head banging stage.  Toby went through it.  I was advised he'd "grow out of it" and that they "seldom do any real harm to themselves", but yes he occasionally had a bit of a bump, and often had a red spot on his forehead.  But this woman is adamant that her child gave herself concussion (but no, she didn't take her to the hospital), and feels the need to put bumpers in the cot.  Several people have pointed out the SIDS recommendations, but she has an answer for it all.  One or two people have admitted to putting bumpers in themselves, and duck their head as they answer.  They at least are acknowledging that they have put a risk there for their child.

But what is coming through loud and strong to me is that this woman in particular thinks that she is one of the "lucky" ones.  The ones who feel sorry for you, but thankfully it will never happen to them.  It makes my blood boil on so many levels. 

I don't want to be felt sorry for.  Not as such.  Or feel sorry if you must, but do not pity me.  Especially when it is tinged with a dose of "it won't happen to me".

:::

I think we all start out like that.  It comes along attached to "innocence".  Thankfully, we all have that in the beginning.  And maybe it's hard to not be smug about it.  I don't know, I can't really remember what I was like before.  I do remember hearing about a school friend's baby boy being born sleeping at 5 months.  Back then it would have been more about her baby being stillborn.  Meaning that it was just something unpersonal and unfortunate that happened to someone we knew in a past life.  Poor girl.  I mean, can you imagine that happening?  Whereas in reality I had never been pregnant.  I had certainly never miscarried let alone organised a funeral for my beautiful baby.  So I had no comprehension.  How could I?

And I know that that's where the majority of people lie.  In that pond of total innocence.

But seriously... my baby did not die of SIDS so I am not just being super sensitive when I remind you of the guidelines.  My baby was not stillborn, so you don't need to assume anything there either.  In fact, what happened to my baby is totally irrelevent to how you think or feel in your innocence.  The truth is it could happen to you.  The truth is that it will happen to some of you out there.  The other truth is that some, maybe even "many", of you will have to organise your child's funeral, and no matter when it happens you will consider it unfair and untimely.  And maybe then you will think of us, in this boat so early on.

Oh, yes I sound bitter don't I?  And yes, you don't need to smile and nod knowingly about what an overprotective parent I am.  Don't worry, I don't do everything by the book either.  But the risks I take I take with a cold fist around my heart, knowing I can't have him completely wrapped in cotton wool, but well aware of what the consequences might be and what guilt I might have to live with for the rest of my life.

Smell the roses people.  You can never replace what you have now.

That was then. But this is...

I don't even think about the fact that I've grown "accustomed", if you can, to telling people that my eldest son died.  I seldom deny him, although in truth I know I have a couple of times in recent weeks, because I judged the situation was best that way and that's a whole different story.  But in the most part, I never deny him.  Toby lives in his shadow.  Almost. 

Is this your first?  No.  Toby is our second.  His big brother passed away shortly after he was born.

Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.

And the conversation moves on.

So, most of the time it's as sterile as that.

But every now and then, it's not.

A couple of days ago I ran into someone who used to be a good friend.  Not that we had a falling out, or anything like that.  It's just that our paths went in different directions, and that part of our lives moved on. 

That was then. 

And I think it's moments like that, where you run head long into your past, that you hear the walls starting to crash down.

Her name is Natasha.  She was a part of a life that just doesn't exist for me anymore.  I was her boss.  In a career I no longer have.  She was my friend.  In a life neither of us live anymore.  Everything has shifted.  Left or right, it doesn't matter.

It was the type of reunion that includes little girlish jumps and squeals.  Suddenly the pram felt awkward... it wasn't there in that other life.  I'm grateful for it now, don't get me wrong, but you know when you can physically feel the gap between worlds?  So, there was my pram, and there was her bump!

She was so excited for the pram.  Is he yours, she asked?  Yes, yes!  Ooooohhh she said.  And told me she was SO happy for me.

Clang.

Is he your only?  I think they were her words.

No.  I told her.  But every single word hurt. 

My first little boy passed away after he was born.

I saw her baulk, and the tears in her eyes.  She told me she was sorry.

I think I glossed over it and moved the conversation awkwardly forward.

I thought about it a lot though, and here I am a few days later still thinking about it I guess.  Just about how much more I felt the impact of having to tell someone I had been close to from before. 

Does any of this make sense to anyone else?

Not unnoticed...

The other day I was outside a room when my parents were talking to a man about business, and as I came back in and heard pieces of the conversation I gathered my father was telling him that Toby was special and the sadness we had been through. I didn't hear the words exactly... It was only the end. The man said along the lines that we had certainly had our (meaning my family) fair share of stress and sadness in recent years.

Yes, my father sadly agreed. We have.

Ah but you get over it.

He said.

My mother corrected him and said "no. You don't". Bless her. And then both men agreed.

It was just one of those things said, you know? I know dad didn't mean it. It was an automatic response. Like saying "good thanks" to the question of how you are.

:::

Yesterday I was with my dad and a young lady came to help him with some things, and he introduced us. He introduced Toby.

"And this is Toby. Her beautiful little miracle".

The girl looked at me and smiled. And I smiled. And looked at Toby.

And then dad added "he's IVF" proudly. Like by way of explanation.

It didnt bother me, really, but I couldn't help but note it.

Because it kind of felt like advertising my (secondary) infertility.

It kind of felt like a public announcement of at least a small part of my failure.

Airing a bit of dirty linen, so to speak. Or a pair of stained underpants.

But also there's a bit of a feeling of.... Scoffing. From me. Because, come oooonn dad! IVF is soooo common place nowadays!! Every second child is made in a test tube. Aren't they? It's not the 80's anymore.

And none of us are innocent. Not anymore.