I was prompted to write today’s blog after a text from
a friend. She was texting to let me know
that the story of a high profile Australian actress and her husband having a
stillborn child this week had reminded her of Sophie, and she wanted me to know
that she still thinks about me and Sophie.
She hasn’t forgotten. It’s been almost
3 years since Sophie Rose was born dead, at full term. A dear friend who is now in her 80s had a
baby who died 60 years ago, and in her own words “I still yearn for that child.”
I
don’t know if it’s possible to “get over” it, nor is it reasonable to expect to
do so. The humbling pain of having one
of my own children die has transformed me, forever. However, as I meet new people, sometimes
these days when someone asks me how many children I have, I say 2, not 3. I used to say “2 living and 1 in heaven”. If the person I’m in conversation with is
someone I’m not likely to see again, I definitely don’t introduce Sophie into
the conversation. Even when I meet a
parent of a new child at school, who I will see again many times over our children’s
schooling, sometimes I don’t mention Sophie.
I guess I’m trying not to define
myself as “the one whose baby died”. There
seems little point in opening that emotional box. In many ways I am at peace with her death,
although the triggers for my grief are way less predictable now. In the early days, when someone I knew was
expecting a baby, or had just had a baby, I would force myself to congratulate them and participate in their joy,
even though I’d go home and cry buckets afterwards. I think I did this more for myself than for
them, so that I wouldn’t fall into the trap of avoiding them. After all, it’s impossible to avoid every
newborn in my circle of movement, especially when my children are at primary
school, and I worked at a kindergarten.
The first time was the most difficult, as might be expected. Did it get easier with each new baby born? Not really.
What I didn’t expect was that it was easier to be gracious around people
I knew relatively well, than it was to be gracious around acquaintances or
strangers with newborns. I thought it
would be more difficult with friends, but it wasn’t. I guess my friends were sensitive to how I
might be feeling, but also were probably careful to show me love, and not to
exclude me. And I told them what I
needed.
In the first few months after
Sophie’s birth/death, three families at school who were expecting new babies were
incredibly loving and compassionate towards me.
All the babies were third children (same as Sophie). One family invited me over to their home for
my own private meeting with their child, away from other people’s eyes, lest I
need to cry. It was such a beautiful
thing for them to do for me (I know that you know who you are, S xx). I didn’t need to cry that day. But that’s OK too. Another parent approached me in the school
yard the day after his child was born.
On his way towards me he was being slapped heartily on the back by
fellow fathers, congratulated by mothers, and I was trying to keep a smile on
my face a few metres away and not lose it in front of all those people, who were celebrating the
birth of someone else’s child so soon after the death of my own. When the ruckus had died down, he sat down
beside me as we waited for our respective children, and quietly chatted to me, telling
me that he and his partner had been thinking about me a lot. This man deserves a medal (thankyou, C xx). Another mother stopped in the school yard
with her new baby, and offered me a cuddle with the sleeping bundle. It was beautiful, and I appreciated it so
much (Thankyou, A xx). I think it helped
others that I let them know what I needed.
People so desperately wanted to help, but didn’t know what to say or do,
and were terrified of saying the wrong thing or doing the wrong thing and upsetting
me. When people asked “what can I do” or
“how can I help”, I gave a forthright answer – “I’d really appreciate a hug”,
or “a cuddle with your baby would be wonderful.”
In the early days I used to get irritated by all the
euphemisms people used to avoid the “d” word.
Born sleeping. Born an
Angel. Lost. Didn’t make it. A friend of mine used to say of her child who
died “I wish people wouldn’t talk about her being lost - it’s not like I put
her in a cupboard and forgot where she was. She’s dead, not lost.” Now that it’s not the early days anymore, I
don’t mind the euphemisms, because I know they serve a purpose – to lessen the
pain just a little. To be gentle. To be sensitive to the incredible pain
residing in another’s heart.
I have moved past the acute phase of grief and into
the chronic phase. The new normal. The death of Sophie Rose has forever changed
the way I view the world. I try not to
sweat the small stuff anymore. I’m starting
to reveal the “real” me to people who I used to pretend with. People whose approval I was trying to win by
showing them only the parts of me which I thought they would find acceptable. I am trying to live my days in a way that
brings meaning to me and my immediate family.
This means that I am doing not doing the highest level of job that my
qualifications would permit. In fact, I
am not doing any paid work at the moment, and it feels GREAT. It’s very counter-culture though, and it’s a
struggle every day to give myself “permission” to do what I am doing. Running the “farm”, as we generously call our
vegetable patch and chicken coop. Being
involved in the kids’ school community and their learning. Doing some blog writing. Writing is how I make sense of all the
thoughts that are going around in my head.
It helps to clarify the thoughts somehow, even if I never go back and
re-read what I’ve written. Writing it
down is sometimes enough.
The new normal is not the way I thought I’d be living
my life 3 years ago. But it’s a better
fit to who I am as a person. I love what
I am doing now. I love being at home,
being a domestic engineer and farm manager, and co-educator of my
children. It feeds my soul. Sophie’s death was the crisis that has led me
to this point. Some days I still cry
over Sophie. A lot. A strategy I read about in a grief book is to
set a timer (for say, 30 minutes) and allow myself to cry, scream, punch a
pillow, whatever way I need to externalize my sadness/anger/other
emotions. Then when the timer sounds, I
pick myself up and get on with another task.
This strategy has taught me a lot.
Before I learned this, if I got upset over Sophie, I would write off the
entire day. Now I have learned that I
can grieve for a while, then pick myself up and proceed with the day. This helps, because it makes me feel less powerless;
less helpless, while still honouring the sadness I am feeling, and allowing it to
come out.
The new normal is taking shape, and it is good. It not always neat and tidy or happy, but it’s
still good.
