Talking to other people about you isnt the hardest part for me. I’m so used to not getting emotional around people (I hate people seeing me cry so I avoid it at all costs). I can have conversations about your death or what you’d look like and completely disconnect from the words, as if I’m talking about the weather.
I don’t open up to anyone, I never really have. Deep conversations, physical contact etc are pretty awkward for me. Your daddy is the only person I’ve fully, and continuously, let in and been vulnerable around. And even then it’s hard to explain to him my feelings sometimes.
It’s when I’m inside myself, thinking, remembering, imagining, that the tears start. So it seems random, just sat watching tv and I get upset from no apparent trigger. I am the trigger. I don’t want to keep busy and distract myself either – grieving is a journey, and I can’t take any other metaphorical path around, this is the one I’m on, so if that means spending 80% of my time laying in bed playing computer games and thinking of you even though it hurts, that’s what I’m going to do for now.
We have an appointment for the results of your post mortem this Thursday, to see if they know what caused your death or not.
Others may not understand but I’d feel better if they found nothing, a freak incident; that’s the result I’ve been expecting because that’s my preference, but now the results are back I can’t help but go to worst case scenarios. In my mind I’d obsess less next time if I knew it wasn’t something I carry, something that is likely to repeat.
I’m so sorry Cass, that it feels like I’m putting any future babies before you. I should want to know what happened to you, and I do, I’m just scared. I’ve had so much hope for next pregnancy, that it’ll all go okay and I’ll be bringing home a baby, but they could shatter it all with your results. We know how quickly your life can be turned upside down, and I’m pretty sure there’s no limit on how many times it can happen. There’s so many things it could be, many are recurring, many can’t be prevented. For me there would be nothing worse than knowing it’s unlikely I’d ever have a living baby, or that something in me damages their health. We started trying for a baby when I was 22, I’m going to be 25 in 9 months. I’m not a child person at all, but I’ve always known I wanted a family, to be a wife and mother.
We’ll just have to deal with what comes next.
Like every day since we said goodbye, the thought “you should still be here” popped into my head. And I thought how I would get that every day until your due date. But that’s wrong. It won’t stop then. Every day for the rest of my life that passing thought will haunt me, that you should still be here.
It’s been 3 weeks and 3 days Cass. Time is a funny thing. Now there’s a before and after.
I realised earlier how grateful I was that your anomaly scan was pushed back, I’m so glad I got that extra time with you, we were together for just a bit longer and I needed that. I needed all the time I could get with you, because that was it.
Fragile – the only word I can think to describe myself at the moment. Everyone tells me how strong I am, but I don’t feel strong at all. It feels like if you poke me I’ll shatter into pieces. I’ve always been sensitive but now everything feels like a personal attack, the slightest bit of criticism and in my head I go right to ‘I can’t do anything right’ vs ‘please cut me even more slack than you already are because my baby died and I can’t handle negativity’. I feel like everything in my life has to go well right now, I deserve something to go right? But life doesn’t work like that.
I mourn the life you could have had
I mourn everything you missed out on
I mourn everything we missed out on
I mourn the me I could have been
It could all have been so different
In another life
Today it’s my husbands 28th birthday, so happy birthday to my favourite person, my person. Who has been there through everything with me; he’s cried with me, made sure I laughed every day, held me during labour and told me how great I was doing. I never thought I’d be loved the way he loves me. You grow up seeing the Disney, fairytale love, but this is the real life version – a partner who puts your needs before theirs, who you can rely on, and who overall makes your life brighter. I want to give him everything, but mostly a child. I’ve always known he’d be a great father, and seeing tiny little Cass in his arms confirmed it. I’ve often doubted my parenting abilities but never his. I can’t wait for the day when he falls asleep with our baby on his chest after singing them to sleep, taking annoying amounts of cute selfies with them, teaching them karate moves… I want all these moments for him, he deserves them, and so do our future little ones.
We took a walk today to the last place we went with Cass still in my tummy, on the Monday when everything was still normal, the day before our world came down. As I was walking, holding Davy’s hand, my other suddenly felt really empty, thinking that it would never be held by his tiny fingers on walks like this. Naturally I lasted about 0.5 seconds before the tears came. Just as I started crying a little white butterfly flew right up to us and danced around our legs for a second, as if to say ‘it’s okay, I’m with you’. Please never stop sending me little signs Cass.