Autumn Flowers and Mother's Day

Today was one those days that reminds me why I live in Canberra. The words 'clear' 'clean' and 'crisp', although overused, are the words that always come to mind in autumn and winter when the sun shines.

We did a lot of sorting of papers, clothes and other clutter that builds up over time. I hated every minute of it, but of course it's necessary. I soothed myself by wandering around the yard for a while in the afternoon.

I adore my Swan River Daisies.



And the marigolds that I grew from seed last year. Growing stuff from seed doesn't often work for me but this, and the alyssum you can see in the background, both did really well and once the scorching of summer was over, they came into their own.



Here's a clearer shot of the alyssum. I need more of this next spring. I can't get enough of it.



Gazanias are, for me, as gorgeous as sunflowers. They open fully only in bright sunlight so they always seem so happy.



Same with calendula. Another flower that seems to have the sunlight trapped in its petals. I've not grown it before and say this will not be the last time I try it.



And finally, our calistemon, a sentimental favourite for us. It's a native, known more commonly as the bottle brush and I promise to photograph the glorious red flowers when they show up. They're just starting, see the little buds?



It's a special plant for us because it commemorates the loss of our babies. It was planted for the first, and now we think of both of them when we stop and admire it. The fact that in the last year it's grown so tall and strong is a metaphor not lost on us.

I spent a little time admiring it today, and thinking about how Mother's Day is inevitably a hard and sad day for those of us who long to be mothers, and those of us who were, briefly, mothers to little souls who didn't stay around very long. There's no gift card for that occasion.

I suppose that's why I focused on my flowers today. I went to the shops and everywhere there were kids and men carrying bunches of flowers they were taking home to mums. I cut some marigolds for myself and put them in a vase in the bathroom. For remembering. If you are like me, and remembering, I'm sorry. It's important to remember.

Bells

Day 15 - Not many words

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Day. I lit two candles and kept them burning while I cooked dinner. 

We opened a bottle of wine and remembered. It's so important to remember. I took a little journey, a pilgrimage if you like, into the sad place and thought of how there are two little lives not here when they should be. They never will be here. But that doesn't mean we don't remember. 

If you have lost a pregnancy or an infant, or more, light a candle, or do whatever feels right for you and remember their small, too short lives. 

Bells

ps Thanks to Jejune for these candles, one of which was a gift after the first loss.

Sometimes everything is wrong

For nearly a month I've been drafting a blog post in my head. It would have been a wonderful blog post. It would have been the announcement that I was at last pregnant. That finally, Sean and I had made it.

It would have told the story of an ordeal that some of you are aware that we have been going through for a long, long time. I was going to talk about the magic that happens the day you get the news, the day the IVF clinic calls you at home to tell you that the waiting is over, the blood test has shown what you didn't dare believe might be possible.

Instead I'm writing a different post to express how devastated we are that the little tiny being we saw on the screen this week did not have a heartbeat. The little white flicker we were so excited to see wasn't there.

The baby was. But the life wasn't.

We're two days into this recurrent nightmare. I say recurrent because a year ago this week, we lived through the same scenario, only we were more innocent then. We had no expectation that this would happen the first time we were lucky enough to succeed in an IVF attempt. We showed up at the early scan that IVF patients are granted, excited at the prospect, and left in a shattered state.

Things were good this time. They were different. I had strong, clear symptoms. I had good blood test results. My body was changing. It was a miracle. It was very different to my pregnancy last year.

A year on, I have been approaching that anniversary with relief. After what's been a very, very dark year of continued failed attempts and a depression like none I've ever known, I was not going to have to suffer the torture of living through that anniversary with a still empty womb. Unlike the due date when our baby should have been born earlier this year, I was going to be happy.

Now, I won't be. I can't. Neither of us can.

Instead, on the anniversary of that loss, I'm going to be most likely in hospital having a curette.

And starting over.

Strangely, I'm ok. Well, not really. By ok I mean I'm not comatose on the floor. I'm at work. I have a good team who have been so very sweet to me. I have my beloved sister looking out for me on the phone every day and a husband who is as shattered as I am, but taking care of and loving me.

And I have spent a little time with some friends who made me laugh. I keep hearing the great Michael Stipe's beautiful lyric floating through my head

Everybody hurts. Take comfort in your friends.

And that's exactly what I'll do. For my friends who have small babies or are having them soon, please know that I still love you and your babies. I'm just a bit scared of how I might be around you and yours for a while.

At the end of next week, Sean and I are going away for a few days. It was to be a celebratory mini-holiday. Now it'll be a recovery time because we just can't believe we're here all over again.

And trust me, this post doesn't come close to even touching the depth of my, or indeed, our sadness. If you've suffered through this hell, too, you'll know that.

Bells

Thank you

The response to my post on loss was astounding. Thank you. I have said to a few people that I imagined I'd get some heartfelt sympathy and support responses - each of which was lovely and deeply appreciated, but I hadn't anticipated so many responses that told the stories of others who have gone through similar experiences.

The stories that expressed the loneliness of what happens when you lose a pregnancy, sometimes repeatedly, really touched me and I felt amazingly comforted by the shared sadness, if that makes sense. I've written back to some of you personally and will continue to do so as I can. Again, thank you.

Sean also was very touched by the responses. I was worried he would feel quite exposed by my telling of the story but he didn't. He could see it was valuable for me and also for others.


***

In happier news, I have completed, hopefully for the last time, the first sleeve of the steeked jacket. Sadly, it was right the first time and my attempt to redo it was pointless. But, it's done now and it only took a few days. It has the right number of increased stitches and is the right length.

I'm starting #2 tonight and hope very much to have it done before the end of the weekend. I'm spending some quality knitting time with RoseRed on the weekend (yay!) and would love to have her here when I'm joining up it, as a witness, so to speak. Wouldn't that be fun!

Thanks heaps to Regenia who so far has proven a most fun and helpful Accountability Partner. I can't wait to see a photo of her Icarus Shawl, which is, as Tanya would say, her nemesis, just as the steeked jacket is mine.

I'm getting there. I really am.

And finally, I think I rely too much on commas in my writing. Does anyone agree? I fear I overuse them! Grammar experts - your opinions are welcome.

Bells

All About Loss

I thought I might post about what's been happening around here. For someone who's generally pretty open in real life, I think I stay a little guarded on the blog.

But late last year I posted a list of goals for 2007 and one of them wasn't knitting related and was really important. At the time I remember getting lots of really wonderful comments and support about it, so I don't mind writing about it here and explaining how it's going. You're all a lovely bunch of readers and maybe some of you have gone through this too.

That goal was to either be a mum or be pregnant by the end of the year. It came really close to happening recently.

Partly what's inspired me to talk about it is that January One announced her pregnancy, achieved with fertility treatment, just a little while ago. It looks like we had treatment at different ends of the same month and fortunately for her, apart from a tonne of puking, it's all going really well for her. I was excited when I read her news. I was pregnant then and couldn't wait until I announced mine, too.

We've wanted a baby for a long time. About three years ago, we thought we'd give it a go and somewhere down the track we figured out it wasn't going to be easy. We were even told at one stage it'd be close to impossible. It took us a long time to get up the courage to give fertility treatment a go. We saw people we loved really having a hard time with it and wasn't sure it was for us.

Then we met a new specialist who gave us hope. A round of more tests later and we were good to go.

The weeks of self-injecting the hormones were actually not that bad. It was more of an odd experience, tinged with some weird and scary emotions, but I got off pretty lightly. All the while I just felt relief that it was all finally happening and we were really doing something about our problem now.

Incredibly, it worked first go. We were breathless with amazement. We'd really had no expectation, just hope, that we would be lucky, so very lucky, to have it work first go. That was in mid-August.

We had four really happy weeks. Maybe it was only three. But it felt like a lifetime to me, in a good way. This amazing thing that's been a source of so much pain and sadness for us and has coloured so much our lives for the last three years, had finally happened.

We told a few people, had a lot of happy talks about baby names and waited for that first ultrasound, at seven weeks, where we'd check for a heartbeat.

That morning, we saw on the screen a blob with a flickering dot inside it. All was well.

But it wasn't. Not until we got the doctor's report later in the day did we find out that actually the heart rate was quite slow and the embryo was undersized. I remember standing on University Avenue with the piece of paper in my hand at lunch time and for the first time in weeks, feeling real fear. We were warned to be prepared for it all to go wrong. And it did.

A follow up ultrasound four days later revealed no heartbeat at all.

If you've suffered a pregnancy loss, I don't have to tell you how sad it is. I read the other day that miscarriage after fertility treatment is a double blow. Yep. It is. Nothing surer. That little bunch of cells you've both longed for and fought for works its way into your life pretty damn fast. Being briefly pregnant was both an incredibly real and entirely surreal experience. When you've longed for something for such a long time, to actually have it happen is powerful and grips you with excitement and fear and wonder all at once.

When it's suddenly gone, you're back to feeling hopeless, even though you know you can try again.

We're surrounded by good people. Lots of love and support has come our way. We're grateful. And we'll go again, when everything is back to normal, we'll climb that mountain of fertility treatment again and hope for a better outcome next time. At least we know we can fall pregnant. That's a step closer than we were a few months ago.

In the meantime, I'm just gonna let myself feel fragile and sad and even angry that yet again, we're longing and hoping and faced with uncertainty. And I'll keep working on the steeked jacket because I promised Sean I wouldn't start knitting baby stuff until it was done and I plan to keep my promise.


Bells