After spending the past few weeks somewhat detached and distant from the brutal reality that is loosing our son (hence all the ranting on the blog), I’ve slipped close enough down the slow decline that I feel now my toes are firmly in the shitty waters.
I hate it.
I hate how grief takes hold and removes all control. For a control freak, this fucking sucks.
I know what works. I know what heals. What keeps me afloat, above the water. But some days, like today, knowing and doing are miles apart.
I hate that it’s a Monday.
It makes me feel like the whole week is Mr Grief’s and not mine. It feels endless. All consuming. Breathless.
I’m annoyed at our bereavement midwife.
Going for our first counselling session so far seems pointless. We booked it. I didn’t realise it fell on Leo’s days – the three month mark. Silly me.
We had to go back there. To the hospital. Again. This time, it wasn’t just to the hospital. It was the room next to the bereavement suite that we stayed in with Leo. We sat, a walls width away from where we sat with Leo.
I wanted to try and convince myself this would be a comfort. Fuck off is that a comfort. It made me feel closer to Leo in all the wrong ways. It brought back that deep feeling of yearning for him. Of missing him in my blood. In my stomach. In everything.
That room and place is sacred. It was time with Leo. I don’t want to go there in the harsh light of day, without Leo. The blur and haze of those days protected me. I don’t have that anymore. I don’t want anything to alter what those memories are to me.
Sat there, for our ‘counselling’ session, I kept wandering – is someone else in there? Has this fucked up journey just started for another family? Oh, how that stings.
Counselling involved talking about everything, from Leo’s movements, to the Tuesday scan, to the cause of death on his stillbirth certificate, to the six day wait that he had in the hospital, alone. Staff shortages. Fuck off, staff shortages. We talked about how work have been, how family are coping, how friends are… Moving themselves into those who can and those who can’t. Talked about how I didn’t want to be there. Staring out the window. The far reaching Oxfordshire countryside from high above up on Level 7.
Essentially, it was like meeting up with someone we haven’t seen yet, who didn’t know anything, and relaying each and every fucking shit moment of the last three months. If that’s meant to help, no wonder the world is depressed.
We have to go back tomorrow. Each time actually seems harder. This time to Level 6. Where we should have gone on the Friday. But Leo didn’t make it that far. We have to go to the place that should have been able to help him, if only he held on long enough, to discuss why he didn’t make it. Again. To get answers. Or attempt to get answers. I know they aren’t going to say that they could have saved him. Everything was done in occordence to hospital policy. Fuck hospital policy.
It feels so overwhelming again. I enjoyed feeling distant. It was odd. Unnerving. But I was in control. I could get shit done. I could make lunch without crying.
Now, less so.
We are going to the fertility clinic on Friday to discuss our options. A year ago we were in the midst of our second IVF cycle, the beginnings of Leo. I didn’t expect to find myself walking through those doors again. I don’t know how I feel about starting all over again. Some days, I need it.
Other days, I’m petrified.
Do you wait until you realise, this is how you will always feel? Or do you just continue through all the motions?
Will life ever feel easy again? Everything is a chore. I’m fed up of thinking we are overdoing it just by doing one thing. In what world is food shopping overdoing it? The world of stillbirth.