God has taken my babies

July 9, 2012 § Leave a comment

People say God has taken my babies.

Can’t I just have one?

 

 

The Aftermath: when the body catches up

July 9, 2012 § Leave a comment

I’ve got the wickedest flu. Fever, cold sweats, meanest headache, achey  body. I feel like shit.

I hobbled to the doctor. My blood pressure was OK, temperature high, heartbeat racing. He said that having had the blood loss of last week, the grief and the trauma, it is natural to have low immunity and to be vulnerable to sickness and infection. As I lay in the nurse’s treatment room waiting for the doctor, I thought about all the things that could be wrong with me. I thought about dying, and having infections of the blood or uterus. Hearing the diagnosis of flu was a relief, but I’ve never had flu like this – the doctor said that it will feel more intense after having had the D&C operation, suffering heavy blood loss and low hemoglobin levels.

My fever has now dissipated, I’m feeling a tiny bit better but I’m hanging out for the antibiotics to kick in. I’m still dizzy, but not as bad as this morning.

But fuck this.

Single channel communication

July 8, 2012 § Leave a comment

As a heavy Twitter user, I share my life with an online community – some of which I know, others I don’t. It felt natural to me to share what I was going through. I knew it would be meaningful to some, morbid and/or insignificant to others. The responses I received, although only 160 characters a piece, gave me a small sense of comfort.

I also wanted to convey my situation in my own words. A lot of people were contacting me to talk about what had happened – I avoided every single phone call. I couldn’t be bothered explaining a hundred times, in different ways, to different people what had happened. I didn’t have the emotional energy.

I posted this picture the day after Rèmy died. My partner and I watched the sunset from the 5th floor of Middlemore Hospital where I had a room in the Gynecological Care Unit, looking out over Mangere. It was a beautiful sunset. We pulled the chairs to the window and watched it quietly, reflecting… thinking… supporting each other.

I wrote that night that watching that sunset was a reminder that time will heal, and that there is always light after darkness.

My best friend had bought the tiny baby casket that Rèmy would eventually be buried in. We had it in the room with us. Having it there was one of the things that enabled us to move forward and get through the week. We’re so grateful to Leilani, Nigel and Nicole for doing this.

Darkest Moment

July 7, 2012 § Leave a comment

Once Rèmy had gone, I was struck violently with the most intense loneliness. It was was my lowest moment.

I wrote a letter to Rèmy in hospital on my first night without him. It helped to articulate the pain.

Rèmy, dearest one – our baby,

I wish you knew how much we wanted you. I wish you knew how
much you were transforming our lives. Maybe it was too much
to put on you, because now you’re not here, not part of me –
now your heart doesn’t beat in time with mine, I feel such
an enormous emptiness.

You were our baby, our son. And you always will be. I was so
excited to meet you, but not like this… we melted seeing
your little heart beat in your dark little ribcage. We
melted seeing your strong nose, just like Daddy’s. We wept
when we realised you were our little boy. We had both wanted
a boy – deeply.

Rèmy- you leave me with an inconsolable sadness that I’m
afraid will consume me. I will try every day to be
optimistic, think positively, love and be loved by those
around me. But the path ahead is paved with tears and
memories, haunting self-doubt… your loss cripples me and I
am in pieces – missing you, wishing you weren’t gone,
wishing things were different.

I know that God has a plan, and lost pregnancies have
greater purpose… they are not punishment. But I can’t help
but wish that I was better at this. Twice now in 12 months –
losing our babies is heartbreaking and tragic: this was not
the plan.

Rèmy – I’m so scared of moving forward from this moment.

You have thrown us a curve ball and I know that me and Daddy
will love each other and support each other to try our
hardest to not let your life be in vain.

Baby boy, rest in love and peace. You have made an
indelible mark on our lives and we will never be the same.

Love you more everyday.

Mummy xxx

 

To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart.

Phyllis Theroux

Rèmy Aniseko: writing helps…

July 7, 2012 § Leave a comment

Writing helps. I lost my baby, Rèmy Aniseko, on the night of Monday 2 July 2012. He was 17 weeks and 6 days old.

I was in hospital for two days healing from the physical trauma of Rèmy’s neonatal birth and death. That week was the hardest of my life.

In the process of healing, grieving and moving forward, this blog is a record of an emotional, spiritual and physical roller-coaster. I have drawn enormous strength from the book Pregnancy Loss: Surviving miscarriage and stillbirth by Zoe Taylor. In personal accounts about the process of losing a baby, you get a sense of relief that this process is shared, normal and tragic. I’m so grateful for this book. In reaching for it at my lowest, most vulnerable times of need, it has inspired me to write about my own experience. In the process of sharing, I find peace.

My name is Ema…

I am a writer, curator and arts administrator – in a hiatus from full-time work. I wrote about losing Rèmy on my main blog, but wanted somewhere to expand on the process… this blog is a record of the process of grieving and thinking about losing a baby – it is words and pictures, inspiration and motivation.

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