Today you would turn 24. That’s older than I was when I carried you. I still don’t know how to reconcile the fact that I have lived your whole life in my head, but have never held you in my arms.
It’s hard for me to imagine mothering a grown man. Although, I certainly needed my Mum at 24. I made some unwise decisions. I hope I could help you avoid some. I also hope I’d know when to stand back and let you make your own mistakes. I have a lifetime of love and nurture stored up. There are countless things I wanted to teach you. So many moments I have played over and over in my head.
I don’t know exactly what I believe about heaven and god. I know there is something. I know you are somewhere. I can’t envisage a reality in which you haven’t been loved; haven’t felt my love. I’ll never stop yearning to express that love. I would give everything to have held you even once.
Mother’s Day is always a tricky one for me. I love my Mum, of course I want to celebrate her. I have a lot of wonderful Mums in my life. All of whom deserve to be spoiled. I also feel incredibly fragile.
I’ve put a lot of time and effort into building a protective shell around myself. You can’t live if you wake up everyday confounded by what you have lost. It’s always there, but self preservation is an art you can learn. There are some thoughts that I don’t allow myself to examine. I push them outside of my armour and focus on something else. Unfortunately my shell is not impenetrable. There are dates, memories that crack the surface. Mother’s Day, is obviously one of those occasions.
Mothering Sunday is a trigger in the true sense of the word. It has the power to wreck me. Realistically, that’s not an option. I refuse to ruin a special day for people I love. Still, the whole process is hard. Shopping for gifts is painful. I find myself drawn to things that I’d like to have received. I both love and envy watching my niblings express their love for their Mummies. That bond between mother and child is unique. And oh so special. All of my siblings have children meaning my Mum is also Gran. They love her so much and always want to make/buy things for her too. It’s another little detail that I dreamed of, but won’t live. Each of these pierce holes in my carefully crafted casing.
For me, the solution has been creating a little emotional distance. I pull myself back from the feelings and do what I can to enjoy the day. When I’m alone again, I let myself feel it. What’s the point of this? Just to say that if you are struggling today, I get it. It’s ok to give yourself what you need. Go gentle.
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In keeping with my ‘24 in, today is a little run down of words I’ve been consuming lately. If you’re looking for some literary fiction to dive into, read on.
Before My Actual Heart Breaks by Tish Delaney is an extraordinary book. It follows the life of Mary growing up amidst the troubles in Northern Ireland. A girl seeking a life diametrically opposed to one she is living. Delaney deftly evokes time & place that doesn’t really exist anymore. I marvelled at strikingly different experience of woman not much older than myself. A person existing in my lifetime, but living an entirely alien life. Aptly titled as I broke my heart crying at several points. It so beautifully how badly we can misunderstand the people we should know best.
Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng has had people raving forever. The hype increased when they did a big name adaptation and I finally got around to reading it. I’m pleased it made it to the top of my read pile. I loved the layering in the story, how the themes unravelled slowly. Privilege, secrets, motherhood are all so cleverly intertwined. The setting & it’s history perfectly captured elements of life in America.
Lastly a re read, After You’d Gone by Maggie O’Farrell. One of my very favourite books. I must have read a dozen times and I devour it every time. It’s both the classic love story and the unexpected. Complete with big romantic gestures, star crossed moments, but still packs surprises. I have recommended this novel to many people and every single one has fallen head over feels for it. Give yourself a treat, read this book.
Bronan has very little interest in what I’m reading. In fact he’s much rather I stopped with the books and gave him all of my attention.
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Today would be your 23rd birthday. I can’t imagine that I would be top of your party list. Mothers tend to cramp one’s style. Still, I think about how you would celebrate.
Would you feel too old for cake with candles? I wonder if a family dinner would be on the agenda. I picture your Gran fussing over you. Your Aunts & Uncles buying you drinks & taking the piss. I see you surrendered to your little cousin’s nonsense entreaties. It’s all perfect. Of course I know life wouldn’t always be that way, but this is what I hoped to give you.
Recently I’ve been wondering what would come next. When I kissed you goodbye, where would you be headed off to? I was self sufficient by 23. I graduated that year, I was living alone in a flat I hated & working a crappy job to get by. My mental health was a mess & adulting was a learning curve. It wasn’t all bad. I was young & answerable only to myself. I had good friends and we made the most of our youth. I partied as many nights a week as I could afford. I felt such satisfaction; paying the bills, managing a home. Living life on my terms. Always, though, you were missing.
I thought of how my life would be with you then as much as I do now. The younger years were easier to imagine. I don’t know what decisions you would have made. I’d have wanted you to go to University. I’m sure I’d be happy to still have you at home. Perhaps you’d have a partner. You could be just like me. A new graduate balancing a job & the clubs. Or maybe you’d have taken an entirely different route. I’d support anything that made you happy. I’d be proud of the man you would be becoming.
I only write today, but you’re in my thoughts every day. I’d have done whatever it took to give you everything you needed.
Today came around very fast this year. It frightens me how much time has past. You’d be older than I was when I carried you now. That feels incomprehensible. All those missed years. A grown man’s worth of memories. I can picture you at every age. Yet, I still call you baby.
We’re trapped together in this restless limbo. I hope it’s easier on your side. I dream of you kicking. Always the same sensation. Never the same place. We’ve travelled my emotional map together. You have been everywhere that ever really mattered. I wish I could give you more than words & dreams. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.
It recently came to my attention that Joni Mitchell’s masterpiece, Blue is 50 years old. I find it incredible that words written half a century ago still cut right to the heart of me. I discovered Joni when I was around 12 and 28 years later I still love slipping into the blue. This week I have found myself listening to one song in particular on repeat. It’s Baby Loss Awareness week, as I see others share their own losses I find comfort in Little Green.
Little Green is perhaps the most perfect song ever written. I didn’t know precisely what it was about on first listen but I still got it. It still wrapped me in its magical sadness & hope. Green immediately struck me as a beautiful name for a girl. I decided there & then that should I birth a girl, I would indeed call her Green.
I’ve been listening to that song since my teens. Dreaming of the tiny bud who would be my Green. In the passing years I have learned the true meaning of the song, talked to the Green nestled inside me & discovered the reality of loss. Joni was writing about a different, but similar grief. Her words remain entwined with my experiences.
When I dream of a daughter she is a gypsy dancer. All tangled red hair & high spirits. She likes the scent of pine trees & bracing herself against a strong, cold wind. She’s quieter than me, but chatters when excited. I read her everything I loved as a child. Take her to the places that made me feel big things. Her childhood is filled with standing stones & patterned tights & Joan Lingard books & seaside air & empowering women & red liquorice. She is exhausting, exhilarating & exquisite.
When I wake she is a girl in a song. A fantasy my mind summoned; fuelled by 70’s folk poetry and my deepest longing. Listening now is a sweet agony. Pressing my sorest spot because I can’t resist the beauty of it all. The intro wrapping me in the blanket my babies never had. The lyrics bringing the sketches in my head to life.
I’m glad we’re beginning to open up about pregnancy & baby loss. I hope others won’t have to spend so much time alone in their heads with their babies. It helps to talk about losses. To give solidity to those tiny unlived lives. It is such an enormous relief to have the world acknowledge our children.
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It’s been another insane blur of year. The pandemic has given me lots of time & motivation to do big picture thinking. There’s been so much talk of the impact on parents & kids. The decisions to be made about keeping children safe, healthy & happy get trickier in times like this. You’re not here. Neither are your siblings. Being forced to stay home alone for extended periods really rams that fact home. I still think about what I would do. How I would make sure my children would be ok. I don’t think that will ever stop. I’ve thought through how I’d handle every stage of your lives; agonised over choices that are entirely theoretical. I can’t help it. I’m always going to be your Mum on the inside.
This year I will be spending your day doing something joyful. It came about purely by chance. Pandemic rescheduling dropped an activity unexpectedly. It feels strange. It’s not a thing I would have planned, but I think it is good. I’m trying to see it as a celebration of you. Of the tiny amount of time we had & all the wonderful that could have been. I know you would have given me so much to rejoice in.
I’ve been fairly quiet on the blog front. Clearly we’re all under some pressure, but I’ve also been dealing with some bonus pain. I’ve had episodes of awful symptoms which signal that my pancreas may be acting up again. It’s been a while since I’ve had to deal with pancreatitis and I am scared of a comeback.
The pain triggered some really desperate memories. It also gave me lots of time to ruminate on how PTSD never stops giving me unpleasant surprises. The nature, frequency & severity of my reaction to trauma stimuli is forever changing. In my (also unending) quest to de stigmatise mental illness I thought some recent triggers might be worth sharing.
Waking up in the middle of the night to pee is not a thing that I do except during pregnancy. I’m a hold ‘til morning girl. The frustrating sensation of leaving a comfy bed & stumbling to the toilet in the dark is one I associate with pregnancy. Sitting on the toilet half awake looking at my painted toes I had the trauma version of de javu. My body remembers this. The exact emotion. The precise thoughts. I’m ok, but I know I won’t be getting anymore sleep. I’ll be distracting my head from going back there. Lying still in the dark would be asking to feel things I don’t want to feel.
Sometimes to occupy my mind through those sleepless hours I watch crap tv. Ideally something I don’t have to concentrate on. Mildly entertaining 90’s sitcoms work a treat. That is until the wife in King of Queens is unexpectedly pregnant & then just as they’re getting happy about it, not pregnant anymore. Numb viewing to uncontrollable sobbing in 20mins or less.
A fun park adventure with the rascal is momentarily derailed when someone calls me his Mummy. I smile, correct them & return to my role of bad octopus pirate. I feel the impact, but I look steady. Until much later when the memory of all the babies who’ll never call me Mummy knocks me flat.
I wake up bloody because my period has started in the night. I’m not inconvenienced I’m terrified. Those cramps ripping through my pelvic region signal disaster. It takes a bit of time to centre myself in the now. Repeat, ‘I’m ok’ over and over as I drag myself through a shower. Tampon, comfy clothes, paracetamol. I’m almost calm by the time I return to tackle the bedding. I’m genuinely shocked when the sight of blood on sheets sets me trembling. I was devoting all my attention to not getting sucked into one trauma hole that I forgot about another. I have to sit on the floor but I’m still watching an old iteration of myself. Younger, sicker me is ripping bloody sheets from an entirely different bed. More than the sheets are stained. My body is raw & dripping. I feel as exhausted now, in my healed, safe body as I did then in that recklessly butchered one.
My stupid period tracker with its stupid unwanted alerts. High chance of pregnancy. Such a simple sentence triggers such complex crazy. The stress and hope of trying. The heartbreak of failing. The unwanted reminder of how few of these high chance days may be left. Fleeting recollections of disappointing perfunctory sex and an even more disappointing man. Wearily buying tests. Angrily buying tampons. Wanting the monthly reminder to be over and fearing that end. Wrap it all up in a hollow ache in my middle that never leaves, but echoes as I read those words and you have my condition.
My ridiculous cat managed to injure his paw and now I must try to keep dressings on until it is healed. If you know anything about cats, you’ll know what a challenge this is. I have experimented with various ideas none of which preserved his dressings for long. I started thinking he needs a sock & then remembered I had some baby socks. They must have belonged to one of my nieces or nephews. Baby bits and pieces will end up in your hand bag/pocket after a day of auntying. I seized upon the long lost sock as the solution. I didn’t feel sad or even link the tiny item to anything painful until I started trying to put it on my cat. Then from nowhere I was flooded with too many feelings. I love my boy, he’s wonderful. Still, I couldn’t avoid the fact that he’s the sole recipient of my mothering.
A character in the book I’m reading is trying, with difficulty, to explain why she feels guilty for various past events. I feel as though I have taken a deep breath & inhaled fictional strife. My own twisted guilt is equally hard to comprehend. For me, self reproach is as essential as oxygen. The chord of perplexing guilt could catapult me into a multitude of memories. This time I land flailing in the aftermath of standing up for myself. I can feel the certainty that so recently fizzed go flat. That overwhelming sense of this must somehow be my fault returns. I feel angry about all the shit I put up with, but I still can’t fully convince myself I’m not to blame. Now I’m full of guilt for events long passed. Today is ruined as I attempt to untangle things that never made sense to begin with.
Triggers lurk. Sometimes entirely unexpected things stir up pain. It can be fleeting or set off a chain reaction. I have adapted to a life with booby traps. I often appear untouched, but only because I work so incredibly hard at hiding the mess.
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Today would be your 20th birthday. I’ve had the time it would have taken for you to become a man & still the wound is raw. It seems that a certain amount of pain will always be part of being an invisible Mum. I miss you and all your siblings. Even though I never got to make real memories, I hold our phantom family in my imagination.
My life will always be less for your absence, but I’d never forgo the time that I carried you. You will forever be the very best part of me.
Autumn has always been my favourite season. The drawing in of the nights & cooling of the air used to be welcome. These days this time of year is more complicated.
All of my babies were due in August or September. As the weather changes I am beset with anniversaries and reminders. People who were pregnant with me throw birthday parties. I quietly mark dates I had hoped to celebrate.
This year my orbit is congested with pregnancy announcements creating a perfect storm of emotion. All are depressingly familiar. I’m sad and lost. I don’t know how to find a purpose big enough to fill up my life. Each time I begin to believe I’m approaching acceptance I’m overtaken with this stale grief.
It’s so heavy and I’m so tired of dragging it around. I want to be able to move past this, but there are too many ghosts. A million tiny pricks. Triggers lurk everywhere; always something to yearn for. Even in my happiest moments I’m aware of what’s missing.
I can’t comprehend ever making this ok. Yet, I don’t wan’t to be this tragic old bitch. I’d like to stick all my consolation prizes together & collage myself a happy enough ending. I’m scared I’m not sufficiently good/strong/grateful to make do & mend.
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Something in the way she moves... 
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