Unintentional Poet

Those among you kind enough to have stuck with reading my blog over the years, will know that I like to write something, every year, to commemorate the birthday of Grace, our tiny girl, who didn't make it into this world, as she should have done. You can read previous years' posts here , here , here  and here if you want to! This year, I've experimented with a different form of writing, not with the aim of eliciting sympathy from everyone who reads, but more to show the long term impact of this sort of loss. I think those of us who have lost babies can sometimes minimise our own pain, playing it down, because we never really 'met' our babies, or knew them. But the trauma is real and the pain long-lasting. Everything I've written is real and true, although I've framed it in the form of a story. I hope it provides a bit of an insight into the long journey to healing that baby loss involves.   Nine years on, it's different again. I'm grateful

This year, I had the privilege of contributing a piece to a fantastic collection of pieces of writing about Advent and Christmas, published by the Association of Christian Writers .  It is an impressive collection, with over eighty contributors of pieces that range from reflections to stories and poems.  If you want to get yourself in a Christmassy mood, it's not too late to buy a copy on Kindle - follow this link to find out more! Here is what I contributed: Light of the World     Christmas doesn’t always deliver what the big-budget advertisements promise – wholeness, togetherness, peace. Worse, if it delivers trauma, sadness and loss, it can be hard, in the years that follow, to raise any festive cheer at all. I swell the ranks of the Christmas trauma-sufferers; my baby was born, without life or breath, in the season of sparkly lights and festive joy. Then, and in the years that have followed, it has been hard to rekindle a love for this incongruent season, as

Christmas is stressful. There – I’ve said it!   I know there are some staunch Christmas lovers out there, who jump for joy when the merest touch of tinsel begins to adorn the shop displays, and for them, I am glad.   But, for many, it is a challenging season to face, one that demands levels of energy and jollity that sometimes feel impossible to summon. It can be especially hard if, like me, you’ve faced something hard over a Christmas past, or are facing something as you enter this one.   Singing and celebrating and socialising can sit uncomfortably beside the pain you are trying to process and live through.   It’s 9 years, now, since we lost our baby daughter, at 25 weeks of pregnancy, over the Christmas period.   I have learned a lot and come a long way since that first, traumatic Christmas, so I thought I would gather my thoughts and write a ‘things that have helped me’ blog post, in the hope that it might help others too and give them some ideas for things to help get them thro

Last year, she was still here – But the end had begun. Through March and April, We were numb with disbelief, Denial, fear – But clinging, always, to hope. Through May and June, We rode the ups and downs – Hospital trips, Macmillan visits, Temperature spikes – Good days and bad. Talk of a memory box Was too much to bear, For she did not want To imagine herself As a memory. We didn’t either. July and August Tricked us into thinking Time was on our side – Barbecues, days out, Impromptu coffees, the Race for Life – Hopes raised, Scan results good. But oh! September – How you sprung from nowhere, Punched us hard in the gut And stole that illusion from us! Oh, the speed, the downward spiral, The force with which You slammed us against the wall, Day after day, As you hurtled us closer To what was becoming Inevitable, Inescapable. And now, you’re here again, Promising to most, Open fires, warm jumpers,

Eight months ago, I wrote a post entitled ‘The Complexities of Grief,’ outlining how it felt to be three months into the grieving process for the loss of my sister, at 35, to cancer.   It has been my most-read post.   Whether natural curiosity, or a desire to find words that resonate with their own experiences, I’m not sure, but people, it seems, are drawn to honesty, openness, raw reality – as I am when I see it in others. So here is another attempt to snapshot life and grief, a bit further on.   Ten short months in, there is still much that trips and entangles, daily, as well as much to celebrate and be thankful for. People often ask how I am, how we all are, how we’re still standing, still going about the business of living after such a catastrophic loss.   I’m not sure that there is a straightforward answer, but if you linger with me a few minutes more, you might at least have a snapshot of how the grieving process looks now, for me. One writer recently described reme

My daughter was stillborn at 25 weeks of pregnancy, over the Christmas period, eight years ago. I find it so hard to commemorate her adequately, each year, amidst the bustle and chaos of the festive season. When I began to see a counsellor, two years ago, he suggested commemorating her at other times in the year, to help relieve the pressure to remember her well at Christmas - not  a season commensurate with stillness and reflection. Her 'due date', the 8th of April, seemed like a good time to do this. We all know that very few babies put in an appearance on their due date (one of mine hung on in for a full fourteen days extra, one was coaxed out at three days overdue), so this date can feel arbitrary, but gives me something to focus on, somewhere to hang my thoughts and my grief.  So today was the third time I purchased a balloon, the second attempt at releasing it (more on that in a minute).  In three years of trying this out, I've noticed some frustrating p

Easter Sunday; a strange thought this year. Celebrating the impermanence of death when it feels permanent and heavy right now to those of us left here, in her wake. Celebrating hope, light and victory when those things still feel a long way away on the hard days and the dark days, when grief wraps its bindweed more tightly. Celebrating a God for whom nothing is impossible, yet we did not see our impossible become possible. Joining in with dancing and joy when tears are more my currency. It's easier to face Good Friday. I can relate to a tortured and suffering saviour. He gets it. He's walking it with me. I dwell comfortably in Easter Saturday when hope lay dormant and sadness took hold. I belong with the exhausted disciples and the women overcome with emotion and grief. I'm not at all sure I am ready for Easter Sunday. Dancing, rejoicing, all-things-come-good. I will stand there one day, feeling it more convincingly.  But for now my life is Friday-Saturday

I have found Mothers' Day hard before, trying to hold in tension my gratitude for the beautiful children I have and my sadness for the one I didn't get to keep.  It is a day countless others find hard too.   This year feels like a whole new level of struggle is looming as I must face yet another difficult day, where my raw emotions will be dragged to the surface and shaken and beaten just a little more. It is six months since my sister passed away; Mothers' Day without her is another hard 'first'.  This time last year we had no idea our worlds were about to implode.  She was diagnosed a week later.  Writing this poem has helped me to face it better.  It is not a cry for pity or a judgment on those celebrating - just a pure reflection of my thoughts and emotions as I continue to walk this road of grief.  I hope it will make fellow strugglers feel less alone. Thanks for reading! Mothers' Day   Last year,  My sister took the early slot,  Taking flowers an