Hi All,

Sophia here. I am new to Glow in the Woods, and I am glad that I have found you all. I am the proud mother of 3 girls, one of whom (Salome) died 7 months ago aged 3 days of an e coli infection and other complications. Like many of you good folk here I have been keeping my own blog, but recently something has shifted in the responses I have been getting to my blog. It's like I crossed some invisible line at the 6-month-post-death mark, and I now find myself with a lot less offers of support or expressions of concern. Despite a lot of talk in mainstream culture about grief being it's own process and running on it's own time, where I am from even the death of a son or daughter gets you a certain allocation of sympathy and that has run out for me abruptly at 6 months. I seem to have used up all my Consolation and Support Tokens, and I feel like my Grieving Status has been revoked.

I admit I contribute to this, because somehow along the way I have got invested in presenting myself as 'doing well' in this grief. Yep, lots of people would give me an A + in grieving the death of my daughter, and we all know how useful THAT is! Ironically I am finding this 7th month very hard. It's not so much the sharp pain of missing my daughter (of course that comes and goes) but at the moment I am really fed up with this grief. This grieving just goes ON and ON and ON!!! I am fed up with having no energy, with feeling socially awkward, with having reduced confidence, with having to meter out whatever emotional energy I expend on anything, with feeling sad one minute and angry the next and all at 27 out of 10 intensity. I am fed up with my sex life being difficult, with seeing my other daughters grieving, with seeing my husband so distressed. I am fed up with juggling my own counselling appointments, our marriage counselling appointments, and my physio appointments to recover from the the birth of my precious baby who I never got to know. That's how almost-7-months feels to me, fed up and isolating.

One thing that helps is that I buy myself good flowers. You know how after the death, all the flowers get delivered? Our house was like a florists. But it was the middle of summer here when Salome died, and the pretty flowers died quickly too. I have decided to keep good fresh flowers in our house for at least 1 year. There are so few perks to this sort of awful grief, and I think fresh flowers are one of them. Seeing the flowers in our home reminds me that at least here in this house, Salome's death and the grief that has followed is not past tense. I am proud of how I have kept putting one foot in front of the other over the past 7 months, and how we have all kept our head above water emotionally. But I am also trying to stop being complicit in other people's mistaken view that i am 'doing fine'. It's hard work.

i'm in work sophia and shouldn't be on here, but i just wanted to say that i am so, so bored of grieving and crying and having to ask people whether there will be pregnant women at their events and not go to them if there are and it's so, so frustrating.

i'm sorry you lost your baby girl. you'll never run out of tokens on here, i promise.

Sophia, I could've written your post myself. I, too, lost my third daughter. I have struggled with all of the feelings you describe. About 2 weeks ago (at 9 months out) I had a break down with my husband. I sobbed about how no one cares anymore, how everyone has forgotten (or doesn't want to think about) our loss. Yes, I have also been a model griever. I have gone out of my way to make things as easy as possible as for everyone. I've been cheerful and calm and shut up about my lost daughter-- all to make everyone else comfortable. I sense that people are relieved... relieved that they can pretend that I am okay so they don't have to be bothered to console me.

9 months later I have come to almost accept that I am alone in this. This is it. I have my close family that understands and I just have to be grateful for that. Everyone else is not part of this process at this point. (To be honest, very few people were in the first place. As opposed to you, Sophia, we didn't even receive many bouquets and I have several friends just drop off the face of the earth).

It is hard to grasp that this process goes on and that I will feel this grief for the rest of my life. Having this place to come to helps. Immensely. At least I don't feel alone here. I am glad that you've found this place, too, Sophia. You'll never be alone here. We'll remember Salome with you and we'll cry for her loss with you.

And I love the fact that you have surrounded yourself with flowers. What a beautiful reminder of your daughter.

Sophia,

Let me just say how sorry I am that you are here and without Salome. Life is so cruel. Truly. But I am so glad that you found Glow in the Woods and that you are part of this community. We are sad that we met you this way, but we are also grateful to meet you. You are always welcome here and we will remember Salome. Always.

I have to say that I felt exactly the way you did at six months. Many many friends dropped off the radar, though to be honest, like Steph, we had few there to begin with. No casseroles or tokens. But still at six months, I felt like I had used up all my grieving credits with them. My bitterness and sadness and anger felt so overwhelming to me. I would be on my ass, but functioning enough to go through the motions of life, and people wanted me to start being back to myself--something that still has never happened. I don't know how else to put it than to say that everyone felt impatient, including me. It was terrible, because at that point, the real weight of grief landed on my body and in my bones. I felt heavy and sad all the time. Disinterested in sex. Disinterested in making chitchat or playing nice. I really understood what it was like to live without my daughter. And new ways of missing her occurred to me everyday. In the same way as others describe, my early grief was much more palatable to others. Maybe because I just was so tender and vulnerable, that by dint of me appearing in public, I seemed strong.

I wish I had some magic words on how we get through this, but I know for me, grief has been up and down. Feeling like this, then feeling okay a little stronger, than feeling like this again. Sometimes I picture time as quick sand and simply moving through this weighty mess. Move through time. I don't know if it helps to hear this, but I read once that active grief lasts after the loss of a child for two years.

And the flowers, well, that sounds absolutely amazing and lovely. Sending you love, and wishing to send you flowers too. xo

'Seeing the flowers in our home reminds me that at least here in this house, Salome's death and the grief that has followed is not past tense.'

Such a beautiful and heartbreaking sentence. I don't believe that the death of my daughter will ever, completely, reside in the past. Because it hurt too much.

It is hard work. I'm sorry it is the sort of work you find yourself having to attempt. It does go on and on, unrelentingly and unseen. You will always find tokens here. x

i just reread your post and saw what you put about wanting to 'do well' in your grief. i did that too. i'd love to know why we often choose to do that. what good does it do us? if anything, it seems self-sabotaging (because we'll receive less support if we don't let people know what we need it) - and yet we continue to put a good face on it and pretend our grief is socially acceptable.

how are you doing today?

I love that you have fresh flowers in your home to remember Salome by, Sophia. After 3 or 4 weeks we stopped receiving cards and flowers and it was very hard to get up in the morning knowing there would be nothing in the mail, but hospital bills and notices from the insurance company. As others before me have said, you can always come here, and we will always remember Salome with you.

I'm doing a little better this week B, thanks for asking. I think it's an interesting question about "doing well" with the grief. For me, I am afraid it's an ego thing partly. My partner and I have a reasonable amount of experience in writing and organising rituals, and so when it came to our daughter's funeral I wanted it to be Just Right. Luckily we had a fantastic celebrant who managed me very well in those early days. She gently put some boundaries in for me, and the funeral was much better for it. She was absolutely right: 5 days after our daughter's death I was in no state to be organising myself a cup of tea, let alone a liturgy. Later on, I think my 'doing well' at the grief thing was more about about how I am affected by being close to other people's distress. There have been some points when it has been fantastic to have a friend sit next to me and start crying because she is so sad and angry that our baby died. But sometimes other people's distress is jarring, like a loud flashing siren that I can't turn off. It annoys me. I guess I tend to sense people's discomfort at being around me and i find their discomfit draining and I try to put them at ease by either putting the visible parts of my grief back in a box, or by trying to draw them into some sort of interaction where they will feel more comfortable being around me. This can be draining. I don't do this because I think it's my role to make them OK. I think I do it because it is easier for me if I can turn the loud flashing siren off. And also I have a bit of a people pleaser / helper streak, and when I am stressed it is harder to keep this on a short leash.

After Hunter died my husbands 4 siblings got together and bought us a Peace Lilly. As beautiful as it was all I could think of when I looked at it was that the reason we have it is because Hunter died. After a week of giving this plant a sideways glance every time I passed it I said to Gary - I wish that F-ing plant would just die. The next day it was dead. Strange but true. It turned brown and had wilted to the floor. Maybe Gary poured Javex in it - if so - thank you Gary.

I feel your pain. At six months out it really bothers me that no one sends anything or does anything or even says my daughter's name. I've read that people are often unsure if they can bring it up so I mention Stella as often as I can but no one seems to notice. Now that's we're expecting again I often feel like people are relieved that they can talk to us about a living baby and not a dead one. No one understand how they're linked.

I do have a suggestion. Another amazing baby loss mom, Nicole, started a group for BLMs who submit their names and addresses and you can go online and pick out someone to send a card to just to say you're thinking of them. I received one of these cards out of the blue a couple weeks ago. It really helped me to look outside myself and realize someone does think of Stella, even a complete stranger! The very next day I bought two cards, one to thank the woman who sent me a card and another one to send to a mom from the list. You can see her blog here: http://myaverynicole.blogspot.com/2010/07/attention-baby-loss-mamas.html.

And you'll always find support here. Salome will be remembered.

This is my life now.

How ironic, that this post, made not even a month after Colin died, while the grief was still fresh (and, if nothing else, was expected and more understandable to myself and others), is only NOW, months later, accurate for me.... but was accurate for alll of you at the time when it was fresh for others... I feel like there is some crazy time warp, from the time grief "made sense" and to now, almost 6 months out. A time hiccup. We are all, in every moment, in a different state of grieving. I guess the really sad part is, The truth that comes of that is that losses happen all the time, and we never really completely recoup. ever.

I hate this life. I hate the "loss life." I am tired of avoiding babies and pregnancy. I am tired of hurting. Most of all, I am tired of missing Colin. If i accept that he is not here, then I make his death acceptable. and its not. I will NEVER be ok that my firstborn son is dead.

and, as you all know, no one seems to care any longer. Others do not want to see us sad anymore, so they encourage us to "move on", to buck up and be cheery for awhile because our sadness bothers them. Grief isn't really compatible with friendship, is it? it is lonely and miserable and, apparently "selfish". How strange that however self-centered some say grief is, we are grieving for another person- one of the few people in life who really matter- our children. So here I am- lonely because I have isolated myself... because I don't want to be a part of a world that doesnt have my son in it.

I so yearn for peace. I want some kind of closure, some ending, some comforting life lesson to arise from all of this that wold at least give me a sense that I could live with this, like the end of a movie. Of course, as all of you know, it doesn't come. (or, if it has for you, Clue me in please!) Perhaps if I finally lost weight I would somehow validate Colin's life-- I have been obese my entire life and my weight did not necessarily cause his death but I'm sure it didn't help it either. I developed severe pre-eclampisa at 23 weeks gestation and we both were showing signs of distress so I had an emergency c-section. He was here for a week.

That week. July 30 to August 7. I can't imagine getting to that one year mark.

But now, here I am. 5 1/2 months since his week. I am miserable in a different way than I was back then. Now I'm just worthless. Unemployed, childless and incredibly socially awkward. With memories of the tiniest man I have ever known who was never meant to be.

For now, I will take the inch of energy I have to end this post with the tiniest bit of hope i can muster- that our babies were here at all. Whether we had them for 5 weeks, 12 weeks, 5 months, 9 months... we had them. It doesn't make it ok that they are gone. But we had them in our bodies and we loved them, and If I can never have children again for some reason or another I would have rather have had Colin and lost him than have never had him at all. Whether no one else will remember him, I will and my husband will. I will carry his heart with me (as the e. e. cummings poem says, I will carry his heart with mine.)

And, I can remember that others, like you beautiful people, have the same forever hurt in your hearts. I will remember Salome and Hunter and Stella and your sons and daughters because they are all, in my mind, friends with Colin- They were here.

This is where I am today.

How are you? Where are you today?

Hi Roxanne--I, too, have a problem with this idea of "accepting" what happened. I loathe the idea of accepting the death of my baby. It is completely UNacceptable to me. I read somewhere on this site that, rather than accepting what happened, we work through grief so that we can learn to accommodate the loss. This make more sense to me. I will never fully accept it--I can't. But I will learn to accommodate it. I know that this means I will have to make painful adjustments and part of that may mean old friends falling away and new support systems (like this one) falling into place. Accommodating it will be difficult and agonizing and never will it ever truly be ok. It will never be acceptable that Eliza died but I hope I can get to the point where I can separate my grief in losing her from my joy of having had her at all. Then maybe sometimes I'll be able to remember her and just focus on the joyful parts.

Wow. Roxanne and Brooke, I just stumbled back on this post today and I am so glad I did, seeing as you have both written on it so recently. Thank you for asking where I am at now.

I can tell you I am not in that place now. Although it is still a force to be reconned with, the grief takes up less of my soul, less of my energy, and less of my day. My head is now largely subsumed with my current pregnancy (24 weeks). I still feel alone with my grief for Salome, probably even more alone than before. It still shits me off when people don't want to talk about our situation, but I guess people have demonstrated a lack of willingness to talk about it so often now that I am no longer surprised. It still hurts though.

Next week is the first anniversary of our daughter's birth and death. I am worried about that, and my worry is showing up as increased anxiety about this current pregnancy. This current pregnnancy is high risk anyway, due to the ongoing presence of e coli bacteria that killed Salome. No-one wants to hear that, no-one wants to know about how hard and scarey that is for my husband and I, and that still hurts. We are the only people who seem able to accept that this Little One I am carrying could die from e coli as well, and that this pregnancy is not a safe bet. The universe doesn't owe us a healthy baby, it doesn't work like that. There is no justice in who gets a healthy baby and who doesn't.

A friend invited me to a party the night before the anniversay of our daughter's death (complete with semi-naked waiters). She doesn’t mean any harm by doing that, but there is just no way I would consider attending.

It's been really hot here, and with other commitments etc it's hard for me to get to the cemetary. And that bugs me. It bugs me that people don't understand why I want to go. Tomorrow i will go at 5.30 am because I refuse to let another day go by without me going there.

I guess I continue to feel very fragile, but I am better at disguising it. I think that enables me to get out and about more and be with people more, which for me has a healing effect in and of itself.

Actually what I'm writing here is not an accurate depiction of how I am generally. This approaching first anniversary has me more distressed than usual. Generally speaking, there are moments of genuine joy in my life now. I laugh much often than I did at 7 months. My capacity to get stuff done is still low, but that's due to grief + high risk pregnancy + nausea.

Overall the grief stuff is NOT as hard for me now as it was at 7 months. So much of what you both beautifully wrote above sounds familar to me, especially the social awkwardness. I also had a sense of almost wanting to hold onto the sadness-aspect of my grief because I didn't want to let the universe off the hook. As if the life of my precious daughter was optional. As if me shifting in my grief ment that I thought it was Ok that she was dead. That still rears it's head every now and then. Who wrote that fantastic poem about a loved one being dead and wanting to order the whole world to stop the clocks?

Roxanne and Brooke, whatever scraps of peace I come across these days (never by design, always transient moments i come across by accident) i wish I could divy them up and share them with you. Where you are so fucking hard, it's such hard slog to press through each day. I'm thinking of you both anyway.