Breaking the Barriers

The self preservation society

I unfollowed some of you on Facebook, I avoided certain social situations, I didn’t push myself to make others happy, I avoided babies at all costs and looking back, I’m not sorry. I was at the time, I felt terrible for letting others down, I felt angry at myself for the jealousy that ate away inside me, and I felt weak for not being able to summon the strength to gather myself together. I had to shut down to preserve what was left of my broken heart, I had to look after myself, so I could try to rebuild and function again (even for the moment if it was at the most basic level).

I just couldn’t do it, I couldn’t watch the happy countdown of other people’s pregnancies, when all that remained of mine was an empty hole where Arlo should be growing and arms that ached for my baby. I couldn’t watch other people’s happiness because it broke me to think I’d never feel that way again.

It was just incredibly unfair that other people’s lives were moving on, they had so many things to look forward to. They were able to laugh and smile and look forward to their future. For them everything seemed to fall into place, while for me everything was falling apart. Exhausted, I continued to run on the treadmill of grief, with one hand I was juggling lots of balls at the same time; my emotions, everyday jobs, worrying about Alfie, worrying about Day, missing Arlo, to name but a few. With my other hand I was trying to unpick a giant ball of knotted string that had overtaken my brain to try to get to the bottom of why this happened to us, why this happened to Arlo, had I done something wrong? Was it genetic? Would it happen again if we had another baby?

I was on my knees. I’ve talked about the pendulum of grief, it truly does exist. I was off work, with no baby to care for and I simply couldn’t get everyday tasks done. I felt like my ‘to do list’ was consuming me, my head was full of confusion, my heart was empty and I just couldn’t cope. I felt I was sinking deeper and deeper every single day. On the rare occasion I summoned a smile I felt guilty for it, I felt I was betraying Arlo because I allowed myself that moment of involuntary happiness. I felt like others would judge me for those moments of happiness because of their preconceived idea of what grief looks like.

Although it was an extremely difficult time, that treadmill was my lifeline. It kept me moving, okay, I wasn’t moving forward, but I was upright. It was excruciatingly difficult, but I had things I had to do. I had to be there for Alfie, I had to wash his clothes, cook his tea, pack his lunch, take him to clubs, tuck him up in bed, give him cuddles, support him and above all else I had to be his mum. I had to feed the dopey, loveable dog and take him for walks. I had to feed the angry, princess cat, only for her to completely ignore me for ‘abandoning her’ in return. I had to be there for Day and I had to let him be there for me. I had to let him take me on all the pointless errands he had us running to keep busy and get out of the house. Pointless as they may have been, they gave us a purpose.

I’ve never really understood the phrase ‘aching arms’ but now I did. To begin with I felt like I was swallowed up by the need to have a baby. Every fibre of me was screaming to be pregnant or have a baby in my arms, that mother’s instinct was so strong. It was also lost, confused and misplaced. Without Arlo I was so lost, so confused and I battled so hard with that misplaced mothering instinct. When I went for my 6 week check at the doctors, one of my questions was how soon it was until we could try again. I already knew the answer, it was a year- minimum because I’d had a c-section, but I just hoped she’d tell me it would be sooner. She didn’t. And I sobbed all the way home because that felt like a lifetime away and I felt like I was betraying Arlo, that by wanting another baby I was replacing him. I felt like the worst mother in the world. I had Alfie, and he was still my baby, but he wasn’t a baby anymore. It was a horrible, dark time and that’s where the mundane everyday distractions saved me from wallowing and sinking into the quicksand that threatened to overpower me.

So many people were due around the same time as me, and it completely broke me. Friends of ours had their baby and I wanted to visit, but I just couldn’t. Eventually we plucked up the courage, I’d played that monumental moment of holding their baby over and over in my head. I just thought I’d hold her and sob, I felt like it needed to happen. (But would I really want someone to snivel and sob all over my new baby? Probably not.) Or maybe I just needed to play that moment out in my head, so I could be okay when the time came and let the joy of holding a bundle of joy overcome me. Thankfully for me, they weren’t in. I know that sounds so horrible and so unbelievably selfish, but I was glad to put off confronting a baby for another day. I was able to relax and face this later, the guards that I’d put up were washed away the tide of relief. ‘Confronting a baby’ is a strange phrase, but that’s how I felt. It was like facing my biggest fear every time I saw a baby and I hated feeling that way. I used to love babies. Nothing like cuddling a newborn, their warmth and dependency, their fresh new smell and overwhelming wave of positivity. A new bud so delicate and pure, yet fortified with powerful possibility and potential. I loved babies and I loved baby cuddles, but the loss of Arlo changed me. I was no longer that person. Now babies were something I had to face, rather than look forward to. I couldn’t look at them and I would zone them out to protect my fragile heart. It was the most awful way to feel, but if I saw a baby I would freeze with shock. I don’t know why I reacted like that, but it was instinct and I couldn’t help it. Because this reaction was involuntary, I had no choice, yet now I realise it was an important part of grieving and I was simply protecting myself.

I was so lucky to have amazing friends and family. I know I’ve said that over and over again, but it’s true, I don’t know where I would be without them.

Being my friend at this time was a rollercoaster to say the least, but I’m so glad my friends stayed along and rode it with me. One night some of us had a girls night in at a friends house. We ate and drank, a film played merrily in the background as we chatted, laughed and cried over it. They let me talk, they let me talk openly about Arlo and our journey. I’m sure I talked and talked and talked, then I paused for a brief moment and realised we were all crying and so was I. They were truly along with me for the ride and I was incredibly lucky that they acknowledged Arlo and let me be however I need to be. Later on that night we cried again, this time with uncontrollable laughter. They didn’t expect me to be any certain way, they just took me as I was and let me be who I needed to be and feel how I needed to feel at that moment in time. Nothing was forced, every emotion was natural, and that definitely made it easier.

There were many, many things I didn’t attend. I was invited me out for a meal, but I looked at who was going and I just couldn’t do it. There were people I didn’t know and I didn’t have the strength to play either of my ‘parts.’ I couldn’t play ‘the mum who lost her baby’ because it still requires a huge amount of strength to be her, I’d have to talk about our journey and at the time I just couldn’t do it. The other option was to paint on a happy face and laugh and smile along with the rest of them, pretending I was okay. At that time I couldn’t do either. So I just declined and I didn’t even have the energy to explain why.

Other friends changed arrangements for me, because on that day I felt strong enough to ask them if we could meet at a quieter venue. The suggested place would be busy at that time due to the Christmas light switch on and I couldn’t face bumping into the world and his wife and having the same conversation over and over and over. If I had Day by my side I’d have been stronger, but I couldn’t face these conversations alone. I just wanted to surround myself with those I felt ‘safe’ with. Once they understood, they gladly changed for me.

Over the course of the next few moths friends booked an action packed girls weekend away the following year, which included the worlds fastest zip line, white water rafting and Prosecco in a hot-tub. They sorted everything for this trip, I just handed over what I owed, packed a bag and they sorted the rest. I couldn’t decided what to cook for tea, let alone which hotel to stay in! It gave me a little glimmer of looking forward to something, showing me I could still enjoy things.

A friend arrived at my house one day with an unexpected bunch of flowers. A sight I was so used to seeing, yet this one caught me off guard. The card wasn’t one of condolences, it was one of celebration. She was asking me to do the great honour of ‘holding her dress while she peed!’ She was asking me to be her bridesmaid! I was absolutely over the moon, I couldn’t have been more honoured.

With great excitement, one Saturday we went dress shopping for my friend’s wedding dress. It was my first meeting with the other bridesmaids. I was looking forward to a day of chatting, with all focus being on the upcoming wedding, and seeing my friend say ‘yes to the dress.’ However, I was shocked to see that one of the other bridesmaids had brought her baby with her. I wasn’t expecting this and it caught me totally off-guard, my heckles instantly up and so were my defences, I instantly threw myself into the trench for cover. I spent the next couple of hours with my blinkers on, completely ignoring the baby. We sipped Prosecco and I focussed solely on my friend, she looked wonderful in every single dress she tried on, but man, she was fussy! (Sorry, Claire!) I stood up to go to the toilet, and I edged my way past the baby, completely ignoring her. Just as I passed I felt something grab my finger. I glanced down and found two of the biggest, bluest, most inquisitive eyes I’ve seen. She glared up at me, staring straight into my soul. My frozen heart thawed, how could I have been so bitter? She wasn’t just ‘a baby’ she was an innocent little person, who I had been coldly ignoring. I found my eyes softening and a small smile tickled the corners of my lips, just as I couldn’t help the defences I’d put up, I couldn’t help smiling at the little face that broke them down.In reply she flashed me the most beautiful grin. My thawing heart melted completely. The most beautiful, natural moment.

That moment helped me realise that it wasn’t a baby’s fault Arlo had died and neither was it their fault for existing. And by putting my defences up I was protecting myself, yes, but I wasn’t being true to the person I always had been, and those barriers had served their purpose. I had been preserving my fragile heart by angrily squeezing my armour tightly around me, constantly on the look out for something that might sting. It might sting, but I couldn’t do any more damage. It actually was doing me more damage fighting the internal war, the person I was before Arlo vs the person I had become. This was the moment my heart broke through the constraints and I allowed myself to feel, just a little bit, once again.

I’m so glad for this moment, I’m so glad for the things that happened naturally. I felt like I should be forcing myself to push through, to just get there. (I don’t know where ‘there’ was. Maybe it was just to feel better.) Now realise that these things happening naturally was truly a blessing and I’m so grateful for these poignant healing moments in Arlo’s story. I’m glad that they weren’t forced or false, because I think that would have had an adverse reaction.

The next time we met for my friend to try on dresses, I held the baby. If you’ve lost a baby you will know that that is a monumental moment. And I was okay. I held her in my arms, and I was okay.