To the Mother who has Lost – on Mother’s Day

Three years ago it was my first Mother’s Day. And by that I mean the first Mother’s Day since I had carried a child inside me. I didn’t look like a mother. I didn’t have a child in my arms. I didn’t even have a child in my belly. The world didn’t think I was a mother. But I wanted to be a mother so bad. I wanted to join what felt like a special club that I wasn’t in.

On this day, I found myself in church. I wondered what my church was going to do for Mothers Day. They tend to make a big deal of honoring the mothers in the church. The year before they had given them all gifts. But this time, they said they also wanted to honor those who Mother’s Day was difficult for – those facing infertility, miscarriage, infant loss, the death of a child or their mother. It was us who the church wanted to pray for. The ones who are nearly always forgotten on the day of floral arrangements and handmade crafts and lunches with mum. It was like they were speaking right into my heart. How did they know?

You see, that was the first Mother’s Day since I had lost a pregnancy at 12 weeks (more on that here). Everyone had moved on from this little incident, but I had not forgotten. Mothers don’t forget. We hold all our children in our hearts, whether they are here or not.

I was recently reading a book by a mum who lost her infant baby. She describes her first Mother’s Day in church, when all the mums were asked to stand for prayer. She records her conundrum writing, ‘Do I stand up? Do I sit?’ It reminded me of the confusion and grief that Mother’s Day brings to so many women. Those who were a mum, who wanted to be, who almost were, or are trying to be.

After I miscarried, I suddenly heard of so many others who had. I joined a group of women, that no one wants to be part of. I became the one others would whisper to in the workplace kitchen - telling me that last week they were pregnant and now they are not. And my heart broke every single time, because I knew the emptiness they felt, the enormity of their heartache, the loneliness of the grief that only a mother’s heart can feel. Because I had told people when we lost our baby, it gave others permission to tell me. And now I realise the world is missing so many babies.

That first Mother’s Day was a trigger for me. It was a reminder that I was supposed to be celebrating my first Mother’s Day, but that I had nothing to celebrate. I didn’t feel that I could consider myself a mum. The day showed me that because I didn’t have a baby on my hip my baby didn’t exist. Mother’s Day was not for me. Not that year. Not until I became a ‘real’ mum.

The prayer at church acknowledged that I was a mum, that this day was also about me. It gave me permission to grieve on this day. It reminded the congregation that, when there is a lot to celebrate there is also often a lot of pain. I appreciated this prayer so much.

I know many have lost much more than I have. Some will have had multiple losses, some an early loss, some a baby or child who had been born, some will be waiting, some will be experiencing this day for the first time, some will have living children as well, some will be celebrating, some will be grieving, some will do both.

My message to mums facing this, is as simple as the message I so wanted to hear – Your child is important. Just because he / she isn’t here, doesn’t mean that he / she is not your child and doesn’t exist. And you didn’t stop being a mother the day your child went to heaven. Mother’s Day, even if it brings you tears, even if no-one buys you flowers, is for you too.

Sometimes (actually, almost all the time) as women we have to take responsibility for looking after ourselves. Though it would be wonderful for others to remember the life you carried and acknowledge it on this day they most likely will not. My only advice would be to take some time to do whatever it is that you need, that makes you feel good. For me, that thing has always been writing. For you, it might be buying the flower that reminds you of your baby, it might be a special prayer, a walk in the bush with your partner. Give yourself that. You most definitely are a mother, and Mother's Day is for you too. 

Always Our First - The Loss

In 2013 we lost our first child at 12 weeks. It was traumatic and painful. I'd had an awful first trimester, full of sickness. I made it to 12 weeks and thought that we were safe. That night I started bleeding, and bled until our little angel was gone. The emptiness that followed was immense, it was a grief for a life that the world didn't know about, a deeply personal loss and a lonely journey. We believed our baby was a girl, so we planted a flower in her honour and named her Angel. We held a memorial service with a few close family members, but I never felt we did enough to acknowledge the life. This is a piece I wrote on the anniversary of our greatest loss.

Tomorrow marks a year since you left the warm safety of inside me and went to live eternally in the safest place there is. A place where no one can harm or hurt you, where there is only love. I did not wish for you to make it there before me.

I always wonder what you look like, what your little personality is like, if you are a great singer, or as stubborn as me.

I can't wait to meet you, and when I do I know I will know you, my heart already knows you, for you are really part of me.

I will hold both your hands and swing you round in circles, you will giggle, your curls will fly everywhere. Then I will pick you up and hold you close and never let you go.

I always wonder - will you be forever young? Or will you grow up in heaven's glory? When I meet you will your shoes be bigger than mine? And what will you be like? What language will you speak? Will you speak at all? Or will the language be the language of the heart? The silent knowing of holding someone you have missed for a lifetime.

From the moment you were created, while you hid in the darkness of my womb, I didn't know you were there, but I loved you.

My child, you must know that you are loved, more than words can ever say. You must know that I carry you. And that ever since that moment of the tiniest of miracles I have felt I am a mother and that you are very real.

You are my first and my only, my precious little gift, my hidden pain.

No one else saw you, and yet I felt you, through every vein in my body, closer than is possible for anyone else to be.

And as I felt you, tired and sick as I was, I knew that this was just the start of all the times that I would give myself up for you, of all the tears I would cry over and over for you, of everything I was willing to give. And I knew you would be worth it, without question, every little bit.

You were my greatest joy and my greatest pain was to lose you. To lie there and bleed, to plead with God to keep you, my cherish child, to know exactly what was happening, but be completely powerless to stop it.

The world doesn't know you, you hid yourself so well. You have a little soul, a purpose and a personality. Until we meet again I can only imagine your face but I see a shining smile.

You would be nearly six months old now if you were living in this world. You would be my pride and joy. Instead I also hide you, because I don't know how not to.

I want to acknowledge you, so the world knows you are real. And yet I can't because to the world you never were.

I still feel empty without you, alone in my love and grief.

I am your mother and one day we will finally meet. And until that day I'll imagine you, and I'll think of you and I'll pray that you are safe.

And when I meet you, you will sing to me and we will dance and play together and I will never let you go.

My precious child.

Mummy has not forgotten. xxx