Category: General

This blog post is entitled lost because this is the closest word that we can think of to describe the way we have been feeling lately.

We are approaching the day we dread every year. Another marker on the calendar, another reminder of the passing of time. This year marks two years since we last saw and held Ivy.

I will never understand how time can feel both to have flown by and dragged simultaneously. How we can feel that our arms have been empty for so long that we almost can’t remember what that role of being an ‘active parent’ feels like. Yet at the same time, if you told us Ivy was in the room next door, then we would run to her instantly, pulling her towards us without a second thought. The power of our love for her, transcending her death.

Ivy’s life was short, her condition horribly cruel and yet most of the time I try not to think about these things. I remember the happiness she brought, that feeling of being a family, of long walks pushing her pram and the pride I felt that we had created this little human together. I guess I am trying to remember the positives.

But the truth is, this run up to the 10th May is difficult. It begins about Easter time when the change of the weather and the longer days start to trigger not only memories but also feelings. Two years ago, we went for an outpatient appointment as a family of 3 only to return a few weeks later as a duo. This is when it becomes challenging because I don’t want to revisit these memories, the conversations we had with medical staff, how Ivy began to need more and more support to feed and to breathe, the constant state of panic we lived in. But all of these memories are still within us, bubbling under the service.

So, we try to keep busy. My to do list is always full of things that need sorting. I wrote a whole range of different lists for different categories. One full of things that needed sorting for work, for the house, for the garden, for Ivy’s Gifts, for the new baby. I have a list of questions for the consultant and those tasks that don’t fall neatly into one of my previously stated categories. And if we are not sorting a job on there then we preoccupy ourselves with reading or writing or TV or online shopping or Active April or yoga or video games or whatever might distract us for long enough to not feel the pain that we are feeling.

I know this behaviour is not healthy and I know this is probably why we feel lost. We haven’t let ourselves process just how complex this time of year is. We haven’t given ourselves time to understand the complexities of expecting a new baby at a very similar time to the anniversary of losing our first born. And I know this because it’s creeping up on us. Mike and I are quiet. Not sulking but distant, like our minds are elsewhere. We are finding it hard to concentrate. We are easily distracted. We randomly cry and don’t understand what we are crying for. We picture walking those corridors in the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxford, the rooms we stayed in, the nurses we began to know. I know he is hurting, and I hate that I can’t fix it!

In the lead up to Ivy’s passing, when we ‘lived’ in the hospital, I was very aware that we had lost all sense of normality. I remember crying in the Marks and Spencer’s cafe, Ivy’s Babygro over my shoulder as I tried to eat a toasted tea cake for breakfast. And I don’t think I cared if people were staring as I don’t think I could think further than ‘I want to be with my baby’, wondering when the ward rounds would finish so we could get back to her.

Now we are two years down the line and so while day to day life has returned to normal, (or as normal as life in a pandemic can be) we are probably appearing to the outside world as being ‘normal’ too. I don’t walk around with Ivy’s clothes over me or cry in front of random strangers. We work from home full time and we can engage in small talk and laugh and have fun.

Yet the truth is, in the run up to this anniversary, I find that I am feeling a lot of the emotions I felt as soon as Ivy had passed away. I think subconsciously I am withdrawing from people, I don’t want to be social, so I haven’t wanted to make plans. I don’t want to partake in small talk even though I know I can. I can’t put my brave face on as easily around this time.

The bin men leaving our recycling bin full last week annoyed me way more than was justified, as if the world was plotting against me whereas a month ago it wouldn’t have been an issue. A Zoom call freezing makes me way more angry than it did when I started working from home in January. But the biggest one of all, is the unpredictability of tears. They are springing from anywhere, random times on random days and I feel totally out of control and it’s unsettling. It’s like we have taken a step back in our grief journey.

This was the reality of that raw grief at the start of a loss journey. You swing constantly from frustration to anger to sadness and back again. It’s a tough place to be, exhausting both mentally and physically. Not to mention the guilt that starts to form. Guilt that you’re still here when she isn’t. And I feel that guilt now as we are about to have another baby. Guilty for Ivy that she’s missing out on her role as big sister. But guilt too for this new baby. Guilty that he/she is coming into a ‘broken’ family. I try and remind myself that if Ivy had lived, we would have wanted siblings for her, and this is no different. I keep thinking how perfect that 2 and a half age gap would have been for our two children to grow up with but this sadly isn’t fact and this isn’t particularly helpful.

And yet it’s only now, as these raw feelings of grief are creeping back up on us in the anniversary that I can see how far we have come. We aren’t normally like this. We are able to function day to day, our grief a part of us, yes, but we’ve built a world around us with work and a new baby on the way and a community of friends and family that we are grateful for who love and support us and hopefully understand when we might be distant or difficult.

I don’t think we could ever go as far as saying that we have moved on from what happened to Ivy. We may not have held her for two years but that doesn’t mean that we haven’t loved her every day since. It’s not an exaggeration to say we think about her every day. We really, truly do. I imagine we will for the rest of our lives. But what’s amazing about the wear white for Ivy day is that it brings all these people together, those who prop us up and support us and it allows them a chance to show us that they remember our special little girl. I can’t tell you how much it means to us knowing she won’t be forgotten.

So, whether on the anniversary, we smile, or cry, get angry or decide not to speak to anybody, we know that for us we just have to get through the day. Because on 11th May we will still be Ivy’s mummy and daddy. We will still love her and miss her and wish with all our hearts that she was here. Yet we won’t relive those memories of the hospital and we won’t relive the first few weeks being back at home without her because in truth I can’t remember them. I know we must have slept and eaten and gone to our appointments, but I can’t recall them in any detail. Perhaps our minds have made these days foggy to protect us from more pain.

However, we live our lives and whatever choices we make, Ivy’s life has changed ours forever and immeasurably. So perhaps when we are feeling lost, in amongst the good and the bad days that will inevitably come, maybe we need to stop and remember that Ivy made us a family. In that way she is playing a role in our future and helping her sibling. Maybe we need to start rethinking – our little family is not broken. It may be far from perfect, but our home will be full of resilience, hope and love and there’s a beauty and a bravery in that. Let us anchor onto that and let those feelings of overwhelming love, protection and strength that we had for Ivy be our guide as we navigate whatever is to come on the journey ahead.