Eight months babylost

Another month of missing our son. I'm still breathing. I've been busy with some writing deadlines and editing my friend's PhD and so I haven't been on the blogs much. I want to catch up and intend to in the next few days.

I dread these milestone months, the ticking over of the number 19 is the reminder of all the bragging rights and perks of motherhood stolen when George's heart stopped beating during labour and he was stillborn. With some defiance I posted on Facebook today that I was remembering him and didn't want to be told that in so doing I need to talk with some professional therapist to rid myself of grief. Typical of my addled brain and mathematical challenges I mistakenly said it's nine months without him.

I think the anger at my so-called friends - the ones from high school and university I was in regular and constant contact with up to when George died - but who seem to no longer have the time to call or email or even FB message me - well, the anger is building. I'm so hurt and angry. Part of me wanted to see if that FB message would bring them out of the woodwork because I'm too angry to challenge them directly on it. I'm waiting out of some sense of morbid curiousity to see if and when they'll contact me again.

At the same time, I'm so humbled and grateful to friends and family who have been there for me. My sister Lisa, my cousin Deborah, my dear friends Paula and Jenn and Kirstin and Andrea, have all been constant supports. So many others have as well and what has surprised me is that I haven't seen many of them in over 20 years - in some cases nearly (gulp) 30. And they're there despite geographic distance.

The friend for whom I'm editing sent me a wonderful note of support the other week in which she mentions Scottish author George MacDonald (who was an inspiration to both C.S. Lewis and Tolkien) and his grief over the death of his children. She said:

MacDonald wrote something called "Diary of An Old Soul" -- a poetic
meditation throughout one year -- after the death of two of his
children. He had only intended to share it with a few close friends,
but was talked into publishing it. Here is the stanza for the last day,
December 31:

Go, my beloved children, live your life.
Wounded, faint, bleeding, never yield the strife.
Stunned, fallen-awake, arise, and fight again.
Before you victory stands, with shining train
Of hopes not credible until they are.
Beyond morass and mountain swells the star
Of perfect love--the home of longing heart and brain.

It comforts me to read the words of other bereaved parents, whether from generations ago or the blogs of today.