Odds and Ends of NICU Time

I think that when I held Georgina for the first time, my milk came in. I had an overwhelming urge to nurse her. To pull the ventilator out and snuggle her up to me, to feed her. Which was completely insane and ridiculous. My little girl couldn't even breath on her own, let alone feed.
Whilst Georgina was dying, all that stupid milk was enthusiastically plunging down into my breasts. To nourish my two tiny children. There is nothing quite so cruel as Nature sometimes.

But, in my case, nothing quite so kind as Nature either. I was so, so grateful for that milk later on that day. Jessica's doctor asked me if I had tried to pump any milk, he told me that she couldn't take breast milk currently but that they could freeze it and she could have it at a later stage.

I hadn't tried. The nurse looking after Jessica on the night shift took me to a little room next door to the ward where Jessica was and Georgina had been and showed me how to use the breast pump. I don't know how long I sat in there, trying to figure it out. But finally, it came.

It is stupid but I can't describe the dizzying sense of triumph that I felt. I remember stumbling back into the ward with these bottles of milk and this kind, kind young doctor telling me how well I had done. I will always be so grateful to that young man, who somehow knew what to say.

That pump was to be my constant companion for the next six months. In the day, in the night. I loved it, I hated it. I watched so many DVD box sets whilst I pumped, I can't hear the theme tunes without being taken back to those days. The West Wing, Dexter, Desperate Housewives, House, The Sopranos, Blue Planet, anything and everything. A word to the wise, Dexter doesn't do anything for your supply, Desperate Housewives has twins and pregnancy loss, House, just don't go there. I'm not kidding. Don't.

That pump. A reminder of my abject failure and a reminder of the only thing that I felt I could actually do to help. With varying degrees of success, I pumped and I pumped and I pumped. For my little tiny girl who I felt sure would live, for my little tiny girl who I was certain would die. For her sister who would never need any of it at all, not a drop.

I had printed labels from the hospital, with Jessica's name, address, GP, hospital number to stick to the bottles. I grew to know her hospital identification number off by heart, so I could write it on when I ran out of 'official' labels. I used to stare and stare at those labels until I swear I could see Georgina's name on them. I wish I had some of her labels, if only to remember her by, to prove she existed. I wish that I had been pumping milk for her too.

In the middle of the night, I used to look at the sterilizer and the pump sitting in our kitchen. I used to feel so alone. So unnatural. Freakish. A mother without her baby. Getting up for a machine. But now I know there are so many mothers like that. I know how damn lucky I am to have had the chance to get up in the night and pump milk.

Sometimes I think that the grief of losing a child is exacerbated by the expectation of happiness. I thought I was going to be happy.

Perhaps that is where it differs from other losses. When I have lost other relations, old or untimely, there has been a different feel to my grief. I mourned my grandparents but I was prepared. I mourned the death of my godfather, who died suddenly leaving a wife and four children. But, in all of those circumstances, I was not prepared for a time of happiness. I was living my life, on the flat as it were, and then a sudden jolt downward. More or less expected but with no reason to believe I was on the up, that the good times were about to roll.

My GP told me, in a fit of straight talking and trying to pep me up, imagine losing your husband of 50 years, imagine how much worse that would be? I wanted to say (I didn't) you don't understand, you just don't understand. She was my child. My child. I can't imagine how it must feel to lose your husband but I don't believe that some pains can be compared. There is no measure to them, they are 100%. Pain. That is all there is under these circumstances. No degrees, no gradients. A contest that is not contestable.

But losing a baby. I was so full of expectancy, anticipation. So happy. So complete. I felt like my life was coming together at last. I had what I had always wanted.

The gap between what I had thought would happen and what actually transpired was breathtaking, heart-wrenching. Enough to send my mind into a tail-spin. And I don't know the half of it. I don't have the fear of death that I used to have or should have. My own or others. I'm 'prepared.' I just wasn't prepared for the first one, to attend my own child's funeral. Perhaps no other death can hurt me as much. Or perhaps I'm just kidding myself? Who the hell is ever prepared for any of this?

Perhaps I had never experienced grief before? Or love?

I used to question that, before Jessica and Georgina were born. Had I ever truly felt?
I don't anymore.
I know that I can't feel more than this. This is all that this particular human is capable of feeling, however ineptly, however stupidly. I can't do more than this. I can't love them more.