Regret

When Jessica & Georgina were born so prematurely and particularly after Georgina died, I was utterly, utterly convinced it was because I had done something wrong. Perhaps because I do have a tendency to think that the world spins around me. As my younger sister said to me during an argument, 'the trouble with you Catherine is that you are like this. Hello, my name is Catherine and it is all about me, me, me, me, me.' She was right, I am like that. Because the alternative puts everything scarily out of my control. Out of my reach.

I went through all the things that I had done 'wrong' during my pregnancy, perhaps my diet hadn't been healthy enough, perhaps it was the caffeinated coca cola that I had drunk on my work lunch out when I had forgotten that I wasn't supposed to have it, perhaps my baths were too hot, perhaps I hadn't done enough exercise, perhaps I had carried on working long hours for too long, perhaps the drive to work everyday was too stressful, perhaps one of my beauty products was toxic, perhaps I was toxic?

And that was where my chain of thought finally ended. Where it ends for so many people.

It was because I was toxic. I had killed her. I remember crying on my mother's sofa, balled up into myself and sobbing that it was because my insides were rotten.
I remembering being curled up on the floor in the NICU quiet room and asking the doctors to let Jessica die, to let me die, that we were cursed and that it was all my fault. That it would be kinder to kill all of us together. Poor old doctors. They must see some sights in that room. I did apologise for this particular outburst when I had 'come round' from those first few crazy weeks.

But I was so sure it was me. My own toxicity.
Because I was an awful person who would be an awful mother.
Because I didn't love them enough.
Because I loved them too much.
Because I was so smug and proud. I was proud to fall pregnant so quickly, I was proud to be expecting twins. Even though neither of these things are anything that I can take any credit or blame for. Just the dumb workings of flesh and biology. I certainly can't seem to orchestrate a repeat performance.
I never considered the possible pangs my pregnancy might have given my SIL or my friend, who both went through the hell of IVF to conceive their twins.

I don't think that I will ever stop blaming myself for Georgina's death. Not entirely. Perhaps because what killed her remains unresolved? In the first instance, obviously extreme prematurity and pulmonary insufficiency. But what caused her to be born so ill when Jessica was so healthy (relatively) and what caused her to become so ill that she triggered my labour? How did she manage to survive for three and a bit days? Why didn't she die when everyone said she would and have so many amazing recoveries only to die in the end just the same? I don't know and I can't seem to find out. I will always wonder if I could have done something or avoided doing something. I will always regret.

But . .
meeting other parents in the NICU.
Reading the blogs of other parents whose hearts are broken by losing a child, having a premature baby, having a child who is ill.

My heart broke for all those other parents, more than I can ever say. Suddenly I realised that, as far as my admittedly very limited brain can see, there is no reason. No toxicity, no curses. There might well be biological reasons, medical reasons. Sometimes even those are obscured. There is no clear explanation for so many things in this life including why the lives of some people should end before they have even begun. I don't think it is a question of blame, that there is any intention behind it.

Through a mirror darkly, that is all we can hope to see. I'm not so sure about the face to face part. Perhaps clarity will never come, either sooner or later. Perhaps that part is actually irrelevant, perhaps the focus should be on the darkness. I can't conceive of any possible explanation that would satisfy me.

I have felt sad until my sadness is just an ache. Until I can't always summon those tears that used to flow so readily.

I have felt angry until my anger is just an ache. There was, and is, really nothing and nobody to be angry at. It is all in vain.

Sometimes all that I can summon up is regret. Regret for the children who would have been so loved. Regret for the parents that might have been if they had parented living children or if all their children had lived or if they didn't have to parent after losing a child. I'm sure that changes you irrevocably. Crushing regret.

I know that those parents who are frequent NICU visitors, who are bloggers, are a self-selecting group to some extent. But I know that their faces, their words are full of love. I sit here and read and I ache and I regret. Regret the lives that these children should have or could have or would have lived. I know that, if these children had a choice, they would be here. I feel certain. I would pick any of you here as parents if I was given a choice. Do you want this person / these people as your parent(s)? Yes please. I'll certainly take them. Whizz me on down there.

I can't help but think about that Dr Seuss cartoon 'The hoober bloob highway' where Mr Hoober Bloob gives the little baby in a pram the choice, does he really want to see what goes on down there? On Earth. They would have come down here, I'm sure. They would have said 'yes Mr Hoober Bloob give me a push, I want to get down there.' If it was as simple as a children's book. To meet the parents who would have loved them. The families who would have loved them. Sure they would have been told off from time to time, there would have been arguments and smelly nappies and tantrums but also cuddles and stories and toys and all those things about life, the good things, that we wish to share with our children.

Sometimes there is only one thing I come away with from reading blogs about the death of a child. Although some (including my husband and my family) think they are just depressing and upsetting and that I shouldn't read them let alone write one. But the 'take home message' (to use a truly awful turn of phrase from work) from all of these blogs is . . love.

These places, they are full of love. Sometimes sadness, anger, wailing, howling, bitterness, hate and jealousy. But always, always, always love. Because this is one of the few places where it is acceptable to express your love for a dead child. Where their names are spoken. Their images shown.

They are written for children who were dearly, dearly loved. Cherished. Remembered. Loved. Loved. Loved.

'Some moments last forever but some flare out with love, love, love.'