Quiet has crept over the Wimpy Mum household.
My mum has gone home, my kids are at school and my husband is out. There are no more birthdays to plan, events to organise or family and friends to entertain. My pain is sporadic and only occurs when I am physically doing something. Which I am not.
There are no distractions.
Just me, alone, with my thoughts and the reality of it all.
I am no longer too ill and vulnerable to require my husband to wait on me hand and foot and shower me with praise and attention. I am no longer in constant physical pain leaving me restricted to the sofa and lavished in the constant love and affection of my two children, hugging and willing me back to health. I no longer have my Mum here with me, protecting me from my vulnerability and making me feel invincible. I no longer have a team of midwives watching over me, ready to drop everything to assist me.
I will not have to give up work in the coming months to look after my ever growing bump, or put up the cot in our bedroom and place the ridiculous amounts of tiny outfits in the new chest of drawers we would have built. I will not have to dust off and wash the breast feeding cushions in the cupboard, nor squeeze a third car seat into the back of our family car and baby proof the house.
I don’t feel special anymore. I am without purpose. I am no longer carrying precious cargo. I am no longer… pregnant.
And I feel physically and emotionally empty. I want my baby back.
I knew that the time would come where my positivity would be put to the test, and I suspected it would happen when my physical health returned, when the madness had calmed and when there were no distractions to keep me from facing the harsh truth of it all.
And in the silence, whilst alone and my barriers down, it crept out of the shadows and latched onto me. Like a dementor from the Harry Potter novels, it began sucking the positivity and life force from within me, and replacing it with a darkness and despair that can not be described with any words I can muster up.
What was to become of me now? I had been focusing on the present and taking each day as it had come… until now. But suddenly tomorrow, next month and next year came into question.And it was a future without my baby and the hope that little Arran would bring. What did my future hold now and what kind of a future would it be?
I had been stressing to everyone the importance of getting back to ‘normal’ for the sake of my children and our sanity. But going back to work, paying bills and returning to so called ‘normal’ life now felt like turning my back on Arran and everything him and his little life had meant to me. Like sweeping him under the carpet or pushing him to the back of my mind, along with all the other painful experiences and memories I had filed away there during my lifetime.
And I have learnt so much about ‘me’ during this past month, that I no longer feel like the same person I was before this happened. I don’t feel as though I can fit into this ‘normal’ life I keep harping on about, because it is no longer normal to me. So much has changed this past month, and I can’t ‘go back’ – especially when trying so hard to move forward.
The overwhelming emotion left me crying and unable to think straight. As I sat on the edge of my bed, tears tumbling into the loo roll I’d stashed there the night before, my phone pinged in my pocket. A dear friend of mine sent me a very appropriate and well timed message from Doreen Virtue that read:
“Let Go… and let God – the change of season can make you feel wobbly and off-balance, like you don’t know anything for sure. This is your reminder that God has your back. Everything will work out, and there’s nothing to worry about. Just keep trusting, believing, and keeping the faith in the all mighty power of our loving Creator”
Bam! Thank you!
As I’ve said before, I wouldn’t class myself as a specific religion, nor would I say I’m a believer in ‘God’ so much as I have faith in a force greater than us. I believe there is a reason for everything and that this greater force always works in our favour, although it may not be apparent at the time. We just need to trust, and believe that everything will be okay.
This beautiful message came at just the right time. A gentle reminder to have faith that tomorrow and next week and the future would be just as it needed to. And that we would be alright.
I felt uplifted.
I did what I always do, and picked up my laptop in order to offload some of my thoughts and feelings through my writing (and you, the reader, being my virtual counsellor). As I opened my laptop, a sheet of paper fell out on my lap. On it were the handwritten notes I had made in hospital, including my “Promise to Arran“. As I read the words, I felt that ‘dementor’ who had infiltrated and possessed me earlier, squirming in revolt as feelings of hope and happiness flooded me. He was being driven out, like an evil spirit being exorcised by a priest. I knew it was time to write down ‘Arran’s Promise’; to make it public; to put it out there; to permanently etch it on a virtual blank page in front of me so I could evoke these feelings of positivity whenever I felt the shadows closing in.
When all is said and done, I know there will be times where the darkness will sneak up on me, and catch me unaware. When all is said and done, I know I am only human, and need to acknowledge these emotions and accept they are a natural reaction to life’s little curve balls. When all is said and done, I need to trust in myself and the powers that be, and know I will be okay. And when all is said and done, I need to remember my promise to my little Angel, and welcome the warmth, reassurance and sunshine that it brings me.
As I said in my poem, ‘After the Storm’ which I wrote for Arran:
And when the shadows smother me
And I’m too weak to fight
You’ll be the brightest star, my love
To help me find the light
And now, my promise to Arran.