Today is my middle son’s birthday.He would be 12 years old.He lived for 5 short but very long months.Being pregnant with him was a time I felt utterly and completely alone,
I had family, friends and medical professionals all quietly and loudly shoving me in directions I didn’t want to go and no-one to really turn to for support.
I had so much knowledge of what made a healthy pregnancy and birth, how important the first precious hours of a baby’s life was and I had questions and thoughts and wishes for my baby.
And so, as many of these were against what the medical professional wanted I was treated like a villain, like a selfish woman, who didn’t care about her baby.
Every conversation with every medical professional was to coerce me to do what they wanted. They wore me down, by the time I got to the hospital to be induced I had been broken.
The morning of going into hospital wanted to run away, hide in a hotel until he was born.
Not one cell of me believed he needed all the interventions they wanted to do and do you know I was right, he didn’t but they did them to him anyway.This day every year is filled with guilt and grief.
Anger, resentment and loss. Fury and rage.
And love, so much love for this tiny being who came into our lives.
And hope, hope that he had some joy while he was here and it wasn’t all pain and discomfort.
And up until now I’ve shoved all those feelings so far deep down. But it’s time to start letting them gently come out.
There’s so much to write, but it needs to come out so I can feel more at peace.
