Shifting Lenses: Relationships After Baby Loss.

I've been feeling this simmer underneath for awhile now but it came up to the surface when we had someone close to us ask if we will ever go back to who we were, 'Pre-Charlie.' The comment was made as if it were a plea, as if this new, grieving person that has subbed out the old one is less-preferable, more confusing, too complicated, a bit uncomfortable. The one before was easy to get along with, wasn't sad as much, didn't have this big, scary, grey cloud that seems to float above our heads at times.

To say we haven't changed, and I say 'we' during this post because this is something Bradley and I both believe, would be to say, Charlie; his life and death never happened. Of course we've changed. It's hard to encapsulate this change but it is our whole way of viewing the world, viewing other people, what we're willing to accept and what we're not, the gratitude and appreciation we have for the fragility of life. It's finding it hard sometimes to feel joy in small talk, in general conversation. It's realising that the things we once thought were important, no longer are.

And for this person that said this as if it was a secondary grief that they had; that in losing Charlie they also lost their loved ones, I agree. I wholeheartedly understand because I also grieve the old me. The one that was content sharing silly memes with my friends, the one that felt pure excitement in building their dream home. The one that didn't crumble going into Woolies and seeing a lady carrying a baby in the carrier in the fridge aisle, feel as if I might just burst into tears upon the realisation that the baby would have been Charlie's age and that should have been me, us... I even bought a new carrier for him! I miss the me, where life felt easier. Where relationships were easier. Where I was confident that I had a plan in life, that I had direction. And now even with goals, with holidays planned, or marathons booked, I still feel adrift. So I get it, when people say, 'I don't know who you are anymore.'

I didn't choose for that 'old Lauren' to die the day that Charlie did. I felt her though. That walk away from the NICU room with Charlie lying in it, was the hardest thing I'll ever do. I was somehow putting one lead foot in front of the other and it felt like the greatest effort but I knew if I stopped, I would never start again. I was in a sealed bubble. Noises were soundless and yet they made me jump. I saw people moving in front of me but I didn't register, didn't look, didn't acknowledge. I felt my body and yet it was not mine. I know now, that that's where I left the old Lauren. My body was an empty shell as I walked out of that hospital.

For almost six months, I fought to find her again; the old Lauren. I had in my mind that I needed to try and find her again. That I needed to get the old me back but I've realised that I can't because to do so would be to pretend that Charlie, his love, his grief, never happened and that would be to treat his life and death as if it was a little blip, a minor inconvenience.

And whilst I can mourn the old person, the pre-Charlie person that I was, I can also celebrate the new one. I suppose it's a little like becoming a parent for the first time. Your identity shifts during a monumental moment like birth. And regardless of whether you bring your baby home or not, you are thrown into a whole new world of grief, or sleep deprivation, or both, really. I grieved the 'old me' when I had Gracie too but over time, I've learnt to accept and embrace this new one and learnt to feel confident sitting in the balance between individual and mother. I know that whilst this transition feels even more shattering, in time, I will come to feel as if the 'new Lauren' is just me.

There's been a shifting of relationships after Charlie's death and it's not what I expected. Most of those relationships haven't disappeared but they've changed, they've shifted around a little. I do grieve those and I miss how it was and I acknowledge it's not me or them, it's the situation that's difficult. It's the fact that I carry a pain with me and it's hard to be confronted by the pain. It's hard to provide an environment where the pain is held because we are socialised to see pain as discomfort and discomfort should be avoided. I can imagine it's hard to love a griever.

I had a lovely mum, not long ago, who I hadn't seen in awhile, come up to me and awkwardly after a bit said something to the effect of, 'I'm so sorry too...I didn't know whether to remind you of it or not.' It was beautiful that she wanted to acknowledge Charlie but it felt odd to me, the insinuation that I would need to be reminded of my son. I carry him with me everywhere and I'd like, need even, to shout his love and his joy and his sadness from the rooftops. I was speaking to Bradley last night about this, and I said, I would shout him from the rooftops, even if it scared all of my loved ones off because he is my son and my duty is to protect him in whatever form that is.

I guess though, what I wanted to say is, I don't want to scare all my loved ones off. I want to be given space to express who this new me is. I want my loved ones to want to get to know this new me, not be scared off by it. I want to be able to strengthen, not fray, the bonds that tied us. And I say this, hearing the 'I want, I want...' in my voice and realising that the last six months, it's been hard to make space in my heart to be a listener; to allow space for others to share their own sufferings. As I've muddled my way through grief, I've noticed how I've only half-heartedly supported my own friends and family in their journeys, which are not of their choosing either. I notice it and I acknowledge that the situation is hard. I think though, if allowed the space, I've found myself to be a deeper empathiser. I've felt myself crying more to stranger's stories because I get the pain more. I think I've found though, that people are more uncomfortable sharing their pain with me, at risk that it feels shadowed by the loss of Charlie, at the risk that I will think that their hardships are not worthy and so they stop sharing and they stop inviting shared grief in.

So I suppose, if you are a supporter of a griever, and there is no timeline for grief, if you want to get to know the 'new' them, provide a space where they feel comfortable to share, where they're invited and celebrated for the 'new them.' If it's scary for you, imagine how scary it might be for them to be travelling this path but feeling as if something they've done is deemed wrong. Perhaps, the situation makes this hard. There's a rift, a chasm that opens up with loss. I'm starting to realise though, if you're a griever yourself, over time you find your niche. You find those willing to embrace, sit with, muddle through with you and those bonds will grow stronger than ever. They are bonds made in fire and will reap the fertility of the soul after the fire passes through.

I get also, if it's too overwhelming and you've chosen to opt out. The new person after loss is unknown. I'm scared by her. I didn't get to choose whether this was my life trajectory or not and if you've got baggage yourself, which nearly everyone does, then you get that. And maybe you want to wait until the fire passes through, wait for the new me to return. The fire's too hot. It might hurt you as well. I get it. But I also know that what the fire's burnt, can't come back as it was and that it's hard to fully appreciate or understand the new growth when you don't know what it's endured.

I want to assure you though, the new Lauren is complicated, she's a little rough around the edges, she shares a lot, she is kinder, wiser, she's uncovered some of her strength that she didn't know she had. Most days she doesn't know who she is but she'll sit with you and cry about the struggles of life, or relate detachedly and move on to something else depending on the day. Or if we've already done some of that soul work together, that getting to know the new 'us,' if we've sat in the fire, or even sat side by side watching it smoulder, then there will come a day where we talk about the weather and the cost of living and that will feel ok.

P.S. Shout out to my husband whom I spent eleven years growing with only to wake up and find, we barely knew each other. You've been the MVP day in, day out. Always wanting to get to know the new me. Frightened. Terrified, really, but there. Somedays watching me burn, some days burning yourself, somedays sitting by my side as we watch the whole world burn. I see our green shoots. I see the beginnings of blossoms and it feels all the more precious, having seen the ravage that the fire caused. Love you.