Some 'what if' thoughts that have surfaced lately

Yesterday was a beautiful and heavy day grieving Charlie.

Firstly, I had a phone call with a beautiful mother that we met whilst in the NICU. Even though we've kept in contact via messages since our baby boys both went up for a playdate, it was the first time I'd heard her voice since. It brought back a flood of emotions that took me by complete surprise. We had a lovely conversation about reactions to grief and navigating this completely new world we've found ourselves in.

I also went for a walk and sat on the beach watching the most magical sunset with my beautiful midwife. I hadn't seen her in months and even though I mostly chewed her ear off, it was so nice to just share with someone that was so inherently a part of Charlie's story.

It was when we were sitting there, watching the magnificent pinks reflecting across the sky and the ocean, that I voiced something that I've been ruminating on for awhile. It came to me the other night and it was my first little taste of complete acceptance, then it went and then it bubbled back up again last night.

Charlie died after a planned home birth and I've had some family members voice their concerns in a 'what if?' 'We just think you should have had a caesarean.' 'What if you had of birthed in a hospital?' 'We are concerned for you!' I did reply, that even if he had of been born in a hospital, his condition would have been no different and I most likely would have experienced a similar trauma, just not in a place of my choosing.

What if...he was born in a hospital? He would never have been here on this couch with me. The privilege of being able to birth him; the only complete act of a mother I was able to give him, would have been stripped of me. The outcome would have been the same, he would have come out with the same underlying, life-threatening disorder just with a flurry of machines and nurses and doctors and forceps or scalpels and me cut open on the operating table. Or what if... he had of survived with his raft of complications? He would have lead a life in pain, in and out of hospitals, Gracie's life would have become a montage of appointments. He may have always needed breathing and eating support. Nature knows best and nature is cruel but it knows best.

I also responded, that the 'what ifs?' aren't helpful anyway as nothing can bring him back.

My own idea of 'what if' though was voiced into that beautiful melting pot of colours across the sky last night and I'd like to share it here with the preface, that when I write about how I feel in these blogs, it doesn't indicate how I feel all the time. Infact, quite often, there are two ideas, three even, that may be opposing and can feel true to me at once. But here's one of them:

'What if...' it was Charlie's 'destiny' to only live for a short while?

What if... losing Charlie was always a part of our story?

What if...I was supposed to have a home birth not for the twinkle lights and euphoria but for having a midwife that was there since conception and was there at his death?

What if...his birth, life and death was a gift to our little family and those who loved him? What if... his time in the NICU meant we made friends with which we can walk this path together?

What if...his loss has taught us precious things about ourselves and each other that we would have never been forced into learning otherwise?

What if...instead of creating a chasm between Bradley and I, his death creates a glue; a grief that both of us have experienced, that no one else has.

What if... his death helped me to be confident in my boundaries?

What if....he was and is a part of nature, that came to highlight to us the absolute fragility and blessing of life?

What if...he taught us not to take life for granted and that we are all miracles?

What if...I can hold him close to my heart, my whole life and love him infinitely?

There is a taste of acceptance lately; that Charlie is a thread in our story, a beautiful bright golden one, and as time passes, we are starting to become more familiar with the idea that we can't bring Charlie home; that he exists as that moment in time. But no, here goes my mind as it contradicts itself. He is not just a moment in time, he is always. He is in every interaction, every way I see the world, everytime I touch my belly, every time I look at Gracie's little chin that seems so alike, everytime Gracie hands me her doll when we're pretend playing. Every act of life I make and will make.

I stood a few weeks ago, in the bedroom of a beautiful family member in her 80s that lost her son at a very young age. We stood together in front of the portrait of him hanging above her bed and I watched as the emotions flooded through her again. It was a profound moment for me. A moment, that initially frightened me. Here she was, perhaps 50 years later, still being tormented by the grief of her loss. In one way, it highlighted for me, what I think I already knew. Losing your baby is living life with a giant void that always aches and it can be a lonely burden. However, it was also a beautiful moment where I realised the love I have for Charlie will not be lost in time. 'What if' I get to love him for the next 50 years and the love we share and the love he brought into this world can never be erased, only transformed?

These little tiny tastes of acceptance, are progress, not linear, but progress nonetheless and I will hold them, and cherish them. To be able to think about Charlie, through that lense, feels for the first time in a long time, beautiful, rather than terrifying. I can start seeing the light rather than a seemingly never ending tunnel.

Next time you feel the sun's energy touch your skin, if you feel like it, think of our boy and the lessons he has to teach. His brief struggle for life, and all he sacrificed, is our lesson and it's yours too, if you'd like it to be.