When someone dies, people tell you a lot about the stages of grief. I believe there are 4; it says something, though I’m not sure what, that I can only ever remember 3 of them at a time. Right now though, I know exactly which one I’m fighting with: anger. I’m angry and I’m frightened and these are not good, or safe, emotions.
I’m so angry about so many things; I’m angry that Freddie didn’t die when his twin did so that I could have saved myself that pregnancy and the girls all this grief. I might have grabbed hold of the last of my fertility and got pregnant again and have a living, breathing child by now of nearly one years old. I’m angry that I didn’t say loudly enough that I was sure there was something not quite right with the way he flopped about and the way my bump felt too tight. I’m angry that it is written in my notes that I felt that he was small and I asked for a late scan and I was told no, I was low risk – and I was happy with that because I wanted to be low risk for once. I’m angry I didn’t shout louder when something felt wrong. I’m angry I didn’t go to the hospital that night, when something felt just a bit unsafe. They might have done nothing, might have sent me home, but I would have known and when he didn’t breathe, I would have had someone to blame.
I’m angry with Peterborough for making me that frightened; I’m angry that my new hospital was so good, so lovely, so kind and so supportive that I trusted things to go right. I’m frightened that I killed him by trusting people, trusting myself. I’m frightened that the simple act of walking into the room with the pool, of getting in it, killed him because it was harder to listen. Even though I know really that isn’t true. I’m frightened we made a mistake, somewhere, someone, and he’s dead because of that. Even though really, really, I know I knew the day I stood in my living room, trying to visualise father and son watching football together and just couldn’t make the picture come.
I’m angry with myself because I knew something was amiss. I’m angry that I let him have that drug that sent him so catastrophically to sleep. I should have said no, I refused to say yes, but I should have insisted they wait until a consultant came. I’m angry I was robbed of time with him awake, I know my gut instinct was that it was the wrong thing to do, I’m frightened that lurking somewhere in his notes is a mistake or an error or proof that it was the wrong thing for him. He couldn’t deal with it, couldn’t process that drug and I don’t know why and it frightens me that I didn’t say no, didn’t stop it being given to him. I didn’t trust my instincts with Freddie – and I should have. It might have made all the difference.
I’m angry now because, as soon as we knew we would try again, I started to tell people, doctors, consultants – anyone who would listen – that something was wrong with me, that something had felt really out of whack for a long time and that if they didn’t help me, I would not be pregnant by the end of the year. I’m angry I was right. I’m angry no one has listened, really listened, to me saying that, even though I know myself well enough to just be completely sure that something is wrong. I’m too easy to fob off; you’re old, you’re stressed, it’ll happen but you have to be patient. I’m absolutely SURE I’m right, but I can’t get anyone to listen. If I ask for things, people do them, but I need someone to find the problem. They think I’m a stressed, grief stricken older mother with a little too much dangerous knowledge from google, but I’m not. It’s an instinct and I appear to have been proven right.
I’m angry that I’m low priority. It doesn’t matter to anyone if I never have another baby. It doesn’t. I’ve got 4, I should be happy. I’m lucky. I’m angry that no one can see that I’ll cost far more, far more damage with happen, if I never have another. I’m running on empty now. Infertility is one thing; infertility after you’ve watched your baby give up and stop breathing is something else. * I’m worried and frightened. What if there is something lurking, some imbalance that no one has spotted because I don’t matter and in 5 years I find out it has seriously affected my health? What if whatever is stopping me getting pregnant is also what killed Freddie? What if the answer is right in front of us? What if I killed him, not by birth choice but with some horrible blood thing, or antibody thing or just something that is stopping me getting pregnant and if I do, will just kill another baby, all over again? Why am I having so hard to persuade someone that so many changes in my body is not right. Why won’t someone just hear me? Why do I have to fight against deranged hypochondriac on top of everything else?
Tomorrow I go to pick up Clomid, for one last try. Only, I know I’m ovulating, I have no hope at all it will work. Something is blocked or something is broken or something is stopping me from ever getting a chance to start. It felt wrong to talk about ttc-ing in Freddie first year of not being here, but honestly, so much of the grief has been the horribleness of having hope ripped out every 21-24 days. It might not be a fix, to have another, but it couldn’t be much worse than this. I can’t help wondering if people would be more keen to shut me up by throwing everything at getting me pregnant if I was suing them. I feel like I being too acquiescent, too passive, someone who will just go away and be grateful for a blood test and an “everything is in normal ranges”. It’s not that I’m not grateful they are, but if they were all perfect, I’d have another baby by now. I need someone to work out what the hell has gone wrong. I need to know why my little boy died. I just need, desperately need, to feel like someone is desperate to work out what went wrong and how to help me before I fall apart completely.
I’m not going to get that on the NHS. However nice people are, I’m right at the bottom of the heap of women who deserve help. I can’t afford to go privately. I just can’t afford to keep waiting. I’m exhausted. Frightened, angry and exhausted with no one to blow my anger out at. I almost wish there had been a mistake, something for me to blow my top at. It was easier to rant at Peterborough for the endless insensitive incompetence they called ‘care’. When I’m surrounded by people who have been good and kind and patient, it’s an awful lot harder to find someone to vent it all on.
*Feel I should qualify this. I am comparing struggling to get pregnant with Freddie against struggling to get pregnant after Freddie. I’m not suggesting this is worth than people with no children or not nearly enough children.