This time last year...

This time last year:

I was pregnant and blooming, really enjoying it, joking around with hubby as to whether he was right we were having a boy. We had recently moved into our new house. We moved to make more space for the baby. I was picturing in my head what the baby's room was going to look like and how the household would change forever once another little person was living here. I was so excited to be a little family.

I was resisting the temptation to buy baby clothes, I wasn't sure why I wasn't able to buy things yet, but I know now that God was protecting my heart.

In 2 days time it was my 20 week scan and I was so excited to see my baby again. It didn't even occur to me that any problems would be found. In my head, we were out of the woods because the 12 week scan went brilliantly, the baby was really active and the bump was growing nicely.

If somebody mentioned the word "Anencephaly" to me, I wouldn't have a clue what they were talking about.

I was naieve, happy, excited, and living in a beautiful ignorant bliss. A beautiful ignorant bliss. That no longer exists.


This time this year:

I'm pregnant and blooming, trying to enjoy it. We've been in our new house for over a year now, we have too much space for the 2 of us. The 2 spare rooms should be filled with baby things. The house is quiet. I feel like someone is missing.

I can't even imagine being able to buy baby clothes. The thought horrifies me. What if I don't get to use them? When will I be able to buy the moses basket? When will I know my baby isn't going to die?

In a week's time, it is my 20 week scan. Scans take on a whole new meaning for me. They bring back the memory of when I was told my baby would die, that there was absolutely no chance, nothing they could do, nothing. I have had 3 scans already during this pregnancy and each have gone fine. The baby is active and the bump is growing nicely. All of those things mean nothing to me now. I will only believe when I see my baby face to face.

If somebody mentions the word "Anencephaly" to me, I have a mixture of two feelings. The first is devastation. Devastation that somebody else knows what that word means and has had to face the horror of losing their child. The second is a warm feeling. A feeling of companionship. There is a silent bond between those that have lost their baby to Anencephaly and it is beautiful.

I am aware that babies die, the fact that something is classed as "rare" doesn't mean an awful lot to me anymore. The "it won't happen to me" has turned into "it could happen to me".


Today:

I have a son. His name is Theo. He doesn't live here, he lives in a far better place. He was the best thing to ever happen to me. Because people can't see my son, they forget that I'm a mother. They can't see that I think about him all the time, and that is the only way I can mother him. I desperately hold on to his memory. He was worth all the pain, worry, fear. I would do it all again in a heartbeat just to look into his eyes. He was the best gift anyone could've ever given me.

Reflecting

I am feeling so overwhelmed today, but not in a bad way. It has really hit me how many amazing people I have met through Theo. It constantly amazes me how the best of friendships can be made with people I have never met face to face. Don't get me wrong, I hate that we had to meet for the reasons we did, but I am so thankful for the internet because it has been one of my strongest support networks. I had the privilege last week to meet 2 of these special friends, and I'm so glad I did. I so wish I could meet all of you, and I hope one day I will.

As I watched a special video today that a fellow anen mum shared, I was completely blown over by the strength that she has. And I got thinking about all of us that had/have the privilege to carry our precious babies when they are given a death sentence whilst in the womb. And I call it a privilege for many reasons because sadly a lot of women aren't aware of that realistic option and it just breaks my heart. To carry a baby that is "incompatible with life" is such a contradiction. Whilst carrying an anen baby that is very much alive and kicking, rather than being excited about the birth, dreading it because you know it is the day you may have to say goodbye. I wanted to keep Theo in my tummy forever, knowing he was safe and sound and enjoying all the chocolate his mummy was eating ;-)

I still to this day cannot express how Theo changed my life. Most people look at me and pity me because I lost my baby. And yes, I ache to have him back, I wish this never had to happen and that Marlon and I could give Theo all the love he deserves here on Earth. But honestly, I know I wouldn't be the person I am today. I stand on that scripture that I had heard countless times before all this happened, "We know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose." (Romans 8:28) It was only until Theo that I really UNDERSTOOD that scripture, because I had to LIVE it.

Some lessons in life are not learnt easily or comfortably. When I had my miscarriage 2 months after I lost Theo, I questioned what my motives were in wanting another baby, and whether I was too absorbed in my own will, rather than what God wanted for me. God spoke loud and clear to me the answer, and it was this, "Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance have its perfect result, so that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing. " (James 1:2-4)

I smile

The last year of my life has probably been the most life-changing year. So much has changed in a year. This time last year I imagined life with my new baby, and getting accustomed to life as a new mum. But then my life was transformed within a matter of minutes, when the ultrasound tech turned to me and said "There is something wrong with the top of your baby's head, the brain hasn't formed properly" and she left the room to get the consultant. I knew instantly this was no "downs syndrome" no "defect that can be operated on". I knew this meant our baby couldn't live and I felt like I had been punched in the stomach.

When I think back to that day, I think of the fear I had, the pure fear I had never experienced, only in my dreams, that I had no idea what the future held. How was I going to give birth to a baby I knew couldn't live? Or even worse how could I give birth to a dead baby? I think back and crazy as it may seem, I smile. I smile because never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined the strength that God would give me. Not only to carry my son, but to cherish his every kick, to celebrate his birth, his life and to proudly call him my son. I can't mourn my son because he died. I smile because he lives.