3

It's hard to believe. 3 years. It's just so hard to believe.

I think of Joseph every day, still. Not a day goes by that I don't. 

He is no longer the first thing I think of when I wake up. But he's always the last thing I think of when I go to sleep. I still struggle with that. Sleep. Going to bed before 1am. Every night, for 3 years now.

Sleep doesn't come easily.

The other night, I fell asleep on the couch after dinner for half and hour and that set me back for the night.

I had washed all the boy's bedding that day, but hadn't dried it yet. So their beds were unmade.

One went in with D. The other 2 in with me. So it was a restless night. And further restlessness because of that nap I had had earlier. I wasn't collapsing into bed through sheer exhaustion, like I normally would.

Then the night terrors came. The flashbacks. The nightmares. First, my cervix was prolapsing. I thought I was giving birth. I felt like I was birthing Joseph, only to realize that my insides were becoming my outsides and I was being turned inside out. Fucking horrific. I was trying to hold myself back in, but to no avail.

Then, they boys were true zombies. Slowly walking towards me with horror eyes, arms in front, moaning as they were coming to kill me (maybe my subconscious mind believes this is payback). I ran from my bed to D's room to wake him. I was shaking him, yelling at him to wake up because they were after me. I was yelling in my dream, but woke with a barely audible moan. You know that type? When you think you're yelling really loudly in your dream, only to realize there's barely a sound? Yeah, like that.

There are also the helicopters.

We live a 2 minute drive from the hospital where Joseph was born and died. We didn't travel there by helicopter. But every time I hear one fly over, on it's way to the helipad there, the trauma arises. The flashbacks and the shakes. I know there is some emergency going on to warrant a chopper in or out and I fear for whoever it is in the care of that hospital and I hope to God they don't come to grief. Those helicopter sounds are one of the big reasons I want to sell this house and move away. They have a way of bringing on the PTS.

I hold anger. By God, do I hold anger. I don't want to, but I know it's there. I take it out on D. He takes it out on me. All the time. I don't know any other way to be. And that makes me feel even more angry.

I don't just have grief for Joseph. I have grief for my body, my absent womb. Grief that I can't/couldn't carry anymore children, and so many have gone on to have another baby. I know it doesn't take away from the pain of the death of a child. But from what I see, having another baby brings such healing. I feel like I'm kind of stuck in limbo. Grief also over that retched inquest and what we had to endure there, what was brought up and what we had to listen to.

We had a huge year, with the inquest finishing in May. It was such a long process and so traumatic, I can barely even explain myself.

My midwife hung me out to dry to protect herself. The hospital of course got away with what they did to Joseph and to me. It happens all the time. They do what they do to protect each other. The Coroner had a clear opinion of me. There was adversarial bias and my family and I are/were left gob smacked that an inquest can be run with such corruption and deception. Some days there, it was honestly like living in the twilight zone. I would be sitting there, listening to people talk in great detail about the slow and violent death and dying of my son, I would stare out the window (take me to a happy place!) thinking 'how did I get HERE?'. Never would an answer come. Just that same question repeated over and over and over again.

What do I do? Appeal for another inquest on the grounds of adversarial bias (as suggested by our barrister and solicitor)? Request a judicial review of the coroner because of her conduct? Sue the hospital? Sue the midwife? What would any of it do?

There's a known psychological timeline for families involved in medical malpractice. Usually by about the 2 year mark since the death of a loved one, the family members will give up. Unable to emotionally go on, needing to get on with their life. Try to gain some sort of closure. Hospitals know this and it's part of the reason why medical malpractice suits are dragged out for so long, because inevitably, family will drop cases, or settle out of court.

It's also all so financially out of our reach to consider any of these options (except, maybe sue the midwife - a legal firm would be all over that one for a no win/no fee). We would lose our house and be looking at the court process for a the very least another 5 years.

I've often though, what if I won the lottery? What would I do then? 
Joseph's death and the following two years with that inquest process has absolutely destroyed our marriage. I'd be fighting the system on my own. And I just don't have the strength.
I also know that there's no way I'd want to be sinking so much money into such a corrupt system. Why pay for that? Money to buy a result? I'd be sinking as low as them and playing the same sordid game.

Justice For Joseph. Those three words have been my mantra going through that process. I really thought if I said it all day, every day. If I manifested that justice, then justice would come. That those responsible would be held accountable. That we would be apologised to and that nothing like this would happen to another family. I thought if I prayed enough, that wrongs would be righted. We could never have him back and I would never be complete again, but the truth would prevail and justice would be done.

I realised around the ending of that inquest that what I wanted wasn't going to come. That the only way to really give Joseph's life justice was LOVE.

Simple.

Love.

Love my boys. Love my family. Love my friends. Love my life.

Forgiveness is another thing. I don't know how I'm ever going to get there.

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So, tomorrow he would be 3. It feels like such a large number. He really would be running with the big boys and totally getting in on the fun and the jokes.

Friday the 13th was Xavier's 8th birthday (it is so hard having these birthdays so close together). We cleared the back deck for his disco and pizza party and he had a bunch of school mates and a couple of cousins over. The boys loved it. There was a lot of joy that night. So much joy and so much to be grateful for. That I get to parent this incredible boy. How lucky I am. He's beautiful, breathtakingly. I can't even articulate, I'm so overcome with love for that boy. And all of them, of course. Oh my God.

On Saturday we were preparing for a big family dinner, to continue the celebrations. The house was clean, the deck re set. The pot luck dish cooked (every one brings a pot). D had gone to pick up his Mum and I was sitting on the back steps, watching Joseph's brothers. They were outside, playing quietly together, laughing at some in joke of theirs. I couldn't take my eyes off them, and appreciate how well they all get along. Then I saw him, or I felt him, he felt really there, but then the gap was HUGE, as it always is. Does that make sense?
Joseph being three, he would be totally in on that joke. He would get what they were laughing at, I think he would have been wicked, but charming and so, so lovely. I tapped in and found myself saying out loud "where ARE you?". I hate to ask these questions, or try to talk to him, because the minute I do, I'm engulfed by longing and grief and nausea and all of it. But I want to go there, though I rarely do. I stoically brush it off and tell myself out loud to move on. Self tough. Not much self care. 

Happy birthday, my beautiful Joseph Gabriel. You are loved beyond words and missed beyond worlds. We ache for you and wish so much that you were here. And I still can't believe that you're gone.

I Feel Sick

I feel sick with grief.

I feel sick having to explain to Joseph's brothers why I'm crying. Why missing Joseph makes me so sad sometimes.

***

I feel SICK for all the families who have lost whole FAMILIES in the Syrian chemical weapons attack.

I've seen worse images of what's been going on there. Images of children's bodies being pulled from rivers, thrown in there like trash to send a message to the enemy. Bodies of mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters. All before the latest images that have made the mainstream news. I get footage from Wake Up (on FB). I'm scared to click on links for fear of what I'm about to see, but I feel like there's some sort of obligation to watch. Yeah, right, from the comfort of my computer, in my warm house, sipping on my latte with my happy children playing in some other room, I don't understand.
But, I need to see this stuff. But then I see this stuff and it makes me feel sick that such barbaric atrocities are happening in my world and there's NOTHING I can do about it. What can I do about it? How can I help? Maybe I should just look away, because looking AT just might bring me undone!

Then I have thoughts, sick thoughts like they are all better off not being here. There souls are free and they don't have to keep surviving on this hell on earth. They've reached nirvana. They've reached heaven. There is no more suffering for them.

***

I feel like telling my boys not to have children. DON'T reproduce, because fuck knows what kind of world they and their children will inherit by the time they are my age. So, just stop the family lineage now. Don't bother going on any further because this world is shit.

***

Man, I feel sick.

You know when the tears are *just* below the surface? But, you've got to keep your shit together because you have to make the lunches, drop the kids off at school and kinder? All the while trying to hold off from completely losing your emotional shit?

That's how I feel today. I don't feel like this everyday. But I'm heavy with it today. I feel overwhelmed by it.

This is Not Normal Life

No, this is not normal life.

Not normal to have a baby die.

Not normal to nearly die myself.

Not normal to lose my womb, and any chance of every carrying another child.

Not normal to be feeling so fragile and angry and bereft and sad and crazy and depressed, when it's over 2 years since his birth and death.

Not normal to have to endure an inquest into his death that started a year after he died and has still.not.finished.

Not normal to be totally abandoned and hung out to dry by my independent midwife so she can protect herself.

Not normal to have my name in print with headlines like 'fatal choice'.

Not normal for a bereaved mother to be annihilated by my midwife's barrister in the court room, all to protect her client.

Not normal to say to myself every day that it defies belief that a midwife would treat her 'woman' the way I have been treated. Would allow her barrister to assassinate me in the court process without standing up and saying "enough! I cannot allow this mother to suffer anymore, I will not allow these things to be said".

Not normal for a coroner to have an opinion before all witnesses have been heard.

Not normal for a coroner to run an inquest with HALF THE EVIDENCE MISSING!

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Is it normal to keep telling myself that his death is all my fault?

Is it normal to keep telling myself that my few oldest and dearest friends have abandoned me because they believe that his death is all my fault? That they want to say that to me but even they know that to say such a thing is just too cruel?

Is it normal to be angry at them for not even calling over the last 6 months (at least) and ask how the inquest is going? Do I need support? Would I like them to attend? Do I need help with my kids?

Is it normal to be so stubborn that I don't want to call them and tell them all of this, because it shouldn't be up to me?

Is it normal to have a million thoughts that I want to get out here, every single day, but have no idea of where to even start?

Is it normal to not want to visit this place because of all the shiny, happy people going on with their lives and having more children.

Is it normal to want to block people because I can't bare to look at ultrasound photos and shiny happy stories about milestones and sitting up and weaning and baby wearing and breastfeeding and teething and walking and rashes and, and, and......!

Is it normal to be that shiny happy person over here in face f*ck land (really, genuinely, don't think me insincere - if there's one thing I'm not, it's insincere), and this f*cking angry, sad, depressed, fragile person?

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I know we're in the thick of it.

I know that reliving Joseph's death and dying, day in and day out in court has been harrowing. That it has made me more fragile than ever.

I know that having to relive this is damaging to me emotionally and psychologically. I've sat and listened to evidence about the global hypoxic assault to his brain. I've heard about the distress he would have been under. I've heard evidence that if I had have made different decisions, then he would likely be here, and I wouldn't be - here.

I know that the bar table all have their own vested interests.

I know that the hospital is protecting itself at all costs.

I know that the midwife's legal team are protecting her.

I know that because we don't have the finance to pay for our own legal team - that we are at a total disadvantage.

I know that we are living in a bubble and I hope that once this is all over, there will be some sense of closure.

I also feel though, that once that happens, even more anger and frustration will arise.

And then I could go on with more about what I think is going on with this inquest, but I fear for what I put in print and what might come of that. I'm censored.

I could write a book, honestly. 
I fantasise about hiring a brilliant investigating journalist to help me write that book. And right all the wrongs that have happened throughout this process.

And there are so many wrongs.

This is NOT normal life.

Nothingness and Everythingness

I want to write, but I can't.

I want to cut my face open and scratch my eyes out.

I want to paint my face, Dia de los Muertos style, then soak it with water and watch the face paint drip down my cut open face and down my neck.

I want to find a way to integrate the shiny, happy face book me, with the pathetic, guilt ridden and totally lost Baby. Lost. Mama.

I want to paint canvasses every day, and knit, and sew, and cook, and clean, and get a part time job, and be productive.

I want to stop pinning and start doing - more.

I want to sell my house and make a tree change. Get off the grid, where no one knows me. Create my own sovereign entity - all lower caps. Be Queen of my own queendom and never have to talk to anyone again. Ever. Even though I love talking to people. Love it. Just as long as it's not about my son.

What I want most of all, in the whole wide world, is to go back in time and change my pastfuture.

It's simple really.

I just want Joseph back. I still think he's there, in another room.

Can't that be a reality?

Is it really that much to ask?

Day 4: Most Treasured Item.

He sits, waiting, each night.

I crawl into bed late. Very very late - still, almost 22 months after Joseph's birth and death (never before 1am - I hope sleep will come sooner to me).

I lie on my left side, right side of the bed. And I hold this teddy close.

In the early days, I would make sure that his head was above the covers. Because for some freaky reason, I thought he would suffocate if his head was under the covers.

His head would always have to be up, under my chin. Often times I would find him under the cover, cuddle in and realise immediately, that I was holding his feet instead of him being head up. Nope, that's no good, his head must be under my chin, or I just can't get to sleep.

This teddy has sopped up many, many tears. Some nights, I would howl into the teddy, wipe my nose and drift off into an emotionally spent sleep.

I've never washed him. Ever.

My niece gifted this teddy to Joseph when he was born. The story goes that she wanted to visit me with this teddy and balloons saying "congratulations, it's a BOY!" She was advised otherwise. 'Might not be a good idea'. My family knew that Joseph wasn't going to make it. I was oblivious. I'd just come out of ICU and wasn't told the complete story of his 'situation' for fear of what that might do to me.

My niece thought 'bugger that' (very choice words, here). 'This baby needs to be celebrated, and damn it I will'. And she did.

Thanks the Gods that she did, because I've treasured this teddy since then. He was something to hold onto when Joseph was gone. There were moments there, in the shocking aftermath when I really did think he was Joseph.

My boys call him 'Jophes Teddy'. If any of them are bedding down with me, instead of their own beds, they are quick to find him and say "here you are Mummy, here's your Jophes Teddy', with never a prompt from me.

Ever.

They just know.

Day 3: After Loss Self Portrait

This day.

Joseph had not long come off life support.

Mine and D's family were there, in that private room (the death room, I called it).

He was being passed around for cuddles, and then back again, into our arms as any newborn would be.

I remember watching him move around the room, from person to person and feeling like I was having an out of body experience. It was all so surreal. It still seems all so surreal.

We both look so haggard. So old.

I was 5 days post near death, recovering from the emergency hysterectomy. D had been back and forth from home to hospital, splitting his time from me, to Joseph, to the boys, to his family and mine.

This day.

Death day.

Another first day of the rest of my life.

This day.

The first day of the rest of Joseph's death.

He cannot be his death. Surely not.

Does that make sense?

Day 2: Before Loss Self Portrait

I have this photograph framed and hung on the wall.

I love this photo (and there aren't many of myself that I like). It's not quite a self portrait. Just a nice one before loss.

I was filled with so much excitement.

We had tried for a long, long time to have a baby. About 7 years in fact. The last 18 month to 2 years of that 7 years we endured the IVF rollercoaster. This pregnancy was the result of 5 rounds.

That's Xavier Joseph in there, my first boy.

I had no idea about how my life would turn out.

I miss being pregnant. Despite the rough start with fertility, I seemed to conceive so easily after this. My body just needed a kick start (so I was told), and once it knew what to do, it didn't seem to want to stop, and nor did I.

I was an earth mother here.

I wish I could look like this again.

Innocent.

Pregnant.

Loss-less.