Two words

There is a quote in one of my all time favourite movies, Donnie Darko that says:
"This famous linguist once said that of all the phrases in the English language, of all the endless combinations of words in all history, that Cellar Door is the most beautiful."

Well if Drew Barrymore's character was right and Cellar Door is indeed the most beautiful phrase in the English language then surely the most horrific, awful, heart-wrenching combination of two words in all history must surely be dead baby. Or perhaps still birth, but I'm leaning towards dead baby, as that covers so much more.

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Tomorrow, on Mother's Day, a follow-up to my story from last August will feature in the major metropolitan newspaper in my city.

I like to see it as another win for the babylost and putting stillbirth on the map again. I had to fight a hard battle to get them to include Hope's photo again (and lost, damn it) but am instead trying to see the positives in that two pages in a prominent section of the newspaper have been devoted to me and my story. Tomorrow, over cups of coffee, french toast with berries and amidst strewn sheets of scrunched up wrapping paper that had just prior been covering fluffy slippers, boxes of chocolates, hand cream and useless kitchen appliances, people will read about stillbirth. Mothers will read about stillbirth. Many mothers who have previously never considered stillbirth as a possibility. Mothers who never thought they'd get anything but a live baby when they saw that test go positive. Mothers who would be absolutely terrified of the prospect of a dead baby. They will read about what it is like to carry on with living after your heart has been ripped from your chest. They will learn that pregnancy after loss isn't a straight forward game and they will learn that life will never be the same after you bury one of your own, even if you never got to see that little person open their eyes. They will learn that stillbirth is a loss like no other.

To some extent I realise I may still be banging my head up against a brick wall. Despite the hundreds (thousands? hundreds of thousands?) who will read the article, I'm sure most will think, just like I probably would have this time two years ago, "wow, that's sad. But it wont happen to me" and then move right on with their happy day and french toast-eating. You can't blame people though I guess. But I'm not going to give up on this yet. I'll keep chipping away. Either that I'll go insane. Or maybe just more insane. Whatever.

Last August, I wrote the story myself (it was really an excerpt from Hope's birth story that I'd written just days after her death, when it was so new, fresh and raw) so I didn't really have to worry about them getting it wrong (save for any of the editors taking chunks out of it, moving bits around or changing things). This time around however, they sent a journo out to my house to interview me about my experiences since I lost Hope and welcomed Angus in to this world. I was lucky enough to see a draft copy before it went to print, and thankfully she's done a wonderful job. Not bad considering she was pretty young, funky and a long way off children herself. I felt nervous handing my story over like that. On edge. Exposed. I still do I guess. There is a few hours yet before it hits the news stands.

A photographer also came this week to get photos of Angus and myself to go with the article. They needed those big beaming smiles of course to go with the "happy ending" story. I was in quite a tizz the morning she came. Throwing crap around my house in small fits of rage. Couldn't find the damn top I wanted to wear. Managed to blame Simon for it, even though it was clearly not his fault. I was seething with anxiety and feeling worried I was doing the wrong thing by sharing my story in such a public forum. Again. And feeling sad that a story that is essentially about both of my babies, would ever only have a photo of one of them in it. I tried to get the photographer to take a few photos with Hope's photo in the background, but she wasn't too keen on that, and it is pretty clear why. Sigh.

There was also a small precede for the article written that said something along the lines of "Sally has finally realised her dreams of becoming a mum". And I suppose for me this is where it gets hard, because I had to keep telling myself for 15 months, along with many others I know, that despite the fact she wasn't here, I was still a mum. I carried her. I birthed her. I buried her. If that didn't make me a mum, then I'm not sure what did.

So I asked them to re-write it to say "Sally has finally realised her dreams of becoming a mum to a living child". And I know, I know; it sounds terribly awkward. But really, to borrow a phrase recently used by a fav blogger friend of mine, it is what it is. Because with the birth of Angus, that is indeed what happened: I became a mum to a living child. A live baby. Not just a dead baby.

I mean who in their right mind would ever squirm over a line like that? It is straight forward enough. Hope was born and died (well actually she was died and then born) and with that my motherhood was snuffed out. Then Angus came along and voila! I was a mum again. I guess to most, it will look like my first Mother's Day tomorrow. It will seem as if I've only just become a mum.

But for me and far too many of us, it was a dead baby we got handed at the end of our pregnancies. We were mothers, even though most of the world probably no longer saw us that way. And for 15 long months, without any other children in tow, dead baby was all I knew.

Dead baby. Dead baby. It is such an awful phrase. For such a long time after coming to this space, I wasn't able to string those two words together. I had to soften the edges. Say she was lost, gone, passed away even stillborn. I even embraced the term coined by others, babylost. But I couldn't call her a dead baby. It was too harsh. It knocked the wind out of me and still does, really. Yet I saw the phrase used time and time again. Blog posts and comments. Even the names of some blogs! Groups of bloggers calling themselves deadbaby mums (even going so far as to make it ONE word) then abbreviating it again to DBMs. Eventually, as I grew more and more used to my shitty situation, I would from time to time use the phrase myself. Dead baby. Because for all those long, painful months, dead baby was it. I still don't like it though. I still hate the phrase. I still wish I never, ever had reason to put those two words together.

So Mother's Day is upon us again. And the heaviness and the fog of grief from this time last year has lifted. Hope is still not here, but Angus is. Simon can make me breakfast in bed on behalf of our son, give me a card he's written in with child-like handwriting, and I can be happy and not feel like a pathetic fraud. I have my dead baby, but I also have my live one. I was a mother, then I wasn't, now I am again. To quote Donnie Darko again (from the Tears for Fears/Gary Jules song) it certainly is a "very, very mad world".

Happy Mother's Day to all my friends out there, whether you have all, some or none of your children here with you tomorrow. You're all beautiful mothers.