Grief is work - hard work

Today one of my new friends The Happy-Sad Mama told me grief was work. I didn't know what to make of this, but I have come to the realisation she is right. So I guess I'm not going to worry about any other sort of work for now and instead continue to work through my grief. I have a long way to go. It is such hard work. Exhausting, in fact.

Friend A had her baby today. At 41 weeks exactly. Her third child. A girl (of course). I know nothing else. Oh, except her name (which thank god wasn't one of my saved girls names). One can only assume baby is alive and well and most probably adorable. So crying about that all day has been hard work. I wonder if she's having trouble feeding? I wonder if she has her Daddy's eyes? I wonder if her cry sounds like her big brother's?

These are just some of the many things we will never, ever know about my Hope. Would she play the piano or tennis? Would she be a vegetarian or have a dairy intolerance? Would her hair have stayed curly and brown? Would she have gone blonde like Mama? Would she have been shy or outgoing? Would she have preferred hugs or kisses? Or both? Would she have married? Would she have had kids? Would she have travelled and loved Europe as much as we did? So much we will never know. All this wondering is hard work, too.

Today, in the spirit of doing my grief work, which is a full time job with no holidays or lunch breaks, I sat down and wrote out all of Hope's thank you/birth annoucement cards. A friend designed them and printed them for me and was even kind enough to pay for it all. Another mini pity-party for me. I take what I can get these days.

So I hand-addressed about 200 cards. Everyone who sent a card, flowers, food, came to the funeral or sent an email or text is getting one. Everyone who was touched by Hope's sweet little life.

Some of the cards I have to send overseas. To friends in the United States, New Zealand, Italy and England. Little Hope had friends waiting for her world wide.

A few of the cards I had to deliver to the neighbours in our street. All of whom knew I was pregnant as I used to walk every day. I would stop to speak to everyone and everyone was so excited to be welcoming another baby to our street - the street is full of them. This is part of the reason we decided to move to this neighbourhood 12 months ago - it is so family friendly.

To deliver these cards, I had to walk out of my driveway and turn right. That is the way to the shops and the train station and the way I used to walk every single day. To turn left, means going the loooong way. I have not turned right since the day before Hope died, when I was in labour. I went on this walk as the midwives suggested it to help speed up my labour. I probably only got 500 metres up the road and had to come back, as I was in too much pain and just kept having contractions.

On that day, we still stopped to speak to some neighbours. "Gee, when are you due? You look like you're ready to pop," one said. "Three days ago, and I'm actually in early labour now. I'm going for a walk to try and speed things up!" I replied. "Good luck!" they said. "Yeah, thanks. You'll see me next week walking up here pushing the pram!" Clearly I never did get to push the pram, although I have thought about pushing an empty pram around sometimes, because I have turned in to a seriously crazy woman who says and does crazy things.

I have only walked "the long way" since we lost Hope. I have not been able to walk out my driveway and turn right. I have not been able to walk that well worn path up to our local supermarket, coffee shops, butchers, newsagents and greengrocers. The same way me and Hope walked every single day for 40 weeks and four days.

Turning right out of my drive way today to deliver the cards was hard work. Bloody hard work. But, with Simon's help I did it. (Mind you, I waited for the cover of dark before I did - I just didn't want to risk bumping in to anyone, especially not those neighbours we stopped to talk to on that particular day. Those same neighbours who have three young, pretty, blonde little girls.)

Today I was starting to think that me, Simon, our families and a few close friends were the only ones who missed Hope. Then I got this email. It read:
"I've been reading a SANDS book a fair bit since I got a copy last week and every story has broken my heart. At times I have had to put the book down because it's made me so upset. But then I feel so guilty because while I can put the book down and try and think about something else for a few hours so the tears can dry up, you can't. And more to the point, won't be able to ever again. The tears are welling up as I type this because I want so badly to change what happened to Hope and every other baby who hasn't got to meet their parents and grandparents and aunties and uncles and cousins and parents' friends etc. I guess I just wanted you to know that I miss Hope too, even though I didn't meet her. I know it's nothing compared to what you're feeling, but I wish so badly that she was here. I have wanted to tell you that for so long because I think about her so often and look at her photos and cry because it's so unfair that she's not here. Hope has changed so many lives forever, more than you will ever, ever know mate :-)"

This email just makes my hard work that little bit easier. To realise that this one friend DOES get it and is sad and does miss Hope. I was so touched to hear it. People need to know not to be afraid to speak our babies' names. That we want to talk about them. We want to hear how other people think of them and wonder what they would be like. It all helps. It all makes our hard work that little bit easier.

I just wish with this work I could take a break though. Even just for five minutes. It is so exhausting. I never realised parenting a baby who died would be such hard work.