Six years ago (how is this six years?) I had my 12 week scan. It had been what we thought was the end of all the scares; right from the first pregnancy test where we thought I was miscarrying or having an ectopic, spending the weekend in hospital. I was given the all clear, only for a week later to crashing my car; by the time I had reached this magical scan I had all but lost hope that there would still be a heartbeat.
There was, this baby Wookie was on its way.
As I mentioned we’re heading toward six years since she was born, then six years since she died. I cannot comprehend how on earth it is six years. It is such a significant amount of time. I have an almost six year old; but at the very same time I don’t. She was born, I am her mother, yet this 6 year old is invisible, she doesn’t really exist. She’ll never exist or be the age she should be.
She Is My Daughter
I love Melody, she is my daughter. However I hate being her Mum, correction I hate being a bereaved Mum. I am currently going through the motions of wishing that I wasn’t; that I no longer want this going on. When I took that pregnancy test, when I saw her on that 12 week scan, I had signed up for a life of mothering, being her parent teaching her things, learning about her; watching her grow.
Dare I say it there are days where I don’t think about her? It isn’t that I want to forget HER; wanting to try to remain pain free. Knowing once we hit the New Year, It’ll be a feeling of either pain, or complete numbness. I know what is coming, there really isn’t a lot I can do to stop it. All I want to feel is normal; of course I could try but I genuinely cannot remember what normal feels like.
What it feels like to reach February and have the only date to worry about be Valentine’s Day. I loved that day before. Now I hate it. I hate it for the day as being one of the final days I remember of being normal. It was the day I was told off by a midwife for having Pre-Eclampsia symptoms too early.
I sometimes wish that Melody had just been some storm that flooded villages that year; which is now forgotten, or just a distant memory. Obliterate…
It is tiring trying to keep her within my own memory, let alone everyone else’s. The rare mentions she gets, the eye rolls and the fidgets from the people who were once the people you turn to; from the very same people who wanted a piece of her, or are openly jealous by how we have coped in the years since; simply because they’re no doubt fed up of hearing it. Well I am fed up of living it.
Do I feel guilty? Of course I do, I have essentially asked to not be her Mum any more. It isn’t that I don’t want to be her Mum, I do; I wish I was able to be. I just don’t want to be a baby loss Mama any more.
I’m not a bad person. I just want to be her Mum.
I can hear you ask?
“Then why not just walk away, and forget?”
Because I AM her Mum.