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Newsletter
1 Articles
If
If you don't mention
my baby's name
If you don't acknowledge her existence
If you don't say that you miss her too
If you don't mention her in conversation or
change the subject when I do.
If you don't love and acknowledge my precious baby who is a part
of me
Who I love
Who I acknowledge
Who I miss
Whose absence I cope with every day and will never accept
Then you must understand that I will come to the conclusion that
you don't love me
because you see it is not possible for you to love me and not to
love my baby.
Written
by Sandy
© 1999
I
need to tell you that you will survive
Gemma
Rose was born on the 30th May 1999.
She did not have a heart
beat and she was not breathing, all due to her thin cord being crushed
and the placenta coming away during my last few minutes of labour. The
doctors got her heart going very quickly but her resuscitation took
20 minutes. That was too long. My little girl had received no oxygen
for too long a time.
It has been a very long,
sad, draining journey for the last 12 months, and I know that this
journey will never end - it will continue to change 'til the day
I meet my little Gemma again.
I have had to learn to give myself permission to take time out,
to slow down and feel the feelings, and let my emotions take me
where I've need to get to. I've read lots, taken lots of long walks
on the beach with Andrew, and sometimes just sat and watched the
trees rustle and the birds fly past. For the last 11 months I have
craved calm days.
I have faced every "first"
front on - I was not going to let grief take me into a depression
I did not want. I have confronted seeing my first newborn and survived,
confronted the baby shops and survived, confronted the Christmas
pageant that I took part in and survived. I have confronted many
more "firsts" and survived, and I know that I can continue
to confront many more and I will survive them. I am proud of me.
On several occasions
friends or family have said "you are so brave", and for
a while I could not understand what they meant. Then a friend of
mine put it all into place. She said "you are brave because
you chose to continue and not give up, you chose to talk about Gemma
and your feelings to others straight away. You have made many people
feel comfortable when they have cried for Gemma in front of you
and you are very open about her loss."
I miss my little girl
some days so much that I just cry and cry. I am learning to put
Gemma aside at times so that I may have some of my time back and
it feels OK. I look at it as her being "baby sat".
As Gemma's birthday gets
closer I'm getting sadder and sadder - the tears come more frequently
again, the shock of it all returns. I find myself looking at her
photo's more and more, and I feel that I'm losing what little control
I had regained. On my really bad days I feel like just hiding from
all the world and rocking myself to and fro. But I also know that
I will survive her 1st birthday, and have both sad and fond memories
of my little Gemma.
I just needed to tell you that, although there are going to be many
times when you think you wont, you too will survive.
Rosi
(Gemma's Mum)
©2000
Dear
Gemma
It's not getting any
easier. I still feel the numbness, the hollowness inside. Sometimes
it seems that you never entered our lives. You were with us such
a short time, that it seems to be almost a dream. The eight days
we had with you all blur together. And then I see one of your photo's,
or I walk past what would have been your room, or someone mentions
you - or I just concentrate on my current emptiness - and then I
remember.
I remember holding you on my bare chest, and feeling your breaths.
And wrapping your little fingers around one of mine in your tight
grip.
I remember stroking you
and massaging you and kissing you as you lay asleep in front of
us.
I remember staring at
you for hours, not wanting to leave your side. I remember the proud
feeling when we named you in the delivery room, when we were told
we had a little girl.
I remember the fear and
feeling of helplessness I had when you were born, when I knew something
was wrong, but not what, and I couldn't share my worries with your
mummy because she was still drugged and didn't comprehend what was
happening. I remember the hope I had for you, when we were told
that you were breathing by yourself, and when we saw your little
feet or hands twitch.
I remember the pessimism
I still held deep down, while I tried to be positive on the outside
for you and your mummy.
I remember praying at
night for you, and crying myself to sleep. I remember the crushing
blow when your doctor told us that you weren't getting any better,
and that we needed a miracle for you to live. I knew there wouldn't
be one.
I remember the tears - I've shed more in the last year than in the
rest of my thirty.
I remember your room
at the hospital, filled with flowers, toys, and music. And love.
I remember hugging family and friends and sobbing.
I remember holding your
Uncle Peter when we came home to pick up some things, and I cried
heavily and screamed and yelled. And Peter cried too.
I remember your last day. I remember our father/daughter dance.
You are gone now. I will
never get to dance with you again. I'll never get to watch you take
your first steps, or run in the park with you. I'll never listen
eagerly for your first words, or make you laugh. I'll never get
any smiles, nor hugs and kisses.
I'll never watch you grow to a toddler, a girl, a teenager, a woman.
I'll never get to help you with your homework. I'll never teach
you to drive.
And I'll never have the honour of walking you down the aisle, and
dancing with you at your wedding.
I hope you are at peace Gemma Rose. I miss you with all of my heart.
I would have been a wonderful, loving and caring father to you,
and I'm sorry I'll never get to show you that. I hope you felt it.
I love
you, Daddy.
©2000
Copyright
© SANDS (SA) Inc. 1999-2002.
Last modified:16/7/04
Website designed and created by Kasia
Pawelski-Leach 2002
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