Faith

The world is a scary place at the moment. Daily we are bombarded with headlines of people who preach, practice and spread hatred for their fellow humans. Evil seems to reign chaos and it somehow always comes back to religion. People use their faith to justify doing horrible things. People blame faith to explain why horrible things happen. People of one faith are suspicious and hateful of people with a different faith. Those of no faith bemoan the power faith wields in an unjust world. However you look at it, times are a little tough for everyone and even more so confusing for those who try to reconcile their faith with the absolute depravity they may encounter in their day-to-day lives.

Let me tell you something of faith as a grieving parent.

Everyone reacts differently to tragedy in life- for some they turn away from faith, for others it becomes a lifeline.

I am a woman of faith. My faith has deepened and strengthened through the experience of losing my child. The reasons for this are multifaceted and mostly deeply personal, so I won't go into it in more detail but there is one thing I would like to share about faith and how it helps me reflect on humanity.

On Idrees' last few hours in the world, we were in the PICU at Alder Hey Children's Hospital, in a small private room off the main PICU floor. The ever caring and attentive palliative care team assigned us a private room in order to give us some space and privacy to spend the last few hours of our son's life with him. There weren't many such rooms on that particular floor, although I didn't count them I knew there was a baby in the room next door to Idrees' and a young girl in the room off the other side. When your child is facing death, the details seem to skip past you until you somehow store them and recall them for later. I don't remember much about the other rooms other than small details. There was a Christian priest called in to sit with and bless the baby in the room next door and the young girl's family were playing some devotional Hindu prayers on a soft music player in the room to Idrees' other side. In Idrees' room as we held him in our arms for those last few hours as he made his journey from this world, we had an arabic reading and english translation recording of a chapter from the Qur'an, Surah Yaseen, playing in the background.

It is only on reflection I can properly appreciate the beauty of the moment. The power of the faith that resonated and bounced off the walls off that corner of the PICU that day was stronger than I've ever felt anywhere else in the world. Three different families were using their faith to come to terms with the greatest tragedy that faced them on that day- each adopting a different approach, but ultimately to the same means.

On that day religion wasn't a means to bully or dominate or prove righteousness. It was simply a vehicle for faith that helped three families say goodbye to their most precious little ones.

If you want to truly understand the hope and peace faith can bring, you'll be hard pressed to find it in a war zone or from the words of a preacher at a pulpit. Look in a lonely corner of a children's hospital where death lingers in the air and grief lies thick in the silence- you'll find it there, helping people to make sense of the world.

The right thing to say

What do you say when someone close to you or someone you know has lost their child? 

In all honesty, it is hard to think about what to say. Everyone is different in how they respond to grief. Here is what you should say though: something, anything. 

Your silence does not go unnoticed. Your lack of acknowledging that your friend or family or loved one has had the gift of a beautiful child does not go unnoticed. 

If I had a penny for every person who has sent a message through someone, or telepathically or however to say "I wanted to say something but I was scared, unsure, I didn't know what to say". Here is some heartfelt advice: saying nothing is not an option. Saying nothing is just as bad as saying the wrong thing.

Empathy is an important skill that as humans, we need to learn. You don't grow up to be empathetic towards others by default. Nobody is just born seeping with empathy. Nobody naturally knows what to say when another is in pain that they don't fully understand, having had the benefit of not living through it themselves. You learn to be empathetic towards the needs of others. But how? Just like you learn to do a lot of other things- you read about it if you need, you ask for advice from others but most importantly, you reach out to another human and take their hand in yours and say "I am trying to understand your pain".

Take a moment and think about the pain of losing a child. It isn't just that you gave birth to a baby who lived inside you for nine months; a baby who you grew to love without seeing, without conditions and without prejudice. It isn't just that losing a child is a pain so deep that there is no name for your identity after. You aren't an orphan or a widow, you are a sort of invisible parent. Parenting a baby who doesn't exist in the existing physical realm. Living amongst civilised society who puts an emphasis on the tangible. Coping with missing a part of yourself. Surviving through milestones and birthdays and anniversaries thinking each second of every day "I long for you". The pain is neither diminished with time nor ever disappears entirely. How does one respond to such a deep chasm of pain? 

The answer is gently, somehow, anyhow. 

Reach out and ask that question, "how are you doing?" 

Reach out and ask that parent about their child. It isn't painful to talk about their child, it is far, far more painful to cope with their child being ignored. 

Reach out today and try and understand someone else's pain and put a hand in their hand to say that you don't want how to say it perfectly perhaps, but you do care. 

Just do it. 

Mother's Day

A day capitalised by Hallmark for mothers everywhere. But what makes someone a mother? Where does motherhood begin?

Does it begin on an idle tuesday afternoon, when you are scraping  mashed green beans off a much loved little face? 

Or perhaps in the dead of a wednesday morning, on a quiet NHS ward, watching the baby you just ejected out of your womb as it sleeps noisily? 

Maybe motherhood crept up on you while you were hanging over a toilet bowl, just 8 weeks in and feeling like death warmed up. 

It may have slapped you in the face when you got your first big win, exhausted and depressed, tired and dirty, but looking down at the surprise first smile from the new person in your life.

If you have ever woken up in the middle of the night and thought about your child, forget what anyone says, you're a mother too. If that child is beside you snoring, in the next room, in another house or physically buried four feet under the ground and spiritually perhaps in another plane of existence.

If you have waited with crazed nervous energy, convinced this could be your month and you will finally get the confirmation that you have a little multiplying ball of cells, pregnant with anticipation...you're a mother too. 

If you have ever had that BFP, whether expected or a surprise, whether much awaited or somewhat regretted, you're a mother too. 

If you are still waiting for that elusive extra line, after months or even years of trying and set yourself up for the crushing blow when it doesn't happen, forget what the stick says, you're a mother too. 

If you have had the pleasure of going into a scan and seeing an extra being wriggling and squirming and seemedly waving back at you, you might have just become a mother too. It doesn't matter that the next time you saw your baby, there was nothing but stillness. 

If you have been delivered crushing news and felt the raw, hot grief that threatens to stop the world spinning for a moment, you know in your heart that what you feel makes you a mother too. 

If you have ever had to make a heartbreaking decision, whether it is to not bring your much loved child into the world for any reason- practical, health related, emotional or otherwise...forget what the detractors say, you have made a sacrifice and you are a mother too. 

If you have been waiting hopefully and excitedly for your new arrival only for the reality to cruelly crash down with a new arrival that doesn't breathe or whose heart stops beating, don't hesitate about it for a moment, you're still a mother too.

If you are lucky enough to give birth to a living, breathing little person and feel that overwhelming rush of love only to find a few days or weeks or months or years later, that your little person is no longer breathing or living...you are still a mother too. 

If you have a quiet home filled with just memories- perhaps a footprint or an old blanket or a picture or two, don't let anyone dissuade you from knowing that you are a mother too. 

If you visit a cemetary instead of nursery, a bereavement group intead of soft play, nothing changes that you are still a mother too. 

If you have been blessed with other special children but still sometimes get a catch in your throat or a tear in your eye for the ones that you don't get to cuddle every day, you will always be their mother still. 

Forget what your instincts tell you, ignore what seems politically correct or appropriate...

This day is for you if in your heart you are a mother too. 

Happy Mother's Day. 

A new kind of happiness

As the dust settles, every day through the grief we learn something new. 

The most important lesson I learnt as the clock struck midnight and a new year began? Happiness comes in many various and different forms. 

I used to think pure happiness would only happen if we were a family of three. My soulmate, my beautiful baby and me. I have come to realise that life sends you many surprises and bumps along the way to teach you that happiness comes in many forms. 

Life is beautiful

Almost two months ago our beautiful little boy Idrees left us to join a band of similarly blessed babies in Heaven.

Motherhood is the greatest blessing I have ever received and Idrees will always be my most special little one. We miss him every single moment but also realise how very blessed we are to have someone so cute in our lives who makes saying goodbye, for now, so hard.

Our son was on this planet for five days but the lessons he has taught all those who have known him have touched our lives for a lifetime.

Everyday since has been a reminder that life is short, but very beautiful. Remember that life is too special to spend it worrying or stressed or upset.

Embrace every single day with a grateful heart and a positive mindset and watch how the beauty of this life takes you by surprise, giving you a reason to smile everyday.

Whatever troubles keep you up at night, my only wish is that I hope you find peace, contentment and perspective.

Make every moment count, you only get one chance to make your life worthwhile.

His story: Part two

Birth

On the 4th of November 2014 Idrees graced us with his presence. He arrived 3 weeks before his due date via an emergency c-section. S was incredibly brave and strong throughout the whole pregnancy and moreso during labour. She didn’t complain once and seemed to enjoy it all, including every symptom or contraction she had. We hadn’t realised at the time but through his time in utero, our son gave us so many wins. To even make it to birth here was a blessing in its own right. Some couples yearn all their life to know and feel a baby’s kick in the womb. We bonded so closely with Idrees in his safe haven, once he was out it felt like we had known him a while.

Once the prompt and well-considered decision for the c-section was made, S was taken in first into the operating theatre for the spinal injection and I was asked to wait in a small room. I remember thinking at that moment that the selfish life that I had lived to that point was officially done. I realised that I would very soon have a new purpose in life and that was to be as good a role model for my son and make mine and my family’s time on this planet count.

The operation took only a couple of minutes from start to baby’s birth. When Idrees came out we heard a roar of a cry. Instantly Sanam and I were in tears with joy. Even though I have always wanted to be a dad, I never felt entitled enough to think I would be lucky enough to hear my son’s cry. I will never forget that moment; it will always be the truly best moment in my life.

His story: Part One

Although fathers are often as completely involved and invested in their children’s lives as the mothers are, their stories are often unheard, especially when it comes to high risk pregnancies, in utero diagnosis and subsequent birth and infant loss. I asked A to offer his perspective, a father’s perspective, on our journey with the hope that his thoughts may help men out there dealing with something similar. This is his story.