Life after loss is something I never thought I would be writing about and it's still hard to believe that I am. I'm currently sitting in my daughter's room; the one she never had a chance to come home to, writing this and trying to remind myself of my passion to help others. Thinking how writing got me through dark times in the past so whilst I'm searching for purpose without her in my life, I should use that passion not only to help others but help myself too.
Our beautiful baby girl Esme Vowels Lovett was born on the 18th of February. Weighing 6 pounds 12 oz, she had thick dark brown hair and the cutest button nose. Looked just like her mummy, but from her antics in my tummy had a personality just like her daddy! Our firstborn whom we worked for seven long years to get and waited a further nine months to learn was a girl. The most perfect, longed-for little angel.
Devastatingly Esme was born with her heart no longer beating and after a week of being with her, we were forced to say goodbye. During the times spent with her, I was the most content and at peace, I have ever felt in my life. She had the most calming aura and the ability to bring me pure happiness during the hardest times. They are times I will cherish forever and I will never forget the feeling of holding her tiny hand within mine.
Learning to navigate life after this immense loss is by far the most difficult thing I've ever had to do. Most days I've had to force myself to go on when all I want is to be with my daughter. From the minute we had the news, life as we knew it was shattered and in front of us was our worst nightmare. Trying to live after this loss is far worse than I ever imagined and I genuinely never knew it was possible to feel pain like this.
The stages following her passing are a complete blur and difficult to think about, which is why my brain has blocked them off. The days were about just surviving, living minute by minute was the only way we could get through. I shed more tears than I knew was humanly possible, every part of me hurt. It hurt to breathe, to talk, to move. Feeling like there was a weight on my chest due to the sheer heartbreak of never getting to see you again.
The early stages are full of denial. This can't be real, it can't be real, this can't be our life, it has to be a nightmare. Each day I desperately hoped I'd wake up and it hadn't actually happened but instead, waking up searching for her. This went on for a long time, I'd either wake up hysterically crying, screaming her name, only to look next to me and it is empty. It felt like being told all over again, every single time I slept. Then there's the anger. Pure rage like I've never felt before. So much rage I didn't know what to do with it, punching, kicking and smacking my head against walls. Angry at how this could happen, why it had to happen to us, why they didn't listen to me, so many questions but no answers. I was angry at the sound of laughter and the sight of a smile, wondering how could other people's lives go on when ours has stopped. Something you go on to learn with grief; the world never stops moving, for anyone.
Not only is the mental side of things horrific but there are physical elements too. My body struggled to understand where the baby had gone, feeling as though it was literally crying out for her. I still had the usual postpartum problems like heavy bleeding, baby blues, hair falling out and my milk coming in. The physical toll of a difficult IVF pregnancy with killer cells treatment, a c-section and further surgery not long after, took a huge toll on my body.
People tell you that things will get easier, when really what happens, is you get stronger. Over time you learn coping mechanisms that help you get through the days, access therapy and slowly start to rebuild yourself. Also part of it, is you learn to keep it to yourself because as a society, once a few months pass it's less acceptable to still be grieving. There's an approach that after 6 months, people shouldn't need support so it dramatically reduces. It will always be strange to me that anyone could think you'd be okay in such a short amount of time but I believe until you've experienced grief, you will never fully understand it.
Over the months I was able to start building strength and put pieces of myself back together but that in itself brings a set of challenges; with guilt being the biggest one. Guilt for feeling any sense of happiness or enjoyment, because happiness after a loss feels wrong. Wondering if am I grieving hard enough and will she know I love her if I smile again? Worrying what other people think of how you are coping and that it's a direct link to your love for them. There are so many complex emotions within guilt and I tell myself there is nothing to feel guilty for but a mother's instinct is to protect their child, so when something goes wrong, the mother always takes the blame.
In June after suffering for four months with debilitating anxiety, flashbacks and nightmares, I needed to seek help for my trauma. I was later diagnosed with severe PTSD, a condition I wouldn't wish on anyone but certainly not someone already living with grief. After losing Esme I couldn't go out in public without being riddled with anxiety which led to the most horrifying panic attacks. Along with that every time I'd sleep I had the most harrowing nightmares where I was back in those situations of being unable to save her. I was also experiencing multiple flashbacks every hour of every day, sudden waves to which you physically feel back in those moments. You can feel, hear and see every part as if you are right there all over again.
Another difficulty we discovered is people pretending nothing ever happened or that your child didn't exist. It's the worst thing when you go through the most life-changing thing possible, then you see someone for the first time and they don't even mention it. I appreciate people don't always know what to say or don't want to upset you however for us, it's more upsetting when people don't mention Esme at all. We always found it tough that due to the circumstance Esme's birth was never celebrated. We didn't have people asking what we had, how much she weighed, or who she looked like. She may have died, but she did also live. We made it very clear from the start that it's important to both of us that Esme is talked about, included and always remembered. This is a massive part of the healing process because we couldn't imagine a life that doesn't involve her so having everyone embrace that with us is a big help.
8 months on from the loss of our daughter and there's a small glimmer of hope that life won't be this dark forever. Grief though is extremely complex, one minute I may be okay, and the next I'm in tears. I’ve found it helpful to learn triggers but also accept that it’s okay to have time spent just endlessly pining for her. I have come to terms with the fact life always be tinged with sadness and what-ifs, but I know all Esme would want is for me to be happy. I try to make a conscious effort to choose happiness for her and live out all the things she never got to do.
My days are now spent working extremely hard at healing, I am doing or have done every single thing I can find that helps in some way. I have done so much work with both counselling and trauma therapy, to navigate this new life and cope with an ongoing legal case we are fighting for our daughter. I still struggle a lot with anxiety and flashbacks however they are reduced. Days are mixed with sadness but also now enjoyment too, things are still far from easy but I'm proud to look back at how far I've come. I'm exercising every day, I'm meditating, tapping, doing trauma release dance, listening to hypnotherapy audios, repeating affirmations, writing letters and much more. I'm kind of exhausted from it all but I feel a way of making my girl proud is to come out the other side of this stronger, so that's what I'm determined to do.