I have barely had any sleep in four days. I usually fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow at night, but recently things have kept me awake – thoughts, and emotions, and plans and worries – future ones and present ones– real ones and imaginary ones – for sure.
So there I am in the bathroom at 6 am. I’m knackered and exhausted, sleep-deprived, hair is a mess, wearing a milk-stained t-shirt from breastfeeding the baby, eyes still more closed than open. My three-year-old bouncing up and down in front of me: “Mummy, mummy, can I take this teddy-bear downstairs with me? Can I? Can I?” At that moment, some very sleep-deprived cells in my brain can’t take any of it anymore: “If you carry that teddy-bear downstairs with you, we need to throw away three others. I’m so tired – I don’t want to tidy and tidy and tidy anymore.” She stops bouncing and just stares at me. What? Wait. What did I just say? Where the heck did that come from? Keep that one – throw three others away?! Sweet lord! “I’m sorry baby,” I muster. “Of course you can take your teddy-bear downstairs. It’s yours. Mummy is just really tired,” I manage to say. Big hug. Faith restored.
My babies crack me open – they break me physically, mentally and emotionally every single day, and I love them with a love deeper and truer than I have ever loved ever before: with a wide-open, unguarded heart. So scary! I didn’t see this pain and mess, and beauty and love coming, but it’s here, it’s real. Sometimes the love I feel inside my body is so overwhelming that it spills out all over my edges – it expands beyond my body and seems to solidify in front of my very eyes into a big fat heart-shaped balloon that is about to pop and sprinkle stardust all over the whole wide Universe. A balloon so gigantic I can’t wrap my arms around it. A feeling so vast that I can’t put it into words.
I pray to God every day that my grumpy teddy-bear murdering moments won’t break my tiny babies’ souls before they get a chance to fully explore the world with all its beauty and pain. That they won’t think that I’m the mum from hell or worse, that there is something wrong with them that might have made me snap. Then at the same time, I’m thinking, “well wait – your children, their hearts, their souls, are much more potent and capable than you could ever know – how dare you fathom that you could ever break infinite spirits and their infinite souls with a ridiculous comment like that.” I know. I’m instantaneously humbled. I know people are so so capable and resilient –children all over the world have endured and are enduring famine, disease, wars, abuse, sometimes all at once, and they’ve survived. True, but people everywhere are also suffering from PTSD and need psychiatrists. So?! I’m still really torn.
There is always this tug at my heart – this desire to keep my babies warm and safe and whole – shielded from life’s horrors, tiny or real serious ones – and from “teddy-bear murdering me” mornings.
I want to protect them and be real at the same time. I want to be sweet mum all the time and yet allow myself to have shitty mornings and show it. I want my children’s world to be just perfect, but I don’t want it to be too perfect at the same time either to prepare them for all of what is “out there” and yet to come. The world is a “brutiful” place says Glennon Doyle: beautiful and brutal. I want my children to see that at times this brutiful world breaks me with fatigue, with worry, with decisions – the ones I can take and the ones that are taken for me – with loss, with death, but that it rebuilds me too – us – with friendship, with love, with support, with a random smile. I don’t want to be accountable for my children’s welfare, and at the same time, I just love being accountable for their welfare. All those thoughts and emotions – all rolled into one. I’m trying to be the very best version of me, and I am failing at it every single day. And yet I keep trying – insanity. I would have quit any other project by now under those circumstances, but this one I keep sustaining with all my might. I guess that’s what real love does. It keeps whispering into your ear to try and try again because it’s worth it. After all, you care. It makes you want to keep trying and trying and trying even if you know that you’ll always fall short – mostly falling short of the expectations you had of yourself. And actually, you know that in the end, it doesn’t really matter if you are your very best version or just any decent version of you, because this you that you are is the you that your children call mummy.
Glennon Doyle wrote something along the lines of “as long as you are in there battling, you are doing this living right.” The ones with no heart-break are already numb and dead. Well, seen from that perspective, I’m mightily alive with all those badass emotions and thoughts keeping me awake at night. I guess what I’m trying to say is that this tug at my heart and this inner back and forth leave me with no clue when it comes to being a mum – when it comes to being a wife, a friend, a daughter, a teacher, a woman, … – any and all of what makes me me, really. I’m taking one moment, one emotion, at a time and see where it will lead me – all of us, as individuals and as a family. That’s all there is to it really.
And those are the thoughts swirling around in my head at 6 am after 20 minutes of sleep all night – no coffee yet. “Damn, I can’t have a cup of real coffee, see: breastfeeding.” Fuck that. Break those parenting rules. I’ll have my cup of coffee—just one. So here’s to all the milk-stained mummies out there, to all the ones trying to be their very best – mummy or not – for the ones they love – failing and trying and failing all over again, to great books that keep you sane in the middle of the night and to friends who laugh at your text messages, also in the middle of the night, when irrational worries keep you awake, and you can’t fall asleep.
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Feel free to share if you found meaning in those words
– to all the bautiful women out there, mothers or not: happy mother’s day – I love you –
When I was looking for my dad, I tried to find out who my mum’s friends used to be before she died and I managed to contact a few of them: I love you because you helped me get to know my mum when I didn’t have the chance to anymore. You helped me piece together the picture of a woman with a heart and a soul, and you showed me her shiny parts – her fun, and loving, and loyal parts. Sure, she must have carried some amount of darkness too. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have ended up in a relationship with a guy beating the shit out of her or turning to alcohol towards the end of her life. That’s part of being human.
Mum, I don’t think any less of you for being this human. I don’t know which experiences you must have had to endure to view those choices as your only way out. I do know, however, that life itself isn’t that harsh, life is always striving for growth, expansion, beauty, and love. It’s our own man-made, and mind-made demons and fears and irrational anxieties and fake standards that slap us around and that make us crumble from the inside. I learned that you hated your job. You hated working in an office, but it was a well-paid, sought-after job, so you stayed. As we so often do. One day, we say, one day,… and that day never comes, and along the way, we lose ourselves. I recently read an excellent blog post by a stage four ovarian cancer patient, which I am fortunate enough to have met at the writers’ workshop in Birmingham last fall: Fi Munro. If anyone can put “I’ll do this later” into perspective, then it’s her:
A few weeks ago, I was talking to Debra Kilby. She helps mothers deal with baby loss and how to welcome in new babies into this world. We were talking about what the term “mother-wound” actually means. Suffering from a mother wound at first level seems to suggest that we lost our mothers when we were very young, or that our mothers physically or emotionally abused us or that they neglected or left us. So, on a first level, suffering from the mother-wound indicates trauma that was caused and inflicted on us by our mothers or because of them.
However, on another level, suffering from a mother-wound means that we are living our mothers’ lives. In this case, we are self-inflicting the mother-wound to our selves. In this scenario, we are striving to accomplish what our mothers couldn’t, trying to make them proud or happy by fulfilling their wishes and dreams and “being good girls”. When this happens, we forget about or reject our own plans or visions for our future, and we “die, so that our mothers can live.” This development and adaptation often happen unconsciously, and that is the real tragedy of the mother-wound. We cannot make other people happy and take on the choices that they didn’t make. We can just make ourselves comfortable and lead by example, allowing others to leave miserable situations instead of staying stuck until it is too late. My mother’s wounds were so deep that looking at them allowed me to choose differently for myself. I chose to be in relationships with respectful people, I chose to pursue a job that makes me happy and that allows me to be all of me, I chose to share my strife, instead of suffering in silence.
Mum, I don’t know which battles you were fighting in and outside of yourself, but mum, what I know is that you had and have beautiful, kind, and loyal friends with fierce hearts who respect you and me enough to share your most significant memories with me and to keep your light shining and who don’t allow your darkness to prevail. I’m so grateful you made those secure connections when you were still so very young because this tribe of women is still carrying me through more than over thirty years later, just because I am your daughter.
I feel fortunate because those women are role models for me, and I get to identify and pick their best character traits to strive towards. So in a way, I feel that I was and am being raised by a whole bunch of mothers, instead of just you mum. This community of women means a whole lot to me, and it says and reveals a lot about the person and friend you used to be.
Mum, some of your friends have lost children of their own by now, some have been afflicted by and dealt with cancer, and some have gone through an ugly divorce, but mum, all of them have found it within them to reach out to me and to support me in my darkest and saddest hours when they had to go through so much grief of their own. You picked your friends well, mum, and I’m super grateful for that and proud of you.
I hope that all of us find those beautiful people- this tribe of ours- in our lives. People who carry the torch of our light and hand it over to future generations; those friends who speak of our kindness, of our generous deeds, of our love for our children and of our passion for life;- friends who have seen our darkest hours, our unfair breakups, our hangovers, our cheating, our bitching, and who choose to see all of this for what it is: dark moments, human moments, which don’t define us, but which make us human and very common. Our suffering on some level is the same suffering for all of us. What sets us apart from each other are our skills and talents and our abilities that we use to lovingly contribute to the planet, to support the people surrounding us and to relentlessly, courageously and mercilessly confront our own demons and turn our flaws into virtues, allowing us to build strong and lasting relationships and friendships; – our ability to keep loving and forgiving even in the face of all the wrongs that there might have been and be; – our ability to generate a loving and lasting tribe of like-minded people, even beyond our death that is what reveals our true essence.
My mum and grandad have this in common – they left me a legacy of loving, caring, and loyal people that are still here and support me beyond their deaths, not because they are family and feel obliged to, but because they choose to honour the contribution, minuscule or mighty, that you made to their lives in the past.
Recently I watched an interview between Russell Brand and Amanda Palmer and the topic was death and loss. Amanda said that there are two deaths we as humans undergo: our first death is when we leave our physical bodies behind and our second death occurs when the last person stops talking about us. That’s it. Your actions and the memory of you here on earth are finite. Let us ask ourselves: what is the sum of all my actions, of all the memories I created for myself and for others? What will I be remembered for? I so want the people I love to remember my love for them, this overflowing feeling that gathers in the pit of my tummy. I wish people to feel and soak in and radiate this intense, honest love. I hope that I’ll manage to gather a circle of genuinely loyal and loving people around me who cherish my light despite my humanness and I hope this for you too, whoever you are, because all of us need to have someone shine our light and keep the memory of it alive here on earth when we are already long gone. Receive the light and be the light for someone else.
If you are anything like me, you probably had a million plans for what you were going to do during the recent lockdown. I hope you accomplished to do what you set out to do because I did fuck all. On social media, I could see people baking bread and creating beautiful art and decluttering their homes, and I was confined to the sofa, frustrated that I had been robbed of my sovereignty. This pregnancy really hit hard, and while my previous pregnancies were all about only morning sickness, now the early stages of this pregnancy bore the title “all-day sickness.” All I wanted to do and craved was pizza and sleep, and being able to get up without fainting.
So talking about challenges and boundaries, currently being pregnant with baby number four has brought about a new level of challenges for me that I had never experienced before. I could barely get up off the couch and into the shower, for three months – now that’s confinement. During the summer 2019, when I met my dad for the first time after more than 30 years, I had one meltdown after the other for weeks – one moment I was thrilled and exhilarated. The next I was in tears, thinking about all the lies and secrets that I had been confronted with my entire life, and I felt heart-broken and betrayed. I couldn’t step out of my emotional turmoil back then, and this time around, I couldn’t fix my bodily pandemonium either. A body is so magical, and yet so fragile all at once.
– song from the movie the fundamentals of caring –
At the forefront, my pregnancy made me deal with my physical shortcomings heads on. But physical and emotional distress are intrinsically linked, so when I say that at first sight, I had to deal with my body’s issues, I have to say that I was also exposed to feelings of guilt and shame and feeling disempowered. I was so miserable those past three months – miserable because I had believed my whole life that if I’m not productive all the time that I’m a failure. Babies, when they are born, don’t contribute to a household either – they just demand care and food, and love and cuddles and human contact and genuine love and we give freely with full hearts. It makes me laugh to picture a baby lying in its crib, contemplating how unfortunate she feels for not being able to do the washing up or the laundry. It’s absurd to think of such a thing. And yet, what made me think that I am less than, because I couldn’t get up without feeling sick and fainting. I’m growing a tiny human inside my body – for the fourth time. That shit is epic, and it should be treated as such at all times. I hope that I will be able to help my babies preserve their innate feeling of being enough, of being a welcome contribution to the world. Also, I hope that all mothers reading this will be reminded of how lucky and incredibly strong they are and that they are allowed to rest whenever they feel like it, because I forgot to appreciate myself, but you shouldn’t.
you have been criticizing yourself for years and it hasn’t worked. try approving of yourself and see what happens.
louise l. hay
As much as I resented my helplessness and pitied myself, and ranted, and cried, nope, nothing could take the sickness away and restore my productivity and vigour. So I started to delve deeper and to look closely at my symptoms and the possible causes of my physical ailments – and the state of the world in general because I had plenty of time 🙂 Inevitably, the thought crossed my mind that I admire those people that have been suffering from severe illnesses and limitations for years and that are still battling on. Man, I have utter respect for you, because, at some point, I just broke down crying and thought I couldn’t take this anymore – I couldn’t take it anymore, not being in control of my body, not being able to make myself feel whole and well again.
While writing this, I am watching the news featuring the current “Black Lives Matter” movement. I can’t even start to imagine what it must be like to feel powerless and not entirely in charge of one’s life from birth on, always being afraid of prosecution, because of other people’s twisted beliefs. I honestly can’t wrap my head around the fact that there are people who believe that they are superior to someone else based on skin colour, religion, or background. And no matter how hard I am trying, I honestly can’t grasp this concept in no way whatsoever.
I know that my lack of understanding might come across as naïve and my pregnancy problems as trivial compared to what is going on in the world right now. However, I still believe that a link and universal truth are underlying all of those experiences. Our bodies instinctively and innately know how to set boundaries, when we abuse our bodies by eating unhealthy foods, or by overexposure to stress or to exercise. Our bodies sent us signals and symptoms that eventually develop into full-blown conditions if we are not listening to the subtle hints that are directed our way. Our human design makes us come to a halt and question our behaviour for us to be able to restore our natural health, which is what I have been experiencing those past few months.
When it comes to the current riots or the recent, still present, pandemic, we need to admit that there had been warning signs too, but we chose to ignore them. We chose to keep exploiting our natural resources and our immune systems; we chose to focus on our screens instead of building meaningful relationships with the people in our lives that are most important to us. We chose to engage in trivial activities like watching TV or mindless shopping, instead of taking into account how history is about to repeat itself, and how we can be part of the solution and not part of the problem. We all did it – me too. And I have to say this development scares me. And although the current political eruptions and revelations all around the world are frightening, they are also potentially healing our ignorance and restoring natural balance.
The early stages of a pregnancy feel like “nothing” and “look like nothing”, but behind the scenes, there is utter magic. I want you to remember this: we are evolving even though we might not be able to see or track our everyday growth. During the current health crisis, streets, cities, beaches in the outside world, in the visible world, have all been empty. Nothing seemed to be happening, but the people who are to the countries what our cells are to our bodies have all been evolving and growing and changing and dying and we have all come out of this lockdown different people. We might not be aware of our altered selves and still be hanging on to our habits and routines. Yet, on levels invisible to our eyes, we have undergone some substantial change, which we can either embrace and explore and develop or deny. So personal and global problems, although they might be fundamentally different, are still intrinsically linked with regards to the universal truths of boundaries, challenges, and natural balance that they carry at their core.
we are evolving even though we might not be able to see or track our everday growth
Two nights ago, when I was lying in bed, I had this awareness or this insight, and it made me cry. I was thinking about how much I love my babies and how overwhelming this feeling is at times. It isn’t something that has a beginning or an end – it just is. When you are lying in my arms, pretending to be a tiny newborn, I look at your curvy cheeks, and your long eyelashes and I see perfection in all of your features, and I am wondering how on earth did I get so lucky. Thinking of how fortunate I am, I feel for those mothers and fathers whose children were taken away from them, through the hands of all the injustices there are in this world and that are currently being revealed. My dear darling children, I hope that the future I am leading you towards will be filled with compassion and care and real sovereignty for every human being. And if I say that large-scale battles reflect internal battles, then I can say that I am not innocent when it comes to fighting battles and to contributing towards the hatred in this world. My struggles and fights are tiny compared to the global state of the planet. And mostly, I am arguing with other people inside my head, thinking about all the great things I should have said and how distraught I am because of something someone else said or did. Those quarrels in our lives might be internal, but they still contribute to the conflict in the world in their own way.
Some battles are easier confronted and dealt with than others, but we must look at what is irritating us and resolve it to contribute to a peaceful world. I can say, for example, that now I fully embrace being a mum but it took me almost two years to get to this point. No, just hear me out: you were welcome and loved right from the start, but I wasn’t ready for the isolation and confinement at home that being a mother had brought on for me. What the world is experiencing right now, I had to go through during the pregnancies and right after your birth. So staying at home with you now is not hard for me anymore. It’s what our everyday life looks like anyway – it’s peace. Isolation, over time, has turned into contentment, bliss, and gratitude for what is. Your birth and presence demanded and taught me how to stand still, observe and fully take in – serenity. On a global level, because of the lockdown, our species could observe and notice all that has been absurd for so long in our surroundings, our habits, our governments, and our leaders and rise to the occasion with stronger convictions and more gratitude, but fiercely beating hearts – could.
When you were born, I stayed home and all the diapering and feeding and doing the laundry felt so monotonous and repetitive. I observed you develop a bit more every day, and rejoiced in it, but I didn’t have many people to share my newly found wonder with. I didn’t call any of my friends, because I figured they were all busy – they didn’t call me either – I guess they figured I was busy. In hindsight, it hurts to think that we didn’t reach out to each other, but the Universe knows what it is doing, and my loneliness back then helped me grow into being comfortable with my own self, my own thoughts, my own company. And it also helped me to now come to the conclusion that I chose to withdraw into my own little world, instead of strengthening loving friendships. Remember to reach out when you feel like removing yourself from your circle of friends.
remember to reach out when you feel like removing yourself from your circle of friends
Now, after having read Dr Henry Cloud’s book “Boundaries”, I have realized that my lack of healthy boundaries didn’t allow me to “keep the good in and the bad out.” Recently reading this book has been a real eyeopener in so many ways for me. Despite my many years into personal development, this book has helped me gain genuinely new insights into why I have been and am operating in the ways I am. Feeling so sick for the past few months has made me look at my boundaries and the ones that I have and have not been setting. The barriers I had not been setting have depleted my energy, and the pregnancy has not been the reason for my physical breakdown, but just the final straw that broke the camel’s back. And in the current crisis, people have subconsciously or consciously, but still ignoring their truths, been avoiding limit setting, but now we can’t avoid it any longer. On a personal scale, there are many injustices and boundary trespassing that I have endured without saying anything. Internally, I used to get angry, but instead of expressing my anger and addressing the problem, I used to bottle it up and avoid conflict. On a global scale, what we are experiencing now is centuries of repressed anger and battles that have been fought for way too long internally instead of out in the open, where they can be discussed, cleared, and healed.
So, how do I choose to contribute to restoring small scale peace? Well, for one, I am telling myself that instead of allowing anger to fester in my guts, I am going to express it and to address those people that have crossed my boundaries. At the same time, I am willing to be more careful and understanding when it comes to other people’s boundaries, meaning that I am trying not to be offended or feel rejected when a friend of mine cannot make it to a night out or a cup of coffee. I was once rebuked for not attending a dinner and cancelling last minute – rebuked for setting boundaries when I needed to. We should remember though that it’s our healthy boundaries that preserve our sanity and allow us to steer clear of bottled-up frustration and resentment for being forced to do something. When we crave something else, like a quiet night or solitude instead of a social gathering, we should be allowed to express that freely. If we manage to respect our boundaries and each other’s boundaries, then those boundaries will add up to collective boundaries and strong internal values.
supporting people and still letting them have control over themselves builds limitless potential. it is the recipe for greatness.
the power of the other – the startling effect other people have on you, from the boardroom to the bedroom and beyond – by dr henry cloud
For most of my life, I didn’t share any of my thoughts with anyone. (read the power of the other, by Dr Henry Cloud and find out about the four major ways in which people relate to each other). I very quickly learned that when I shared my hopes and dreams and aspirations that the world didn’t embrace all of me, but that I had exposed myself to the possibility of jealousy, cynicism, or ridicule. Soon enough, I stopped talking about what mattered most to me. Probably that’s why all those words are bursting out now. While being engrossed in my little world, books and stories had become my friends. Reading and studying psychology books and all kinds of specific and non-specific literature has helped me to make sense of my and other people’s behaviour and to see how differently our psyches choose to deal with our experiences and realities. So when it comes to positively contributing to the world and keeping “the good in and the bad out,” then I feel that learning and insight aren’t of much use if we keep our ideas solely to ourselves. Let us educate each other and allow each other a glimpse of our experiences and struggles and how we managed to overcome them.
Let us invite each other in and encourage each other to shed light on our shortcomings and darkness so that together we can face our inner demons and alter our ways of thinking and being in this world. At least that’s what I hope. And I wish with every fibre of my heart that you, my babies, will be able to define your boundaries based on your core values and universal laws of love and compassion. I hope that you will manage to protect those fiercely and lovingly, contributing one step at the time to the bigger picture. I am currently learning how to do that. There will always be limitations in and to our lives – limitations because of choices we make and constraints that we can’t influence because other people or circumstances place them on us. So don’t limit yourself when it comes to the things you feel passionate about. Go and freely explore, access, and express, because you never know when some outside force might come and limit you and confront you with boundaries that you didn’t know existed, like viruses, racism, hatred, jealousy, or unexpected illnesses. Choose to set your boundaries and set them firmly and lovingly. Keep the good in and the bad out.
Feel free to share if you found meaning in those words
Yesterday, at 5 a.m. I woke up with excruciating stomach cramps, and I couldn’t get out of bed without fainting. We called an ambulance, and I was brought to the hospital. The paramedics arrived wearing face masks, and I had to wear one too. I had taken a pregnancy test the previous day. Positive. Elation was followed by fear. What a stark contrast.
I was wondering for a long time, whether I should write this post or not because we are in the very early stages of my pregnancy, but then I changed my mind in the blink of an eye. Of course was I going to write this post. All of me just has to, and here’s why: When I was pregnant with our first daughter, Catherine, I had kept the pregnancy a secret until the end of the fifth month. I had done everything according to the “unofficial rule book.” I had been hiding my morning sickness at work, and I hadn’t talked to anyone about our growing joy. So it took me until the beginning of the sixth month before I posted a picture on social media saying “it’s a girl” revealing our secret and finally being able to openly share our fantastic news. We were elated.
Then only three weeks later, things started to go wrong. We discovered that our beautiful baby daughter, our firstborn, was suffering from a fatal heart disease, very rare, and that she would enter this world stillborn. We hadn’t seen that coming. At some point, I thought, “damn, I wish I hadn’t posted that picture on Facebook, because now I have to tell everyone that we lost our tiny, perfect baby.” Silly me, because it turned out that whenever anyone asked or addressed our loss we managed to openly discuss what we had experienced, and our sharing led to many other people opening up about their past losses and grief – things they hadn’t dared tell anyone before or pain from the past that had been buried deep down in their heart of hearts for decades was finally being partly released. It was the beautiful amidst the ugly that managed to raise its head in that safe space of mutual trust and respect.
So now, four years dowm the line, my only regret from that time when I was carrying our first child is that we didn’t start celebrating every single moment right from the beginning on and that instead we had been worrying way too much about trivial stuff and thinking about the perfect timing for the big reveal. We had been wondering for so long if everything was going to be alright, until all of a sudden it wasn’t alright anymore.
Why keep a baby a secret when it is more than welcome in your life? Why for three months or even longer? Who gets to make all those arbitrary rules in the first place? Losing a baby is just as bad three weeks into the pregnancy as it is after seven months or three years. Sure, the emotional and physical connection has gone through different stages of development, but what all those losses have in common, no matter at which stage they occur, is the sudden break down of hopes and dreams that had started to emerge on the blank canvas of our imagination. Stories we had started telling ourselves since the first positive test about all the adventures we were going to experience with our babies and indulging in speculations about their hair or eye colour, their looks, or character, all screechingly brought to a halt.
What I learned in the past is that in case of doubt, or uncertainty or if you are in a position of really not being able to know what will come next, then maybe choose to focus on the joyful now and share it with others. Brighten someone’s day with your joy. Radiate it out into the world. Then at least the “now” is joyful, even if the “next” might not be. I choose to tickle our babies until they have a belly ache from laughter – I choose to look at my husband and repeat over and over again with a smile on my face: “we are going to have another baby” – I consciously choose to share our happy news in dire times; not with one or two or three, but with as many people who want to share in on our joy. You are so welcome to be part of our journey.
If I am deeply honest with myself, I do feel a lump of fear in the pit of my stomach – a tiny one – it’s there. It’s undeniable. I do know, and I am fully aware of what is happening all over the world right now, and I don’t intend to trivialize all of that grief. What about the baby – will we be able to get the regular check-ups? Will all of this have calmed down by the time the baby will be born? All of those questions are of course crossing my mind, but at the same time I stubbornly refuse to let the fear creep in and get the better of me before my physical health, or my loved ones’ health has actually been impacted. It’s tricky at times to keep the darkness at bay, but we keep choosing the sunshine, and the tiny new baby, and our children’s laughter, and our peace right now. A tiny ray of hope that is bravely saying hello amidst a world of the unknown.
When we lost our first baby daughter, one night my grandmother called and she kept saying: “Why do all those tragedies happen to us? To our family?” But I had never ever considered losing our daughter, or losing my mother, or growing up without a dad, or experiencing my grandfather’s death to be some sort of divine punishment. In the midst of all of this – of this current crisis – and of personal past and future crisis – maybe there is no “Why me? Why my family? Why our country?” in the way that we understand it as some sort of punishment for whatever so-called past sins we might have committed. I am adamant that no matter how excruciating the emotional pain might be, there is and will be the aftermath of unexpected support and emotional and psychological evolution and deep insight, healing, and understanding too if we allow this growth to take place.
After our daughter’s passing, I didn’t see all the trauma and the “why did this happen to us?,” but I saw the messages, the phone calls, the cards – our loved ones reaching out to us and we experienced doctors who deeply cared, beyond their medical duties. We found our gynaecologist call us on his day off, just to make sure we were okay. We had our wedding to look forward to, and we had us. How lucky is that?
Losing our daughter didn’t “happen” to us. She brought us joy and lots of experiences. Yesterday, I listened to a podcast, and there was a stage four cancer survivor who explained that from his point of view, there are no positive or negative experiences – there are just experiences full stop. Our soul came here to experience all of what we are going through, and it’s how we handle our gains and our losses that defines our time here on earth.
Before my first pregnancy, I didn’t know what to make of doctors really. I had this vague stereotypical idea of what a doctor was like, but experiencing our daughter’s heart condition brought us lots of new insights and understanding. We asked lots of questions and discovered that experts are all too willing to answer our questions if we ask. We learned that we were the odd ones out because usually, people weren’t asking that many questions. At least apparently not in our country. But asking questions is imperative. The gynaecologist who delivered our stillborn baby told me: “I’m always wondering why my patients are like sheep in a herd. They never ask any questions. They just sit there, numb, quiet, motionless, like deer caught in headlights.” I guess people being hesitant to ask questions boils down to a combination of several things: fear of the unknown, fear of getting answers that we don’t want to hear, but would rather avoid if we could, fear of coming across as stupid or uneducated, or fear that after asking, we are being left with even more unanswered questions.
If anything, I learned from what we had to go through that we should collaborate with our doctors and medical staff and ask – ask plenty of questions to help them help us. I was confirmed in my belief when I was in the hospital two nights ago: When I was lying in emergency care, waiting to be wheeled up to the maternity ward for further check-ups, the doctor opened a dose of paracetamol and wanted to administer it to me. She went through her motions without any explanations. I stopped her in her tracks, asked what she was about to do and declined the treatment. At first, she was perplexed and went on to say that she couldn’t leave me in pain while I had to wait for further treatment. At first, I was annoyed that she had not even attempted to let me in on her medical plans for me, but then I realized amidst the chaos and hushed voices in the hospital that this doctor too was acting out of fear: I realized it was standard protocol and she didn’t want to be blamed in case anything had gone wrong in the end. All of us want to feel safe and do the right thing at the right time. Especially if it comes to other people’s lives and happiness. In hindsight, I should have emphasized that I’ll take on full responsibility for my medical choices and that she will always be safe. Sticking to our own decisions is so empowering for us and relieving for people who usually need to be fully in charge.
By the time I was wheeled into the maternity ward in the hospital. I had tears in my eyes. The stress in the hospital was palpable, and I felt so sorry that I had unintentionally added to their stress. But then and there, one of the nurses looked at me, I mean, she really looked at me and said: “That’s why we are here. For personal stories and personal emergencies like yours. That’s what nurses, and doctors, and hospitals are for. The world is not all virus right now, although it might feel like it. The world is still also new beginnings and new life and very personal worries.” I loved her for that comment. She had said exactly what I needed to hear. In times of crisis, it’s wonderful nurses, and beautifully calm people, that make all the difference. I felt so lucky. Thank you so much for your kind words, Diane. Thank you to all the doctors and nurses. Due to the circumstances two nights ago, I could experience first hand the pent-up stress and fear regarding the uncertain future events. However, at the same time, I felt confident that there is a capable team in charge that we can rely on in times of crisis and that there are people that go out of their way to brush their own feelings of fear and uncertainty aside to help fellow human beings in distress. Those miraculous people have outgrown their former selves. I am so very grateful to have experienced this comforting side of humanity too. I admire your bravery! Thank you!
So why am I writing all of this? Currently, I am watching a free video series released by Hay House (thank you Hay House , the videos are amazing!). The series deals with the phenomenon of “radical remission,” which is when people beat the odds and fully recover from a usually terminal disease. There are ten practices that radical survivors seem to all have commonly applied after their diagnosis. One of those practices is doing shadow work and walking once more through all those moments that have caused us pain in the past. But this time around consciously – really looking at what had happened and processing the feelings, hurt, and emotions. I have been writing blog posts for a few months now, and only after the launch of the series did I discover that what I was and am doing has a name: shadow work – processing past, traumatizing experiences, and turning them into positive life lessons, using every tiny inkling of hope there had been in those episodes and turning them into life lessons, providing future personal guidance, values, and standards. I hope for all of us that we manage to use the boulders that were put in our way and that we laboriously had to work through to pave our future roads with resilience and memories of growth and goals and expansion – for us and for future generations to come, like for our tiny baby.
We might not know the “why,” but we can apply the “what.” What am I going to do with this newly added experience now and in the future to make my time here on earth more joyful – to turn my loss into gain? Well, we, my husband and I, for one, transformed losing our first daughter into celebrating every single pregnancy that came after that right from the start on. No shame, no regret. No “what if anything might go wrong down the line? It’s still so early…” So what? What if it might go wrong? At least we laughed and rejoiced and got all caught up in positive momentum and revelled in the happiness of the moment for a minute, or a week, or for as long as it might last and hopefully all throughout the pregnancy, and way beyond. For what people forget is that even if you make it through the pregnancy, then there will be your child’s entire life that lies ahead of you and him or her and at any given moment an unexpected tragedy might strike, like the one we are in the midst of. And in times of darkness, we will be so grateful for the amounts of decisive moments and joyful memories we have been able to bag in the past, for it’s our sunny moments that are the bridges we can choose to walk on to get to the other side of this. So do you postpone celebrating life’s joys for fear of anything negative interrupting your happiness down the line? Let’s hope that the answer to that question is a fervent “no.” Let’s hope that we will all find within us the courage to celebrate a new life, or newly found love, or a new friendship or a new hobby, even if there might be a potential disappointment or heartbreak, or full blown crisis like the current one lurking down the line.
To courage. To joy. To tiny babies. To laughter. To medical professionals. And to all that is still good in this world, because there is.
Feel free to share if you found meaning in those words
My grandad was lying in his hospital bed, eyes closed, tubes down his throat, shallow breathing, pale. Only 24 hours earlier, we had still been chatting. This seemed so surreal. He hadn’t been feeling well, so I had urged him to go to the hospital and get a blood count. I had taken him to the hospital in the morning on my way to work, and I was supposed to pick him back up later that day. When I arrived back at the hospital, a doctor came to see my grandad and me. He told us that they had found some irregularities and that he needed to stay the night to get some more tests run the next day. I can remember the look on my grandad’s face. He looked frightened, but he was still joking. I love him so so much. I will never forget those last days we spent together in hospital.
That same evening, quite late already, my grandma called. My grandad wanted me back in the hospital. That didn’t sound like him at all. I figured something serious must have happened, so I got in the car and drove. When I arrived in his hospital room, my grandad was fine. Or so it seemed. He talked to me, and I asked why he had wanted me there in the first place. Everything was fine. He asked me to stay – so I did. I found it odd, and I was a little annoyed too, because I had to get up really early the next day to go to work – but still.
Only half an hour later, he started to act weird. He started to say funny things that didn’t make any sense. He wanted to go home. Let’s go home. Get me home. He kept repeating those sentences over and over again. Getting out of his bed. I panicked. What was I supposed to do?! He also wanted to go to the toilet: let’s go to the bathroom, and then we go home. I rang for a nurse to come. She was quite annoyed and angry that as a visitor, I was still in the hospital that late at night. She put my grandad back into bed, shoved a bedpan underneath his buttocks and left us to it. He looked at me, tears in his eyes: I can’t go like that. He was such a proud, strong man, and this in itself felt humiliating to him. Now I tried to get him out of bed. Get him to the toilet. Allow him the dignity he deserved. At that point, he had become quite delirious.
In a dim hospital room, I tried to walk him to the toilet, but by the time I had pulled him to the edge of the bed, he wet himself. He was crying. I rang the bell once more. Please, we do need help. This time the nurse took me a bit more seriously: Is he not usually this confused and delirious? Far from it, he is the smartest, most discerning person I know. My grandad knows things before anyone else knows. He observes and comes to his own conclusions. He can read people like nobody else can. My grandad was trashing about, saying over and over again to get him home. Please take me home. I will always remember those last words. Take your loved ones home. Don’t leave them in hospitals or hospices to die. Just don’t. I have seen the fear in my grandad’s eyes, and all I wanted to do was take him home. I regret telling him to go in for a routine check. It might have been worse if he had become delirious at home. But he might just have gone to sleep and never woken up again, peacefully closing his eyes forever in his bed at home, where he was born and raised – had lived his life. But instead, he was wheeled away for emergency examination in the middle of the night, and I was left in that empty hospital room all by myself.
Take your loved ones home. Don’t leave them in hospitals or hospices to die.
Insight Number One – June 2008
You know when there has been loud noise or a fight and all of a sudden it’s very quiet – my ears were left ringing, and my head felt really light. What I remember from that night in the dimmly lit hospital room is: turn the fucking lights on. If there is an emergency: turn the lights on. Even if there is no emergency: turn the lights on. It makes you think straighter. It makes the bad seem not so bad. It takes some of the monsters away. Monsters don’t like the dark. Scary thoughts don’t either.
Leave the lights on. If it’s dark: Turn the lights on. Always turn the lights on.
Insight Number Two – June 2008
But even the light, even the brightest sunshine, couldn’t have prevented what was about to happen next; – After what felt like an eternity, a stern-looking doctor entered the room. She briefly informed me that she was the doctor, that she had examined my grandad, that we knew that he had been suffering from lung cancer and that a metastasis in his head had ruptured and started bleeding. He wasn’t going to make it through the night. If there were any family members that I still wanted to call, then they should come to the hospital now, because by dawn he would have taken his last breath. And on that note, she left. I hadn’t known.
Cancer? Spread? I hadn’t known. I was 26. I hadn’t known. I wonder if he had known. I can only guess what had happened that night. Either he was so scared being in hospital all alone or he knew what was about to happen next. Intuition? An innate knowing that speaks to us when we are about to leave this planet? Does death touch your heart and whisper into your ear: It’s time to go. I don’t know. But I had been with him earlier that day when the doctor had told us that they were not sure yet why his blood tests were so bad and that they needed to take some more tests the next day. So how was he supposed to have known? How was I supposed to know? I guess doctors have to deliver a godzillion bad news per day. And I guess they need to keep an emotional distance to keep functioning in their jobs, but at that moment I couldn’t function anymore. My brain couldn’t function. But I was left to function. I had to. I called my grandma, telling her to get the neighbours to bring her to the hospital. And while I was waiting, my grandad was wheeled back into the hospital room. He was lying in his hospital bed, eyes closed, tubes down his throat, shallow breathing, pale. Only 24 hours earlier, we had still been chatting. This seemed so surreal.
My grandfather was supposed to die before dawn that very Monday morning, but he didn’t. His brain had stopped working, but his heart kept on beating. His heart that had been beating for his family, for my grandmother, for my mum and me. He had loved us. With all of his beautiful, strong, resilient heart. I’m very sure of that.
I remember the times I went fishing with him. It had all been so peaceful. And the times we had spent sitting around the fireplace in the garden, watching the sunset. We had never talked much. But I loved his calm presence. We never needed to talk – we just knew.
I kept pleading that we take my grandad home, allow him to pass away in our home like he had asked me to. We agreed to take him home on Thursday if he hadn’t died by then. Those four days and nights, my grandmother and I didn’t leave the hospital room. We stayed with him the entire time, taking turns sleeping on the narrow guest bed and holding his hands. I will always remember those hands. Resting so peacefully on those white hospital sheets. Those hands telling the stories of hard labour, of houses being built, of babies being held or carrying his daughter to the grave when she was only 29. I was singing songs to him, hoping he could still hear us. Hoping to comfort him. To make him feel loved. At one point in his life, he had been someone’s baby – my great-grandmother’s baby – and I was wondering what she would be feeling if she could see him helpless like this. I always wonder about that when I see people: All of us are someone’s baby. What would a loving parent have to say?
I do believe that those amongst us who are dying do still hear us. They are not gone yet. At one point, my grandmother was holding one of his hands, and I was holding the other and then all of a sudden we looked at each other. He had squeezed both our hands at the same time, he was going to wake up, he could hear us after all. I rushed to get a doctor all excitedly, but when he came and checked both his eyes for any movement, he confirmed that my grandad was braindead and that we should consider taking him off the oxygen machines that kept him artificially alive. Squeezing our hands had been his last farewell. His last physical effort in this lifetime. His last labour of love.
My grandmother didn’t want to take the decision. So future events were left up to me. I was 26. Twenty-six is just a number. To a ten-year-old, a twenty-six-year-old is an adult. A grown-up. A person who has his shit together and knows what to do. But now I’m 37, and I still feel like an eighteen-year-old. No matter your age, you are never prepared to take life-changing decisions. Especially not if it means altering someone else’s reality. – I pictured my grandad: proud and strong. Pipe in his mouth, shovel in his hands, a sly glimmer in his eyes, his Dalmatian by his side. My grandad knew what self-worth is. Self-esteem. The feeling that you know who you are to the very core of your being. He didn’t allow anyone to walk all over him. He didn’t take any shit from anyone. He was the most honest, most direct, but also most tenderhearted person I know. One can tell that I loved him, and I still do. And so did many a people. His funeral was an endless stream of people wanting to say goodbye to him. People kept coming and coming, honouring his lifelong integrity.
Bearing that picture in mind of integrity, of pride, of independence, I decided to allow the machines to be switched off and the tubes to be removed from his throat. If he had to die, he should be left to die in dignity; – Die the way he had lived. I know that this is a very controversial topic, but if one hasn’t gone through days like those, one cannot really judge. All our stories are different, and so are our emotions and decisions. The plan was to switch the machines off and take him home on Thursday to grant him his last wish and to allow him to die at home in peace. In the early morning hours on Thursday, he took his last breath and was gone for good. You know the saying that dying people only leave the planet when nobody is watching, well my grandfather had waited until I had fallen asleep doubled over his hospital bed with my head resting in his lap. I had woken up with a jolt, and I knew that he was gone.
After my grandfather’s death, I went back to work straight away. I had to. If I missed more lessons of my teacher training, I could lose my job. So I returned to the everyday grind. Some months later, my tutor took me aside after my practical exam, and he said: you are very resilient. Am I? I didn’t know what the word meant. Even after 7 years of studying English, I had never come across that word. At least not consciously. You are fortunate if you don’t know what it means. Your vocabulary is telling. I didn’t think I was resilient. I figured there had been nothing else left to do. It’s my students that kept me going. I had a reason to get up in the morning. They were so kind and so willing to learn, and I showed up for them. I showed up for my future. There is no use living in the past. One of my students asked me if I was still feeling sick because my eyes were all puffy from crying. I could barely speak, choking back the tears. I couldn’t reply. What was I supposed to say anyway? Lie to them? Tell them the truth about what I had just gone through? They were thinking I had had a bad flu. I couldn’t respond. The compassion in his eyes let me know though that he understood. He might not have known in detail, but one can know without knowing.
A few weeks later, I woke up in the middle of the night, and I had to throw up. It all came gushing out of my body: all the emotions, the hurt, the anger, the pain, the disgust, the disbelief, the hospital smell. All of what had been buried deep within; my body hurtled it all out. I was lying on the cold bathroom floor of my tiny apartment, sobbing, my body heaving with tears. I had had to hold it in for too long and now it was all being released. When I returned to work the next day, I remember a colleague’s snide comment, saying: oh, that was a quick recovery. I know what he was alluding to or implying: having a nice lie-in, right. Well, far from it. It wasn’t a quick recovery. I’m still recovering. I will always remember the grief, but I learned to share it. To talk about it. To express it. To allow my body to rest when it wants to release past pain, even if it is just for two hours. Bodies know so much if we just listened carefully.
And when it comes to resilience, I don’t know about that. Am I resilient? I love my life and I am always trying to be joyful, even in the face of everyday challenges. I used to hate that I am so serious. Mostly, I don’t get other people’s jokes and I don’t think that they are funny. I’ve always wanted to be more lighthearted and more easy-going; to put my brain aside for a bit and to just be. But quite recently, I have come to embrace my serious self. It is my core rationality within my overtly emotional self that has allowed me to weather the storms that I have had to face. My seriousness has allowed me to make sense of my deeply emotional experiences and to feel my emotions and express them instead of gilding them over with jokes.
So another thing I learned experiencing my grandfather’s death is that the things or character traits we might loathe most about ourselves are maybe the ones that keep us afloat; that help us to express our uniqueness and to help us make sense of the world surrounding us. I still don’t have all the answers as to why my grandfather had to leave us that day, and in such a way. The exact same date my mother had passed away 22 years before – Mother’s Day weekend. The exact same date. We will never have all the answers as to why things happen to us, but we can decide how to weave those events into the tapestry of our lives in order to create our unique, bold, joyful canvas, despite, or because of, the hurt we have gone through.
Feel free to share if you found meaning in those words