Florence’s Story – Three Point One

There are so many parts of my life that I struggle to remember; some simply due to the passing of time and others because I suspect, like so many, I just wanted to forget. Our memories are so specific to us – and I know that in any given situation, people will always recall different facets of a day or experience. And, the more traumatic the experience of course, the more we want – or need to forget. That’s if we can. But, when it comes to Florence’s story, I am torn between remembering the detail of our little girl’s all too brief existence and forgetting the pain and trauma of what eventually occurred.

I met my now husband G when my son H was three. It would be fair to say that his permanence didn’t initially go down too well with H. G vividly recalls one early encounter when H turned to me and said, quite loudly and deliberately “when is he leaving?”… he’d more or less had me all to himself up until that point, so in his mind, it was a fair question I suppose! I had always wanted another baby and was always amazed when, as a single parent, people asked me if I was planning to have any more. The answer was, no, I’d like to actually be married to someone next time as my son was an unexpected but very wanted ‘happy accident’ and it had, at times, been a massive struggle. Fortunately G was on the same page as me when it came to marriage and babies, so it didn’t have shades of bunny boiler when those important conversations about the future were happening quite early in our relationship. I knew that while a resentful toddler had the potential to scare him permanently off parenthood, actually G was excited about becoming a dad.

Without going into icky specifics, we found out we were expecting just two months into trying. We were thrilled – especially as our fertility wasn’t guaranteed for a number of reasons. It had been the best part of 7 years since I’d last been pregnant, but I thought it would all be quite familiar. The truth is, it couldn’t have been more different. I was older for a start and my starting weight was heavier (the post-wedding dress pounds had snuck back on but I had been a good size smaller than that last time anyway). But nothing prepared me for the constant feeling of nausea – it was literally all day. I pretty much ate nothing but potatoes, pasta and cheese for three months and fell asleep on the sofa every night. G began to think he was married to some kind of carb zombie with the attention span of a goldfish. 

The week when we were due our 12 week scan arrived and we were pragmatic about the potential outcome, but what I really didn’t expect was the meeting at work announcing that there would be redundancies – most likely in the (small) marketing department where I was working. I remember getting back to my desk and immediately bursting into tears. I was an old hand at redundancy so it was perhaps a heady mix of hormones and realism that hit me in that moment. I had been there exactly a year and in a permanent contract with a good salary, so it had felt like a ‘responsible decision’ when we decided to try for a baby. Suddenly all that was thrown into question. I looked around me and knew that, ultimately, it was most likely me that was going to be leaving and what employer would take me on permanently knowing I was pregnant? 

I immediately wanted to take control of the situation rather than wait for the inevitable outcome of the consultation period; partly because I was worried about stress affecting the baby and also because I figured I was more employable if I could leave sooner rather than later. As it goes, I managed to secure something else quickly (which didn’t turn out so well either) but the initial worry of the financial situation didn’t entirely help matters. So we attended the scan with some trepidation – we had agreed to be pragmatic and not take anything for granted because I had already spent a night in hospital with bleeding at six weeks. But there it was - she was, although we didn’t know it yet – a tiny heartbeat on the screen and the little person we hoped would complete our family. For the first time, we had the first glimmer of hoping – daring to hope – that it was going to happen. And it felt perfect.

Florence - 12 week scan

Our Story – Two

Without wishing to sound ridiculously melodramatic (as if a blog isn’t self-indulgent in itself, eh?), much of my healing from my brother’s death was down to my then boyfriend, G. I say then, of course, because he’s now my husband. We’d been together for just over a year when I lost my brother and I know as relationship goals go, holding your sobbing grieving partner isn’t right up there with introducing them to your friends or moving in together. He did later point out that he’d have to have been ‘a bit of a bastard’ to have even contemplated walking away at that point, but still, as if I didn’t already know; it just served to showed me another facet of what a brilliant person he really was – and still is.

G and my brother had only met a handful of times, but they’d shared a beer, had a similar sense of humour and got on. I’d had a series of boyfriends who hadn’t quite clicked up to that point, but I can safely say that from what little they knew, they approved of each other. It even transpired that they’d both briefly worked in the same office although never met save for the odd inter-departmental phone call. They both meant the world to me, so it was vital that they had connected and I’m so glad they did albeit for that brief moment in time.

Grief isn’t pretty. It doesn’t wear black, send flowers and sit in a corner. Grief is an unrelenting pressure in your chest, it’s crying yourself to sleep at 1am realising everything has changed. It’s sympathetic nods on the school run or awkward silences in the local shop. 

When you’re in your thirties, bereavement is meant to be about losing your elderly relatives, not writing a eulogy for your little brother or explaining to your four year old why their uncle won’t be coming over anymore.

Grief is a raw, physical heartache. It’s a tsunami of tears and snot, a ball in the pit of your stomach which resets all your points of reference from what has gone before. And to face that – pouring out from someone you love – is a daunting prospect.  But he met the challenge, stared it down and clung to me for dear life. And, because of that, when he got down on one knee at Glastonbury in 2013, I didn’t hesitate for second. (In truth, I knew full well he was about to propose due to some drunken ramblings the night before, but my mind was already made up long before that).

Our wedding – accidentally over two days (don’t ask – it wasn’t as ‘look at me’ as that – it just sort of happened that way with logistics and budget) – felt like such an achievement for us. It was testament to how far we’d come – the obstacles we’d overcome together and as a family – to be standing there that day. 

I think in any other situation, it might have been odd to admit that you were thinking about your brother as you said your vows, but I did. I thought how chuffed he would have been and how it was a day he would have enjoyed. His photo sat behind us in the ceremony – and at the bar during the party afterwards – which is exactly where he’d have been in life – surrounded by our cousins and joining in with the chorus of ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’ on the karaoke.

I miss him. Every day. But I am relieved that I met my husband when I did, because it would have been hopelessly unbearable without him here to pick up the pieces. And,for that, I am very lucky. 

Starting Over - One

When my brother died suddenly in 2013, he donated his kidneys and I found promoting organ donation as an outlet for my grief. I met donor families, living donors and recipients and wrote a few blog entries, talking openly about bereavement on social media. It felt like a positive way to process what had happened but I admit that, as a copywriter, it had shades of bus-man's holiday and I neglected to write as often as I would have liked. So I decided to start over.

Perhaps it had served its purpose; I had said everything that I needed to say – it was all ‘out there’. People knew my story and had fatigue about my feelings on the matter.

As I’ve often said, the world moves on and people forget. It’s a coping mechanism – we learn to adapt and survive or we’d sink under the weight of everything that has gone before. I could spout cod philosophy all day long, but the obvious truth of it all is that it bloody hurt. I don’t claim that my relationship with my ‘little’ brother was exceptional or special – but we were close. We got on each other’s nerves, undoubtedly moaned about one another in private but he was also one of my best friends. He was the person I wanted to tell when stuff happened; even if his reaction wasn’t always going to be the most positive. And we laughed – a lot. We had so many in-jokes. I’m so glad that I can still just about imagine his voice and Gromit-esque face-pulling.

It’s no secret that my relationship with his wife was rocky at best; we didn’t approve of each other. She thought I have a superiority complex and I thought she was immature. But I never would have wished the loss of my brother on her, particularly at such a young age. I wanted to help her in the wake of his death and maintain a relationship with my nephew and then unborn niece. Somehow that all got lost in translation, I was painted as the villain and she cut off contact. It was the final straw and I suffered a nervous breakdown, complete with suicidal feelings that required intervention from the mental health team. Those who knew the depths of my despair rallied and I got through it. Friends and family helped. Cruse counselling and Prozac helped. I pieced together a new normal where my nephew and niece weren’t going to figure and so life went on. I know it’s most definitely not what my brother would have wanted, but I don’t believe in life after death, so I had no delusions that he might come back and make his feelings known.  

And so there came a time when I could mention him without breaking down. I can’t remember when that point came but I found that I could talk about him in a more matter of fact way – it was now others who felt uncomfortable – what if she starts bawling on me? I think I’ll change the subject… so it goes on. We all carry our losses and tragedies. Some more than others; it’s not a competition as to who has suffered – or lost – or grieved – the most. There are no bragging rights to be earned. However, I never expected two significant losses in three years and so I came to this point where I had to write again. And this time, it’s for my girl, our Florence.