#254:Baby loss, grief and the unknown

I never knew that grief could be an angel to walk me towards the rubble of rock bottom.

“I’ve found a lot of problems with your baby.”

In that moment and in the appointments with medical professionals that followed; we knew we’d be losing our baby.

I’d not yet spoken publicly about Sarah being pregnant. It was a precious and fragile unfolding in our lives that I felt needed whispering into existence before we welcomed any public fanfare. Like a snowflake you don’t want to melt.

The feelings that a pregnancy and baby on the way brought up in me were big. Bigger than I imagined. I knew somewhere I wanted to be a Dad; to have a family of my own. Yet it was only when I saw a positive line on a pregnancy test and a smile broaden across my face on FaceTime to Sarah, that I realised, I was happier than I’d ever known.

Feelings that had lay dormant within me were being stirred awake. A new chapter, a new role, a new me. Purpose, direction, responsibility. To be able to care for, to teach, to love, to feed, to hold, to give.

I was excited for all of that; scared too. I was ready to write about it: to become it. I even thought, maybe becoming a Dad will give me my next creative spark?

So when we were told our baby had a series of major health problems at our 20 week scan and when we realised they would never have a life, and that we’d ultimately have to make that decision ourselves to end the pregnancy, as well as go through actual labour to make it happen. Our world tumbled upside down and the vision I’d been creating for my near future dissolved in front of me.

What followed has been a psychological thriller. A traumatic and cruel labour. A funeral full of love. A pain so deep that I didn’t know I could hurt like that and a darkness that on some days has felt so overwhelming no light at all has crept in. Cushioning all of this, love, pure painful, blissful love. Love for what’s lost, love for what we have.

I spoke at Teddy’s funeral, Sarah read a poem, making meaning of his life for myself and for others. How his life has made us realise what we have. A gift we’ll never be able to thank him for, but will change us forever.

I’ve picked out all the positives, used a metal detector on the scorched ground of our lives to search for hope in this tragedy that has upended us.

Darkness, has been the backdrop. The beauty of darkness is, and its greatest misunderstanding, is that when life is dark - you can so clearly see the light.

The truth for me personally is that this grief has stripped me back to the raw version of me that I’ve been avoiding. This loss has revealed to me an emptiness that I’d been running from. How I’d been lacking meaning and direction. How, actually, I’m quite lost, low on confidence and questioning myself - and I have been for a while.

There’s something about grief that creates an incredible sensitivity, a profound awareness of the world around you, including you in it. I’ve seen truth in myself and can’t hide from it.

Now, I’m left with the emptiness of the void I was hoping to fill. There’s power in that. Power because actually I’ve been given the bravery to tend to my broken heart and look inside. I’ve had to be empty, I’ve been given the ultimate permission to feel totally at a loss.

I never knew that this kind of grief could be an angel to walk me towards the rubble of rock bottom. It’s not as scary as I thought down here.

I fear the unknown. I fear death, the great unknown. I’ve avoided the unknown for 2 years since I left Sanctus. I’d created such a world for myself there that to slowly dismantle that world has taken a long time and as I’ve descended from that summit I’ve been ever more fearful of the unknown that would lie in wait. A mission in Stoke has been a short-term refuge that my heart knows isn’t a new mountain to climb, or my ultimate destination.

Now I find myself with no mission, no job, no contract, no obvious new venture, no clear sense of identity or vision. Completely unknown. In fact, completely free.

I’ve stepped into it, for the last two months I’ve done nothing. Just focused on healing and grieving and being with Sarah. No hustle, or worry about work or money. No endless rumination about what’s next. Just trust. Trust in the process that nature is calling me into. “Just be here”, in this darkness.

Tomorrow, we enter the darkest day of the year and I’ll walk forward into the unknown more boldly than I’ve ever done before.

Onwards.