The new baby will disrupt attempts to keep the house as it was before Owen's death, writes Sharon Dempsey in her monthly column
Delivery day is fast approaching. I am into single figures for the weekly countdown. Antenatal appointments at the hospital are often tiresome, long waits and little attention. It feels like a cattle market. Blood pressure monitored, urine sample tested, quick scan and the next appointment set.
The baby is an average projected weight although I feel like a beached whale. The strain of carrying the baby has led to palpitations and I have been admitted to hospital overnight to monitor my heart rate. The barrage of questions from the nurses relating to my previous pregnancies makes me anxious. I know that no matter how many times I explain Owen's brain tumour and death that I will stumble and cry.
My hospital notes have a green sticker on the front. It depicts a child in the foetal position within an eye shape and a single tear. This symbol is used on my hospital notes to alert all reading them that I have lost a child. I am watchful to see if anyone else carries the same signature sticker but so far I seem to be on my own.
The nurse on the ward tries to be sympathetic and tells me of her own losses. She has had two near-term miscarriages. A terrible experience but I can't relate this to losing Owen. I understand that grief has no measure but I can't help feel that there is a difference. I would be distraught to lose this baby I am carrying but I can't feel for an unborn child the same depth of love that I feel for Owen.
We have been busy organising the baby's room. It took weeks to clear what was formally a study. So much of Owen remains in every room in the house.
His school work and computer games were stored in the study and some of his many of his toys. Most of his things have been placed in his bedroom, which remains virtually the same as when he died.
I cannot bear to throw away anything belonging to him. I have kept all his clothes and keep an outfit on his bed just to be able to look at it. I interchange these outfits, the most heartbreaking of all being his school uniform, which I have laid out each September since he died.
Even scraps of paper which he doodled on are stored away. His Xbox and PlayStation consoles remain in the playroom and living room along with the hundreds of accompanying games. At one stage, before he died, we thought we would give the video games to the hospital but following his death we have been unable to part with any of his possessions. It is as if we don't want him to think we are clearing him out of our lives. These toys and games were important to Owen. His things must remain as though he can come home whenever he has had enough of being away from us.
Enter baby and this attempt to keep everything as it was will be disrupted. A small child couldn't be prevented from playing with the vast quantity of toys that have accumulated since Owen was diagnosed. Sick children get lots of presents - anything to alleviate their boredom in hospital and to salve your conscience when they have endured so much.
I can envisage the tantrums as Baby Three decides he or she wants to sleep with Owen's favourite cuddly toy, Percy the monkey, or his Buzz Lightyear. Some things will be put away through necessity of preservation. Hopefully we will be sensible and allow the newcomer to get to know Owen through his toys. We will be able to share stories of Owen's life while exploring his favourite games and books. That's the theory.
I have a need to keep Owen's things around me, to keep him ever-present in my life. Well-meaning friends tell me to talk to him but the sad reality is it is difficult to maintain a one-sided conversation. I can only project his thoughts for so long and then I risk fabricating his opinions entirely.
The baby's room is ready, the hospital bag is packed and so we wait. My next antenatal appointment at the hospital is scheduled for July 17th, six days after my due date. I am due on July 11th,"marching season" in the North.
Perhaps I'll march to induce labour.
