As usual the passage of time has been all too fast with all too little of significance baring testament to it's passing or indeed existence.

The hole The Dog left is still immense, the grief is a docile creature that rests within us now, awakening every now and then with a quick nip that makes the eyes water.  It's the little things really, like having nobody to hoover up when The Toddler tries to feed his lunch to the floor and being able to enter the house without him rushing to see us.  I miss him in so many ways that they each have their own jagged shape that have yet to find a place to nest into without discomfort.

Spring is upon us and yet outside it's snowing.  Yes, snowing.  I do rather hope The Easter Bunny has thermals and bollocks of steel.

It's day one of The Easter Holidays and already i'm dreaming of gin o'clock as my befuddled mind tries to remember whether it's the gin or the children that constitute the old adage of Mothers Ruin.

Typically Things One & Two have bloody gone and grown, how very dare they.  This of course means that the few pennies we could have used whilst they're off school are now all being utilised in the bloody boring task of buying new school uniform, I do rather resent having to fork out for the ghastly things.

No sooner do we get the trampoline up, we get another pseudo-monsoon followed by a house full of ill.  Poor poor spawn.

It's still snowing, yet it's that terribly useless snow that doesn't actually do anything.  Where are the bountiful mounds of white fluffy goodness to play in?

My nights are still filled with The Toddler night feeds and the mental torture that is the Candy crush Saga and that insipid resolution of starting a diet, tomorrow.  The regaining of weight that depresses one towards the direction of cadbury's cream eggs to commiserate continues and I still haven't succeeded in absolutely destroying my hair, small mercies people.

Seeing as it's the school holidays, The Mothership and Father dearest have typically fucked off to Spain, nothing if not predictable, so The Spawn are bloody well lumbered with us  for the duration.  Poor sods.

Woof.

Last month bore a rather traumatic day for The Party of Five, insofar as to say we had to bid a terribly sudden goodbye to The Dog, a much beloved and long term member of the family who'd been with us far longer than any of The Spawn.  We  He was twelve and a half years old when we were cruelly forced to say farewell last month.  For an elderly gentledog he was in incredibly decent nick, admirably agile and full of life.  Even the morning of the day he had to let him go he'd been his usual bouncy duracel bunny self.  

His name was Fenriz. His name was Fenriz and he was loved endlessly.

His name was Fenriz and he was one of my best friends.

His name was Fenriz and on February 28th he became suddenly ill and within an hour or so put to sleep. He was twelve years old. I still vividly remember the day we brought him home from a dogs home at the wee age of six weeks, he'd been born in the shelter as his mum had been rescued walking heavily pregnant on a very busy road.  He was here through a temporary break up, a cat, a wedding, three births and a miscarriage, three house moves and so much more. He never once so much as growled at a person, he was bouncy, daft, funny and adorable. Despite his age he was healthy, full of energy and had the agility of a dog half his age. The onset of his decline was sudden, fast and vicious. He literally went from absolutely fine to dying within an hour. I will never forget seeing him laid on the floor unable to control his bladder, his eyes rolling, constantly dilating and then when he tried to walk his legs kept giving way making him fall and stumble, he looked so confused. I could literally feel his life energy leave him as I stroked his head and yet still he looked up at me with his huge eyes and wagged his tail at me, for me. The Toddler, nearly three, didn’t understand the gravity of the situation and dutifully went to get his toy doctors kit to make him better. Bless.

He didn’t whine or whimper.

I am thirty-something and yet i rang my mum in tears saying that I thought my dog was dying and I didn’t know what to do. The vet said it was severe anemia yet due to his age and the state he was in he didn’t recommend treatment as he simply didn’t think it would help him (and in all honesty, I don’t think he would have survived the ordeal of it all and would have died in pain and worse, fear). He recommend we allow him to put him to sleep. He had no other signs symptoms of being unwell, the sudden and vicious deterioration was simply horrific, earlier that day he was bounding around as usual, happy and fit. In a way I am thankful it was sudden and quick. I am happy that we were at home with him when it started and that the last hour of his life was mostly surrounded by his family.

It sounds so stupid. We think of anemia and we think of popping some iron pills and that’s it. I dread to think what the root cause was, I hope it wasn’t cancer. My husband stayed with him throughout, I was at home with the children. We are devastated. There is a hole in my heart that is irreparable and an emptiness in our family home.  This was The Spawn's first introduction to grief and a rather painful life lesson.  That evening their hearts were quite simply destroyed.

His name was Fenriz and we miss him more then words can say.

His name was Fenriz and we will never forget him.

I just want him back. It hurts too much. He wasn’t supposed to leave us yet. I cried myself to sleep for the four days afterwards.

I am riddled with what ifs, yet I know the vet would not have recommended putting him to sleep if he genuinely believed he could have been saved. I know my husband wouldn’t have agreed to the vets recommendation if the vet thought he could be saved.

His name is Fenriz and he was the best dog in the world.

Head Duck.

Another rather miserable day, not only because of the grey clouds leaking fat bellied raindrops that land like drunken thumps but more so because I can't take The Toddler out to dance in puddles. Stupid ankle.

Whilst raiding a box of 'stuff' or 'Junk' as The Husband would label it for a battery charger of all things (LeapFrog, I curse thee for not providing an AC adaptor with the leappads) I came across a familiar carrier bag.  Just looking at it quickened my heart and made something jagged and tangible stick in the back of my throat. I touched it and swallowed a succession of three ineffectual breaths before looking inside.  I didn't need to look for I knew what lay inside yet it was some emotional dare egging me on.  Inside were four positive pregnancy tests with marker penned dates from June 2009 on them.  The lines were still bright and teasingly pink.  The tests looked virtually knew as if they'd been pee'd on yesterday.  For those who're new to my blog, do the maths.  The Toddler wasn't conceived at that point.  These are the tests from my lostling.  (follow the links if you're morbidly curious to the relating entries) I still have the tests.  I still have the virtually empty set of pregnancy notes too.  I can't not have them because it's all I have other then sadness to remind me that although only six weeks of pregnancy, it was my baby and my baby was real.

Although expected, you cannot prepare for the vicious accuracy of grief.  Although an old wound, it still bleeds when poked.

I've always struggled dealing with this particular grief.  I miss what could have been.  I want that baby. However, it would have been impossible to have had that baby and The Toddler. Such a mind tangle.  I couldn't imagine life without The Toddler and had we not lost a baby, he wouldn't be here for he was conceived about 8 weeks later, give or take.  That's exactly it though isn't it.... something was taken and something was given.  How I wish for the impossibility of being able to have both babies.  How do you begin to mourn the loss of something so precious that lead to the creation of something so beloved?

Still, at least I still have two legs, unlike poor Pat.  The beloved Toddler 'accidentally' snapped his leg off.  Yet another toy that has survived over 6 years and two children only to be destroyed by The Toddler of destruction.

....It's a good job he's cute.


I miss you lostling.  Always loved & never forgotten.

Recovery

I'm beginning to debate the luxury that i do not possess of having the time and space to be utterly broken yet with two small children the only time that is truly mine to feel, to think and to realign myself with my life, to reconnect the link of the present with the future is when I finally collapse in bed in the dark. My eyes ache from seeing the ghosts of events replay behind closed lids. My heart is heavy and pulped, swollen and bruised like some over-ripened fruit on the wrong side of rotting.

& yet I'm doing okay. I am.

I feel stronger and brighter, I'm mending the bones of this broken soul and teaching it to walk again, into the future where it belongs.

I have my daily wibbles that are at times unexpected and catch me off guard, they last but the blink of an eye and yet in this insignificant flicker of time the world spins and turns black as i simultaneously slump and stumble into it and out of it.

I opened my handbag today and out spilled the lovely positive pregnancy tests, four of them joyously dated with black marker. My fingers tripped across them, stung by the shock of their touch, whilst these sad lips twitch and strain trying to once again make that smile that these sticks once put there.

& yet it's only seconds and then I'm okay again. I'm okay. (& if I'm not, i will be)

Walking around a supermarket today (yes for two days running now I've managed to actually get dressed and brave the world) I inwardly flinched as the corners of my eyes briefly touched upon the beautiful baby clothes.

The Toddler is a Tonic and The Child is , shall we say, a uhm..distraction. Both welcome in their own way.

For the first time in my life I shall be taking a cheap and sensitive (oh the irony) pregnancy test soon and hoping for it to be negative. My hcg was quite low the day before The World Ended so i'm quite positive that within a few days it should be back to a non-pregnant and that will be The day The World Began Again. I have a feeling due to the slowing down and diminishing of the main symptom (c'mon you really don't need me to spell it out) and a certain levelling out of emotions that my hcg must be very low indeed now.

Although there will be an eternal inability to forget (& in a morbid dance around the facts, why should I? I wouldn't have traded those few weeks of happiness for anything) I do have a readiness to move on. My future is waiting patiently, but it is whispering that bit louder for me to step towards it.

& I'm feeling readier with each passing day. I'm stronger now. The vicious laceration of grief is now some rich deep bruise that hurts to touch as i wear it like some blue dress that becomes a new skin.

With each pregnancy I've felt the fear of this and yet reflecting it was only this pregnancy where somewhere I think I always knew that we wouldn't get our happy ending, it was a stubborn feeling of impending doom like a red stain on a white carpet that I couldn't blinker out.

Life goes on. Wish us luck that it won't take us long to fall again, & please....from the bottom of my heart, make our next one a sticky one.

I'll never forget the one we loved too much & yet we have so much more love left to give.