Hope in the Breeze of the Cherry Blossom Petals

Please note: this piece contains content and descriptions of loss that some readers may find upsetting.

Life with Hannah was rocky from the get-go! I was forever made to feel like I didn't know what I was feeling, yet my gut has never let me down, even to this very day. Battling to be heard by all – 'what would I know?' – I was made to feel irresponsible due to my age. Developing high anxiety, experiencing panic attacks, feeling overwhelmed, and looking back, I probably had postnatal depression. Spending every week in and out of Ambulatory Care would do that to you, while doctors fought with each other, trying to work out what was causing Hannah to be so sickly. A poorly baby was an understatement, but if we had ever been given a flash forward of what life would turn out to be, nothing could have prepared anyone for the outcome of May 2009.

Hospital life impacted my mental health; I was close to breaking. I just wanted her to be well. It was so claustrophobic. I lost hope and trust in all I thought I knew. What can happen in the space of four days? For us, we had a miscarriage and Hannah went into an eternal sleep on Monday. I learned the hard way about SUDI.

The events surrounding the time of Hannah's death are something I will never fully process, and the miscarriage got pushed out of our minds. There will always be parts missing of the unknown of why she went to sleep never to wake. Hannah was eight months, three weeks old. There was so much confusion mixed with intense grief. With unimaginable pain, trauma, and missing my beautiful girl, the days ahead felt empty.

Hearing things like, 'Now you can live your life,' and 'Start over,' her dad was told to be the strong one. Why the pressure was put on him, he was just as heartbroken as I was. I know they meant well, but it left me with a bigger question about life as a family and purpose.

I tried to be a typical teen, blocking out the grief and pain with drinking and socialising. Why not? What responsibilities did I have now, as I was constantly reminded? I had been stripped of my title; I was no longer 'mum'. I was snowballing, then one night out with a group of people while heavily drinking, came the kicker: I was spiked. Why? They felt I needed cheering up. Rock bottom was here, and now I was just numb.

The world kept turning, and it had taken too much of me, so I paused and chose to take life as a blessing moving forward. I didn’t want to party. I had changed. I wasn’t the same person before Hannah. I knew the depths of despair I had been forced to live with and around my grief. I went back to work against doctor's advice, tried lots of things, but I was just existing for a long time. There was just no hope.

Deciding to have another baby was the scariest thing we had ever done. When we made this decision, life felt scary, but scary was a feeling I could finally feel. It meant I felt something other than sadness and numbness, as there was nothing after she died. It had been five months between Hannah dying and seeing the positive pregnancy test – a birthday I would never forget for their father. A mum was something I knew I could do and be. It was me. She saved me.

It was at this time that I linked in with Scottish Cot Death Trust(this link will open in a new window) when I was eight months pregnant. They gave me a place to belong, to feel safe. They took me on our journey. Someone there willing to be beside you, feeling less alone. Never in front, never behind, always beside you through your grief. When a child dies suddenly and unexpectedly, there is so much statutory involvement. It was nice to have someone who could be there when you need them. I got extra scans and compassion from consultants which also helped ease my anxiety.

I ask myself, what does hope mean? And I think it's finding what could be. Believing in a life that can be better than what you’re experiencing. For me, it was getting some form of life back that I could accept. I quit smoking, came off anxiety and depression meds, even though it was a worry. We went on to give her two rainbow siblings and have taken her with us every step. The need to enclose them in a bubble and do everything I could to do things right so they would survive, they gave me the chance to change my outlook on life once again. Knowing that I had to live the life she never had. I still think of Hannah as my strength. Every step I take, I take for two. I have the reminder of this on my foot, tattooed in Hannah's honor. Watching the children reach milestones, we had the chance to rebuild trust that life would be okay and that it wouldn’t happen again.

Where am I now, you ask? I pushed forth after my back had given out and I had to learn to walk again, to regain leg muscle. It took a year to get back on my feet. I got a job in child care education, I learned to drive.

When I walked on the stage to collect my scroll at graduation, I held back the tears and knew I made it! I can finally help and support children and their families just like Scottish Cot Death Trust and my family helped me. I can make a difference, never letting a parent feel like what they were doing was never enough. Watching children hitting all their new milestones, being a key role model in making their life more hopeful. I use my experiences and my Hannah in everyday life, and her memory forever lives on.

If you've been affected by this piece, please see our support page(this link will open in a new window) for help and advice.