10 years from now

Today’s challenge from Outmumbered is trying to see ourselves in 10 years time.

If you had asked me this six months ago I would have replied like any “normal” mummy, who had not known grief and sorrow. I would have said I would have been the happy mother of a teenage girl and a preteen boy. With a normal job. And a normal marriage.

But now we have crossed the threshold and are in the “beyond.” Beyond the unthinkable. Beyond our precious son’s death. Beyond the norm.

So where do I see myself 10 years from now?

I see myself living my life as if it mattered.

I see myself creating and keeping alive a legacy in Georgie’s memory.

I see myself as the mother of a teenage girl and if, God will choose to bless my womb, of another precious son or daughter.

I see myself still married and still loving my husband.

But I also see myself in the “beyond.”

Beyond living my life as if it mattered, I see myself living it full of joy and acceptance.

I see beyond the creation of a legacy for Georgie a hoard of blessings being poured on a multitude of lives. And all in my precious boy’s name. And with the help of his Saviour.

I see beyond being a mummy to Emma and to a possible rainbow baby. I see myself “mothering” the unloved, the lonely and the needy. And who knows, beyond the ordinary, the extraordinary of having another child, a child not of my womb but of my heart.

I see beyond being merely married to the man I love and respect. I see us growing stronger and more in tune with each other and with what God wants us to do as a powerful and influential couple in Him.

I see beyond the pain we feel now, I see hope and joy and success and life!



Day 3: Favourite quote

imageToday’s blogging challenge launched by Mumnumbered( and by the way, I am writing this from a stubborn iPad which won’t allow me to add links to the website quoted above!) is a favourite quote.

I have none.

But I like reading and citing quotes daily, quotes that got my attention that particular moment in time.

The other day I read this one, by Corrie ten Boom. “A religion that is small enough for our understanding would not be big enough for our needs.”

I would go a step forward and take religion out of the equation, since I care not about any form of religion and replace it with God.

“A God that is small enough for our understanding would not be big enough for our needs.”

As much as I would love to believe in a “safe” deity who could be manipulated into doing what I want Him to do, like protecting my baby’s life from illness or saving him gloriously from death when I pray, I know that such a God would easily let me down.

He would be weak, as He will need guidance from mere mortals.

He would be confused, as He would have to respond to contradictory requests coming from different individuals.

He would become easily overwhelmed with the amount of ridiculous demands we would make of Him.

He would need holidays and sabbaticals from the human neediness and sorrow.

But the God I believe in goes beyond my understanding. He knows how to comfort when the human heart is traumatically bruised. He has made a way for us to be reunited with the ones we love. He understands pain personally since He lost a Son himself. He knows when to talk and when to be quiet. He never tells inept things like: ” I have allowed  for your baby to die so you can be spiritually elevated”, like some of His self-appointed and delusional prophets have told us. Or ” at least you got to serve him while he was alive.” Or “he is better where he is.”

No, God has actually been quiet since my baby died. Cause He knows me. And he knows that at the moment I am not ready to listen. He has made me and He knows I need time to vent. And question. And cry. And miss my precious baby son.

But I know He will speak when I am ready. He will understand me and my needs and will pour the healing when the time is right.

He will come through when He sees fit.

Until then, I choose to believe in a God wiser that me. A God sensitive enough to keep the distance but close enough not to let me slip into despair. A God bigger than my understanding!





20 things about me

With everything that has happened lately I stopped blogging. It has been merely pouring out my grief. So when I heard of the challenge launched by the lovely Outmumbered mummy blogger I decided this would be something I would like doing this month. I will try every day but if internet connections fail me, you will forgive me, won’t you!

So here goes, today’s challenge. 20 things about me you may not know.

1. I am an introvert. I recharge in quietness. I love to read and need time on my own to process information and facts.

2. I was born in Romania but have lived in Northern Ireland for the past 8 years.

3. I love the colour blue. I went through a phase as a teenager when I wore ONLY blue…

4. I love God. But I have been really struggling in the past few weeks to comprehend why my baby had to die in such a cruel way, of such a horrible illness, at such a young age. And I have been angry with Him.

5. My husband says I never use the bad language I use while driving or when I am really angry with him on the blog. Let’s just say I haven’t found the context to use it yet…

6. I used to attend an Orthodox Church as a child and teenager. And had a lot of respect for our priest who sadly passed away recently.

7. I hate cats(sorry, Mimi!) We used to have a tomboy called Tom who scratched and bit and peed in the house. Never again!

8. I travelled a lot and speak three languages fluently. And I can converse in basic sentences in other two.

9. I wish I had a ton of money and be friends with this world’s influencers. So I can help relieve pain and give joy.

10. I have always seen myself as a mum of two. Georgie’s death didn’t take that dream away. I will be the mum of two living children(and one precious baby angel!)

11. I hate unquestioned traditions and prejudices. If people questioned their system of beliefs more often there will be much less wars. And pain in the world.

12. I have become a beach bum this summer. It took me 8 years of being married to a Greek to get the fever of travelling for hours to get to a “good” beach.

13. But I still love lazying by the pool too! So not Greek, I know!

14. I can’t swim, by the way. Something to do with being born 9 hours away from the sea…

15. My mum is still my best friend.

16. I love peaches. And watermelon in the summer.

17. When I am very stressed, I stop eating. I lost loads of weight after giving birth both times because both my babies were very unsettled.

18. I love food and I can eat anything under normal circumstances.

19. I love having fresh flowers in the house all the time. They give me joy.

20. I learned to drive when I was 27!

That’s me for today, see you tomorrow hopefully!


When a baby dies

When a baby dies, a part of the world dies with him.

Cause a baby is not an isolated incident or an accident of the universe.

A baby carries within him the promise of the future. Of future generations. Of callings fulfilled. Of blessings in the making.

So when a baby dies, a part of the world dies with him…

When a baby dies, a part of his mother’s heart dies with him.

I couldn’t locate it physically, that part, but I can tell you it is the part responsible with belly laughter. And naïveté. And careless enjoyment of a simple moment.

When a baby dies, a part of his mother’s heart dies with him.

And for a while, for a long while, there is only sadness covering her life, like dew covers grass in the morning.

And the naïveté is gone. All gone. Never to return. It left when her baby was given no chance to live by the doctors. When she watched him disappear, day after day, behind a curtain of pain and slumber. When she held him tight, close to her heart and he took his last breath. When she took him into her bed, afterwards, and did what she had longed to do all along. Cuddle with her precious son.

And there is no more careless enjoyment of a simple moment. It’s all anguish. And scary scenarios the mind plays on automatic. And when there is joy, it is followed sharply by guilt.

Guilt to be alive. Guilt to not have been able to procreate a healthy baby.

Guilt of not having been able to protect him of illness. And pain. And death.

When a baby dies, a mother dies. A hundred deaths.

Of what ifs. Of why nots. And why hims.

Oh sweet face, how this mother misses your giggles.

Your presence.

Your sweetness.

Your eyes, telling a thousand stories.

Your cuddles.

Loving you, now and forever more.



What is grief?

“Grief is the internal part of loss, how we feel. The internal work of grief is a process, a journey. It does not end on a certain day or date. It is as individual as each of us. Grief is real because loss is real. Each grief has its own imprint, as distinctive and as unique as the person we lost. The pain of loss is so intense, so heartbreaking, because in loving we deeply connect with another human being, and grief is the reflection of the connection that has been lost.”

For me, grief is a sneaky pain that hits me like an arrow, straight in the heart, when I least expect it.

Grief is this sadness that has descended over me like a thick blanket as soon as my baby took his last breath.

Grief is waking up happy in the morning only to be cruely reminded by my first thought that my baby is no longer with me.

Grief is duality: feeling happy for my friends who have had a baby boy in the last few weeks while the other half of my heart is weeping for my missing boy.

Grief is feeling guilty for being alive one moment and laughing hysterically the next.

Grief is slightly losing my marbles or consciously act as if I already have and saying “nipples” in the presence of my pastor. Because I can. And because I don’t care about what is appropriate anymore.

Grief is feeling foolishly in control of my emotions just to collapse in a pile of rubble the second I see on the street a father happily tickling his baby boy’s tummy.

Grief is keeping my son’s ashes close so I can fool yourself into believing he is doing this trip with us.

Grief is waking up in the morning feeling already exhausted.

Grief is naming my daughter’s new teddy Georgie and cuddling it when I go to bed.

Grief is carefully avoiding baby boy clothing aisles when I go out shopping.

Grief is eating to forget. And forgetting to eat.

Grief is the palpable fear that one day I will forget my baby’s face. His expressions. His talking eyebrows. His smiling eyes. That if I age less graciously and end up with Alzheimer’s I will forget the very existence of my baby son.

Grief is bursting into tears when my husband is trying to make love to me. Because my son’s face is the only thing I can see at that moment.

Grief is catching myself thinking “he would have been six months soon. I wonder if he would have been sitting like Emma at exactly six months.”

Grief is closing my eyes at night and relieving vividly imagehospital moments to the point that I want to jump in the car and drive there in the hope that I will find my baby son in the same room he used to suffer in.

Grief is the sadness of realising my baby will never grow beyond five and a half months. That I will never know how he would have been as a toddler. That I will never get to recognise the sound of his voice calling me mummy. The personality he would have developed.

Grief is stopping my daughter from asking questions again about my dead baby and his whereabouts. Because it is just too painful to have to repeat it again and again.

Grief is getting a sharp stab in the heart every time my eyes fall upon my baby’s smiling pictures.

Grief is getting irritated with people who talk too much. Or children who are too loud. Or friends who don’t mention my baby to me at all, as if he never existed.

Grief is having my heart shattered into a million pieces again and again and again…



To the enemy of our souls

So you thought you won. Deceived yourself again, just like with Jesus’ death. You thought this was the end. You thought that by asking for my baby’s life you have conquered.

But once again, you were wrong.

Yes, we miss our baby and we are devastated. Devastated he can’t enjoy the beauty of this world. Devastated he didn’t get to meet people we love. He didn’t get a chance to show them his quirky and beautiful personality.

We miss his presence. We miss touching him, we miss holding him, we miss smelling him, tickling him, cuddling him. Feeding him. Playing with him. Laughing with him.

We feel incomplete. We feel a profound sadness that covers everything we do in a layer of grey, like thick and choking dust. We feel lost. We feel desolate.

But I also feel God’s presence and favour in these dark days. I almost heard Him whispering today: “Anything. Anything you want, ask from my hand. I will give you.”

And just like Solomon, I will not ask for gold, nor possessions. I will ask for souls! I will ask for plunder! I will ask for a ravage in your camp!

A season of grace. A season of comforting following our immeasurable loss. A season of taking back.

No, I know I can’t take my baby son back. He is safe where he is. But I will take back ten fold…a hundred fold…a thousand fold.

You have been messing with my hubby’s mind. Threatened with more destruction. But let me tell you the Truth. “Him who is in us is stronger”, sooooo much stronger than you!

So you thought you won. Deceived yourself again. You messed with the wrong woman. You claimed the wrong baby! You watch and see the favour of The Lord!


Dear Georgie: Bye bye my sweet boy!

Today you will leave us for good, baby boy. For three days we fooled ourselves into believing you were still here with us because your beautiful body was still in our midst. We were able to hold hands, pat your cheek and kiss your forehead. We were able to give you cuddles and wash you with our tears. But today, oh baby, today, your body will leave us too.

Your sister is angry with you again. She understands very well the finality that today will bring and doesn’t want to accept it. She didn’t want to say goodbye. She didn’t want to kiss your cheek. She is mad with you, for leaving her, sweetheart. She loved you sooo much, as you know. She didn’t get to spend the time she deserved with you. You were stuck in a hospital room for two months, away from her. She had to steal glances through the door and kisses when no one was looking. The days in the hospice were wonderful for her. The first thing she said every morning, as soon as she opened her eyes was “Let’s go and see Georgie, mummy!” Even after you left your body, she still had this need. To come and see you. To be with you. Draw you pictures. Give you flowers.

But that will be no more from today.

Tomorrow morning we will wake up in our house, empty of you. I am sorry, baba boo, but I had to ask your daddy to put your things away for now. I can’t look at them yet. But the house is now so very empty. Hollow. Quiet.

How will we fill the quietness, sweet boy?

And we know you are well. We know your reality is astounding and incomprehensible for us here. We know you are running free with Katie and Matilda Mae and Oscar and Ben and Abigail. We know Jesus has welcomed you in as an honoured guest and has kept you close ever since you left us. That He is your comfort and your portion now.

But somehow, somehow today this knowledge does not bring any comfort. Today we would like to find a way to bring you back. To press a magic button and delete the past two months. Wake up from the whole experice like from a bad, bad nightmare and be able to tickle you and see you smile. Feed you baby food. Take you for walks. Cuddle up on the sofa. Sing lullabies to you.

Sweet boy, baba boo, baby blue, lovey, forgive your mummy and her selfishness. She just misses you so, that is all. She will be well. One day. Don’t let my sorrow make you sad where you are.

You go now and play. Fly high, wee bird, fly free and way up high!

Loving you. Now and forever more.



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