The Shock…and trying to look beyond the pain - Stevie

One of the incredibly hard things to deal with after a pre-term loss of a baby is the unexpected nature of it. We had plenty of time before the expected arrival of our bundle of joy and never in a million years did we think, just like that, it would change. The shock, the trauma, the trying to get our head around how yesterday/a week ago/a month ago I was pregnant but now I no longer am, but I should still be.  The “how did it happen?” and the “did it actually happen?” is almost too hard to digest.

My husband looked at his facebook account- there up the top was a post letting our friends and family know our beautiful baby was born but didn’t make it, and right under was the announcement of our pregnancy with him. A pregnancy announcement followed by a death announcement in a space of 10 days with nothing in between on his wall. That’s the shock of it- we were expecting, then suddenly we weren’t. The thing is though, something did happen in between. Our baby didn’t just disappear… we had him.  He was real, he existed and he mattered. We just didn’t get to take him home and live a life with him. Instead we will live a whole life without him… and it hurts.

Seeing our pregnancy announcement again after his passing cut through us, right to our core. Everywhere we turned there were things that taunted us in this quick change of life. A parcel of maternity clothes that arrived just two days before he was born was sitting on our couch waiting for us when we came home from hospital. It remained there for two weeks, unopened and now unneeded. I was too terrified to touch it, just as we didn’t touch the new pram we just bought that stared at us every time we went into the spare room. The week before I went through my wardrobe and packed away anything that wouldn’t see me out the second half of my pregnancy. So every day the simple task of getting clothes became almost traumatic. I still haven’t pulled out all the clothes I could wear now, as it seems too awful to wear something I shouldn’t be able to right now.

I deliberately chose not to look at photos of myself with my belly. And then one day I decided I wanted to. It hurt beyond words but as I stared at a photo of my staff members standing around me pointing at my belly with big grins on their faces, it surprisingly also made me smile. Because it was a photo of HIM. It was a photo of him alive and how we were already celebrating him, and that was wonderful. It was a photo of a time where I carried him, a time I feel honoured to have had, no matter how much I feel like it’s killing me inside. I decided then not to hide the photos anymore and have looked at them a fair bit since. I do however make sure I don’t look at them when I am too fragile to handle them.

And now although I don’t ever choose the clothes my other children wore in the pregnancy announcement, if they pick them out themselves I let them wear them. When they wear them I instantly think of the matching bodysuit to their tee shirts, the one that sits in his memory box that our angel will never wear. Although it saddens me greatly, it reaffirms to me that even though he is gone, they will always be his big brother and big sister, and that he is still very much a part of our family.

No matter what, the pain is always there. The pain can be crippling, consuming and devastating but I try my best to look beyond it to see the happiness and love behind. The happiness that was there in those moments, in those photos, and try to honour that. I need to try and hold onto the happy memories and the feeling of pride I have of him, how he just like every baby, is miraculous and wonderful, even though he didn’t get to stay. I need to revisit the joy and warmth and feel the love…because I simply can’t live if there’s only the pain. And I NEED to live. Not just for our other children but for him as well.

Stevie

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Stevie Vowles

Stevie Vowles has a 7 year old daughter, 4 year old son and a son who was born sleeping on 28/10/16.  Her journey led her to the upsetting discovery that there is often a great lack of understanding and awareness of pregnancy and infant loss. She has started an open and honest blog sharing her journey of Elliott's birth and the life that leads after for herself, her husband and her two other children, who also grieve greatly, as the first step in wanting to spread awareness and help other bereaved parents the blog can be found here https://elliottsstardust.family.blog/blog/

Hearts That Were Broken, Hearts That Have Healed - Edwina

It’s almost eleven years since my son Teddy came, then left three days later. He was my much-longed-for third child, but from early on in my pregnancy with him, I knew something wasn’t right. One day on my morning walk I got a message loud and clear – “Don’t get too attached, this one won’t be with you long”. I was still in my first trimester, so I thought I was going to miscarry. I tried to shake the feeling, put it out of my mind as an unreasonable fear, but it persisted even as I carried him all the way to full term. A few days before he was born I had a nightmare, the last words I heard before waking were, “And the baby’s dead too.”

        As his birth approached though, I was filled with a deep sense of calm. I spent many hours in meditation, something I’d been able to do easily ever since his conception. When he finally arrived, born in water into my own arms, he was slow to come around, but my experienced midwife and I worked together and soon he was breathing and a healthy glowing pink. I was ecstatic, my beautiful boy was here at last. All my bad dreams and messages were just fears.

        But then that night in my bed at home I started to worry. Unlike my other babies who’d been voracious feeders, he was struggling to stay awake at my breast and not getting much milk. My midwife visited and checked him out and helped me to get him to feed. But another night passed without him feeding properly. I lay him on my knees facing me and asked him what was going on. I told him to make a decision – that I was here and would love him forever no matter what, but to please just eat.

        My midwife visited again and together we got him to have the best feed he’d yet been able to manage and lay him beside me on the bed. Not long after she left, I noticed that Teddy was lying very still beside me. That his lips looked blue. I picked him up and ran through the house calling for help, for God, for anyone, to please, please help me. My sister who was staying rang the midwife and got her to return, then called the ambulance as I began to resuscitate him. Together my midwife and I pumped his tiny heart and breathed for him until the ambulance arrived and took over. Cutting through his jumpsuit and attaching electrodes, shooting him full of adrenaline. Nothing worked. He’d made his decision. They say that every moment is perfect. The moment of your child’s death feels very, very far from that.

        Teddy was my third child and the third member of my family I’d lost in traumatic circumstances. My father had died after a long ugly battle with cancer when he was only 42. My younger brother killed himself to end the suffering of his mental illness when he was 20. Then came Teddy, my little three-day baby who died of a congenital heart defect. I thought I’d finished my dance with death and grieving. Teddy made me face all of it again.

        And I’ve learnt more in the years since he’s come and gone than I ever hope to learn again. Luckily, I had been practising yoga for many years when he died, so every day I got onto my mat and cried out my pain. I learned that it was better to cry a little bit every day than wait until I couldn’t hold it in anymore and explode in unrelenting sobs. I learned that by sending out love and comfort to all the other women in the world, both now and back through time who knew the same loss, that I too was somehow mysteriously comforted. I learned that if I wrote in my journal about my grief, about Teddy, about how angry I was, how awful it felt, how afraid I was of facing other people and their fat healthy babies, of the hate and rage and hopelessness, or if I drew out my pain using pens and paint, drew hearts that were broken and hearts that had mended, that if I let myself feel my grief and cry some more, I was helping myself to heal.


        I learned that in Bali, if a baby dies before it’s six months old, it’s buried in a special cemetery and revered as a god. That helped. When I think of Teddy now, I see him as a great white angel standing with me and with all the mothers who have lost their babies. He is standing with me now. Just as your babies are standing with you.

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Edwina Shaw

Edwina Shaw is a Queensland writer. Her first book Thrill Seekers, based on her brother’s adolescent battle with schizophrenia, was shortlisted for the 2012 NSW Premier’s Award for New Writing.  In the Dark of Night, her recently released children’s chapter book, is part of a nationwide library promotion – Summer Reading Club 2016/17. She has been widely published in Australian and international journals, including Best Australian Stories 2014. She writes regularly for UPLIFT Connect and published an article on The Gifts of Grief there http://upliftconnect.com/the-gifts-of-grief/
Edwina teaches yoga and writing at universities in Brisbane, and innovative workshops combining both. She also teaches specialised workshops combing yoga, writing and other creative arts to help ease the pain of loss.
She can be booked through SpeakersInk
http://www.speakers-ink.com.au/speakers/edwina-shaw
You can also find her at her website http://www.edwinashaw.com
On Twitter https://twitter.com/EdwinaShaw1

And Facebook https://www.facebook.com/EdwinaShawauthor

The Christmas Spirit by Tennille

In this blog, Tennille shares with Sands how she found she had some Christmas spirit as she searched for decorations in memory of precious Oscar including an intriguing story around the stocking that she decorated for him.

Christmas was always my favourite time of the year. Our baby was due Boxing Day, so I had laughed with people when they said they would come and visit me in hospital on Christmas Day. Yet, at 33 weeks, just 6 weeks before Christmas, Oscar was stillborn and none of that mattered anymore.

That first Christmas was hard, probably the most taxing physically as I spent a lot of time  crying but I am so glad I marked the occasion, I gave my son a place in that Christmas and in doing so have created his own Christmas memories. This is probably easier to say now, four years down the track because that first Christmas didn’t feel like a celebration but I was carving out a memory for my son. At first, I couldn’t even comprehend how I would mark Christmas. The word 'celebrate' seemed wrong, exchanging presents didn’t interest me and I just didn’t understand how I could be happy when I had just lost my baby. Yet there must have still been some Christmas spirit inside me as began searching Christmas decorations on the internet. And boy did I order...

**  Baubles with Oscars name on them

**  Sentimental figurines (elephants were symbolic for Oscar)

**  Hanging picture frames where I placed pictures of his ultrasound photos, hand and foot prints etc.

**  Balloons, we chose beautiful balloon centrepieces for the table, honouring the balloons we had released at Oscars service just 6 weeks before.

**  I made him a small stocking to hang by the tree

**  We still opened the gifts we had bought for Oscar

And that stocking has a story. Fate is such a difficult concept to believe in once you lose a baby, because why would it be fate that your children are not here with you, but there are forces greater than us in the universe, and depending on your beliefs sometimes those forces fall into place. One thing I did was stitch a small Christmas stocking to hang for Oscar. I found a beautiful musical stocking, about a week before Christmas, 2000km away…Yet for some reason I thought I could have it sent, stitch it and hang it for Oscar in time for Christmas. I didn’t finish the stocking, in fact I only finished it 11 months later, and the day I went into hospital to have my second baby, a healthy baby boy. But it did give me a purpose. I worked my guts out to get it finished. There is also something therapeutic about using your hands to create something beautiful. The fate part is- the lady on the phone asked if the stocking was for someone special and remarked that I would be busy to finish it before Christmas. I took a chance and told her about our son, the other end of the phone was silent, she burst into tears and told me of her son, who was stillborn 18 years earlier and his name was Jonathan. She thought about him every day. Then for the next few weeks, this lady would call me, just to check in and ask how my stitching was going. I am very grateful for her kindness. She sent me the stocking, no charge, as a gift from her baby to mine. And that to me, it true Christmas spirit.  

Tennille

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Tennille Welsh

Tennille Welsh is a mother to three beautiful boys. Mark (her husband) and Tennille eperiencesd the stillbirth of their first son Oscar, at 33 weeks gestation in 2011, cause unknown. Tennille lives on a hobby farm with her family and enjoys horse riding, swimming and playing with her children.

Tennille is a teacher, specialising in Japanese, Indonesian and is also a teacher of the Deaf. Since having Oscar Tennille has also become a civil celebrant. She has officiated at several weddings and is considering turning her hand at funerals. Tennille feels giving families the gift of a personalised, and heartfelt farewell, especially for a child is so important and can have a huge impact on the grieving process. Before having Oscar, stillbirth was something Tennille knew nothing about and raising awareness by openly discussing all three of her children has been a passion for her.

Jeremy's Story - Alisha

Alisha shared the poem she wrote for Jeremy which was published on August 31st.  She now shares with us precious Jeremy's story.

'At my husband’s insistence we had a very small funeral with only immediate family.  It was the smallest coffin I’ve ever seen, but it was decorated with gorgeous flowers and the blue elephant that reminded me of him and it was just perfect.'

After three years of infertility and countless treatments, my husband and I were finally successful in conceiving thanks to a round of IVF.  I was so ecstatic to finally be pregnant; I never dreamt it wouldn’t result in my family dream coming true.  I had already bought everything I needed, decorated the perfect nursery, and had the big scary 20 week scan and everything was more or less how it should be.  There was a strange comment about low amnio fluid, so my obstetrician suggested we come and see him the following week, just to put my mind at ease.  Neither he nor us had any idea that the next time he saw us he would be telling us he couldn’t find a heartbeat and then organising for me to be induced the following day.

My husband wouldn’t really acknowledge that we had a child, to him this was just another setback in our journey to become parents, so we just needed to get the medical part out of the way and get on with our lives.  As a result he wasn’t really there for me at the hospital, preferring to sit in a chair on the other side of the room rather than hold my hand as I gave birth to our son.  He refused to look at him, and I’m not sure if it was the drugs, his attitude, the exhaustion, the shock, or his pressure to leave the hospital, but as a result I didn’t really hold my son.  I didn’t spend any real time with him, didn’t take photos or anything to remember him.  Instead I left him with the nurses and headed home so my husband could go to the gym, and at the time that seemed like acceptable behaviour.

I think after such a long journey to conceive my son and only being 21 weeks, it was as if I didn’t feel entitled to grieve - these things happen and you just need to focus on what comes next.  I had already been through so much grieving for the children I couldn’t conceive over the last three years; this was just another part of this journey.  I felt like a fraud saying my son was stillborn!  To me stillborn children only happened to the poor women who had to carry their babies full term and then they died.  Even though I had just gone through labour and delivered my son naturally it was so hard for me to think of myself as being in the same category as them – what they go through must be the most devastating thing in the world.

I am so grateful to the wonderful family and friends who came to visit me the next day and who messaged and sent so many beautiful flowers.  All of the support and how upset they all were helped me realise the severity of what I had actually just been through, and to help me see that I was a Mother and I had lost my child – it wasn’t just another medical procedure.  Once that sunk in I felt sick with guilt that I hadn’t spent more time with him, we hadn’t even named him.  My husband wasn’t interested in naming him and refused to let me use any of the names on our list.  I had always liked the name “Jeremy” and when I looked up the meaning it was “God will raise him and God will set him free”.  I’m not a religious person, but this just fitted perfectly.  After that moment I started to get selfish and do what I needed to do to honour my son and how much he meant to me. 

Work was amazingly supportive and gave me as much time off as I needed so I spent my first few days reading other’s stories - the first story I found was actually a DJ from a local radio station that I had listened to most mornings since I was young and it gave me so much comfort and hope to know I wasn’t alone.  This can be such an isolating time, especially when you don’t have partner support, and while I knew of people who had suffered miscarriages, I didn’t know of anyone who had ever had a stillborn - I got so much comfort from strangers generous enough to share their stories.  I then focused on planning the perfect funeral and found great healing in writing.  The wonderful funeral director had angel babies of her own and was heavily involved in SANDS and she gave me some amazing books that really helped.  She could also see that my husband was not in the same place as I was and managed us very well so she could offer me so much support and guidance.  Through her I organised for myself, my parents and my Mother in Law to be able to spend some time with Jeremy.  I know this meant a lot to all of them.  Jeremy was the first Grandchild for both sets of parents, and they really appreciated being able to see him, hold him and say goodbye.

At my husband’s insistence we had a very small funeral with only immediate family.  It was the smallest coffin I’ve ever seen, but it was decorated with gorgeous flowers and the blue elephant that reminded me of him and it was just perfect.  I read the a poem I had written for him, others spoke and I created the perfect soundtrack.  A good friend sent a bag of gorgeous baby blue helium balloons to my house that morning which we released after the ceremony.  At my insistence we followed the funeral with a large wake to celebrate Jeremy and what he meant to me. I was so touched that over 70 people came to the wake to celebrate Jeremy, his significance and how much he meant to all of us. 

At the time I passed off my husband’s behaviour as just his way of grieving, but the death of Jeremy was the last straw for him and he wasn’t prepared to go through any more to get our family.  As a result he left me a week later. 

On August 31 it will be 3 years since Jeremy was born sleeping.  I like to think his passing was the greatest gift a child could ever give a parent.  I can now see my marriage would not have survived regardless and Jeremy has given me a clean break and a second chance at happiness.  I still have good and bad days, and think of Jeremy at some point during most days - I just hope he is proud of the life I am living thanks to his sacrifice.

Alisha

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Alisha Burns

Alisha is a 35 year old kiwi marketer living in Melbourne and mother of one angel, Jeremy, who was stillborn at 21 weeks in 2012.  Alisha loves exploring the world, impressing people with her ability to walk in 6 inch stilettos, anything Disney, experimenting in the kitchen, pretending she can sing at karaoke. One day she would love a French Bulldog to complete her menagerie if she isn't lucky enough to have children of her own.

Stages by Jess L

The following was a piece Jess wrote many many months ago. Reading it back now is hard because she remembers how she felt when she wrote it, dark, betrayed, hopeless…she still has those days now though they’re further and farther in between. She's posting this because she think it’s important to reflect on your journey, even the bad moments and while now at almost 12 months after their loss they are still no closer to expanding their family,she thinks it’s still important to share this. This piece is in no way a reflection of who she is or how she feels 99% of the time.

I’ve decided to write about my stages of living with grief. I’m not sure if/when I’ll ever post this….I suppose it depends on the outcome.

I never wanted to be anything other than a Mum, literally! Sure, now I have a few ideas as to what I’d like to do when I ‘grow up’ but my whole life, that has been my one goal. I’m so very fortunate to be a stay at home Mum to my now 2 year old boy Adam, but it’s 2015. I turn 30 in 2 months!!!

I had always planned to be DONE by 30. 2 or 3 kids under my belt, looking far into the future beyond kids. But now, 7 months (today) after the loss of our daughter at 39 weeks, I’m stuck! I spoke earlier about stages, I call this stage just what it is, Trying to Conceive.

Since our angel was born we agreed that we wanted to try again. As scared stiff as we are about what could happen, bottom line is we wanted our family! Moreover, a sibling (or 2) for our boy. I’ve been an avid blog/article reader since Emma was born. Some have lifted my spirits, some broken my heart all over again. There seems to be a lot of material out there for pregnancy after loss but what about try to conceive? What about when you feel that getting pregnant again will help you heal, help you deal better with all your friends new babies and the overabundance of pregnant women wherever you look!! And what if you can’t have that? What if what you wanted was taken from you as was the ability to conceive again? I’m not saying this will be the case for us, we have terrific doctors who are helping us at every opportunity. I’m positive it will happen eventually but for now it feels like the clock is tick, tick, ticking away.

When some friends announced their pregnancies shortly after Emma was born I was upset but always thought, ‘I’ll be pregnant again by then anyway, it’ll be ok.’ But one will be born this Friday and another in a couple of weeks….and here’s me, 7 months without my baby in my arms or in my body. Today feels hopeless, like nothing matters and it never will. Stay tuned for stage 2….

Jess

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Jessica Lawless

Jessica lives in Victoria. She is the wife to Shane and a Mum to 2 beautiful kids - Adam, nearly 2 and Emma, born sleeping August 2014.

I like to practice yoga, cook, read and spend all my time being a SAHM with Adam. My family and friends are my whole world, there is barley a distinction between the two.

I hope by being so open and honest about my experiences I can help raise awareness and provide support for others.

A Letter to My Daughter

Genevieve shares with us the letter she wrote to her daughter, Amalie.

"You are my rose, Amalie. My perfect little daughter. You made me feel whole… complete… for the first time in my life.  You were the piece of the puzzle I didn't fully understand how much I was missing having - the piece that rendered almost everything else in my life insignificant in comparison."

A letter to my daughter (read aloud as we planted a tree in her memory)

My darling daughter Amalie,

Thank you.  Thank you for coming into my life and bringing me more joy, peace and fulfilment than I thought possible, albeit only for six short months.

I felt you move inside me, and part of me wished I could kept you there, protected, forever.  I would have done anything, anything at all if it meant harm did not befall you.

But alas your life journey was tragically short, nipped in the bud.  I was lucky. We spent several months together. The rest of the world only knew you for a few short days.  But the ripples from your arrival and departure are still being felt, by so very many people.

There have been trees and flowers planted in your name all over Australia and beyond. Like this one. They will grow and flower, celebrating your life. And my hope is that as they are tended, they will not induce sadness in those gardening, but instead, gratitude and wonder at the blessings your short life has reminded us we have.

Your Dad, Nanna, Granddad and I will feel pain too, that is inevitable. Pain that we will never get to see your first steps, your first day at school, your first love, your first heartbreak. Pain that you will never know much love you can feel for a child growing inside you.

But pain is not only inevitable but invaluable for a full and fulfilling life.  The lows give life contrast and context.  They help breed resilience, empathy and humility, and these are some of life’s most important skills. So much comes down to attitude.

I won't complain because roses have thorns, but instead rejoice because thorns have roses.

You are my rose, Amalie. My perfect little daughter. You made me feel whole… complete… for the first time in my life.  You were the piece of the puzzle I didn't fully understand how much I was missing having - the piece that rendered almost everything else in my life insignificant in comparison.

I understand so much more now- about myself, about motherhood, about the world.

And for this, I will be eternally grateful.

All my love,

Mummy.

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Genevieve Yates

Genevieve is a GP, medical educator, medical writer and musician from the Northern Rivers region of NSW. After a long and difficult road to motherhood, her beautiful daughter, Amalie Ella, was born in December, 2014.  Tragically, Amalie died of neonatal sepsis after only four days.

Through her clinical work, teaching and writing, she hopes to she can use her experiences to help support both patients and other doctors in managing the complex emotions surrounding fertility issues and perinatal loss, and also encourage more open discussion in the general community.

Her website can be found at: http://genevieveyates.com

Preppie Tidal Wave

Danielle shares with us her emotions as she realises her precious son, Jasper, was supposed to start prep school.

Tuesday January 27th started out like a normal day. Rush rush, taking my 2.5 year old rainbow to Kindy, making sure we hadn't forgotten anything. The occasional tantrum on the way, mostly because he can't take his trains to Kindy. Hubby hadn't gotten back from night shift so I was doing the Kindy run alone. Driving to Kindy, I see schools open. I see children excitedly, and some not so excitedly getting out of cars for their first day back at school. I still haven't realised.

I get to Kindy; I get Harrison out of the car and help him inside. I am making his breakfast and a mum about my age comes in. The Kindy teachers start fawning over the new Prep child who used to come to the Kindy last year – “oh look at you in your new uniform – look how grown up you look! Thank you for bringing him in to see us!” And it hits me like a tidal wave. Jasper was supposed to start prep today.

I rush into the bathroom to clear my thoughts. I have to settle Harrison and get home – I think to myself. I manage to get through the next 10 minutes, made more difficult that Harrison wanted mummy to stay and read and cuddle him, but I needed to get out of there. But I couldn't hold it in all the way home. My chest feels heavy and the all too familiar and terrible ache in my heart. The ache that makes you feel like you can’t breathe or think. The ache that is physical and feels like your heart is dropping right out of your chest. I sat there and cried.

I cried selfishly at first. I cried because at first I forgot. I cried because I wish I didn't have to remember and that it isn't fair. Because I was the ‘unlucky one’ who didn't get to bring my baby home. Because after 5 years it still hurts. Because I will never buy Jasper a school uniform. But then I cried for his younger brother. I cried because his little brother will never experience the joy and jealousy of watching his older brother go to school before him. Because there will always be a big brother missing who he won’t play with – who won’t get to amaze him with thrilling stories of school and who won’t be there when his little brother also starts school. He doesn't have a big brother to look up to, to protect him.

When I pull myself together and get home, I soak in the bath and try to collect my thoughts. I think about the school we wanted to send him to and wonder how he would have coped. And the sad thing was that I couldn't imagine it. And sometimes that hurts more. I can’t imagine what he would be like today. I went on the computer to chat to a friend for comfort and like a knife through my heart I saw my Facebook feed – pictures of proud parents showing off their little prep kiddies in their new school uniform. Parents who have every right to be so proud of their children, but who unintentionally add to the pain. I had to close my computer. I couldn't interact on social media on this day.

Milestones like this hit me like a brick. And they are usually compounded by the lack of support I receive. My husband is my rock but after working night shift, I can't wake him up because I feel guilty. Many family members believe I am ‘wallowing’ and should just forget about him. It has been 5 years and I can never forget about the small little boy, who fought so bravely for life for 10 hours. I can’t simply ‘forget’ the little boy who isn't here, and I can’t put it out of my mind the milestones in life he can never achieve. Although I have a wonderful rainbow that brings me joy and heals my heart a little bit every day, he is not a replacement for the brave little boy I lost. His milestones are his alone and do not replace the milestones that Jasper should have had.

I cannot wait for my rainbow to achieve his milestones and I look forward to them every day, even if it does bring along a reminder of what we have lost.

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Danielle Hall

Wife to Corey and Mumma to two boys: Jasper Rhys in heaven and Harrison Phillip Robert in her arms. Jasper passed away after PPROM at 23 weeks and birth at 26 weeks, surviving for 10 hours in the NICU unit. Currently completing a Master of Social Work with the goal to aid in the safety and protection of all children, because all children deserve to feel safe and loved.

This is not my life.

One of our bloggers, Jess, has shared her feelings of suddenly living a different life the day her daughter died.  How everything she dreamed of when she was pregnant is now lost in another life.   

If you would like to talk to someone about your experiences, feelings or emotions, please know that Sands Parent Supporters are available 24/7. Details can be found on our website here.

Imagine you are a beautiful young woman, you are about to graduate university and there is an amazing job waiting for you. Your life is perfect, and the whole world is ahead of you. Then one day you wake up and you are broke, living on the streets under a cardboard shelter. You have the same name, you are the same person, but you are living a different life and you don't know how you got there.

This is what if felt like the day we lost our daughter Isobel. I was still me, but it wasn't my life anymore, and every day since has felt the same.

It starts the moment you leave the hospital, as you walk silently through the doors out into the day, emerging as a person you don't recognise. Your empty arms ache as you walk past the couple packing their new baby into their new car seat, and you imagine them driving home at 20km/h while peeping into the back seat every second and sometimes more. But you can't even look in the side mirror, fearing the reflection of an empty back seat staring back at you. This isn't your car, it can't be. The car you bought 9 months earlier with the extra safety, extra seats, and with extra height to make it easier to get your baby in and out. Instead this car was empty, it had no life anymore.

You sit alone in the backyard feeling tortured by the silence of your house, desperately wanting to hear a baby's cry, but instead you hear the children next door bursting out into their yard to play. You sleep in till 10:00 but you feel cheated by what used to be a pleasure. There are no sleepless nights or tired red eyes, as much as you wish for them every morning at 10:01. But the undisturbed sleep does not give you the extra energy it should. You lie in your ruffled sheets, your teeth feel furry and you're hungry, but you still can't move. You know the silent empty house is waiting for you outside the bedroom door, most especially that room you painted a few months ago. The room with the pretty pictures, the pram and cot you spent hours putting together, and the draws full of tiny clothes that will never be worn.  


Leaving the house is no escape. Walks to the beach are haunted by mothers groups taking advantage of a warm day outside with their babies, or the fitness mums power-pushing their prams or the mums teaching their toddlers to ride a bike. For the first few weeks you can't even look at them, you simply walk at a faster pace to pass them quicker, and you keep your head low so they can't see your tears. But after a while you learn to lift your head and catch their eye, that's when you notice the look on their face. They are thinking how lucky you are to have the free time to walk alone on the beach. How lucky you are to not have a heavy pram to push. If only they knew your pain, you think to yourself, if only they knew how much you would give anything just to push a heavy pram or sit on the shady lawn and boast about your daughter being in the higher percentile for height. The supermarket, the shopping malls, the train stations; everywhere mums are being mums, but you are just you, lonelier than ever.

You are thankful for the government cheques you are still eligible for, and you enjoy seeing "parental leave" on your fortnightly bank statements because in that small way you fit into a mum's world. But eventually the assistance will run out, and you won't have any choice but to go back to work. The first day is tough, you try and motivate yourself by doing your hair and makeup and wearing your nicest work dress, but the truth weighs you down - you shouldn't be going back this early, you should be at home with your baby. You check your Facebook in between work emails, and see new mum's posting monthly birthdays of their babies, 2 months, 3 months, 4 months, it's all going so fast they say. But here you are, at work, knowing a lonely house is waiting for you when you leave.

Friends who were pregnant around the same time begin to have their babies. Their healthy babies. You receive the arrival message, the type you never got to send, and reading the words "mum and bubs are doing well" feels like razor blades in your heart. Why does it seem so easy, and why did you fail? You picture them going home with their new baby, scared they won't know what they're doing, changing one hundred nappies a day, getting no sleep for the first few weeks and wishing for just 20 minutes of uninterrupted rest. They share their complaints about exhaustion with you, but their life is everything your life was meant to be.

The only thing that keeps you going is your hope that one day you will find your life again.

                                                                                             Jess

If you require support after reading this blog 

please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Jess Schulz

Living in quiet beachside Adelaide, Jess is a fundraising officer for Motor Neurone Disease SA, freelance graphic designer, and social blogger. Married for 5 years (together for 12), Jess and her husband experienced the saddened loss of their first child in 2014 at 40 weeks. Their daughter Isobel Lola, passed away 6 days after she was born. A perfect pregnancy ended with a cord prolapse during labour, and now Jess and her husband are walking the road of grief while trying to survive each day without their Isobel. Love, hope and support are the essence of their survival, and Jess has chosen to share their story on Sands to hopefully support other bereaved parents walking this road too.

Trying Again

In this blog, Rashida shares here experience of finding the right time to embark on another pregnancy....

When I share my story with someone who hasn't experienced the loss of a child, the most common response that I usually get is:  I couldn't imagine!
“That’s true,” I say. “Neither could I.”

No one can imagine the loss of a child unless it happens to them and even then it is still hard to.

The second most common response that I get when I share my story and people see that I've had another child is: I don’t think I would have wanted to try again!

While I get why people who haven’t experienced loss would think that, to them I would simply say, you’re wrong.

The truth is, as scary as it is to even entertain the thought of trying again, after a loss there is nothing you want more than to try again.

Why? Because the moment that pregnancy test reads positive is when your life changes, not the birth. When the sperm meets the egg, being a parent literally becomes a part of your DNA. You begin to imagine what this child look like, whose personality traits they’ll have, and wonder how you will ever pick the perfect name for your tiny human. You will smile at babies in passing for no reason and unconsciously pat your belly in anticipation of one day soon being the parent holding the little one who is loved even by strangers.

Then in a moment it all changes, and the future you once dreamed about becomes the nightmare you can’t wake up from. 

The thing you could never imagine happening to you just has.

And those thoughts of happiness that once occupied your mind becomes a heartache so deep that now seeing a baby in passing brings you to tears and for a while nothing is the same. 

I didn't want to celebrate my birthday that year because for me it just wasn't how it was supposed to be. My previous plan for that day only included me celebrating by blowing out the candles on a small cake at home with my husband and my newborn baby. 

Later that year, even a welcomed Vegas vacation that included an anticipated concert by Beyoncé who is my favorite artist of all-time was hard to enjoy because it didn't feel like we were meant to be there. If things had gone according to planned we wouldn't have been.

The thought of what “should” be consumed me, until one day a shift occurred and I begin thinking about what could be. 

So when people tell me that they don’t think they would want to try again, I respond with a resounding yes! Yes, you would want to try again, not to replace what was but because of a desire to experience what you know is your destiny: Motherhood. 

The next question I'm usually asked after that is, how did you know when to try again? And the answer is simple: You know you are ready when the day comes that your faith outweighs your fears. It’s the process of getting there through the pain and grief that’s the hard part. 

Rashida


If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Rashida McKenzie

Rashida McKenzie is the Founder of High-Risk Helpers, a maternity concierge service for expectant mother's experiencing high-risk pregnancies that result in bed rest. She is also the mother of a baby girl named Maya (who was born after 22 weeks of bed rest) and an angel who inspired her to advocate for pregnancy loss awareness. To learn more about Rashida or High-Risk Helpers, visit www.highriskhelpers.com.

What Happens Next????

Readers of the Sands blog will remember Jess's story of the birth of her daughter Emma.  This blog, as the title suggests, describes Jess's own brush with death in the weeks after Emma's birth. It is a salutary reminder that, even in the 21st century, birth can (albeit rarely)  be risky for mothers as well as babies. 

After the death of a child, I think at any age, your life is transformed completely. In our case she was never home with us, we never got to experience her personality, never got to complain about lack of sleep or the amount of nappies we were changing and yet I still occasionally walk into the nursery and expect her to be there.

Once you arrive home from the hospital, devastated and empty handed you realise life must resume and you need to find your new ‘normal’.

For me, my re-entry into the real world wasn’t as straight forward as trying to cope with our loss. In the days after Emma’s birth I became increasingly ill. My husband had been suffering a chest infection so coupled with my grief I assumed it was just that and attempted to press on.

One week after discovering our beautiful little girl’s heart had stopped beating I found myself unable to breathe, unable to even get out of bed! My husband somehow managed to get me up, into the car and straight to Emergency.

Grieving for our Emma had to very abruptly take a backseat that night and it wasn’t until weeks later that we were able to begin processing our loss again.

My memory of that time is fuzzy at best but I’m told that after I was admitted that night I was simply too tired to breathe on my own so was placed in an induced coma and intubated until they could figure out why I was fading before them.

Emma’s birth had been particularly traumatic and I had come away with an impressive number of stitches. To avoid infection they’d put me on antibiotics immediately. Because of this, when I was admitted, they were unable to detect exactly what was wrong because the antibiotics were killing every sample they took as soon as they had taken it.

Though it’s never been 100% confirmed, it’s suspected that the bug that took our little girls life almost took mine as well. As well as an extraordinary case of pneumonia.

For me it was a week of blissful nothingness until they finally figured out what the problem was and woke me up. For my husband it was days of doctors, nurses, specialists and for a time, trying to face the reality that he had lost his beautiful daughter and now might lose his wife too.

So a week after stumbling almost incoherently into ED, two weeks after losing our daughter, I woke up in ICU with little recollection of how I got there….then I got better.

I’m not sure if having that time of ‘distraction’ was a good thing or a bad thing for our grieving process but I do know one thing, while this has been the most horrifying experience of my life, I am so very fortunate to have such a rock solid partner in my hubby. He is my hero, the father of my 2 perfect children and my best friend.

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Jessica Lawless

Jessica lives in Victoria. She is the wife to Shane and a Mum to 2 beautiful kids - Adam, nearly 2 and Emma, born sleeping August 2014.
I like to practice yoga, cook, read and spend all my time being a SAHM with Adam. My family and friends are my whole world, there is barley a distinction between the two.
I hope by being so open and honest about my experiences I can help raise awareness and provide support for others.

 

Emma......

Jessica has submitted her first blog to Sands and shares with us the emotions that arose when she discovered her baby had died...

It was a Wednesday, a normal Wednesday like any before it. Early that morning I sat in my kitchen, innocently and happily eating breakfast with my husband and son. After my first good night’s sleep in months, I barely noticed that the normally spirited life growing inside me for the past 38 weeks, was still. I called the hospital and they advised to come on over and get it checked out, just in case.



I’d had a similar experience with my son that had turned out to be simple

dehydration so I told my husband to go on to work “I’ll let you know how I go” I’d said. “You don’t think there could be something wrong do you?” He’d asked me. “No way, we’re in the home stretch. Plus we had a check-up yesterday and everything was fine.”

I will never forget the look on the doctor’s face when she told me my baby had no heartbeat. So empathetic, so heartbroken and so afraid. Afraid for me, for what I was about to face or afraid of me, of the way I would react I don’t know. It was the same look she gave me when she handed my perfect sleeping angel to me. “She’s so beautiful,” she’d said. We named her Emma.
She looked remarkably like her big brother did when he was first laid on my chest 19 months earlier. Only she was delicate and dainty and forever sleeping.

There are so many things I’ll never know. I’ll never know the colour of her eyes or the sound of her laugh. I’ll never be able to brush her hair or tell her to stop fighting with her brother but I’ll never forget the short time that I got to spend with her and how much love I felt when I looked into her beautiful sleeping face. 

3 months later that face is still in the forefront of my mind, every second of every day….

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

                                                                                   

Jessica Lawless

Jessica lives in Victoria. She is the wife to Shane and a Mum to 2 beautiful kids - Adam, nearly 2 and Emma, born sleeping August 2014.
I like to practice yoga, cook, read and spend all my time being a SAHM with Adam. My family and friends are my whole world, there is barley a distinction between the two.
I hope by being so open and honest about my experiences I can help raise awareness and provide support for others.