Now and Then by Bex

Before her, I took Motherhood for granted. I took everything for granted. That was when I lived in the ignorant, blissful “then” days. That’s all changed and I live in the “now”.

I wasn’t supposed to be able to have children, yet I found myself pregnant at 20. It was easy. My daughter was born, and life went on.
Twelve years later I met my soulmate, and fell pregnant. At 34 years old I was happy, it was smooth sailing. Still, it was a surprise just six months later, when I discovered I was pregnant again. There was a few overwhelming moments but we were excited. We started planning....
Just before our first scan I started spotting. Nothing major, I was reassured, and no one was overly concerned. This was only emphasised when we made it to the scan and saw our little bean happily bouncing about, her heart beating away. We were told after seeing the heartbeat we dropped down to 10% miscarriage risk. Relief.

A couple of weeks later the spotting returned, so I went back to my doctor. She sent me for another scan, and the sonographer was a lovely, older lady. The minutes ticked by as she rolled the Doppler over my belly. She said nothing, and I scanned her face for any sign of what she was feeling, or thinking. My anxious brain was screaming, “Please say something!!!” She didn’t.

The place where my baby was before was a black empty space. My baby had disappeared.

I felt instantly nauseous, like a million butterflies had settled in my chest, as she swapped to the internal Doppler. I looked at the screen and saw her. The saddest sight, our little girl, curled up into a ball in the deepest, darkest part of my womb. The sonographer apologised, and let us know she was gone, there was no heart beat.

I felt multiple emotions all at once. As fast as they came I locked them away. I asked the sonographer if she was ok, the look on her face was one of devastation and discomfort at having to tell us our baby had died. My husband squeezed my hand, poor thing what else could he do? We never imagined this could happen to us.

It seems our baby had died two days after our first scan. I carried her tiny body without a clue she had died . The next few days passed in a painful blur. When I left the hospital without her I felt lost and empty.
My life is now split into two...before we experienced baby loss, and the life we now have to lead without her. Now and then. Some days I hate living here in the now, and would give anything to go back to then.


♡ RIP Emmah Jae Lampe 10/3/2010

Bex

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Bex Lampe

Bex lives on the surf coast in Victoria. She is wife to Gav and mum to four Earth side

babies. Emmah and Flynn are her two angels. Bex is also a first time Grandma! She recently achieved a Diploma of counselling and is hoping to complete her Diploma of Community Services this year. Currently a stay home mum with three little ones, she’s hoping to get back to the outside world next year. 

Bex has two rainbow babies born after her miscarriages. They were born with severe congenital conditions. Congenital Heart defects for her eldest son and Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia for her youngest. Both requiring birth into NICUs and major surgeries. 

Bex has worked as an AIN in Aged, Disability, and Dementia care, as a private disability nurse and also as an assistant to a prison chaplain with the Salvation Army. She has also been an artist and a poet. Bex loves to help people and hopes to help many bereaved parents with her experiences. 

Her dream is to be published again, and to one day write a book. 

An Evolving Love by Larissa

'She may have died, but my love for her did not'

Love. It was the first thing I felt as I caught Ariella and lifted her out of the water onto my chest. At that very moment, I didn’t care that she was stillborn – all I felt was love. A love so overwhelming that it actually felt like a physical wave hitting me. After the most tumultuous two days of my life, she was finally in my arms. A daughter. The most beautiful girl I had ever seen. And all I could think about was how much I loved her.

Soon enough, that overwhelming love manifesting itself in overwhelming grief. How could it not? Our beautiful girl would not grow up in our arms. It was quite a while before the grief began to seem less overwhelming and become bearable.

I still love Ariella just as much as I did three years ago at her birth but that love has evolved. It’s different, parenting a child in Heaven. I didn’t know how I could do it or what it would look like. But I’m learning. Instead of loving her toddle, first words or new skills, I love her impact on the world. I love her for the friends she has brought into my live and for the hearts her story has touched. I love how she changes the world each time someone donates in her memory or reaches out to a bereaved friend because of what her story taught them. My little girl is impacting the world despite not being here! How amazing, and what a privilege to be her mama.

What does my love for Ariella look like three years on from the initial rush of overwhelming love and then grief? It’s evolved into a more settled love. Of course, it expresses itself differently at various times of the year (for example, grief is the dominant expression on her Heaven Day) but it usually feels settled, just like my love for my living children. In the words of one of my favourite songs: “lost you before I found you, gone before you came. But I love you just the same.” She may have died but my love for her did not. Ariella Jade – always and forever my loved baby.

Larissa

Larissa wrote her blog about the love she has for precious Ariella for Sands Australia.  This blog also appears on The Motherish website

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Larissa Genat

Larissa is a wife to Marcus and a mother to two beautiful children – Ariella Jade in Heaven and Levi William in her arms. She loves spaghetti bolognaise and the smell of rain, but neither of them could make her smile when, after a textbook pregnancy, Ariella unexpectedly died at 39 weeks gestation. No reason was ever found for her death. Soon after Ariella’s death Larissa began writing. 

You can find Larissa's posts at:

Deeper Still (www.loveisdeeperstill.blogspot.com)  and on Still Standing Magazine (http://stillstandingmag.com/author/larissa).

Father's Day

Corey writes for us about the recent Father's Day.. his sixth without his precious baby that died.

Father’s Day used to be a day that I wasn’t particularly fond of.   It was just another day that had that undertone that it was supposed to be something other than it was, like when you plan a holiday and it’s postponed or cancelled and then that day comes when you were supposed to leave but you’re at work instead.

I do remember my first Father’s Day. My wife did everything she could to make it special for me, she made me breakfast in bed and we spent the day doing fun things but the day had that undertone I mentioned. I would have preferred to sleep the day away but my wife made this plan so that’s what we did. We went and visited the spot where we spread my son’s ashes, and it made me feel both better and worse.

I lost my boy in the November the year the before, so it had been almost a year between when I lost him and while my wound was healing but there was a large scar -  it was still very fresh.

My second Father’s Day was much better, we were trying again to bring a wonderful little person into our life and at this point we had gotten some answers in regards to what had happened and what had gone wrong and what we could to do to virtually assure it wouldn’t happen again. A month later my wife would conceive, and just before Christmas we would find out we were having a wonderful little boy. I went to my son’s spot again, and it was nice to just be there, my heart ached but I needed it.

My third Father’s Day was the best.   He was only a couple of months old but the day had that spark to it. There was that tiny undertone, but I pushed it aside, focused on what I had in front of me and enjoyed the day. Later that day, while my son was asleep, I took a drive to my first son’s spot, and just spent a little bit of time with him, and thanked him, as I knew he had a part to play.

Today’s father’s day will be my 6^th. Got a full day planned: to see my wife’s parents and just basically busy work.  My rainbow is now 3 years old and he is an absolute handful, he made me a wonderful present at kindergarten and that’s all I ever wanted. I finished work early in the morning and on my way home I visited my son’s spot.   I’m not sure why this year feels different, maybe it’s because my life is a little topsy turvey at the moment or maybe it’s because this year I feel as though I have really moved forward on how I handle my grief when it comes to losing my son.  Maybe its guilt as I don’t think about him as often as I should, all I know is that there are many aspects of my life that I feel completely out of control of but when it comes to father’s day and visiting my son, I know he is with me and I feel like I am with him. 

Corey

If you require support after reading this blog please contactSands on 13 000 72637

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.

Grief is a complicated process.....

Shanelle writes again for Sands.  She talks about how grief is a complicated process and how she coped.... 

It can bring us together, tear us apart or alienate us, the later one, is the one that I identify with the most these past three and a half months since my loss.

I was surrounded by love and at first, many beautiful people in my life reached out to me with this own loss stories following my miscarriage, in fact, one lovely lady, my partners cousin was the only person to visit me in the hospital, aside from him, despite having suffered a recent loss of her own, to give us a small blue teddy bear so I had something to cuddle.

Many thoughts and prayers came to us through calls, messages and cards and all I could offer in return was tears and eventually I started withdrawing. Not because I didn’t like them, or I felt unwanted, judged or anything like that but simple because I did not know how I felt or how to react on my own let alone around others, for one moment all my dreams were coming true after four years of trying to conceive and completing our little family and the next was doctors and hospitals, needles and scans and eventually labour… with nothing to hold after hours of pain.

But I was a mummy already and I had to just get on with it because no parent wants their child to see them hurt and eventually the calls stopped, the visitors stopped coming, life just kept moving on but I just stopped. I stopped talking, with myself, my partner, my family… even to my sister, my sister who knew what losing a child was like, more than anyone else, having lost her beautiful daughter 8 years ago to SIDS at 6 weeks.. I could not bring myself to share my feelings with anyone, especially her because I felt shame and guilt for grieving so deeply for a loss when it could never compare to a loss of her baby. How could I be so selfish to cry over someone I never had the chance to see without scans and could barely feel while she suffered every day, for years, for the loss of her baby girl with perfect little fingers and toes, a head full of hair and tiny button nose?

And so I withdrew even more, weeks would go by without visitors, or even uttering anything concerning my loss except for follow up appointments that cemented my silent grief even further.

With my only outings being school drops, errands and exercise all my relationships suffered until last Friday. Last Friday was my nephew’s birthday and the 8th anniversary of my nieces passing and here I was leaving her alone to suffer because I felt bad because of my grief and how it couldn’t compare to hers? What a sister was I? So I messaged and asked her to come over and so she did and when she walked through my front door, we cried. We held each other and we didn’t need to say anything to share how we felt. We just took solace in each other’s company and cried for our own losses, for each other’s loss and in that moment I learned she didn’t care the differences in our losses, she hurt because I hurt, and I her.

So many women, parents, families suffer in silence for their miscarriages, thinking they don’t have the right to mourn, or are over reacting for a baby they never touched, often never felt and will never hear cry. I was one of these people, I hid it, but no more. I have a right to grieve for the life I lost for as long as that grief may last. 

My name is Shanelle and I lost my baby at 10 weeks and every day I grieve for that little life because that life touched mine, changed my life and I will forever cherish the time we had, though brief because I was… I am their mother, and I will not forget. I will not hide my tears, because they are proof that my baby was real and someone I am proud to share with you.

Shanelle Kay

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Shanelle Kay

Shanelle is a trainee counsellor and photographer based in Brisbane.
She believes the best sound in the world is her son's laughter and how he sings to himself when he wakes from a nap. She is also a proud mummy to an angel baby and through writing and various arts she is sharing her experience and finding herself, all over again. In her own words.

"I am all and I am nothing, but most importantly I am exactly who I need

to be in this moment... and that is sometimes the hardest thing we have to accept,

openly and honestly.. Ourselves"

The helplessness of a Grandmother:

In this weeks blog, Lee, shares with us her precious granddaughter, Lexie, how she coped with her emotions when Lexie died as well as support her daughter.

My daughter, Alicia, was glowing as she told me she was pregnant with her first child.

The pregnancy had its complications, as in Alicia being diabetic. But she was very healthy and, being a nurse herself, the diabetes was completely under control.

Doctors advised that she would be induced at 38 weeks. On week 37 she had a scan and our beautiful little Lexie was bouncing about, fit and well. Four days later, an ECG was planned to check everything prior to inducing.

I was surprised when the doctor rang me and asked could I go up and sit with Alicia as her partner was away and wouldn't be back for a while. I was met by her work colleagues - nurses- who with tears in their eyes, prepared me for those unforgettable words- No heartbeat. A scan confirmed the worst.

It all seemed like some horrible dream. My daughter was experiencing every parent’s worst nightmare, and I was helpless. I held her as her world fell apart, not being able to process anything properly. Her partner then arrived and I couldn't help him either.

The following morning she was transferred to a bigger hospital where she was induced.

After a long 14 hr, difficult delivery, our granddaughter was born.

As I held Lexie, I questioned everything- why, what if?? If I could have taken her place, I would have in a second. Alicia was coping okay with the help of painkillers, her partner showed immense courage and support even though he was a broken man.

During the 3 days at the hospital, the staff were very understanding. We had Lexie christened, her hands and feet castings done, and she was left with her parents for as long as they wanted. Weeks later the autopsy report found no known cause of death, but it did occur either the night of the last scan or the following day. The doctor in charge said that if they had delivered her one week earlier, all would be OK. I don’t believe telling the parents such things helps- just makes them angry and hurt more.

So then the confronting reality of the baby seat still ready in the car, home to a freshly painted nursery and bags of baby clothes. On top of this, arrangements for a funeral, something else we were totally unprepared for. Questions- what they wanted, etc, too many decisions when no-one is thinking straight. It was a very busy time, on call 24/7 for my daughter who was struggling to make sense of anything. My own grief was put aside, I knew I had to be the strong one. Two months later I broke- my little girl was gone and never coming back. I think as a grandmother, the initial focus is of course on my own daughter and helping her cope. Realization of losing a grandchild comes later-

I go to the cemetery now and again, talk to Lexie, have built her a garden with pink and white flowers with 2 angels in it.

Day by day we get stronger and move forward with our lives. Lexie is always with me, in my thoughts. Things remind me, seeing little dresses in shops, Christmas presents I had already bought her. One of the most interesting facts is that most people avoid the topic, my daughter has had friends avoid her in the street. I understand that they often don’t know what to say but it really helps to talk about it.

Lexie’s death has rekindled my own experience with losing a child. Next month, 30 years ago, I miscarried at 12 weeks. At the time it was basically ignored- no-one spoke about it, life just continued. I was admitted to hospital to "remove the products of conception". It was a very cold atmosphere, and I remember one kind nurse came around afterwards and closed the curtains around me, telling me to cry until I couldn't cry anymore.

I felt like my heart had been ripped out.

If there’s anything I can offer - it would be to talk. Friends need to know they help more by acknowledgement and understanding, talking, asking questions and being a part of the whole thing.

Things do get better. Acceptance for things we cannot change. Hope for a brighter future.

You don’t ever forget, you keep the memory and eventually move on.
  

Written by grandmother, Lee.

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637