Being Pregnant After........ by Jess

The decision to become pregnant again was instantaneous for us. We both wanted more children and a sibling for our son to grow up with. The decision was easy, the reality was not.

After my daughter was born sleeping at 39 weeks from a septic infection, I suffered a serious illness that took months to recover from, so we weren’t able to start trying again until many months later. As a long time sufferer of anxiety and bouts of depression, my hormones were often already out of whack. 13 months after we lost our little Emma, and with a little help from some amazing Doctors and Nurses, our prayers were answered.

It had been a horrific 12 months and we had in fact lost hope. Every day I was convincing myself more and more that our son was to be our only child at home and more and more I was ok with that.

I never thought I would see those two pink lines again. I was instantly elated! I squealed, I cried tears of joy, my son (2.5 at the time) thought I had gone mad. I wrapped the test in layers and layers of newspaper and ribbon to give to my husband Shane after work that night. He thought that I was playing a trick on him somehow, we just couldn’t believe it.

The first 12 weeks travelled by quickly. I had a small bleed at 8 weeks which was instantly terrifying but I received excellent care and it was quickly discovered to be nothing.

I felt my first flutter at 16 weeks at 3am. I was so thrilled that I couldn’t get back to sleep. From then on my anxiety/worry and sometimes paranoia really escalated. At 18-20 weeks I was having trouble feeling the movements. A scan told us that I had a low lying anterior placenta and that was possibly acting as a barrier, making movements harder to feel. At 23 weeks, after a fraught weekend I called the maternity unit and went in for a scan. They were brilliant and everything was perfectly fine. No one made me feel like a crazy paranoid person, they all understood completely why I would be concerned. Since then my placenta has moved up out of the way and now at 25 weeks I feel my baby moving and shaking like a little champ!

I’m really glad I went to the hospital that day but making that phone call and taking that drive brought everything back. It was the same sequence of events that occurred 18 months before and I was floored by my terror.

Sharing our news with friends and family was really special. Everyone was so over the moon for us but we started to notice a change in the air. People became less censored or sensitive in their comments and conversations when around us. On sharing our news we were asked questions like ‘do you hope it’s a girl so you can have one of each?’ ‘Will this be it or will you try for a 3^rd?’ To some (not all) people it feels as if Emma was never even born, that she doesn’t still hold a place in our family. We’ve learned not to take these kinds of comments to heart and definitely learned that we are the only ones who truly get it….but it hurts. It hurts a lot.

I imagine that the next 15 weeks (give or take) are going to be spent as a mixture of nerves, excitement, worry, happiness and sometimes terror but it’s what we expect. More than anything I can’t wait to meet our 3^rd beautiful baby, I look forward to hearing his/her first cry, changing that first nappy, I even look forward to the MANY late night/early morning feeds and being so tired I can barely function as a person.

I still feel somewhat angry about losing Emma, maybe even slightly resentful but today I’m looking into the future and I have HOPE xx

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.

Coping with Miscarriage - Therese

Therese shares with Sands her experience of miscarriage which occurred a long time ago when there was no support available.

'It didn’t matter that I had two other precious children that I loved with all my heart; I always felt this missing link and sometimes felt so alone.'

In those early days of losing my precious third child through miscarriage, there was always a feeling of something missing at Christmas as I knew that I should have been about to give birth any day after Christmas. There was no support in those days either from family or the Church (I was a Catholic) and by the Health Professionals. No-one could understand this feeling except someone who had gone through it. I also felt very guilty as my miscarriage started the day my older child was performing in her first calisthenics concert as Red Riding Hood. My sister-in-law who had come to watch my daughter, had to take over her care and look after her while my husband rushed me to hospital – I had to have a curette after the loss of my baby and I didn’t even know what that was! I mentioned my miscarriage a short while ago to my same sister-in-law and she had no memory of the day! I thought “wow how could you not” but it just goes to show what is important to one person isn’t to another unless it has an emotional impact to that person.

It didn’t matter that I had two other precious children that I loved with all my heart; I always felt this missing link and sometimes felt so alone. If I hadn’t had my friend Robyn who had been through it (twice!), I am not sure I would have survived. My husband and I had differing ways of handling it and while I thought I understood that he was grieving too, I felt my loss was worse as I had the physical pain of the loss plus the emotional pain as well. Of course, many years later and being a professional working in the field of loss and grief, I now understand that the grief of men and women is both different and, on some levels, the same; we just handle it differently.

Much of my recovery was a feeling I just had to get on with it for the sake of my two children and the husband whom I loved, but guess didn’t understand at that point. The physical recovery took time and the emotional even longer. Grief is not something that just goes away with time as many would like to think; one just learns to deal with it.

How did I get through it one might ask? My dearest friend kept me sane and even back then I think I started to write poetry, a passion that is still with me today. It was probably not until after my next child was born that I realised that my recovery from this miscarriage had not eventuated but rather I had hidden it away. I had a physical breakdown and went into a retreat-like existence with the lovely Grey Sisters in Canterbury,  where I joined a group of women who were going through rough times too. I was able to start talking about what had happened in a more forthright way.

By this time, it was the beginning of the end for my marriage, although we struggled for another 10 years plus and moved to the country. Today I may have handled things better as there is more support but one can never say how you could handle something until it actually happens to you. There were other grief situations we were both going through at the time and I feel in hindsight that this added to our burden and we had also lost the art of communication as my husband began to absent himself more and more.

These days I know a lot more about the association of stress to loss. I have even run courses on this subject, so I am aware of my triggers and can manage it better; however, Christmas still brings up a few tears for this loss and others that have occurred since.  One does get through it but at the time one can’t see the wood for the trees.  

Some words of advice: Don’t isolate yourself as I did. Ask for that all important support from anyone and keep asking until you get it. There is so much support out there and I truly wish that an organisation like SANDS was around when I was going through my loss of my baby.

Therese

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

About Therese 

Therese has worked in the field of counselling and community development for over 20 years. She has worked predominantly in the health and welfare field. She has worked in the primary school sector counselling children through a range of loss and grief and traumatic experiences.

Therese has also delivered a number of conference papers on the theme of children’s loss and grief and articles on stress management too. She also worked as a Sessional teacher in the TAFE system and the Private Sector in the Community Services area, including Mental Health Welfare for over 20 years. She is also an experienced Supervisor.

Therese has as a small business conducting Reiki, Inner Child Therapy, Meditation and similar therapies. She is also works as a Group Facilitator and teaches stress management and relaxation techniques within the local community as well as running workshops in the areas of trauma and loss and grief and related areas.

Therese is a published poet and has three children and four delightful grandsons. She enjoys nothing more than a good cup of coffee and the occasional glass of wine or bubbly. She is passionate about climate change and the environment, wanting a clean world for her grandchildren to grow up in and one where any type of violence is not tolerated.

Heartbreak and Sadness - Monyth

Monyth talks about how no one had prepared her partner and herself about the feelings of heartbreak and sadness following an early pregnancy loss

It all started from our very first scan at 8 weeks. I still remember the radiographer’s face didn’t look that good. Then she said she will call the doctor to have a look. Then they decided to send me home and to make an appointment with my GP. After that, we needed to do another scan two weeks later. The second radiologist explained it to  us in a  bit more detail. Both radiologists asked me if I ever had bleeding and I said no. But that doesn’t mean I’m safe from the risk of losing our baby, since we can’t find our baby’s heartbeat.

That night I still remember how worried I was. I couldn’t sleep almost all night. I searched for an answer from the internet. I found the answer that I’m looking for:  it is called blighted ovum. This is a condition when the sac is growing but the baby is not developing. That’s why we couldn’t find our baby’s heartbeat earlier.

The next day, we saw our GP and he explained to us with the diagram and said that I have a blighted ovum. My nightmare became reality now. I tried to put on my brave face, we went home and cried. The most devastating news we ever heard.

The following day, we saw a specialist from the Early Assessment Pregnancy Unit. She did another scan for us before making decision. I thought I still had another little hope, if we could see our baby, but no luck as well with the last scan. That’s our last hope gone forever.

Then the specialist discussed  our options. I chose surgery -  D & C. The night before our surgery I started bleeding. That made me realise how naturally my body is working.

The next day my husband and I waited in the waiting room with so many other people. We were waiting anxiously. I know I will lose our baby after this surgery. Finally the nurse called me up at 4PM.

I woke up at 6:00 PM in the strange place, the nurse start talking to me and asked if I am ok. Of course I am not ok.  I feel so empty and sad.

Then they started to wheel my bed to the recovery room and she asked me if I wanted her to call my husband. I said yes. My husband came straight away as he had been waiting anxiously for the last two hours and thinking there was something wrong with me. We had a chat and he brought me a teddy bear and choc chips muffins to cheer me up. Then they sent me home.

A few days later I went back to work again. I have  time to think in the morning, while I drove to work. I was thinking on my way to work, and by the time I got into the carpark, I burst into tears -  so many questions in my head but I don’t have the answers.  Why did this happen to us? Is there any way I could have prevented this  happening? Is ther any way I could have protect our baby more? If this has never happened what would our baby have been like? So many questions are running through my head.

So many people said to us to move on. I just want to scream at them,  and I said to them to leave me alone. Only two people really understood my feelings, my husband and my sister. With my so many tears over the months, I tried to be strong.

One Sunday morning, I saw a photo of my friend with his wife and they had their beautiful baby shower. It just broke my heart. I cried almost all day, until my mother in law called me. She just listened to my sob for almost half an hour. Her words of caring and understanding comfort me and ease my pain in my heart.

After I hung up the phone, I contact this lovely lady from Sands Tasmania by email. Her name is Lyndy, she replied to my email almost straight away. I started write my email and felt so close to her straight away. She said to me to give myself all the time I need to grieve and never lose hope for the future.

I was contacting “Little BIG LOVE” author, Danielle Loy. Danielle is so lovely, she sent me a copy of her book, because she knows I really need to read her book. So many stories from different women, stories about their pregnancy losses and hopes for the future. Their stories open my heart and help me to realise not to give up on my future. Thank you Danielle for sharing your stories and writing the book for us.

Another day, another heartbreaking experience:  my work colleagues discussing about their future baby and future niece or nephew… I am always thinking why they do that? So many people are so insensitive.

I had a discussion with one of my colleagues. She also had experience with miscarriage, so she is understanding about my feelings.  All my feelings are so raw since I had the miscarriage not so long ago.  She also gave me encouragement to be strong and hope for the future.

I keep saying to myself almost every single day, “Be Strong Mon, you can do it” …. You will get through this.

I want to share a little story about Hope… we chose our special name for our baby : “Baby Hope”.  It means hope for our future baby and hope for our future, for our little family that hopefully will grow with our kids someday. I am always thinking that baby Hope also watches us from heaven now.  Realise that we always love you. 

Mon

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Monyth Wayth

My Name is Mon Wayth. I am based in Hobart with my husband Ash. We moved to Hobart about 3 years ago from Melbourne, while we met and got married in a beautiful lavender farm. We have one angel baby name Hope and one little cute dog name Spotty. At the moment I am working through my dreams to open my future dream café in Hobart. I am trying to keep my mind busy, so I am not feeling so sad and empty in my heart, even though sometimes it is so hard to keep to do so. Baby Hope is still going to be part of our extraordinary life and make us grow stronger as a couple and as long as we have each other, we will be fine.

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

Oscar's Story

Tennille is a newcomer to the Sands blog.  She recounts the day she found out precious Oscar had died and those following.

        'At times I find myself using ”I”, then “We” when I write about Oscar, it is 
        difficult to disentangle myself from my feelings, our feelings, that of my 
        husband and I and also in a way the grief our whole family felt.' 

   'Together we will always remember Oscar.'

I was eagerly counting down the final days left of work before I could ‘relax’ and prepare for the birth of our first child. I was 33 weeks and 2 days when our whole life changed forever. My obstetrician said “I’m sorry there is no foetal heartbeat”. From that point on my life became utter chaos yet my memory for the next few days remains crystal clear. At times I find myself using ”I”, then “We” when I write about Oscar, it is difficult to disentangle myself from my feelings, our feelings, that of my husband and I and also in a way the grief our whole family felt. Together we will always remember Oscar.
Wednesday night, that fateful night, after seeing the obstetrician we were advised to go home and go into hospital the next day. Each midwife we met over the coming days was lovely. Aside from the necessary medical needs each offered support in their own way, often sharing a tear with us. 

After some encouraging, the delivery itself went relatively smoothly and Oscar Mark was born at 6:55am Saturday 11th November 2011. He was perfect in every way. Having several days to prepare for Oscars birth in hindsight was helpful as it allowed us to gather our thoughts and make some decisions about how we wanted to celebrate his short life once he was born. I am eternally grateful to our photographer, who arrived shortly after Oscar’s birth to photograph our family. At first I was unsure about this but once I saw my baby I wanted to remember every second, to be able to look back and see so many emotions in these pictures. Each time I look at them I see new emotions, notice new details. In the early days after coming home from hospital I would often become panicked, especially in the early hours of the morning that I would somehow forget Oscar, that I couldn't see his face and these photos were a great way to reassure myself.

We had two days with Oscar. To describe them as happy is not accurate but to describe them as sad is also not a true reflection of the time. Perhaps at peace, calm, still would be more fitting. We were able to finally meet our son, introduce him to our families, hold him like all proud parents. We had Oscar blessed, we bathed and dressed him, we had time alone with him. We looked at, stroked and kissed his tiny hands, his lips, the fine hair on his head.

At times I thought that I could keep the door of our room closed forever, the three of us could live our life from there, and Oscar would be with us, forever. What I had not yet understood was that my son would be with me, in my memories, in my soul, forever.
I received excellent advise from the pastoral healthcare team at the hospital and that was “You will never get this time back again so take your time, don’t rush and remember, you can have whatever you want”. While I definitely wasn’t thinking clearly, taking my time over two days to touch, wash, hold and kiss my baby have allowed these memories to etch into my heart, memories which need to carry me through a lifetime.

When the time came to say goodbye to my baby’s body, I wrapped him in a soft bassinet and carried him proudly from the hospital to the undertaker’s car, gave him one final kiss and went home with empty arms. When I entered hospital three days earlier I thought this would be the end of my baby’s story, little did I know it was only the beginning of creating a new life, and a new story for myself. That of a mum, a mum who has lost a baby and who desperately wanted to have another baby.

Tenille

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.

Time

Jess writes again for us and here she shares her thoughts around grief and time.

    'We’ll never forget Emma, we’ll never stop talking about her, never 
     stop loving her and we’ll never leave her out of our family head count.'

“Give it some time.” A phrase that’s commonly coined in times of loss. I've heard this a lot, in fact I’ve also used this a lot when comforting bereaved friends. Hearing these words when your heart is so broken can make you feel so hopeless and discouraged. At the time you can’t conceive of a future beyond the pain of that moment. The truth is though, it’s undoubtedly true.

February this year marked 10 years since I lost my dear Mum after a long battle with cancer. It also marked 6 months since we lost our little girl. Both ‘milestones’ of sorts, 10 years on I do feel peaceful about losing my Ma but it took TIME.

In the early days after losing Emma I remember thinking ‘when will things be funny again, when will we find peace?’ I’m a joker, I love to laugh but suddenly to laugh meant to betray my daughter's memory. To smile would mean I ‘didn't care’ that she was gone! Peace I think is still some time away for me but the laughter did return. Now, 8 months later I spend many happy days with my husband and our ridiculously hilarious 2 year old son. I can now allow myself to feel genuinely grateful for what I DO have without chastising myself for momentarily forgetting my pain. Not forgetting, that’s not right, just being ok with it.

A few months ago I was struggling with the presence of our very empty nursery and my very wise friend who sadly lost her little girl nearly 4 years ago said to me “You can never replace them but their presence in your family is a remarkable one, it becomes one even deeper than a full cot. Instead it fills your heart, your spirit and your soul. It becomes the reason to strive for your children and your family. It becomes a gentle way of living, breathing and appreciating every day. It becomes you.”

We’ll never forget Emma, we’ll never stop talking about her, never stop loving her and we’ll never leave her out of our family head count.

I know that she’s happy and at peace in the arms of her Grandma. I picture them together, 2 peas in a pod, smiling, playing, happy!

But these feelings and emotions take time, it’s something that we can’t control but we cannot allow to control us.

Time will pass, wounds will heal and my heart will mend…or so I hear.

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.

The NICU

Dani shares with us the time Jasper spent in the NICU and having to make the hard decision to turn off life support.

     "I could have stayed in that NICU unit for hours just touching his delicate hands 

      and stroking his arms and head, but we weren’t allowed. Many of the babies

       in the NICU are very sick and I know they try and limit contact until babies 

      can be removed from their special chambers. Regretfully I agreed to go back 

      to my room."

November 18, 2011, at 9.31am my sweet baby boy Jasper was born at 9.31am by emergency classical cesarean at 26 weeks. When he was born I didn’t get the opportunity to say hello, or to see him, he was in respiratory distress. The nurses showed us some photos before he was whisked away to the NICU unit.

It would be almost 4 hours before I got to see him for the first time. He was intubated and was on a positive airway pressure machine to help him breathe. He was so small at 785 grams but he was fighting. In his small humidification chamber I could see his tiny legs kicking and I could see him trying to cry – he couldn’t make a sound because of the breathing tube. I was told I could put my hand in and touch him as long as I sterilized my hands first. That first touch – his skin so soft, but so bruised and red from the trauma of his birth. But I didn’t even notice the colour of his skin – all I could think was that I had birthed a perfect baby boy – a fighter. He was naked, save for a tiny nappy that could have fit on my fingers, and a teenie tiny leg band that won’t even fit over my finger. The doctors told us he was doing very well and that they were able to reduce the pressure of his machine and that he was starting to breathe on his own.

I could have stayed in that NICU unit for hours just touching his delicate hands and stroking his arms and head, but we weren’t allowed. Many of the babies in the NICU are very sick and I know they try and limit contact until babies can be removed from their special chambers. Regretfully I agreed to go back to my room.

It took so much begging to the nurses before the consented us to go back down and see him. They finally allowed us at 7pm, but when we got there, it was not cheerful anymore. The doctor was about to call us. Jasper had stopped taking oxygen and was suffering pulmonary hyperplasia, meaning his lungs weren’t developed. The doctor gently explained that with the amount of time he had been without sufficient oxygen, the chance that he would get through this was remote – and the chance that he would ever be able to see, talk, walk or be without oxygen for the rest of his life was nil. They told us they believed that his death was inevitable and that we had a choice. To remove his life support and let him fly to God peacefully, or keep him on his oxygen and to see if he improved.

How does a parent make this choice? My mind was numb. Could I possibly live the rest of my life knowing that I agreed to remove care? The doctors said his death is inevitable but what if they’re wrong? Can I live with that? My mind was numb. I looked at my husband. Silent tears streaming down his cheek – still in his work clothes from when he bought me in that morning. My only thought was that I didn't want to be alone. ‘Can I please get my parents here’ I remember asking. The doctors agreed and our parents were called.

Somehow I fought through the fog and mind numbing pain to ask for Jasper to be baptized. I don’t know if there is a life after this, but I wanted to make sure my baby got every chance at heaven and God. Our parents came and finally, Corey and I knew it was time. Time to make sure our baby suffered no more. We knew. He wasn't fighting anymore, he was still. He was exhausted. They placed him in my arms and slowly removed his tubes. I held him tight and all of his grandparents came and told him how much they loved him, touching his hair. In the final moments of life, all he knew was love and comfort. In his mummy’s arms and hearing the voices of people who loved him.

He passed away in my arms at 7.31pm. Finally I was able to give him to his grandparents for a cuddle. They said their goodbyes and I sat there thinking – I had to switch off life support on my son. My first born. I did that. Nothing will ever change what I did. I hope he knew I loved him. I didn't want him to suffer anymore. If nothing else in his short time on Earth I wanted him safe and loved. And I hope he felt that.

The absolute soul crushing, heart wrenching physical pain that comes with losing a child, and the guilt I felt for ending his care – words can never make someone who hasn't lost a baby understand. The pain – it’s physical and it tears apart your heart. You literally feel like your heart has shattered and you are surprised it still beats. Each beat is physical pain. My baby was gone. I helped that along. And 2 days later I walked out of the hospital without my baby, slowly, bruised, and with a broken spirit.

Dani    

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.

The things we must do

Jessica continues to share with Sands her precious Emma - the realisation that the family would need to organise a funeral for their special little girl.

A few hours after our world came crashing down I remember sitting on our couch, trying to muster the strength to unpack the baby items from my pre packed hospital bag and it dawned on me, we would have to arrange a funeral!

Never in my life did I imagine I'd have to do such a thing, it was quite literally the last experience in the world that I wanted to go through on top of everything else that was soon to come.

We are extremely fortunate to have a terrific support system in friends and

family so we called on the help of my Dad and Father In-Law who made all the arrangements and footed the bill, which was an enormous gesture to us.

Late one night (or early one morning) shortly after Emma was born, I was pacing the house. Unable to sleep, unable to cry, unable to feel anything but the pain of absence in my heart and within my body. Furiously spiralling I put my emotions at that moment onto paper.

Her funeral service was simply beautiful. Her tiny white coffin adorned with a dainty flower wreath of pinks and whites, sat in front of us while her song played harmoniously around us. A song I'd sang to her almost every day throughout our 39 weeks together. We sat, the three of us and cried and smiled and loved our little girl, Adams little sister.
We had the celebrant read the words I had written for her that night, which I entitled “How”

                    How can you love someone you never truly met?

                    How can you miss someone you don’t really know?

                    How can she be gone?

                    How is this fair?

                    How. Can. This. Be!

                    How beautiful she was,

                    How special was our short time together,

                    How she’ll always be in our hearts,

                    How she gives us hope for the future,

                    How she’ll forever be our perfect baby girl <3

In the days and weeks after we said our final goodbye we banded together, Shane, Adam and I. We packed up the bassinet, put away all the clothes I had gotten out from Adam's hand me downs. Finally I uninstalled her baby car seat, I was starting to feel like a crazy person driving around with a baby seat but it was the hardest thing to take away. It was like forcing me to admit defeat, to admit that she would never need to use it.

Eventually the evidence of her presence within me faded bit by bit. The week my hair started shedding like it had when my boy was 3 months old, her birth certificate arrived. A friend described receiving her sleeping little girl's birth certificate like, ‘reminding me that she really was here, even for a short time.’

I've often thought that losing Emma was unfair but that’s not totally accurate. Unfair is having to share the news with friends and family, unfair is making funeral arrangements, unfair is, from now on, having to explain to people that yes we do have 2 children, only that one of them is in Heaven.

There'll always be these terrible things that we must do, I can only hope and pray that one day, the hurt will become more bearable, that we'll find some peace, until we meet again…                                                     Jessica

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.

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"