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.

Miscarriage, Infertility, and weight loss

A newcomer to Sands blog, Shanelle shares her experience of infertility, weight loss and a miscarriage...

In my trouble to conceive over four years it was put down to infertility due to hypothyroidism and obesity, it was a huge struggle for me, having conceived my son easily years earlier at 80kg but tipping the scales at 128kg, I had been trying to lose weight for years, exercising, trying every diet under the sun and even three cycles of Clomid with no success.

Low and behold we unexpectedly fell pregnant though ten weeks later we miscarried with doctors and nurses reassuring us that there was nothing I could have done and not to blame myself. Even the gynaecologist performing my D&C said not to blame myself, though my size could have contributed to the miscarriage but it was a fact I had try to accept and not beat myself up about it. After all, these things happened right? And I fully had faith in the wonderful nurses and doctors treating me throughout the whole deal.

Until, two weeks later when I had a follow up appointment with a new gynaecologist for review on an ovary cyst. Asking when it was safe to try conceiving again she replied that at 128kgs I be concentrating on losing weight and not even consider trying for another baby at my size, considering all the health implications like high blood pressure and diabetes. I was devastated; I couldn’t help but cry in front of her, to which she suggested counselling. Here was this lady whom I’d never before, without even asking my medical history (if she had, she would have known I had perfect blood pressure and sugar levels, along with a healthy lifestyle despite my size) judging me and making me feel like I didn’t have the right to have a baby based on my weight. The blame game hit with vengeance. 

I went home and attended I had a follow up scan with my GP for my cysts, and after speaking with him, he prescribed me Duromine to aid in weight loss while I fully recovered from my miscarriage, in hopes it would rally my spirits from what the Gynaecologist had said (all of which he disagreed with.)
Meanwhile I had my scan. It had been 6 weeks.  My world well apart all over again at seeing an empty uterus and a lifeless heart rate monitor, that I ended up taking the Gynaecologist advice and sought out a counsellor through the hospital, despite me being a trainee counsellor myself.  We spoke on the phone for an hour before she decided that what I was experiencing was typical grief and didn’t need to enrolled into their program but to call back, if needed. It made me feel alone, so alone that I alienated everyone and focused on exercising and eating right.

Another month passed and I had lost 5kgs, feeling hopeful at my final gynaecologist visit, I met with her assistant who, when asked when I could try conceiving again told me that she saw no harm in trying considering I was maintaining a healthy lifestyle but she had to ask the gynaecologist to be sure. She returned with the message I should lose at least 20 more kilograms before trying again. Devastated, self-loathing, I left.

It has been two months since that last visit and I feel through the experience judged and completely let down by the public health system, though I know they were only doing their jobs. But if nothing else this experience has made me determined.

Determined not to let my self-worth and confidence to be scarred by opinions, no matter how professional. And with the support my partner and my doctor I had added more and more healthy choices and exercise regimes to my Iifestyle while learning to accept myself for who I am, and better myself not for medical statistics but for myself, my family and my future family.

Shanelle Kay

 

If you require support please call Sands - 1300 0 SANDS

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"

Reflections of a father

The older I get the more I wonder if I will ever have kids of my own.  I wrote a poem a couple of years ago called “To the son I never knew”.  I never wrote it to share; I wrote it for my own mental health.  Since sharing it I've had those who were able to read it thanking me for writing it, and those who were honest enough to admit they couldn't read past the title saying though they could appreciate the courage  it must have taken me to write it, they couldn't read it, and I tell them it's OK.  Everyone journeys life at a different pace.  It took me 12 years to write that piece.  

Having travelled extensively for work and even getting married years later and gaining an instant family in that time I didn't really think about it much until I moved back to where it all began.  The familiar faces seeing those I saw growing up now with families of their own.  It felt somewhat surreal being in such familiar surroundings after so long seeing how everyone’s lives had developed in that time and wondering where mine was headed.  I was at home one day when it struck me, that I was living just down the road from the cemetery.  I didn't go there right away but when I did it was a week before his birthday. I hadn't even remembered how close to Christmas that fateful day was, he wasn't due until well into the New Year.  It's amazing how much and how well we can block things out from our memories to keep going.  I really hadn't had any contact with his mum since then, it was a really messy situation, and thankfully she has since married and has healthy kids.  I wasn't prepared to marry her despite her father’s insistence but I have no doubt in my mind we would have at some point, but to me her being pregnant wasn't enough reason to tie the knot.  Regardless of our relationship status though I would have raised that kid as my own.  I didn't just lose him though, I lost her too, and I think that was the hardest part.  In fact we all nearly lost her, thankfully though she found her way through.  

So after multiple major life changes in a short space of time I found myself reflecting on the last 12 years of my life and how different it would have been if he'd grown up calling me dad.  I've got nieces and nephews, a god daughter and sponsor kids but none of them require a daily commitment.  Though I feel so privileged being able to have the input I'm allowed into their lives.  

I've since written a second piece called “to my unborn son” inspired the song “Always Here For You” by KJ52.  I'm young enough to still have my own offspring though I also don't feel the need to.  I'm happy being able to assist in ways that I might not otherwise be able to if I had kids of my own.  Yet the thought still remains, if he'd made it ….. “so many memories that were only ever dreams.  So many dreams that never got to be memories”.

Neville Hiatt

To view Neville's website click here

'to my unborn son'

right now you are cells multiplying and dividing at a rapid rate

please know it doesn't matter if you are 18 before your first date

before you are born I want you to know

there's a good chance you will really love the snow

if you are anything like me you will feel more, than those around you

so be very careful with those that surround you

but most of all know that you are your own self

your not mine, or your mothers, you are your own self

you will make mistakes and that's okay

though the choices you make live with you till your dying day

you will grow up in a world different to what it is today

but with each day you breathe life, don't waste your time away

you will know heartache and pain, yet you will also taste triumph and gain

when you fall in love you will know the truth in these words

when you see her for the first time you will know

it doesn't matter what your grades are

some of the richest men alive today dropped out of school

yet in all things do your best and follow your heart, it's your strongest tool

when it rains be thankful for the nourishment of the earth

and when it's sunny a tan is not cool, look up your great grandfather he was a young fool

you will have more opportunities than ever before

but never lose connection with those closest to you

I've said it already but I will say it again

you will know sorrow and pain, but these are but the moderator to happiness and joy

everyone leaves this life at some point, so every chance you get explore the joint

but most of all your name is not your identity

it is simply a word to identify you but you will be known by how you choose to live this life.

Copyright 2013 Neville Hiatt

'to the son I never knew'

How do you mourn a son you never knew

how do you count the candles you never blew

how do you know you love a white Christmas when you've never seen the snow

so many memories that were only ever dreams

so many thoughts that will never be shared

I sit surrounded by all these flowers

and say your name aloud but it falls on deaf ears

I never got to hold your hand, or create artworks with you in the sand

I never got to teach you how to kick the ball, or watch you get up after your first fall

I sit in this field of flowers and trace your name etched into the rock 

and wonder how different my life would have been

would I have lived with your mum, would I have been a great dad

so many questions that will never be answered

you'd be 12 today, yet here you lay

12 years I could have spent calming your fears

12 years I've spent drying my tears

so many memories that were only ever dreams

so many dreams that never got to be memories

love dad.

Copyright Neville Hiatt 2013

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

Neville Hiatt

Neville Hiatt is a storyteller, a country boy at heart he grew up knowing what the word community meant. His radio career was cut short when he was medically retired before his 30th birthday due to someone not doing an adequate head check.  In the last few years he has developed his love of photography, and poetry and has just released his first collection of short stories.  Left battling depression, anxiety and chronic nerve pain as a result of the accident he has become even more passionate about sharing his life experiences in the hope of aiding others in their journey.  “It doesn’t matter who you are, what you’ve done, or what’s been done to you. It only matters what you do with your rainbow today.”

Remembering Stevie...

We are all in Sands because a precious baby has died.    Some of us have found it easy to talk about our experiences and our emotions.  Others have grieved in silence.    Some of us have the comfort of supportive partners, family and friends.  Some of us have felt very alone.  Some of us have felt judged -  our babies died in the early weeks of pregnancy - our babies had abnormalities incompatible with life - we shouldn't have been pregnant in the first place (too young, too old, too poor, unmarried ...)

Everyone in Sands has a  story .  "Stevie's Story" is about grieving a baby lost through termination.  It is a story full of pain and anguish, but also of support and hope. 

Stevie

6 December 1968, Parramatta

Remembering Stevie means different things to me at different times. Let me walk through it as (chrono)logically as I can.

Just after his birth I was confused, distressed, deeply shocked. Shocked to see a perfect, albeit small baby at 20 weeks. I knew immediately I hadn't terminated a blob of cells unrecognizable as human. I had to remember him – remember him as he was – translucent – beautiful – a perfect baby. I had to remember him. He had to be a thorn in my side to remind me of my failure as a mother – a failure as a human being. So I named him Steven, Steven to remind me that what I had done was unforgivable – there was no penance that could atone. Being told Stevie was hospital waste, not acknowledged by his father, not acknowledged by society served to reinforce by belief my life was to be a continuum of pain. That it was. Even as I write this my heart is breaking.

The next day I went back to work. Stevie was locked deep inside my heart. Life went on – somehow and I don’t remember how. We were married a month later and Stevie never mentioned. It was as though he had never been conceived; never been born. Stevie was locked deep in my heart – I remembered him day after day.

The years passed and I no longer conceived. Was it any wonder? I had killed Stevie – I did not deserve another child. In February 1977 I was diagnosed with cancer on the uterus, two days later I was in surgery; 2/3 pf the uterus were removed and I was receiving radiation therapy– I was to be punished by not being able to have children. Stevie was locked in my heart and he reminded me of my iniquity day after day.
In June 1977 when I was in hospital for radiation treatment it was confirmed I was pregnant and was told I needed to terminate the pregnancy immediately; the risk of the baby being deformed, retarded would be too great. Various tests confirmed the child would be severely disabled. Termination would be the only kind thing. Stevie was locked deep in my heart and reminded me what termination was and what it would be. Would I kill another child? Stevie was locked deep in my heart. I told no one of the risk and refused to have the child aborted. In January 1978 my daughter was born; she was healthy – she had no disabilities. The amniocentesis had given a wrong result. Stevie was locked in my heart and I was afraid I would forget him now.

Two and a half years later my second son was born. Stevie knocked on my heart’s door reminding me of all the experiences I had missed with him. My children were what I was living for. Without them I was less than nothing. I could never atone for taking a life.
My rainbow children grew up, flew the coop and with that my purpose for living. There was no point in continuing. I decided on exitus and began to plan and collect the tools I needed … and Stevie was locked deep inside my heart.

And this is where a good friend joined the story. He showed me I needed to liberate Stevie and he started by saying his name. He validated his existence by saying his name. By saying his name he could not be forgotten and he also introduced me to Sands. I can see it clearly now, how – starting with preparing for Stevie’s first memorial and chatting with a Sands supporter at the same time step by step Stevie was carried into my heart – precious and loved – no longer locked up in its deepest depths.
I feared Stevie would eclipse my living children; I learnt by dividing my love between the children it did not become less – it grew.

Lacking any mementos from the time Stevie was born I made memories and to my surprise the Sands community rallied around me when I was down, whenever I needed it. On 9 December last year, dozens of mums in the Sands community had changed their profile picture to honour Stevie and I was overwhelmed by their kindness. Stevie became a part of my family – there to see – embraced in my heart together with my living children. Whenever I think of Steven I also think of my unnamed brothers – brothers I have named in my heart.

In the meantime, I have a number of things to remind me of Stevie, beginning with the copy of the memorial service. There is the Phoenix Ben a young friend drew for me, there’s Harry a lovely peacock given to me for Stevie’s 45th birthday, a Christmas bauble with a peacock feather in it, there is the NameArt and the pencil drawing and a pendant with the names of all my children. With or without these things I shall always remember Stevie. Since I have a pencil sketch of Stevie I no longer see him in that hospital bed gasping for breath. In fact when I think of Stevie I don’t think of him as a baby at all any more – no, he’s grown up. I now visualise him as a man in his mid-forties. I feel I have reached a milestone. I certainly know I'm at peace with that part of my past.

                                                         Lana 

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

Get Back On The Horse

By Lara Cain Gray

I experienced a ‘missed miscarriage’ with my first pregnancy.  It came as a complete shock.   

For a well-educated woman, I was surprisingly unprepared and uninformed about the possibility and frequency of this kind of ‘silent’ miscarriage, where no heart beat at your ultrasound is the only evidence that something’s gone horribly wrong.   My GP heartily assured me that it ‘happens all the time’ and I should simply ‘get back on the horse’. With the wisdom of hindsight, and having now known many women who’ve experienced pregnancy loss, I understand what my matter-of-fact GP was trying to tell me. One in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage; it literally does happen all the time. But, when it happens to you, for the first time, or any time, the statistics are irrelevant. It hurts.

The details of my first pregnancy are boringly conventional.  I was in my mid-twenties and healthy.  I’d been married for about two years. We’d reached the point of not necessarily trying to get pregnant, but knowing that if it happened, we’d be thrilled.  And BAM! – it happened.  Just like that.  My breasts were the first to find out.  Their tell-tale tenderness soon coupled with an inexplicable repulsion at the smell of the freezer section at the supermarket; a strangely enjoyable kind of nausea. We confidently told our parents and siblings almost as soon as the blue lines were dry. The announcement rolled like a wave through our family, friends and colleagues. By the time we had our first scan, everyone but the nightly news was talking about the baby on the way.

We luckily got a window to see a warm and friendly obstetrician and jumped through all the usual hoops.  I was only 8 weeks pregnant, but she ran an ultrasound then and there.  There was no heartbeat, but it was very early.  We couldn’t be sure of the conception date. She wasn’t worried. She asked me to come back the next week, just for reassurance. 

At the next appointment, my friendly doctor had been replaced by a gruff temp who seemed to dislike me only marginally less than he disliked his chosen career.  He ran another scan, looked vaguely irritated, told me he couldn’t confirm anything and once again asked me to come back in a week.

The next week, the world turned upside down.  There was no longer any ambiguity.  There simply was no heartbeat. ‘Your baby has died’, said our doctor, not so friendly now.  ‘You have a choice. You can go home and wait to see if your body rejects the baby naturally. Or, we can book you in for a D & C to remove the cells.’  I remember the expressions so clearly; the terminology.  When and where did this change from a dead baby to a cluster of removable cells?  I had no idea, myself, what my beliefs were around the point where ‘life’ should be acknowledged.  

I had gone from picking out nursery furniture to questioning the entire meaning of being human within days. 

I cried for weeks. I hated every single minute of telling people what had happened. I hated every cheerful, sympathetic client who came into my workplace. Most of all I hated every pregnant woman I passed in the street. It was many years before I could put aside my sadness and try again for a baby. 

When I was eventually pregnant again, there was no joyful anticipation in the ultrasound process – only fear.  My blood pressure rode high right until I held my daughter in my arms thanks to the anxiety I felt at every scan and check up.  Now, of course, I am one of the lucky ones, with healthy children and all of this sadness many years behind me.  I’m in that place where women chat constantly about fertility matters, and I know that there are many, many scenarios far more traumatic than what I experienced.

But, having said that, my GP’s words – telling me to ‘get back on the horse’ – had a profound effect.  They made me feel as though I was expected to just forget about my pregnancy; a silent response to this silent miscarriage.  Medical staff are all too aware of the frequent occurrence of miscarriage but it remains important to sensitively acknowledge the genuine grief felt by every woman who loses a pregnancy – no matter when or how. 

A miscarriage is not just one foiled attempt at procreating; it fundamentally changes your understanding of your body and of the bizarre complexity of human biology.  For me, it left a permanent stain on my trust and comfort levels when visiting doctors.  It is a routine, every day, one in four, BIG DEAL and we should always acknowledge it as such.  

Lara Cain Gray

Lara Cain Gray (PhD) is a writer, academic, librarian, curator and mother-of-three.  The order depends on the day.  She enjoys writing social commentary, book reviews, travel tales and therapeutic ravings about being a parent.   Her words have appeared in a range of academic and popular publications, from the Queensland Historical Atlas to Brisbane’s Child.   She blogs as This Charming Mum - Books, Arts & Culture for the Sleep Deprived.
  

For Support call 1300 0 72631

Sands has a suite of brochures to assist you maybe interested in:

Early Pregnancy Loss

Caring for Bereaved Parents