Mother’s Day: Without My Baby And Without My Mum - Courtney

My mum passed away in 2004, from a rare condition called MSA. I was 18 years old. I thought that would be the hardest thing I would ever have to go through in my lifetime. But unfortunately it wasn’t.

At the end of 2014, my partner and I found out that we were expecting, we were so happy.

My pregnancy was straight forward, a bit of morning sickness early on but nothing serious. Our 13 week scan was great, as was our 20 week scan. We also had a number of blood tests that came back fine. We found out we were expecting a baby boy. Because I was relatively young, and everything seemed to be going well, our doctors didn’t see the need for any further scans or tests after 20 weeks. I made sure I was super healthy during my pregnancy. I did everything by the book. No alcohol, no coffee etc.

We gave birth, at 39 weeks, on July 14, 2015, a day before my birthday.

Cooper was the most beautiful thing we had ever seen.

And even straight after birth we were told he was fine.

Things took a turn for the worst later that day. Cooper was breathing heavily, and one of the nurses noticed, and took him to the nursery to be checked.

And so began the worst few days of our lives.

That night we were told there might be something wrong with Cooper’s heart, he would need to be transferred for further tests. He nearly didn’t survive the trip from the Gold Coast to Brisbane.

The following day, on my birthday, we were told that it wasn’t his heart. He had a rare condition, called Vein of Galen (genetic, but completely unrelated to what my mum passed away from). A rare condition, which affects approximately 1 in 3 million babies and is rarely detected during pregnancy unless you have a scan after 30 weeks. Some cases can be operated on but Cooper’s was too severe. He was immediately put on life support.

The next five days were a blur, we asked ourselves so many questions, how could this be happening? Why was this happening? Was it my fault? Would we be able to have another baby?

Cooper survived another night with us by his side. And passed away on the morning of July 19.  Our first born baby, the love of our lives, was gone. And there was nothing we could do.

For the next 6 months, everything hurt. The pain was emotional and physical.

As if the grief wasn’t hard enough, your body is also telling you that you should be looking after a baby. My milk came in and I had to take tablets to make it stop. My post baby body was a constant reminder that I had given birth, but had no baby. We had to pack up a beautiful nursery that we’d spent months setting up. We had to visit the funeral home. And of course we had to make sure all our friends and family knew what had happened.

It was a time when a girl really needed her mother, and I didn’t have her either.

I returned to work a few months later and everyday someone new asked me how my baby was going. I had to explain over and over, usually through tears. In saying that, going back to work was the best thing I could have done. I had somewhere to be everyday and my colleagues were unbelievably supportive.

But the main reason I kept going was thanks to my amazing husband and our families, for them I will be forever grateful.

And of course the thought that one day, we would hopefully have another baby.

We started trying again around 6 months after losing Cooper. The first few months that we didn’t fall pregnant were extremely hard. I wondered if I was ever going to get pregnant again. There were a lot of tears. But finally it happened.

Our second pregnancy was a lot more stressful than our first. We had extra scans and tests, and constantly worried that it was all going to happen again.

It was a long 9 months. But we made it.

On February 17, 2017 we welcomed our beautiful baby girl Zara, the light of our lives.

For a long time I wondered if we would truly ever be happy ever again. But I can now say we are getting there. It’s been tough, but one thing I’ve learnt is the road to motherhood is not easy for so many people. And sometimes it’s just not fair.

Last year Mother’s Day was terrible. How do you celebrate a day, when you don’t have your mum or your baby? I just cried and cried.

This year will be different though. This year I will celebrate Mother’s Day with my beautiful baby girl, and we will remember her amazing brother and my mum, who were both taken from us far too soon.

Courtney

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

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Courtney Zagel

Gold Coast Journalist.30 years old Wife to Leon. Mother of two, Cooper (passed away in 2015 at 5 days old) and Zara (now 10 weeks old)

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

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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

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

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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.

Precious Angels by Kristina

When I look back at the old me, the me who laughed and smiled constantly and saw the world as an adventure to explore, the me before the storm hit, I remember thinking then that the world is a beautiful place and I'm lucky to be living in it so happy and carefree.
I call it a storm because that is exactly what hit us over an 11 month period. If I wrote my life story no one would ever believe it. Sadly, it is true.

In the world before the storm I always liked to think there were angels around us.  I thought wouldn't it be beautiful to think we have people watching over us and protecting us.  It was just a passing thought here and there. 

Now I search everyday for a sign that Charlie and Neve are here somehow.
Are they that creaky sound in the middle of the night?  When a butterfly flutters near, is it them?

When two rainbows appeared in our wedding photos, I so desperately wanted to believe it was them with us. I so needed to believe they just didn't stop breathing and that was all there was.

I ache constantly for a sign. It will be 10yrs since we last held Charlie in September and 9yrs in August since we held Neve.

I buy photos of butterflies drawn in the sand with their names, candles, birthday cards, Christmas decorations. I still feel I need to validate their lives.

When the storm hit, it hit fast and sudden. The carefree smiley me was gone, never to return. The person that replaced her was someone who pretends that she's ok, that I'm coping. I'm so emotional at everything.

I see the world as sad and unfair. I see an advert for huggies and my eyes tear up.
A friend says she pregnant and I'm a mess. I don't want anyone to feel the way I did and do.

Every pregnancy I had following Charlie was filled with dread and fear. Every cramp or twinge, I was convinced I was going in to labour.

Sadly Neve's pregnancy got to 41 weeks and in labour she stopped breathing. No, it could never happen again, everyone told me.

The world became a darker place, I became more obsessed with the need to believe they were still here in some way.

I spent many days in bed when my husband went back to work, crying and desperately searching for anything to say they were here.

Asking them or rather yelling at the ceiling, please just a sign. Something, anything.
As I gave birth to our second daughter, I remember asking my doctor as I gave birth: is she breathing, please is she?

He didn't need to answer, the sound of her tiny cry filled the room.
I thought she's alive, i should be so happy but I was filled with guilt for trying again and fear that she too would be taken. These feelings have never left. They have less impact now but the fear of losing her and our second son Zack is at times overwhelming.

My friends tell me now that they never got to hold Maya, that as a baby she was permanently in my arms. Looking back, she was. She had to be, I wasn't losing her.
When Maya was 9 months old she used to laugh and point at the stairs. Was she playing with her siblings?

No, babies just laugh right?

She would do this almost every day, just sit and laugh like someone was playing with her. At 18 months she told me a lady sits on her bed at night. She was a nice lady. Was that my mum?

At times over the years when I'm crying and missing them, I feel a warm tingle near my cheek or at night I feel like my hand is being held.

I don't know if it’s them or my need to believe, but for me it brings me comfort.
Has the world changed?  Honestly, I think I have changed more.  Although I don't laugh as much and I'm paranoid about my children and more than likely (compared to my friends) over protective of them.

The one positive change is that I love harder and stronger. I want my children to grow up knowing how much we fought for them and how much we love them. That to us, Charlie and Neve chose them and gave them to us.

My belief in angels is strong because to me they are the sunlight warming my face and they paint us the most beautiful rainbows after the storm. 

I need to believe in something, anything, just for me to keep walking this journey through the storm, otherwise I know I would stop trying to put one foot in front of the other. My heart would stop as the thought is too painful not to believe.

Kristina

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Kristina Riley

Kristina is a children's nurse and a counsellor.

She has four beautiful children.

Charlie and Neve are her two angels who are the  inspiration for raising more awareness about stillbirths and pregnancy loss.

Her two miracles Maya and Zack are the reason she keeps moving forward on this journey of grief.

Her husband Curt is also her inspiration to raise awareness for fathers and their grief.

There needs to be more awareness for us all.

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

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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.

HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABY GIRL

Rashida's precious daughter turned two during March.  In this blog she reflects back to the time her daughter was born.

     "On her birthday, I sat on the bed by myself and I took out the special 

keepsake box that we got from the hospital. " 

I’m a busy woman. As a business owner I’m always on the go and I also have an 11 month old baby girl who keeps me going, but on March 19th, the day my angel was born sleeping, I slow everything down a little bit. That day brings about a time of reflection and remembrance for me.  Setting aside that time is important to me because the reality is as time goes by and you begin to heal from the heartbreak of loss, have more children, and juggle everything from chores to your career, the details tend to fade with time; and I don’t ever want to forget. 

This year my baby girl would have been two years old.

On her birthday, I sat on the bed by myself and I took out the special keepsake box that we got from the hospital. The box itself has a special place with her name and details of her birthday including the time she was born, how much she weighed and her length. In the box there is a journal and little momentous like her blanket, baby bracelets, and a picture of just her tiny little toes (because I knew that would be all that I could ever handle and the memory of her beautiful face as I held her is forever etched in my mind), and a postcard of a teardrop on a leaf symbolizing both the intense suffering of loss and hope for the future.  

This time of reflection not only serves as a remembrance of my baby, but is also a reminder of how strong I am and what I have the ability to deal with. At times when life feels overwhelming or I’m afraid, I look at that box; especially on her birthday. I realize that I no longer have anything to fear and there are bigger issues than the little nuances that plague us all day to day. It shows me that because I’ve already been through one of the worst things that can ever happen I will get through whatever I am going through. Her memory reminds me that I am a survivor (of preeclampsia/HELLP Syndrome) and I’m still alive and thriving.  

Her memory also makes me grateful for the child I have now because I know that I would not have my experience now as a mother without the one I experienced with her. I’m so appreciative of my angel for making space for her sister to come into this world.

That is why I celebrate her and commemorate her. Whether that means just spending some quiet time alone in prayer and appreciation, releasing a balloon or lighting a candle I make sure that I take a little bit of time out of my busy schedule.  

We do it for every other holiday. In my house, holidays are a big deal and birthdays are no different. By definition a holiday is simply a day set aside by custom or by law on which normal activities, especially business or work, are suspended or reduced. Generally, holidays are intended to allow individuals to celebrate or commemorate an event or tradition of significance.

Losing my child is one of the most significant events that has occurred in my life to date and for me that means setting aside some special time to remember her and show appreciate for what her short presence in my life has helped me to become.

Happy, Happy Birthday baby girl!

Rashida

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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 http://highriskhelpers.com/

Learning to live again

Fiona is realising that there is hope and that life will continue following the death of her precious Manaia: 

After having the worst possible two weeks since Manaia passed away, I saw something that I believe was Manaia telling me that he was okay. And that I'll be okay. 

I know that the journey of grief is never ending and I'm only 3 months into mine.

Whether you've lost a child through miscarriage, stillbirth or neonatal death, you will always carry that loss with you, no matter where you go.

What I've learnt so far in this journey is that although the darkness seems overwhelming and at times it feels as if the grief will consume you, you we will get through this.

The sun in all its glory will rise again and again. You will learn to live alongside the grief and with time the grief will take a minor place in your heart. You will learn to live again, to love again, to laugh again and one day you will once again feel true happiness, just like you did before your loss. For you and I that day may not be today but every day that passes, each day you survive, is one day closer to all those wonderful things.

And if you are just beginning this journey remember that you are not alone, you are never alone. There are so many wonderful resources for support, never be afraid to ask for help. 

Fiona

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Sands on 13 000 72637 

Fiona Mataafa

My name is Fiona and I am a 23 year old first time mother who lost my only child, my 4 month old son Manaia, after 128 days in NICU. I reside in Victoria with my partner Charlie. I hope by sharing my experiences as a bereaved parent that I'm able to, in some way, bring peace and comfort to others going through the heartbreak of child loss.