How Can This Make Me a Better Person? by Tennille

I never understood why people said “losing my baby has made me a better / stronger / kinder person”

After Oscar was born, (stillborn at 33 weeks) I read books by other bereaved parents, read the literature given to us in the hospital, cover to cover several times, wondering how I was going to get through the next day, I wondered how other parents survived, or went on to have other children. I wasn’t able to believe I would ever hold a living breathing child in my arms or that I could create a “new” life where I felt genuinely happy.

One comment which cropped up repeatedly on blog sites, from other bereaved parents and in stories I read of family who had lost a child was “this tragedy has made me a better person” or “it has made me stronger”. I remember thinking “How could this tragedy change me so profoundly” or “”I’m so upset that my baby died, why would I want to show compassion to others?” When friends commented that I had been so strong, it really felt very awkward because I didn’t have a choice in what was happened to my baby, I did what I had to do at the time to survive.

Nearly five years on, I still think I am not necessarily more compassionate or am a better person because of my experience but perhaps I now have a better understanding about what these people were trying to say. When your baby dies, you have to dig deep to live every day. Nothing is as you imagined and you have to reorder your life again. Oscar was our first child and I had planned to take time out of the workforce and become a stay at home mum for a period of time, enjoying my new baby and relishing in all that parenthood had to offer. When all of that was suddenly taken away from me I needed some way to keep Oscar’s memory going. I felt like losing my child was like being scrubbed raw with a wire brush, your skin is red, scratched and tender. I knew that I wold never forget my son but I needed to know that our family and friends were not going to forget him either. This was critically important and while friends would comment our willingness to discuss stillbirth and our son as strength it was more a way for me to share my son, just as any new parent wants to and to make sure that people would not forget him.

I think what I understand more now when people say it made them a better person, was that it gave them a grit and determination they may not have known they had, it also gave them a purpose for doing something:  that purpose could be to make sure this never happened to anyone else again, that another bereaved family did not have to have the same lonely experience they had or that by discussing their child and helping others keeps the memory of their own children alive. Whatever the reason, I think this experience has taught me not to shy away from death, dying and grief. I have learnt to accept that bad things can happen to good people and we don’t always get a say in the outcome, even if we do all the ‘right’ things.

When your baby dies, you lose your innocence. Children and babies should never die, but they do. When you lose your baby your trust and belief in all that is good is shaken to the core. Each person who has been through this has to rebuild themselves from the ground up and sometimes that rebuilding process leaves a hole, a scar or completely rebuild a new person from the rubble. So rather than being more compassionate or stronger perhaps I have become more accepting of other people’s choices in how they live their life and less presumptuous about people. Because sometimes people have a story they don’t want to share because it is just too raw for them.

Tennille

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Sands on 13 000 72637

Tennille Welsh

Tennille Welsh is a mother to three beautiful boys. Mark (her husband) and Tennille experienced the stillbirth of their first son Oscar, at 33 weeks gestation in 2011, cause unknown. Tennille is passionate about raising awareness of the high incidence of stillbirth in Australia and shares Oscar's story in the hope that it may help other grieving families.

One Year ago - Miscarry No 2 but Baby No 3 😭

Today (7/8/16) one year ago Heaven got another angel. The loss of Tristan was the worst out of my two miscarriages and I’ll tell you why.

On the 7^th of August my husband and daughter were supposed to go to WWE that was in Melbourne that night and due to bleeding that day my husband decided to stay home and care for me. I was begging him to go and not let out 5 year old down but as a husband he must have known. At 2am on the 8^th of August I had a huge bleed, what felt to me was the size of a newborn slipping away and then I got dizzy. My husband rang the ambulance and I went to hospital. I went to the hospital on my own and for the next 8 hours was a nightmare. I was in so much pain, every inch I moved blood would pour from me like a bucket getting tipped on my bed and even the endone wouldn’t ease the pain and the bag of blood I was receiving wasn’t catering for what was coming out.

It was a night I wanted to end as soon as I could. It got to a point where I knew deep down I was losing my baby and asked if there was a way to hurry it along and they didn’t want to because they said he might be ok.

At 10am that morning the pains got worse and I needed to push. I finally got a cleaner’s attention and she got me help. I was pushed up to the birthing suit and given gas as well as a tablet to help things along. By the time I got up there and comfortable I had a puddle of blood and something bouncing off my legs. That’s when they looked and saw my little man laying there in his sack.

Within a few minutes I was holding my little man I was devastated: 3 boys and I wasn’t even entitled to keep one. That’s when I noticed his little heart beating through his chest and I didn’t know what to do or think. So what I did was covered him up and placed him in the cot next to me to let him go. I couldn’t stand watching. It was giving me false hope.

By the time my husband and kids came in he was cold and resting. And I remember the girls saying mum he is sticky. But they were still so proud of him.

By night I was finally aloud to come home. I was so excited to relax but Luke needed to help me around because I was feeling rather dizzy and almost falling over. I was confused as to why I was so bad until I got a phone call saying my blood levels were far too low being on 70ish and needing to be on 120. So I had to go back.

When I went back I had to go up to birthing suit. And that is where they left me. In a room across from a screaming baby until lunch the next day to receive my 3 bags of blood. I remember one cleaning lady come and ask where my baby was “in care?” she asked ever so nicely and I just replied “no my baby didn’t make it.” She was shocked she was very sorry and I said it wasn’t her fault.

But that is why this miscarriage was the worst.

I seem to do great until these little days where no one remembers and they wonder why you’re are not in a happy mood or why you say your day hasn’t been great. Or little comments like don’t loose this one (being pregnant again) or on anniversaries you want to talk and you get oh one of your kids died.  I miss my boys each and every day but I go on living for the princesses I’ve got but days like today are always the hardest. 

Tiffany

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Tiffany Aghan

Wife to Luke and mummy to Tamara and Summer, in her arms, and Wade, Jax and Tristan, in heaven. I have recently completed certificates in law and in psychology and in the process of completing certificate in medicine. I am having time off at the moment to spend more time with my girls. But I am hoping one day I will continue where I want to go.

Charlie's Tenth Birthday.

It’s coming up to Charlie's 10th birthday on the 2nd September.

Today I hid in my daughters’ wardrobe and cried.

One of those silent cries because you don't want your children to ask what's wrong.

I knew it was coming. How could it not?  It never comes when I expect it too.

It waits until my heart can't take anymore.

Today I was putting my 7 year old’s clothes away. A simple chore.

I held the door so tight with one hand while my other hand covered my mouth to stop my screaming.

This year Charlie would have been 10. Double figures.

Wow, I would have had a son who was not far from becoming a teenager.

His sister Neve would have been 9.

The pain is still so raw, the pain of not holding them.

To watch friends’ children turn 9 and 10. To see what they are doing, seeing who they are growing up to be.

I have had to learn to not ask the what if's. There will never be an answer. I think sometimes the what if's are what hold me in this emotional rollercoaster.

Today as I stood there letting the tears flow and trying not to scream out, I had to give myself permission to let go, to not try to be the strong mum, friend or wife.

Today I can't do it. I can't be the mum that plays or laughs. Today I don't want to ask my husband how was your day.

Today I don't want to listen to a friend.

Today and probably for a few more days, I want to lie in bed and be cared for.

I want to be held and fed and not be all those roles of mum, wife and friend.

That's hard to ask for help, for me especially.

Today I told my husband i need to go to bed and not be a mum. He reply was to remind me he will support me and hold me and to allow me to stop my roles.

As he kissed the top of my head and held me he said

" you can cry and go to bed if that's what you need"

I so wanted to crawl into that bed. To allow the darkness to sweep over me like it has done so many times before.

Yet I didn't. I heard my two children playing and laughing downstairs.

My first thought was, how do I explain to them I can't be your mummy today?

They don't understand, how could they? They know about Charlie and Neve. We have always talked about them.

They need me, regardless of how I'm feeling. They need feeding, homework needs to be done, talking about their day. To them,  I'm their world.

I can go to bed when they do.

So today I didn't go to bed and hide. It doesn't mean tomorrow I won't. For 10 years I have battled.

10 years without our first son. I still remember his birth and seeing him for the first time. Those beautiful long legs. The way he looked just like his daddy.

I remember holding him whilst singing twinkle twinkle. The smell of his skin as i kissed him.  The tiny hand that gripped my finger.  The look on my husband’s face as he held him as he took his last breath. He was born alive at 23+5 weeks.  He lived for 2 minutes. He was not a miscarriage or a stillbirth.

Our son lived. I hope in those 2 minutes Charlie knew just how loved he was and still is.

I have those memories of him. Those memories I have every single day.

When Neve was born sleeping we lost that time of feeling her heartbeat of her grasping our fingers.

I remember her everyday as a chubby curly haired baby who was perfect.

Time they say is a healer. Not for me.

For me it’s just more time without them.  More time for remembering.

So today when I cried in the wardrobe I was crying for the 10 and 9 years of missing and remembering.

It's always so bittersweet.

So today I chose not to hide in bed but to allow myself to feel and to cry.

It's never easy, there isn't a magic wand to wave.

Today the choice I made was to keep going with support. Tomorrow maybe another choice.

Tomorrow  is another day.

For Charlie and Neve the love I have for you grows every day.

Kristina Riley

Untold Stories of Mother's Day - Sarah K Reece

In 2015, I faced Mother’s Day thirteen days after cremating my beloved Tamlorn. Tam was my first pregnancy, silently miscarried before 12 weeks. I was devastated and could not bear to be around anyone else. I took Tam’s ashes down to a quiet camping place by the beach, and slept in the back of my van so that I could weep and paint and be silent, and talk to them as much as I needed to when Mother’s Day dawned. I wrote letters I never sent to my own Mother, to my Godmother, to other women who have mentored me. On another day I went to visit my Mum with a gift and celebrated her. That evening I returned home and Rose and I planted a peach tree in Tamlorn’s memory. But that morning I needed to be alone with my raw grief. I couldn’t bear to pretend for a moment that I could think or breathe about anything other than my dead child.

It wasn’t my first Mother’s Day with grief. I wanted children but have fertility problems. After a long term relationship ended with me fleeing homeless to a domestic violence shelter, I was glad I’d not had children, but I also grieved what might have been. Approaching my 30^th birthday, the cut off I’d been given by doctors if I ever wanted to carry a child, I started to read books on grieving infertility. On bad days I would get stuck crying in the baby aisle at the shopping centre, entranced by the sweet baby things I had no need of, full of hopeless longing.

My beloved partner Rose has suffered the loss of six unborn children before we met. Mother’s Day is  a day she greets with a dread horror. The first time it came around for us as a couple, I bought her a candle. I was scared of intruding on her grief, but I was more afraid that she might think no one remembered her pain and her babies. It was a small token, given carefully. She wept. There was an endless pit of grief in her, utterly black and desolate. It was a wasteland of broken dreams and profound loss. Unnamed babies and lonely hours of heartbreak and suffering through their loss had left a wound in her so deep I was afraid nothing I did could help. But down in that darkness was now a candle. In among the memories of times she’d been told to ‘just get over it’ that ‘they’re not really babies’, or that ‘your body is killing your babies and no one knows why’ was something else – recognition that she was a Mother. It was the start of something different from suicidal depression and terrible suffering for her.

The second Mother’s Day we spent together, we were invited at the last minute to join her some of her family for a dinner. Delighted, we attended. Being around this little family was bittersweet on that day. I held her hand. The children ran around wildly after bath time, a riot of hugs and wet, clean skin and perfect smelling hair. The light in the home was golden orange. We were glad to be there and holding onto our own sadness tightly. After dinner, the Grandmother rose to clear the plates away and another person said ‘Oh, you shouldn’t be doing that on Mother’s Day!’ We were asked to do the dishes, as the only adult women present who were not Mothers. We did so without complaint. It was several days before I erupted with rage at home, bursting red hot from my numbness at their casual insensitivity and my own silence. Mother’s Day always brought with it these injuries, so slight to others, and such searing, sobbing, wrenching pain for us. The anniversaries that pepper our year, of conception dates, death dates, due dates for babies we never got to meet have a private anguish of their own. But the constant stripping of identity that is Mother’s Day is a different kind of agony. It comes with so many casual comments – that ‘we can’t possibly know what it’s like to have children of our own because babysitting isn’t the same’. That ‘it will be wonderful when one day we can be Mothers’. Or, knowing we planned to have children together; ‘so which one of you is going to be the real Mother?’

What is a real Mother? She carried that child herself. She is the genetic Mother who produced the egg. She’s not transgender, or a stepmum, or a godparent, or a nurturing aunt. She hasn’t adopted or fostered or taken on young people in need. There’s so many stories Mother’s Day doesn’t speak to. Most of all – she has a living child. We strip the name Mother from those who do not, and unlike widows, our language fails to replace it with anything to signify the loss. We are not-Mothers, not-real-Mothers, not-really-Mothers. There’s no place for our experiences on Mother’s Day, in the same way there’s no place for the experiences of those of us with abusive or absent Mothers. What there is instead is a lot of swallowing down that pain and trying to survive the day.

Each year, Rose and I have moved further away from staying quiet and allowing other people to decide our story for us. We have both stopped trying to get over our experiences, or to look like we are coping. We buy each other gifts on days like Mother’s Day, and we go somewhere special together and hold hands, and cry. We tell friends or share on our social media what the day means to us. I write and paint about pregnancy and miscarriage and grief. When people ask us if we have children, or how many we have, we have started to count those not with us, or to say simply ‘none living’. With Tamlorn we changed the pattern completely and mourned them in public. They were given a name, they were cremated. We planted a peach tree in their memory. We told people, not only that we were pregnant – despite the advice not to- but that they died.

I started to push back against the wave of well-meaning people who inflicted pain in a thousand small ways. It took time to find ways to gently say things like ‘I know you mean well, but that hurts me to hear’. I also found a rising sense of rage that those of us who were suffering were expected to keep it hidden, for the sake of those who did not wish to be disturbed. This anger I tapped into when people pushed hard, trying to make us stop grieving, stop considering our losses ‘real’, or failing to be optimistic enough about how God/the universe was going to provide. I lost patience with those who kept pushing their ideas on either of us, even when we expressed pain. Some relationships were burned. But in small ways, the pain was less. There were far fewer of these constant new wounds from people around us, and when they did come we were no longer as silent or accepting. Speaking up and pushing back changed the pain. It was like slowly drawing poison from deep wounds. They were still deep and terrible, but not driving into suicide or despair. Other relationships grew stronger, friends saw us more clearly, understood the bitter-sweetness in our lives better. Our hearts were more visible. We asked for what we needed, told people what it helped us to hear. People who loved us connected in ways that didn’t hurt.

We also started to be part of events or support for others who had experienced miscarriage or loss. We sat weeping and numb together at a walkathon and released a white balloon. I called helplines and attended a support group. I saw in the trauma and devastation of other people’s stories our own pain reflected. We were not alone, not crazy, not unusual in this world at all. I saw in others and myself the symptoms of severe trauma – very familiar to me as I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder at 15. No one seemed to be acknowledging to any of us that these experiences could be deeply traumatic, with fear, blood, helplessness, horror, death, and a terrifying indifference from many of those around us. I felt like I had fallen into a secret underclass of people staggering home wounded from a war nobody speaks about.

Talking to others who have suffered multiple losses with no living children yet, for the first time Rose and I didn’t stand out and we didn’t need to hide anything. When I called the Sands helpline, overwhelmed by fear and a sense of death when we started trying to conceive again after Tamlorn’s death, a woman’s voice held me in all the shame and terror of how profoundly broken I felt, and told me exactly what I needed to hear: this is normal. It drives us crazy. It drives us into breakdowns. This is what it is. You do not need to be ashamed. Don’t carry it alone.

So, this year, as Rose and I are expecting again, we approach Mother’s Day with grief, excitement, and a determination to do what we need to do to affirm to ourselves that we are Mothers, and that our needs and grief counts. We will find private moments to hold each other and talk of our babies. We will give small gifts and be gentle with ourselves and each other. If people exclude us or advise us in ways that hurt we will push back gently. We will be together or apart as we need, in company or privacy as our hearts require. We will tell our babies we love them. We will ask our friends and family to be gentle with us. We will hurt, and hope, and mourn, and celebrate each other, and love. As Mothers. 

Sarah 

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Sarah K Reece

Sarah K Reece is a ‘mad artist’, poet, and public speaker. She and her partner Rose have each experienced miscarriage on their hard road to becoming Mums. They live in Adelaide with their non-biological teenage daughter and as many pets as their unit can fit. Sarah lives with disability and is a passionate about mental health. She uses her business to fund networks that offer free community resources for vulnerable people. Sarah creates art such as ink and oil paintings and sculptures to make her private experiences public, gently opening up spaces about taboo topics such as pregnancy loss. You can find her art and personal blog at sarahkreece.com

Christmas Time Again byJess

Jess reflects on her first Christmas in 2014 without precious Emma as well as sharing some wonderful news with our followers.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year. Stores are full of glittering tinsel and chirpy Christmas carols and front yards are transformed into technicolour sound and light shows. A Santa sits in every shopping centre, waiting to help you create lasting memories for your family. Clearly I love Christmas time!

Christmas 2014 it had only been 4 months since losing my daughter Emma at 39 weeks. Last year I wanted nothing to do with the holiday season. Every day that drew closer to December 25^th, every decorated yard and every damn Christmas carol felt like a knife through my heart. How could we celebrate as a family when our family was in pieces?

I tried to withdraw from everything. Every celebration, every party, every gathering. I wanted to be with my husband and son, at home, shut away. I was safe there, I could control the memories there. The people we had been depending on the most were the least understanding. No one could fathom why after such a tragedy we didn’t want to be around them at such a ‘happy’ time of year.

Thinking now of how sad and lost I was then, makes me feel almost sick. I remember feeling that gaping hole in the pit of my stomach, such hopelessness, such sadness…I miss her, I miss her every day still but this year I can’t wait for Christmas. Tomorrow (Dec 1) the tree will go up! I’ll go shopping for a special ornament for our tree to help remember our little angel. We’ll send Christmas cards and bake gingerbread men!

It has taken 13 long months to find some ‘ok’ with what happened to us. We are now so very blessed that just in time for Christmas we can share that we are expecting our 3^rd child (in June 2016.)

There was nothing to save the pain last year, we simply had to endure it and just be with each other. This year Christmas morning while our almost 3 year old rips through his myriad of gifts, I’ll light a candle for our little angel in Heaven and we’ll remember her and we’ll be together because sometimes, it’s all you can do.

Merry Christmas

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.

The Christmas Spirit by Tennille

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

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

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

**  Baubles with Oscars name on them

**  Sentimental figurines (elephants were symbolic for Oscar)

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

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

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

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

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

Tennille

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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.

Dantè Angel Kilduff Sherriff by Caitlin

Caitlin shares with us precious Dantè Angel Kilduff Sherriff.

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Sands on 13 000 72637

My son my last my only - when I found out I was pregnant it was a miracle as I was never supposed to be able to get pregnant ever. I was so excited I was going to be a mum. soon after I became homeless and was sleeping in my car for a little;  I soon found a room to rent and was starting to get everything I would need for a baby when I went for a ultrasound at 13 weeks.  I cried my eyes out, I was amazed that that was my baby so perfect.   I found out I was having a boy then as well as there was no way at missing it - even the doctor was 99% sure. I was so happy as on top of all the doctors saying I would never have children, I lost my partner 3 years ago and even though I was struggling with everything I wanted to make sure I had everything for my son. When I felt him kick for the first time it was amazing and every little thing would put a smile on my face.

When I was 20 weeks I went in for a ultrasound.  I was so excited to get to see him.  The doctor started checking everything and explained everything she was doing.  At the end she asked someone else to come look at something - afterwards she told me that my midwife would tell me if there was anything wrong.  I was a little worried but my next appointment was only a week away - the day before I got a phone call asking if I could go in for another ultrasound and they could do it the same day as my midwife appointment. The next day I went in to the hospital when they started checking everything, but when they got to his heart I knew something was wrong by the looks on their faces -  my heart sank. They took me to a room and asked if I wanted someone with me -  I said no as I had no one.  They then told me my son had 2 life threatening heart defects. When I left I sat in the car for 30 minutes crying.

I had to go back in the next day to see a heart surgeon:  they did more ultrasounds and I lay there for a hour while 4 different doctors looked at his heart – and they then told me my son had  hypoplastic left heart syndrome and interrupted aortic arch. They asked me if I wanted to continue my pregnancy and if so explained that he would have to have heart surgery within the first week of being born and stay in hospital until he was 3 months and then have 4 more surgeries after that.  I knew that no matter what I wanted to hold my son,  I wanted to feel what lots of other mums get to  feel, so they transferred me to a hospital that had specialists so he could have as much chance as they could give him to live.   Soon after I became homeless again as the people I was living with where having problems.

On the 23 November 2014 I woke up and noticed I was bleeding.  I went in to the hospital and they found that my main waters had broken and they would like me to stay in hospital until my body went in to labour by itself – they told me that while he was still inside me he would be fine.  That afternoon I didn't feel right, so they did an ultrasound to check on him:  as they were doing that his heart started slowing down.  I could see the screen and I watched my son’s heart stop beating. Everything inside me went numb - all that was going through my head was that I had to get as much as I could so I can remember him – things like feet and hand prints and photos.  They soon started my labour. I had already called his father and asked if he would come but he hung up on me -  I tried for a hour to call him but he wouldn't pick up

For 6 hours I screamed for him and cried at 6:55 am on the 24 November 2014 at 2 5 weeks 4 days gestation my son Dantè Angel Kilduff Sherriff was born.  I got to spent 12 hours with him and they were the most amazing hours of my life.  When I left I didn't have anywhere to go so I slept in the car out the front of his father’s house.  I then had to organise everything by myself while I was still homeless. His funeral was so beautiful.  I never cried until after everything was done.  It was the day I picked his ashes up  - that’s when it all hit me.

Looking back i wouldn't change a thing as I'm never going to have another child.  I got to hold my child,  something I was told I would never get to do.  My name is Caitlin,  I'm 25 and my son was born was here and was loved every moment of his life and I will love him every second of mine. I love and miss you Dantè Angel Kilduff Sheriff.  

Thank you for letting me share my son’s story so he can live on in the memories of others.  My angel forever I love you.

Caitlin

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

You Can Never Get Enough “Stuff”

Tennille shares with us how she has created a story for her precious Oscar with keepsakes and symbols.

     'When you lose a baby you can never have enough “stuff”. You often hear 
      parents of children complain about how cluttered the house is, however 
      when your baby is not here with you, creating memories, keepsakes, collecting 
      bits and pieces which symbolise their life, and show the world that your baby 
      was here, is so important.'

Our son was stillborn at 33 weeks and while I had completed the antenatal classes, read the baby books and prepared all the baby paraphernalia at home, I was so unprepared for what was about to happen. I had no idea what to take to the hospital, or even how the next few days would unfold. In my mind I went to hospital, had a baby then came home. Story over. Not in a suicidal sense, but I just couldn’t see my life beyond coming home from hospital without a baby. In reality, spending a total of four days in hospital, giving birth and being with my baby has changed me forever. The “things” I collected over those few days, the items I brought home with me, some small, some everyday items are some of my most treasured possessions. 

I won’t forget how velvet soft the tiny blue outfit was my sister bought Oscar, which he was cremated in. I have a box with the scissors my husband cut the cord with, his little name card from the hospital, the tape measure to record head circumference. I even kept the poppy that came on my dinner tray for Remembrance Day, that plastic red poppy made me cry so hard for the son I couldn’t keep yet I couldn’t throw anything away from those few days. All this “stuff” acknowledged our son was here on earth, albeit briefly.
Everything for Oscar was blue, a blue jumpsuit, hat, bunny rug and a blue elephant, a gift from his Auntie. There was a caring midwife who I sensed wanted to help us create memories of our little family. At some point she brought us a delicately hand knitted shawl, in baby blue of course. The shawl was long enough to wrap around Oscar and we were able to hold him in this shawl while in hospital. With the shawl were some little felt hearts. The hearts and shawl, we found out are made by people who pray for the recipients and are given to have and hold, while cherishing the memory of lost loved ones. While Mark and I are not particularly religious, the gift was beautiful and I wore that shawls for weeks after coming home. It gave me some comfort, wrapping it around me, the same shawl which had cradled my son. This shawl now lies across our bed every evening, a way for us to be close to our son.

We tucked these little blue hearts into Oscar’s hands and it was our way of asking him to hold our heart and we would hold his. When we left hospital we took our little hearts that he had held for us and left one, tucked in with him. Mark and I each have one with us, which we carry every day. 

Creating a story for Oscar as never something I set out to do. His story just seemed to evolve. A child who I carried for 33 weeks, held in my arms for two days has become such a part of me that his story continues to grow and develop, even though he is no longer here with me. Having keepsakes, using symbolism has been so important for me in the grieving and healing process and gives me a way to continue to include our first born son with his other brothers, who are now 2.5 and 6 months. While this did not take our pain away it provided mementos and memories of our son. And memories and mementos are the most precious things we have.

In the weeks and months following Oscar’s birth, I would desperately seek symbols, ‘presents’ or keepsakes for our son. If I walked past a shop selling elephants, I had to buy one. Any special day (Christmas, Easter, birthdays) there had to be a bunch of blue balloons there. I have since created some small felt elephants, about the same size as the hearts. Oscar’s elephant he received in hospital resonated with me because ‘elephants never forget’. To us it is important to remember all our children, those to come and our baby who is here with us in spirit only.

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 eperienced 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