Couldn't Live Without Three.....by Tiffany

Tiff has written very honestly about the physical experience of the miscarriage which followed the death of her son from SIDS.  However, she herself says she is still too numb to be able to explore her emotions in a similar way. We hope that she will be able to do so in the future.

Three  days after Mother’s Day in 2014, I lost my 7 week old baby boy Wade to SIDS. Days and weeks went past and my husband and I were finding it hard to adjust to having two kids again and we were talking about having another:  not to replace our little man but to help us with our grief.

In September 2014 we found out we were pregnant again, but this time our fear was not losing our baby to SIDS -  never did we think of the unthinkable.

When I was 7 weeks pregnant I unfortunately went through trauma. I was checked and the baby and I were doing great.

At 12 weeks that all changed. I started bleeding very heavily. I went to the doctor and had an ultrasound done. They found I had a subchorionic hematoma (which is bleeding in the wall of the uterus) caused by the trauma. They told me it would either grow or shrink and it was a waiting game. My daughters witnessed everything during this pregnancy and I wished I could take it all away.

By 16 weeks my bleeding had died down to just spotting and we were so excited that everything was going well at this point.  But then it turned again.

By 17 weeks I ended up in hospital with gastro and even worse bleeding, to the point where I was literally standing in pools of blood.  I had frequent ultrasounds and the clot was growing. It was now at the point that there was more clot than baby. I was in and out of hospital all week when I suddenly went into labour at 18 weeks on the 10/01/15, only 9 days after my 21st birthday.

The birth was horrific, the worst birth I’d ever had. At 3cm dilated I was already pushing and my baby was holding on until my cervix shut on him. My husband was sitting by me through the whole thing and I told him to pick a name as we knew it was a boy. We named him Jax. They told us straight out that because I was 18 weeks,  no matter happened what he wouldn’t make it. He took his last breath in my husband’s arms. I was expecting a normal looking baby but to start with I was extremely overwhelmed and it made me realise it was bad news. I was hoping it was all a dream.

After the birth they told me I lost about half my blood volume and given that I’m anaemic it was more serious. They told me I needed a blood transfusion, and I turned out that I needed 3 bags. During my first bag I recall my monitors going off and a lot of people in my room when I finally came to they told me my blood pressure dropped dramatically. But I recall nothing as I passed out for a few moments.

That night I spent in the ICU. Constantly being monitored for blood loss and having my extra bags of blood. The next afternoon all I wanted was to go home with my husband and girls. The hospital was too much for me. They hospital refused to let me leave and I kicked up a storm. I couldn’t stand being there. I couldn’t stand the doctors saying I was good and I knew that I wasn’t and it was my heart that wasn’t good.

I feel all this happened just because I was so used to having 3 kids and the routine I was in I wanted to bring another baby into our world so badly. My eldest constantly asks for a new baby brother and to this day I still can’t give her that wish.

Tiff

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

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.

Preppie Tidal Wave

Danielle shares with us her emotions as she realises her precious son, Jasper, was supposed to start prep school.

Tuesday January 27th started out like a normal day. Rush rush, taking my 2.5 year old rainbow to Kindy, making sure we hadn't forgotten anything. The occasional tantrum on the way, mostly because he can't take his trains to Kindy. Hubby hadn't gotten back from night shift so I was doing the Kindy run alone. Driving to Kindy, I see schools open. I see children excitedly, and some not so excitedly getting out of cars for their first day back at school. I still haven't realised.

I get to Kindy; I get Harrison out of the car and help him inside. I am making his breakfast and a mum about my age comes in. The Kindy teachers start fawning over the new Prep child who used to come to the Kindy last year – “oh look at you in your new uniform – look how grown up you look! Thank you for bringing him in to see us!” And it hits me like a tidal wave. Jasper was supposed to start prep today.

I rush into the bathroom to clear my thoughts. I have to settle Harrison and get home – I think to myself. I manage to get through the next 10 minutes, made more difficult that Harrison wanted mummy to stay and read and cuddle him, but I needed to get out of there. But I couldn't hold it in all the way home. My chest feels heavy and the all too familiar and terrible ache in my heart. The ache that makes you feel like you can’t breathe or think. The ache that is physical and feels like your heart is dropping right out of your chest. I sat there and cried.

I cried selfishly at first. I cried because at first I forgot. I cried because I wish I didn't have to remember and that it isn't fair. Because I was the ‘unlucky one’ who didn't get to bring my baby home. Because after 5 years it still hurts. Because I will never buy Jasper a school uniform. But then I cried for his younger brother. I cried because his little brother will never experience the joy and jealousy of watching his older brother go to school before him. Because there will always be a big brother missing who he won’t play with – who won’t get to amaze him with thrilling stories of school and who won’t be there when his little brother also starts school. He doesn't have a big brother to look up to, to protect him.

When I pull myself together and get home, I soak in the bath and try to collect my thoughts. I think about the school we wanted to send him to and wonder how he would have coped. And the sad thing was that I couldn't imagine it. And sometimes that hurts more. I can’t imagine what he would be like today. I went on the computer to chat to a friend for comfort and like a knife through my heart I saw my Facebook feed – pictures of proud parents showing off their little prep kiddies in their new school uniform. Parents who have every right to be so proud of their children, but who unintentionally add to the pain. I had to close my computer. I couldn't interact on social media on this day.

Milestones like this hit me like a brick. And they are usually compounded by the lack of support I receive. My husband is my rock but after working night shift, I can't wake him up because I feel guilty. Many family members believe I am ‘wallowing’ and should just forget about him. It has been 5 years and I can never forget about the small little boy, who fought so bravely for life for 10 hours. I can’t simply ‘forget’ the little boy who isn't here, and I can’t put it out of my mind the milestones in life he can never achieve. Although I have a wonderful rainbow that brings me joy and heals my heart a little bit every day, he is not a replacement for the brave little boy I lost. His milestones are his alone and do not replace the milestones that Jasper should have had.

I cannot wait for my rainbow to achieve his milestones and I look forward to them every day, even if it does bring along a reminder of what we have lost.

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Danielle Hall

Wife to Corey and Mumma to two boys: Jasper Rhys in heaven and Harrison Phillip Robert in her arms. Jasper passed away after PPROM at 23 weeks and birth at 26 weeks, surviving for 10 hours in the NICU unit. Currently completing a Master of Social Work with the goal to aid in the safety and protection of all children, because all children deserve to feel safe and loved.

Grief is a difficult emotion to overcome....

Karen shares with Sands her story of her pregnancy and the delivery of her precious little girl.

I found out I was pregnant late September 2014 after I had begun to feel fluttering in my stomach and just feeling "a bit off" in general. The visit to the doctor after a positive pregnancy test confirmed this and both myself and my fiancée were completely in shock, we were excited but at the same time we had just gotten engaged and were planning a year to travel. Eventually the shock wore off and excitement followed and after our first dating scan hearing our baby's heartbeat at 7 weeks, we were in love. I became incredibly protective and wanted nothing more than to become a mother to this little human we had created.

I had a text book pregnancy; I was still going to the gym personal training, eating healthily and take my pre-natal vitamins. Morning sickness was minor but managed to strike without fail at 5.00am and 7.00pm each day. I started to get the tiniest of bumps and was feeling very at ease with life.

I went for my nuchal pre scan blood test on the Monday and my nuchal translucency scan was booked for the Wednesday. I was 12 weeks 6 days. I woke up that morning and I was quite apprehensive going into the scan and was very anxious. Looking back now perhaps I knew something wasn't right but I was also excited to see my baby for the first time. We went into the scan and the sonographer was very positive and outgoing, after a while I noticed the more images she took, the quieter she became. She finally was able to get an image of the nuchal fold, she said it was slighter larger than what she had seen before and would have to talk to the doctor and come back in 5 mins. 5 mins turned into 15 and both myself and partner tried to stay positive but my motherly instinct had kicked in and I was on the verge of tears knowing something was wrong. She returned after what seemed like an eternity to tell us that unfortunately the baby's nuchal fold measured 14.7mm which was the largest she had seen and that she had found a lot of fluid in our baby's heart cavity, brain and stomach. 

She then read us our risks with the combination of my blood test and age for chromosomal abnormalities which were perfectly normal to then reading our risks for the combined scan and blood test which put us as high risk as 1 in 6. At this point I broke down and we were able to leave. I went home feeling the saddest I have felt my whole life. I was able to get into the doctors straight away as we still weren't sure what these results meant, the sonographer was not able to give any more information. 

The doctor confirmed our worst fears that our baby was severely deformed due to an abnormality with hydrops. We were told the chances of the baby surviving in utero were non-existent and that we would need to consider termination. They were surprised the baby had survived for so long. We were completely numb; my world had just come to a halt as I tried to get my head around what I had been told. I was so angry and sad at the same time, why did this happen to us? Surely there was some chance that everything would be alright.

We were then referred to a private obstetrician (even without health insurance we decided that private was worth the money for the care we would receive) who confirmed that what we had been told was true and that in his own personal opinion for mine and my baby’s sake, we should proceed with the termination. We went home and broke the news to our families who live overseas and were visited by close friends who we had told about the pregnancy, while all very supportive it did not help with the grief and sadness we were both feeling. That Wednesday night was the worst of my life, having to come to terms with what should have been the day we could spread the word that we were pregnant with a healthy beautiful baby to knowing that in 2 days time I was going to be ending its life was unbearable. But I did not have a choice; I did not want my baby to suffer anymore.

We went in for the procedure on the Friday afternoon; the nurses were lovely and very respectful. My partner was not able to be with me prior or when I got out of recovery which I was initially not okay about but strangely I was okay once I had woken up from the general anaesthetic. I had a nurse sit with me the whole time to change my dressings and talk to me which was comforting. My partner came and picked me up from the day surgery at 9.30pm and we made our way home. Once I was home I felt completely empty and the tears started to flow, I was so confused and sad all in the instant. I cannot explain the emptiness from feeling so empowered by having this little being inside you to then not have it anymore; it's a feeling I hope to not have to cope with again. I had the following week off work to gather my thoughts and heal physically. 

We chose not to name our baby that we had lost, I was not sure at the time it was the right thing for me. We found out after further genetic testing that our baby was a little girl who had been diagnosed with monosomy x or more commonly turners syndrome. We were told it was a completely random event that could happened to anyone. This helped my healing process a lot as I nor my partner was to blame, we had done everything right.

Grief is a difficult emotion to overcome, it comes as it pleases and does not go away quickly. It has been less than two months since I lost my baby, I still have my moments when I will cry or get angry or avoid people who are pregnant or who have babies. I still have times when I feel sorry for myself and think that I should be nearly 6 months pregnant right now, showing my baby belly and starting to buy for my unborn baby. I know this feeling will pass and I welcome the day that it does. I am stronger every day and realising that life does not stop has pushed me to start moving forward. I know in good faith that I will be a mother again soon and I welcome that emotion any day.

                                  Karen 

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

Karen Mackle

My name is Karen and I am a 28 year old living in Brisbane with my partner. I wanted to share my recent experience about the early loss of our first child in the hope that people can know that they are not alone and in their time of need I hope my story will help.          

Came to early, gone too soon...

Genevieve is a new comer to the Sands blog. Here she talks about her pregnancy, birth and death of precious Amalie.

After nine years and five miscarriages, I finally had a joyful and life-changing journey through a remarkably straightforward pregnancy last year. I had many new experiences.  I relished discovering that my clothes are too tight.  I was relieved beyond words to get the “all clear” on the 18 week morphology scan.  I discovered that, despite my best efforts, I became one of those annoying super-gushy types of pregnant women.

The most surprising aspect to me, however, was the reactions of friends and colleagues.  Without exception their responses were overwhelmingly positive and supportive, for which I was immensely grateful.  What intrigued me though is that many started to treat me more inclusively, seemingly because I was now “one of them”, a member of the “parenthood club”.  When I gently explored this with a few, they reflected that it has been difficult for them to juggle their desire to talk freely about their kids while being sensitive to my situation, and that at times it has been easier not to engage at all.  I know I've played a part in this too.  

While the drive to procreate differs between individuals, for many of us, myself included, it can be an overpowering one.  The primal reproductive instinct is at the core of many people’s sense of identity and life purpose, as well as having cultural, social, spiritual, financial and familial implications. 

The second half of 2014 was the happiest time of my life.  I was in the “club” and on track to fulfilling my lifelong dream.

But everything changed on 1st December, when a simple urinary tract infection developed into a serious kidney infection (pyelonephritis) and started spreading to my blood (early sepsis).  It triggered a premature labour and a mad rush to the nearest hospital (we were out in the desert at the time, hours from civilisation). I didn't quite make it and ending up delivering my own baby, just metres away from the hospital entrance.  That was certainly not part of my birth plan!

Considering her dramatic and premature entrance, baby Amalie did remarkably well at first.  Her birth weight was over the magic 1000g line and her vital signs were excellent.  We were cautiously optimistic.

Alas, four days later things took a turn for the worse and, tragically, Amalie’s tiny system was overpowered by E. Coli, just as my body was starting to win its fight against the same bug. 

Suddenly and cruelly, I was ejected from the green side of the reproductive fence.   

I've received amazing support from friends and colleagues, but, understandably, many struggle, not knowing what to say or what to do.  Some either resort to platitudes or avoid the topic completely which can leave me feeling even more isolated.  I've found that focusing on the intention rather than the words is the only way to shield my heart from unintentionally insensitive remarks. 

After all, rarely can a response make things better. What matters is the connection.   Parenthood club member or not, I know I need to maintain the connection with my family and friends to get through this terrible time.  And to remember Winston Churchill’s advice: “When you’re going through hell, keep going.”

RIP Amalie Ella.  Came too early, gone too soon.

I waited so long for you and had you with me so briefly, but every moment we spent together will be treasured forever. My heart is in pieces right now, but I will use the strength of my love for you to try to focus on being immensely grateful for your life rather than being devastated by your death.

You’ll travel with me forever, my darling daughter.

                              Genevieve

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Genevieve Yates

Genevieve is a GP, medical educator, medical writer and musician from the Northern Rivers region of NSW. After a long and difficult road to motherhood, her beautiful daughter, Amalie Ella, was born in December, 2014.  Tragically, Amalie died of neonatal sepsis after only four days.

Through her clinical work, teaching and writing, she hopes to she can use her experiences to help support both patients and other doctors in managing the complex emotions surrounding fertility issues and perinatal loss, and also encourage more open discussion in the general community.

Her website can be found at: http://genevieveyates.com

What Happens Next????

Readers of the Sands blog will remember Jess's story of the birth of her daughter Emma.  This blog, as the title suggests, describes Jess's own brush with death in the weeks after Emma's birth. It is a salutary reminder that, even in the 21st century, birth can (albeit rarely)  be risky for mothers as well as babies. 

After the death of a child, I think at any age, your life is transformed completely. In our case she was never home with us, we never got to experience her personality, never got to complain about lack of sleep or the amount of nappies we were changing and yet I still occasionally walk into the nursery and expect her to be there.

Once you arrive home from the hospital, devastated and empty handed you realise life must resume and you need to find your new ‘normal’.

For me, my re-entry into the real world wasn’t as straight forward as trying to cope with our loss. In the days after Emma’s birth I became increasingly ill. My husband had been suffering a chest infection so coupled with my grief I assumed it was just that and attempted to press on.

One week after discovering our beautiful little girl’s heart had stopped beating I found myself unable to breathe, unable to even get out of bed! My husband somehow managed to get me up, into the car and straight to Emergency.

Grieving for our Emma had to very abruptly take a backseat that night and it wasn’t until weeks later that we were able to begin processing our loss again.

My memory of that time is fuzzy at best but I’m told that after I was admitted that night I was simply too tired to breathe on my own so was placed in an induced coma and intubated until they could figure out why I was fading before them.

Emma’s birth had been particularly traumatic and I had come away with an impressive number of stitches. To avoid infection they’d put me on antibiotics immediately. Because of this, when I was admitted, they were unable to detect exactly what was wrong because the antibiotics were killing every sample they took as soon as they had taken it.

Though it’s never been 100% confirmed, it’s suspected that the bug that took our little girls life almost took mine as well. As well as an extraordinary case of pneumonia.

For me it was a week of blissful nothingness until they finally figured out what the problem was and woke me up. For my husband it was days of doctors, nurses, specialists and for a time, trying to face the reality that he had lost his beautiful daughter and now might lose his wife too.

So a week after stumbling almost incoherently into ED, two weeks after losing our daughter, I woke up in ICU with little recollection of how I got there….then I got better.

I’m not sure if having that time of ‘distraction’ was a good thing or a bad thing for our grieving process but I do know one thing, while this has been the most horrifying experience of my life, I am so very fortunate to have such a rock solid partner in my hubby. He is my hero, the father of my 2 perfect children and my best friend.

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Jessica Lawless

Jessica lives in Victoria. She is the wife to Shane and a Mum to 2 beautiful kids - Adam, nearly 2 and Emma, born sleeping August 2014.
I like to practice yoga, cook, read and spend all my time being a SAHM with Adam. My family and friends are my whole world, there is barley a distinction between the two.
I hope by being so open and honest about my experiences I can help raise awareness and provide support for others.

 

Grief is a complicated process.....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shanelle Kay

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Shanelle Kay

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

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

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

openly and honestly.. Ourselves"