You WILL Smile Again by Sarah (Ivy’s ‘Babcia’)

Chances are, that if you’re reading this, then you already know what it is to experience that all-consuming, utterly crushing loss of a child. Although it’s been 5 1/2 years since my precious grandbaby Ivy was born sleeping into my waiting arms at 38.1 weeks, I’m as far away as I ever was in trying to convey what that was really like to another living soul. If there are even any words that could do such tragedy any real justice, I certainly haven’t found them.

As so many of you now know, life is not the same. In fact, everything is different. It’s that ‘new normal’ you may have heard about (when everything that was ‘normal’ has also died, and you have to start all over again). I distinctly recall just trying to breath. Yes...it started with that. I was certain the sun would never shine, that I’d never smile, dance or be happy ever again. ‘How could anyone ever recover from THIS?!’ An all-consuming darkness soaked through to my very core and everything changed. 

Thankfully, I’ve traveled a ways since that dreadful day and gone from wanting to dissolve through the floor of the delivery room, to where I am now... (but still travelling).

That was Oct. 15th 2012.

Fast forward to April 2018.

I’ve learnt so many things since we lost Ivy, but I wish I’d never had to learn a single one of them. I’m afraid I’m never going to be one of those, ‘If any good has come from this...’, kind of people. Nope! You can keep all that. Nothing about losing my granddaughter will ever be ‘good’ or ‘ok’. It’s just devastatingly sad, and always will be. That’s it. 

Needless to say, I didn’t choose this. It was thrust upon me. I simply came to a point where I had to choose, ‘Do I live the life I have, or do I shrivel into nothing’? It took me around 18 months to make that decision.... 18 months to summon enough strength to venture into the world again and make my days count. So what brought me to that point? I decided two important things; 
1. I was alive, (that I had a life to live, that there were people who cared about me and needed me), and 
2. That when things are this bad, the LAST thing I needed was anything, ANYTHING at all, to make it worse! I realised that whilst I couldn’t make the bad things better, there were things I COULD do to prevent other things from worsening, namely, my physical and mental health. I joined a gym to chase the endorphins (I used to be a gym instructor before I had my eight children, so I knew how that all worked), and I pushed myself here and there to do things that, although horribly difficult, I knew in my head were good for me. I ate more healthily, I organised bbqs with the family, and took trips with them to places like the forest and the beach to get out of the house. The family was ‘safe’, socialising with others, on the other hand, took me at least another six months. Somehow, going out and having general chit chat just seemed so ‘frivolous’ that I simply couldn’t relate. I didn’t want to burden my friends with constant talk of Ivy and what I’d been through. Ivy was my loss, not theirs, and I was determined to keep that in mind, but she was still very much front and centre and occupying my every thought. But eventually, I started accepting invitations for coffee and the movies. And the rest of the time, I kept damned busy! I burrowed down into housework, cooking, sewing and whatever I could find to give my days purpose and some sense of satisfaction. All this took truckloads of grit determination, and practice, practice, practice! I refused to give up! Everyone I ever spoke to, or read about, who was also travelling this grief journey said exactly the same thing...’it does get better. Things DO improve! It won’t always be like it is now!’ I decided that they would definitely be the ones to know, so they had to be right. I trusted them. No one ever suggested things would be the same, or that you’d never feel sad any more....nothing like that. Just that the all-encompassing weight that holds you to the floor, WILL lighten. You’ll notice I didn’t say it will, ‘go away’, or ‘evaporate’...because that’s ridiculous. Some things we simply accept we must learn to ‘carry’, and a beloved child will forever be ‘carried’ in our hearts and minds. Little by little though, often without noticing tiny changes, they appeared; you laugh at a joke, you sing along to a song on the radio, you’re proud of the birthday cake you’ve laboured over for your son all day, and you say ‘yes’ when your husband asks you to dance. Often it’s not until time passes that we have the benefit of hindsight, and can recognise that we’ve made any progress at all. And I came to accept too that there will always be days I deem ‘unsalvageable’, and that it can take more energy to fight them than to just ride them out and know tomorrow will be better. I’ve also been mindful of being kind to myself and not to impose all manner of hard and fast rules about ‘what, when and how’, but simply to go about my days with productivity, rest, and doing something enjoyable for myself in mind. I figured anything in this life that’s considered worthwhile takes practice, so I practiced ‘life’ again. 

At this point, I have to be honest, I became an expert at ‘wearing the mask’ (you know, we all do it...faking it). Just because I was smiling at a newborn baby on the outside, didn’t mean I was wasn’t crying and screaming on the inside, for example. Just because I seemingly happily asking a young, pregnant lady how far along she was, I hid the fact that I was really wanting to know if she was at that same point when we lost Ivy (and she was). I can give her a hug and (sincerely) wished her well, but then went home and feel incredibly ‘flat’ for the next few days because it simply brings everything we went through flooding to the forefront again.

So, 5 1/2 years on, the triggers are still all around, sorrow is never far away, Ivy is still gone...but there is ‘light’. Laughter and dancing have returned, (and yes, I’ve had to fend off the guilt that typically accompanies them, and still do, to varying degrees. I catch myself asking, ’How can I be happy, when my grand baby died?’), but genuine happiness is coming back into my life. And it’s good. It’s right...and I deserve it. I’ve worked so, so hard for it!

Work hard for that for you too. It’s worth all the effort. It really is. 
With all my heart...I wish you well.
You deserve it! You deserve your life back!

Sarah (Ivy’s ‘Babcia’)

The 'Secret' World of a Bereaved Parent by Emalynne

My husband and I lost our first born daughter, Annabelle on 10 August 2012. She was stillborn, something that you just can not believe actually still happens in this day and age. You realise though as you learn of the secret world of bereaved parents that it happens much more often than you care to believe. It was a difficult and dark time when Annabelle passed and continued to be difficult and dark for many days, weeks and months afterwards. 

Coming out of that haze, I realised that life continued for those around me. As I began to go back to “life”, it was hard to work out what to say to people when you saw them again. It was especially hard with those who expected me to have a baby in my arms and they are unaware of what tragically had happened. It’s that difficult circle of people: colleagues and acquaintances that aren’t close enough to be those friends who learnt straight away of our baby’s death, but were well aware that you were pregnant. Going back to “normal life”, meant having to interact with them and explain to them the trauma of our loss. As I found myself repeating the story of the lost of my beloved Annabelle that soothed me but brought such sorrow, I could not bring myself, at times, most times, to do it again tomorrow. 

Although blessed with a subsequent pregnancy, it brought such anxiety as innocent questions from strangers abound about the number of children I had and what number pregnancy this might be. I might give an answer that doesn’t sit quite right, so the next time I gave another. As an overthinker, there is a whole lot of mental gymnastics to work out what to say. I wanted to make sure that I respected and honoured my child while managing the emotional turmoil and anxiety I had inside about what further questions may ensue from the answers that I gave.

In the end, I decided whatever answer I gave, they don’t remember it and I sit with the answer for what feels like forever because it doesn’t matter as much to them as it does to me and it just doesn’t seem to do my child justice. 

But you know what? 

As bereaved parents, we just do what we feel comfortable. There is no right or wrong way to answer such questions as time and life continues following the lost of our children. You navigate life as well as you can and do what you feel right to live and breathe the new normal that is your life without your beloved child. For me, to respect and honour my child, Annabelle is to continue to live my life and what it stands for.

Emalynne

If you require support after reading this blog, please contact Sands on 1300 072 637

Emalynne So

I am a mother to Annabelle, stillborn on 10 August 2012, BabySo, miscarried at 12 weeks on 20 June 2013 and Jema who was born in July 2014. I share my family's story to help honour the memory of Annabelle and BabySo so they can still make a difference to another family's journey on this path despite not having stepped a single foot on this earth.

Vicki Lee Dean by Tracy

My story is not just that of a grieving Mother of a Stillborn Baby born back in 1985, but that of parents who had the opportunity to be a part of the changes made to the National Code of Ethical Autopsy Practice.  By being a part of this, although the circumstances at first were quite distressing, it gave me and my husband a chance to represent our child, to have her existence acknowledged by others. 

On ANZAC Day 1985 at 7.10am Vicki Lee Dean was born sleeping at The Queen Victoria Hospital at 25 weeks gestation. After a routine appointment & follow up ultrasound it was confirmed my baby had passed. It was also our first wedding anniversary that week.  I was then induced, enduring a ten hour labour. She was whisked away from me and I walked out of the hospital with 2 polaroid photos of her. That week was such a blur as we were also moving into our new house.  Thankfully when I left hospital I walked into our new home after family had so very kindly moved all our belongings for us. At first I did not want to deal with a funeral but after a fortnight I decided I needed to lay her to rest. We had a small family graveside funeral at Centennial Park. 

We grieved like every parent does. We got on with life and were blessed with two healthy children in 1986 and 1988. They grew up knowing they had an older sister and every year we visited her grave on ANZAC Day. Back then though miscarriage & stillbirth weren’t discussed much and the only support available was from your Doctor or the wonderful people at SANDS. Back then we had only the telephone and the post as means of communication.

Then in early July 2001 we sat down to watch the evening news when the headlining news report was the finding of organs & tissue samples taken from stillborn babies born at The Queen Victoria Hospital in the 1980’s.  These samples had been found stored in the basement of the Adelaide Children’s Hospital after the closure of the QVH in 1995. We were mortified at the thought of this and immediately contacted the hotline number leaving our details.  Several days later we received a telephone call making an appointment at the Adelaide Children’s Hospital. 

We met with the Coroner and a Counsellor who confirmed with us that they did indeed have tissue samples belonging to our Vicki.  Twenty-six samples in total, twelve tissue blocks and fourteen slides.  We had many questions that were answered by the Coroner.  We had decided that if these samples were aiding in the research into stillbirths and other issues concerning the unborn then we would allow them to remain with the hospital.  I also asked for a copy of the autopsy report. I also raised my concerns about the approval required for not only the retention of these tissue samples but also the actual autopsy itself.  I had no recollection of signing a form giving my consent for Vicki’s autopsy.  My Husband told me that I was asked to sign the paperwork for this 3 hours after delivery whilst I was still under the effects of sedation.

I will never forget how I felt on the day we walked into the Hospital to meet with the Coroner.  This was my chance to represent my precious baby.  This was the one time I would be able to speak up for her and do something for her.  

In October 2001 I received a letter confirming our meeting with a copy of my Daughter’s Autopsy report.  On reading the report I felt some sort of closure.  I had been told by my Obstetrician that there was no definite reason for my baby dying in utero. The Autopsy report did however state that my baby’s overall development was not at the same stage as her lung development.  To me that meant there was a reason nature had taken it’s course.

In early 2002 I was contacted by the National Ethics and Privacy Policy unit and invited to participate, through consultation, to the changes being made to the National Code of Ethical Autopsy Practice. I met with the Policy Officer for several hours and we discussed my experiences and how they needed to be improved.  Some months later I received a letter thanking me for my input and a copy of the new National Code of Ethical Autopsy Practice.  It included both issues that I had raised in this Code of Conduct.

So now in 2018 I see so many changes in the way in which we deal with the bereavement and loss of a baby. We took part in the Inaugural Centennial Park Celebration on October 15 2017.  That was just so therapeutic. The taking of foot and hand prints, a small lock of hair are just simply wonderful.  For us we have just a couple of ageing polaroid photos. I get some sort of comfort from knowing that the loss  My Husband and I endured has played a small part in some of these changes both ethically and medically.  Our Daughter Vicki may not have lived but her existence has certainly made a footprint.

Tracy Dean 

If you require support after reading this blog, please contact Sands on 1300 072 637

  

A Grandparents Perspective by Lee

Lexie's Garden

Three and a half years ago we said goodbye to our rainbow baby Lexie, my granddaughter.

Everyone finds their own path whilst grieving. Some are broken and struggle to continue, some keep to themselves and hide their feelings, some hit out their pain and hurt anyone and everyone around them, some move on quicker than others.

The father tries to comfort the mother, as well as deal with his own grief.

The mother is lost. Broken. Part of her is missing. She can’t function, she wants answers, and as her body is repairing itself, her heart continues to break.

Time, understanding and talking helps.

Lexie now has a sister and more recently, a brother. Both of these pregnancies were very stressful for everyone concerned. Ongoing scans and tests right up to delivery (remembering that everything was good with Lexie until 24hrs after her last scan).

My daughter insisted they delivered the babies early, which proved to be for the best.  All was good.

I have found that people don’t know how to talk about the loss of a baby.  People ask me how many grandchildren do I have.  I answer 6, with 1 in heaven.  Some people have suggested we should “let go” of Lexie.   How do you?

I think of her every day. Every day.  The worse times are her anniversary and Christmas, there is always lots of kids around, but one is, and always will be, missing….

It can only be so much worse for the parents. Having more babies helps, but it will never replace the little girl they lost. 

Grandmother Lee

If you require support after reading this blog, please contact Sands on 1300 072 637

'Ask Me Again' by Samantha

This poem was written by myself and aims to provide some insight around the emotional fragility of grieving and bereaved parents which often results in them feeling socially isolated. 

The poem was written in mid 2015 following the stillbirth of our second son Hudson James Rowe.

“Ask me again”

Did I miss our lunch date today? Please ask me again,
Did I forget to call you back today? Please call me again,
Did I decline your invitation today? Please ask me again,

It's not because I don't care,
Or because I don't want to be there,

Amidst my world that is now awash with such sadness & grief, 
I'm trying to make sense of it all, but I'm confused beyond belief,

So I need to take some time out for my heart and soul to heal, 
And to do this sometimes my life is completely reliant on emotions and how I feel,

My dear friend what this means that I'm asking of you today, 
Is to remember that I'm currently heartbroken and feeling pain that won't go away,

So if I happen to decline your invitation, 
Please promise me that you will ask me again.

         © Samantha     

If you require support after reading this blog, please contact Sands on 13000 72637

Samantha Rowe

My name is Samantha. I am a Bereaved Mother located in Melbourne.

My partner and I have had an incredibly tough baby journey to date. We have lost 8 consecutive pregnancies/babies and are yet to have a living child.

Cooper was stillborn on 14.02.14

Hudson was stillborn on 23.01.15

Emma & Zoe (identical momo twins) tangled their cords and passed away on 30.08.15

I’ve also had subsequent miscarriages on 16.09.16, 31.12.16, 13.10.17 & 16.11.17.

We are commencing ivf shortly to see if that can help us achieve our dreams of becoming parents to a living child.

I run a social enterprise called Memories of an Angel which raises awareness for Pregnancy & Infant Loss. We sell Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness ribbons, pins and a collection of other Pink & Blue items. I am extremely passionate about raising awareness for Pregnancy & Infant Loss and very proud to be pioneering the cause and bringing these special keepsakes to bereaved individuals and families across Australia.

Memories of an Angel also coordinates a variety of events for special days such as International Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day, International Bereaved Mother’s Day, International Bereaved Father’s Day etc.

My Loss part 2 by Mark

For part 1 see Thomas Portlock.

This is the second child loss that I have had to suffer through and it was no easier than the first in fact it was worse.

After the loss of Thomas my first born we had a daughter named Margaret, and then we became pregnant again with another son who we named David. My heart was filled with joy at the prospect of finally having a son. As we had already lost one child we kept an eye on everything, it was all going so well until that fateful night when my world came crashing down again. My partner was giving Margaret a bath when she slipped and hit her stomach on the edge of the bath. When I heard this had happened I raced here to Noarlunga Hospital where they placed here on the neonatal monitor.

The Nurses checked her out and said baby and Mom are both doing fine and I felt the dread leaving my body, we went home feeling so relieved and slept soundly. We awoke the next morning and my partner said she hadn't felt David move all night so we raced back to the hospital and they connected her to the monitor but couldn’t find a heart beat. The Nurse just looked at us and said they would need to do an ultrasound. Meanwhile my mind is going around and around at a thousand miles an hour and I was thinking oh no here we go again. They do the ultrasound and the Nurse says I need to get a Doctor to look at this.

The Doctor looks at the ultrasound and turned to us and says sorry your baby is dead. It suddenly felt to me that the whole world had just exploded and left me standing not being able to do a thing. He then said we would have to go to Flinders so David could be delivered.  As I couldn't go in the Ambulance I had to ring my best friend for a lift and his first words to me were this is not a funny joke to which I replied do you hear me laughing?

We arrived at Flinders where the Maternity staff met us and couldn't believe that we had lost a second child.  I felt so bad for my partner having to go through childbirth delivering a stillborn baby. When David was born the silence was deafening the Nurses then took David away so they could clean him up and take some photos for us. We spent some time with David and all I could think about was having to go through all this crap again. We also had Nurses from the Neonatal Unit come in as they all remembered us from Thomas’s death. We managed to get everything organised and finished and the last thing we had to do was bury David. We hit a major snag when we filled out the application for burial because he didn't have my last name as he was stillborn.

When we spoke to the Centennial Park Cemetery Staff to arrange a plot and they realised we already had a son buried there they looked up Thomas’s plot and turned to us and smiled.  I was thinking what the hell, when the lady says the plot next to Thomas is empty and we can have the two brothers together. My response was to burst out in tears and to this day both my boys keep each other company.

R.I.P my boys Daddy loves you for ever                       Mark

If you require support after reading this blog, please contact Sands on 1300 072 637

(Valentine's Day) Coopers Day by Samantha & Paul

This week on the 14th February my beautiful son would be turning 4.  4 years old…wow, even saying that feels weird!

To some people 4 years doesn’t sound like an incredibly long time, but as a Bereaved Mother who hasn’t seen her son for 4 years, it feels like a lifetime.

As a woman who loves love, I have always loved Valentine’s Day.  In all honesty, it used to be my favourite day of the year.  I was working in the city and would see florists running back and forth with beautiful bunches of flowers all day. As I sat on the train on my way home, I would see ladies (and men) carrying beautiful bouquets and wearing big beaming smiles.  I loved everything about Valentine’s Day.

In 2014 everything changed. Our son Cooper Joseph Rowe was born on 14th February 2014 at 10.41 pm at night.  He was stillborn (not breathing upon arrival into this world) and at the time I was all alone as the hospital had earlier sent my partner home.  Cooper was born at 22 weeks gestation so was perfectly formed but just a little too young to survive outside of my tummy.  His arrival and passing was heartbreaking.  It was unexpected and irrevocably changed not only our lives but also the lives of those around us forever.

The first year was tough….VERY tough.  If I be brutally honest, I had times where I questioned my own worth and desire to remain in this world.  I was so full of anger and just couldn’t understand how this had happened to us.  I was also very unwell following Coopers delivery and ended up being re-hospitalised for almost a month and needing lifesaving surgery.  This definitely delayed us being able to grieve the loss of our son.

Eventually I was well enough for release and that’s when our new reality really hit home.  We barely survived each day, it was all one small step at a time.  Those days were full of heartbreak, tears, broken spirits, arguments and most of all deep seeded grief for the loss of our firstborn son.  Everything seemed to trigger me and I would end up sobbing at the drop of a hat.  Everyone else had gone back to their normal lives but for us, we were still desperately missing our son.

As time went on, my partner & I went back to work and did the normal routine things that people do.  We knew that we wanted to honour our sons memory.  We also knew that Valentine’s Day would never be the same.

The following year in 2015, my partner & I made a promise to do something special on Coopers Day, and as such have done so ever since.  No longer do we celebrate Valentine’s Day, we instead acknowledge his day.  It is Coopers Day.  A day that belongs to him alone. 

We have started to take holidays each year in February and make sure that we are somewhere other than home for Coopers Day.  Last year we were in Hawaii, this year, we will be in Palm Cove.  Perhaps in a way it is a subconscious attempt at escaping the sadness and instead trying to find some small amount of joy in his day.  I would give anything to have Cooper back with us, but as that is not an option, I instead settle for making precious new memories each year in his honour.

Happy Coopers Day from Samantha & Paul xx

If you require support after reading this blog, please contact Sands on 13000 72637

Samantha Rowe

My name is Samantha. I am a Bereaved Mother located in Melbourne.

My partner and I have had an incredibly tough baby journey to date. We have lost 8 consecutive pregnancies/babies and are yet to have a living child.

Cooper was stillborn on 14.02.14

Hudson was stillborn on 23.01.15

Emma & Zoe (identical momo twins) tangled their cords and passed away on 30.08.15

I’ve also had subsequent miscarriages on 16.09.16, 31.12.16, 13.10.17 & 16.11.17.

We are commencing ivf shortly to see if that can help us achieve our dreams of becoming parents to a living child.

I run a social enterprise called Memories of an Angel which raises awareness for Pregnancy & Infant Loss. We sell Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness ribbons, pins and a collection of other Pink & Blue items. I am extremely passionate about raising awareness for Pregnancy & Infant Loss and very proud to be pioneering the cause and bringing these special keepsakes to bereaved individuals and families across Australia.

Memories of an Angel also coordinates a variety of events for special days such as International Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day, International Bereaved Mother’s Day, International Bereaved Father’s Day etc.

Losing a Lifetime of Dreams by Mel

On the 28th of September, 2014 at 10:15am, I welcomed & said goodbye to my daughter Lacey. She was stillborn at 30 weeks gestation. The pregnancy had been normal, with just the usual morning sickness. The morning of the 27th of September I had woken up & noticed a lack of movement.  Having had my first daughter delivered at 33 weeks by emergency c section, I was pretty certain things weren't right. I had to work that day:  I am a hairdresser & was doing a wedding up at Noosa.   I couldn't get to the hospital straight away, so went against my instincts & drove to Noosa. I thought Lacey was still moving a little bit, just not a lot. I called my obstetrician & told him she wasn't moving as much & I felt like I was in the early stages of labour. I was told to go home & rest. My gut instinct told me something was definitely wrong, I drove to the hospital to be checked. I can remember every detail of that night. The Doppler placed on my belly, the deafening silence. The midwife trying her best to reassure me that everything would be ok.   I knew she was gone.  My obstetrician came & scanned me.  I saw her little chest where her heart should be beating. 

His words .. "I'm sorry, there's no heartbeat." 

In that exact moment I could feel myself breaking from the inside out.  I immediately went into survival mode. I contacted everyone I needed to & prepared myself mentally for what I was about to endure. I was induced 3 times. I felt as though I had left my body & was watching this nightmare unfold. My midwife, Carla, was absolutely amazing.

When it came time to push, I panicked & said I couldn't do it. She held my hand tight. "You're not alone, I am here & I will help you"; 3 pushes & my beautiful daughter was  born & placed on my chest. She was perfect, silent, still. I remember praying so hard that she would cry, I held her tightly, please wake up.  I kissed her little face & perfect fingers. I rocked her & hugged her. I was able to spend the night with her, in her cold little cot. I remember just staring at her & thinking to myself that this couldn't be real. 

Her death still consumes me, she is missed so much. I have had 2 more miscarriages since losing her. One at 11 weeks & my most recent one in March 2017 at 12 weeks, another girl. Another sister for oldest daughter Scarlett, who is now 4. My miracle. As someone who has suffered a stillbirth & 3 miscarriages, I can say all pregnancy loss is traumatic & devastating. 

You lose a lifetime of dreams. Losing Lacey changed me as a mother & a person. I dream of her & think of what should have been. Each year on her birthday we release yellow balloons. I feel her presence everywhere. She is loved, she is missed & she is remembered.                                                                   

Mel

If you require support after reading this blog, please contact Sands on 13000 72637

Mel Tauletta

Hi my name is Mel, mother to Scarlett, aged 4 , my miracle born at 33 weeks, Lacey, born sleeping at 30 weeks & 3 other angel babies lost through miscarriage at 12 weeks. I lost Lacey due to a placental abruption, other miscarriages are unexplained. It's been 3 years since I lost Lacey & I can only now speak about her without crying, although a piece of my heart will always remain with her. I will keep trying for my rainbow baby. I hope sharing my story will help others learn to speak about their children who didn't make it earth side. We are not alone.

WHY?? by Diann

When I was 19, I discovered I had a narrowed heart valve which would require surgery somewhere in the future.  I had our son 2 years later and had no problems at all throughout the pregnancy, but was advised not to have any more babies in case it put too much strain on my heart.  I had my mitral valve replaced in 2005, and now have to take warfarin daily for the rest of my life. My surgeon warned us of the dangers if I ever fell pregnant, so in 2006 my husband had a vasectomy. We were happy with the family  we had.

Very surprisingly, I found out in February 2009 that I was pregnant, however the following day, I was rushed into hospital with pancreatitis. During my 2 week stay in 

hospital, I miscarried (I was 9 weeks pregnant). We then discovered that my husband’s vasectomy had reversed! My raging hormones and subsequent long talks with my husband, led us to a meeting with my cardiologist to discuss having a baby. When we were given the green light, we started trying, and fell pregnant almost immediately in January 2010.  My warfarin was stopped, and I had to self-administer 2 x heparin injections a day. Unfortunately, communication between my GP and cardiologist had broken down, and at 7 weeks pregnant I was admitted to hospital with a blood clot in my mechanical heart valve, as my body was not absorbing the heparin being injected into my thigh. I was given 2 options - I could have a clot busting drug (which was not guaranteed to be successful) or I could have my valve replaced again. We opted for the latter, as if the first option failed, I would need surgery anyway which would be more dangerous after taking the drug.

My mother rushed the 30 miles to the hospital with our son, to see me before going to theatre. My surgeon advised it would be highly unlikely that our baby would survive as  my blood pressure would drop too low.

The surgery was a success, and 2 days later we got to see our miracle baby's heartbeat on the ultrasound screen. I was in hospital for 7 weeks, until I could go back on warfarin safely. Everything went well for the next 14 weeks, and we found out we were having a little girl.

When I was 28 weeks pregnant, I noticed I hadn't felt our little girl move very much. I went to my local maternity unit and heard her heart beating - such a relief! I had to go back later that day to have a trace done, then on the journey home I received a call to go through to the main maternity hospital as a precaution. When we got there we realised everything was not okay. The on-call obstetrician advised our little girl was in distress and had to be delivered ASAP. I was taken to theatre, not knowing the

 heartbreak awaiting me when I awoke....

What I was not aware of was that warfarin can cross the placenta. This had caused a bleed on our daughters brain.... nothing could be done to save her.  I was taken to see her for the very first time, in the neo-natal unit. The tiniest baby I've ever seen, so very perfect! We were taken to an office where we were asked to give permission to withdraw treatment.

We were taken to the private unit where we had our own family room. The hospital chaplain came to baptise Maia Jane, our very immediate family there to share this precious time. Maia never woke up in the 18 hours she was in this world. She passed away very gently in my arms.  I have never experienced pain like the pain I felt in those first few weeks, the feeling of helplessness, blame, anger, and the deepest sadness.

It's been just over 7 years since our angel died. We now have our rainbow Sophia who was born 9 days before Maia's first birthday. I had 2 x daily heparin injections, weekly blood tests and fortnightly heart scans throughout my entire pregnancy.

I felt that we had gone through so much to eventually have Maia, to lose her was the cruellest part of life ever! We always felt it was meant to be - fate!  But I cried to 

God, asking "WHY"!

I would like to spread the word to any woman on warfarin, warning of the dangers as my obstetrician merely said to me "there was always a chance this could happen"!!!  

                                                                                                           Diann

If you require support after reading this blog, please contact Sands on 13000 72637

Diann

Hi, my name is Diann, and I live in Perth, Western Australia, but originally from Scotland.  I am a married mother of 2 children here on earth (age 20 and 6) and 2 in heaven (1 miscarriage and 1 neo-natal death).  Aside from my day-to-day work, I am a Parent Supporter with Sands on the 1300 line.  Sands were a huge support to me, and now I want to be there for others.  My hope is that by sharing my story, it will bring awareness, and save others from the same fate as our family

Things I Wish People Understood - Part Two by Suzanna

This is the second installment of an article I wrote. It discusses the things I have learnt – and wish others understood – about losing a child.

It is written in loving memory of our baby, Ella Rose Argyle (stillborn on 21 January 2017).

Death changes your relationships with the living

With every major loss I have endured, some relationships have developed or flourished, while others have perished.

In the weeks immediately following Ella’s death, I met a wise and compassionate mother who told me about losing her baby to SIDS. She spoke frankly of her experiences saying: People will surprise you, in both directions. You’ll experience amazing kindness, but you can also expect to lose some people from your life.

She was right. Despite the haze of my grief, some things have come sharply into focus. Grief strengthens and affirms some bonds. It destroys others. Sometimes, the parting of company has evoked fierce anger and bitter disappointment. At other times, it’s involved a gentle resignation and letting go.

You can’t humour people out of grief

It’s often said that ‘laughter is the best medicine’. Even in our darkest hour, it’s important to laugh – if only briefly and at the most absurd things. In saying that, you can’t humour people out of their grief. Several well-meaning friends have cracked jokes and offered cheerful, vapid remarks. They miss the mark – by a mile. They trivialise our loss, compound our suffering and demean our child. Sitting with us in our grief is the most powerful and generous thing you can do. Honour this moment; it is real and cannot be hurried.

It hurts to be excluded (when you have no living children)

A friend once observed that the hardest thing about being gay was the fact that he was excluded from the world’s largest club – the Married-With-Kids Club. While I can’t speak to being a persecuted minority, I certainly know about the pain which comes from loss and exclusion. Whenever my husband and I encounter a happy family, he says that ‘it feels like the whole world is having a party that we are not invited to.’

I haven’t forgotten

Sometimes, people avoid talking about children who have died because they don’t want to remind the parents. Let me tell you this: I forget all kinds of things, from where I left my keys to whether I’ve taken my vitamins. At my lowest, I shuffle from room to room, forgetting what I’m supposed to be doing. But I don’t ever forget my child. I think about Ella all the time – when I’m scanning my groceries, brushing my teeth, making small talk with the neighbours. Most parents love talking about their children because their children are the most special and amazing part of their lives. Bereaved parents are equally passionate about their kids. We want the chance to talk about them, albeit in an appropriate and supportive environment. 

It’s better to be awkward than absent

My husband and I feel sorry for people who encounter us. In fact, we often remark that ‘we wouldn’t know what to say to us’. Our culture offers no clear template for dealing with grief, or helping people through it. But here’s the thing: you don’t have to say anything amazingly profound or insightful. You just have to say you’re sorry for our loss and, if the relationship warrants it, offer your support. If there were ‘right words’ to offer the grieving, our poets and scholars and philosophers and clergymen would have found them by now. To my knowledge, they haven’t. For the record, I wrote the book on being socially awkward. I understand that there are few situations more uncomfortable than addressing a grieving parent. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. 

I recently saw an acquaintance who declared that she’d thought of me and prayed for me almost every day. All I could think was ‘that’s nice, but it doesn’t help me in any way’. If you don’t express your care, it does nothing for the person who’s suffering.  Sorrow tests our patience, but a bereaved parent will ultimately forgive a clumsy, awkward, ill-timed remark. They are less likely to forgive someone who is entirely absent in their darkest hour. 

Suzanna

If you require support after reading this blog please contact 

Sands on 13 000 72637

Suzi Maxwell-Wright

  

My name is Suzi. My husband, Ted, and I are trying to heal after losing our baby Ella Rose Argyle (21 January 2017). Ella was stillborn at 34 weeks, after what appeared to be a healthy pregnancy. As we declared on her headstone, Ella is ‘beautiful, longed for and eternally loved’. She is, and always will be, a part of us. My hope is that this blog will honour her precious life and help other bereaved parents feel less alone as they navigate their grief.

The Importance of Time - Tennille

The “old” me was a person who liked to keep track of time. I was busy, working full time, playing sport and had a busy social life. I loved cramming as much into every day that I could. The control freak in me loved wearing a watch, I hated being late. Our son Oscar was stillborn at 33 weeks and since the day I heard the words ‘I’m sorry there is no heartbeat’ I have rarely worn a watch. I definitely never wore a watch for at least 3 years as the simple act of putting on my watch reminded me of how much I had lost and how time stood still. When your baby dies you have absolutely no control yet the irony is you have so much to organise but cannot arrange anything at the same time.

I wished I could go back in time. In the early days I so desperately wanted to be able to relive the final few days with my baby growing inside me. I was sure I could pinpoint the exact moment something may have gone wrong. I could replay the last time I actively felt him kick, I could rest more, or visit the doctor earlier. Time felt so precious and I felt I had flitted it away, while my son died.

My sense of time suddenly became very warped. In the days between finding out and delivering my baby, I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t comprehend what was going to happen to me, what our son would look like or what I would need to arrange in the coming days. Time was long and short at the same time. Time also didn't have the same importance.

Once he was born and the time I was able to hold him, bath him and introduce him to our families seemed long. We gave him a lifetime of kisses, said hellos and goodbyes in just two short days.

Once leaving hospital, I have never felt time move more slowly. My brain and body were so disconnected and the days seem to crawl. I remember feeling panicked when there felt like there was so much of the day to go. Yet as each day passed, the time since I had held Oscar quickly moved on. The four months it took to fall pregnant with another baby were excruciating. I was so driven to fall pregnant again and this waiting game was tedious. Looking back, four months seemed to go so quickly now.

I was sceptical of the phrase “time heals everything” and “give yourself time”. I was convinced that I would always feel so lost and empty and I couldn’t possibly understand how people were able to move forward from their current position with grief. Yet, five years down the track I am able to talk about Oscar, often without crying. I remember my son with a smile on my face and live a fulfilling life.

                                                                                                       Tennille

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 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.