Angels and Rainbows

In this blog, Shanelle shares her innermost thoughts about her subsequent pregnancy.

      "You feel so much fear due to the loss of your previous baby that 
       it’s  hard to enjoy this pregnancy even though you know it’s completely 
       different."

It’s always the same.
It may have a different setting, different people and be a different situation but the outcome is always the same.
Something’s wrong. You lost it. It’s too early. Stillbirth. 

No one mentions the irrational fears, the months of nightmares, the crippling fear you experience every time you close your eyes to sleep nor do they mention the guilt for the happiness and joy you feel or the torture you impose on yourself during waking hours when you fall in the “in between.”

The In between... Where you are trying to enjoy your rainbow but are still grieving your angel. 
And unless you have experienced it for yourself it’s hard to understand the internal conflict it puts you through…
The joy of finding out your expecting and the grief you feel as its only days before your angel was due.
Or how on Mother’s day you cry because right now you’re supposed to have your little bundle in your arms yet feel guilty because you’re appreciating (or aren’t) the little kicks and prods you can feel in your womb.
The excitement of looking forward to meeting all the little milestones along the way, the first scan, the second trimester, baby shopping, the first kick and finding out the gender, baby names… while you also count down all the little milestones fear induces making it past your miscarriage date, the first 12 weeks, the scan for a viable heartbeat, the lookout for kicks and movement to know they’re still okay, 24 weeks viability!!

So many emotions, you feel like you’re on a roller coaster, you can go from the highest highs to the lowest lows and you can forget that you aren’t going through it alone and while you could be excited about your scans, your partner doesn’t want to come because he doesn’t want to get attached to this one too or the devastating reality when you’re son asks “is this one going to die too?”

You end up falling into the habit of referring to baby in “ifs” if she makes it, if she survives, if she is born instead of when… when... when…

You feel so much fear due to the loss of your previous baby that it’s hard to enjoy this pregnancy even though you know it’s completely different. You feel guilty when you enjoy it and you feel guilty when you don’t. You feel isolated and stuck because no one tells you it’s okay to grieve for the baby you lost while still enjoying all the miracles this new baby brings. People seem to think that since you’re expecting that the previous baby doesn’t matter and to stop overreacting, stressing as all is well with the world yet they fail to realise that the intense fear of losing this one too is only a natural reaction to the grief of your last and the hopes of your future.

Shanelle

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"

Oscar's Story

Tennille is a newcomer to the Sands blog.  She recounts the day she found out precious Oscar had died and those following.

        'At times I find myself using ”I”, then “We” when I write about Oscar, it is 
        difficult to disentangle myself from my feelings, our feelings, that of my 
        husband and I and also in a way the grief our whole family felt.' 

   'Together we will always remember Oscar.'

I was eagerly counting down the final days left of work before I could ‘relax’ and prepare for the birth of our first child. I was 33 weeks and 2 days when our whole life changed forever. My obstetrician said “I’m sorry there is no foetal heartbeat”. From that point on my life became utter chaos yet my memory for the next few days remains crystal clear. At times I find myself using ”I”, then “We” when I write about Oscar, it is difficult to disentangle myself from my feelings, our feelings, that of my husband and I and also in a way the grief our whole family felt. Together we will always remember Oscar.
Wednesday night, that fateful night, after seeing the obstetrician we were advised to go home and go into hospital the next day. Each midwife we met over the coming days was lovely. Aside from the necessary medical needs each offered support in their own way, often sharing a tear with us. 

After some encouraging, the delivery itself went relatively smoothly and Oscar Mark was born at 6:55am Saturday 11th November 2011. He was perfect in every way. Having several days to prepare for Oscars birth in hindsight was helpful as it allowed us to gather our thoughts and make some decisions about how we wanted to celebrate his short life once he was born. I am eternally grateful to our photographer, who arrived shortly after Oscar’s birth to photograph our family. At first I was unsure about this but once I saw my baby I wanted to remember every second, to be able to look back and see so many emotions in these pictures. Each time I look at them I see new emotions, notice new details. In the early days after coming home from hospital I would often become panicked, especially in the early hours of the morning that I would somehow forget Oscar, that I couldn't see his face and these photos were a great way to reassure myself.

We had two days with Oscar. To describe them as happy is not accurate but to describe them as sad is also not a true reflection of the time. Perhaps at peace, calm, still would be more fitting. We were able to finally meet our son, introduce him to our families, hold him like all proud parents. We had Oscar blessed, we bathed and dressed him, we had time alone with him. We looked at, stroked and kissed his tiny hands, his lips, the fine hair on his head.

At times I thought that I could keep the door of our room closed forever, the three of us could live our life from there, and Oscar would be with us, forever. What I had not yet understood was that my son would be with me, in my memories, in my soul, forever.
I received excellent advise from the pastoral healthcare team at the hospital and that was “You will never get this time back again so take your time, don’t rush and remember, you can have whatever you want”. While I definitely wasn’t thinking clearly, taking my time over two days to touch, wash, hold and kiss my baby have allowed these memories to etch into my heart, memories which need to carry me through a lifetime.

When the time came to say goodbye to my baby’s body, I wrapped him in a soft bassinet and carried him proudly from the hospital to the undertaker’s car, gave him one final kiss and went home with empty arms. When I entered hospital three days earlier I thought this would be the end of my baby’s story, little did I know it was only the beginning of creating a new life, and a new story for myself. That of a mum, a mum who has lost a baby and who desperately wanted to have another baby.

Tenille

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 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.

Time

Jess writes again for us and here she shares her thoughts around grief and time.

    'We’ll never forget Emma, we’ll never stop talking about her, never 
     stop loving her and we’ll never leave her out of our family head count.'

“Give it some time.” A phrase that’s commonly coined in times of loss. I've heard this a lot, in fact I’ve also used this a lot when comforting bereaved friends. Hearing these words when your heart is so broken can make you feel so hopeless and discouraged. At the time you can’t conceive of a future beyond the pain of that moment. The truth is though, it’s undoubtedly true.

February this year marked 10 years since I lost my dear Mum after a long battle with cancer. It also marked 6 months since we lost our little girl. Both ‘milestones’ of sorts, 10 years on I do feel peaceful about losing my Ma but it took TIME.

In the early days after losing Emma I remember thinking ‘when will things be funny again, when will we find peace?’ I’m a joker, I love to laugh but suddenly to laugh meant to betray my daughter's memory. To smile would mean I ‘didn't care’ that she was gone! Peace I think is still some time away for me but the laughter did return. Now, 8 months later I spend many happy days with my husband and our ridiculously hilarious 2 year old son. I can now allow myself to feel genuinely grateful for what I DO have without chastising myself for momentarily forgetting my pain. Not forgetting, that’s not right, just being ok with it.

A few months ago I was struggling with the presence of our very empty nursery and my very wise friend who sadly lost her little girl nearly 4 years ago said to me “You can never replace them but their presence in your family is a remarkable one, it becomes one even deeper than a full cot. Instead it fills your heart, your spirit and your soul. It becomes the reason to strive for your children and your family. It becomes a gentle way of living, breathing and appreciating every day. It becomes you.”

We’ll never forget Emma, we’ll never stop talking about her, never stop loving her and we’ll never leave her out of our family head count.

I know that she’s happy and at peace in the arms of her Grandma. I picture them together, 2 peas in a pod, smiling, playing, happy!

But these feelings and emotions take time, it’s something that we can’t control but we cannot allow to control us.

Time will pass, wounds will heal and my heart will mend…or so I hear.

Jess 

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.

Because You’re There For Me Too

In  her first blog for Sands, Annika shares her precious babies and how the Sands online support assisted her in her grief.

"Sands gave me a safe place, an online haven where I could openly grieve 

my little babies and talk about our fears of infertility. "

I have a beautiful son. He is almost five months old now! I can’t believe how fast the time has gone by but I could just stare into his blue eyes all day, every day for the rest of my life. But becoming parents was a long, and emotional journey for us as there were four who came before him.

Four tiny babies who graced this earth for only a brief moment in time. Some, only days, others only weeks. We discovered that the endometriosis I had been dealing with since I was 11 was the cause of our losses and so I underwent surgery at the end of 2013 to remove it. We went through all of this in a city where we had no close friends, and we had no family. 



Annika's Angel tattoo in memory of Baby Pearce

The devastation of losing our biggest baby who stayed with us until only 6 weeks and 1 day was overwhelming and inescapable.  I felt alone, lost, and ripped from motherhood. I tried to find local support groups, anything in my city it help me through the grief but unfortunately I could find nothing available. My loss was too early you see, and therefore I felt that our little baby was insignificant.

Looking back, it is clear that I had mild depression for the better part of 18 months. I couldn't let the pregnancy go and was continuously counting down until the due date, October 25^th 2013. My body was empty, but my mind carried on ticking off the milestones as they came and went. It was exhausting. During that time we saw two more positive pregnancy tests which faded until they too were gone.

I tried to reach out to friends and colleagues but was told countless times that “it wasn't like I lost an actual baby”, that I “needed help” when all I wanted was a hug, that “it was for the best” and that I was just being “impatient”.

I believed them of course. My babies were barely babies. I hadn't lost a “real” baby. I hadn't gone through labour and delivered a still baby. I didn't have a name for them, didn’t know if they were boys or girls. I never saw any of them in any ultrasound. I felt so ashamed for grieving the loss of my babies when I was grieving something that was never really there in the first place. It was very confusing and depressing and I struggled, still struggle with these thoughts.

There were three people who I could talk to about my loss at that point. My husband, my Mum, and someone who unexpectedly has become one of my closest friends. Without her, I’m not sure where I would be in my grief journey, but I am certain I wouldn't be where I am today.

A little over a month earlier she lost her daughter at 39 weeks. She lost her baby girl. She held her daughter in her arms and said hello, then goodbye. But she was the ONE person who told me that mine were real babies too, that they were little lives, not little losses. She was the person who introduced me to Sands.

Sands gave me a safe place, an online haven where I could openly grieve my little babies and talk about our fears of infertility. Speaking with women who had lost babies at all stages of pregnancy and during the neonatal period opened my eyes to a world I never knew existed and it was full of people who just had so much love and support to give, even in their darkest hours. The members of Sands brought me out of a bad place and they gave me hope. But most importantly they gave my babies' little lives recognition. Without any pictures, or proof of ever being pregnant, even for the shortest of time, they still recognized my tiny babies and continue to do so.

The members of Sands are an inspiration. Because of Sands I now have some amazing people in my life who will no doubt always be in my life. And while I can't begin to understand the grief of losing a baby at later stages of pregnancy, even as I watched my closest friend go through exactly that, I am better equipped to give advice and support to them too.

My son is asleep as I write this. There isn't a moment when I am not grateful for the baby we were able to bring home. There are times when I am sad, where I imagine the little people who would be playing in the living room with my son, but I can imagine them and smile through the sadness instead of cry. I am at peace with my losses now and I feel so lucky to be where I am today. Through my son’s pregnancy and with other subsequent pregnancies I know I will continue to have support, and be able to provide support to others. It really doesn't seem enough to say this, but ‘thank you’.

To read more about my journey through miscarriage, TTC, and our rainbow’s pregnancy please visit my blog page at: https://letshaveababybaby.wordpress.com

Annika

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Annika Pearce

My name is Annika and I am a qualified Ambulance Paramedic living in Canberra. I love to be there for others and biology and pre-hospital medicine are a passion I share with my husband, Ben. The light of our lives, Henry, was born at the end of 2014 following a succession of four early miscarriages due to endometriosis. Our biggest Angel, Baby Pearce, who I carried for only 6 weeks at the beginning of 2013 has become the source of my inspiration for blogging and developing a Canberra-based online support group for women who have experienced a pregnancy or neonatal loss. My hope is to create a local support network, where we can share and be there for each other, as Sands created for me. As we begin our journey of conceiving our second rainbow there is still fear, but also hope and excitement.  

You can read Annika's personal blog here

HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABY GIRL

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

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

keepsake box that we got from the hospital. " 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy, Happy Birthday baby girl!

Rashida

If you require support after reading this blog please contact

Sands on 13 000 72637

Rashida McKenzie

Rashida McKenzie is the Founder of High-Risk Helpers, a maternity concierge service for expectant mother's experiencing high-risk pregnancies that result in bed rest. She is also the mother of a baby girl named Maya (who was born after 22 weeks of bed rest) and an angel who inspired her to advocate for pregnancy loss awareness. To learn more about Rashida or High-Risk Helpers, visit http://highriskhelpers.com/

The NICU

Dani shares with us the time Jasper spent in the NICU and having to make the hard decision to turn off life support.

     "I could have stayed in that NICU unit for hours just touching his delicate hands 

      and stroking his arms and head, but we weren’t allowed. Many of the babies

       in the NICU are very sick and I know they try and limit contact until babies 

      can be removed from their special chambers. Regretfully I agreed to go back 

      to my room."

November 18, 2011, at 9.31am my sweet baby boy Jasper was born at 9.31am by emergency classical cesarean at 26 weeks. When he was born I didn’t get the opportunity to say hello, or to see him, he was in respiratory distress. The nurses showed us some photos before he was whisked away to the NICU unit.

It would be almost 4 hours before I got to see him for the first time. He was intubated and was on a positive airway pressure machine to help him breathe. He was so small at 785 grams but he was fighting. In his small humidification chamber I could see his tiny legs kicking and I could see him trying to cry – he couldn’t make a sound because of the breathing tube. I was told I could put my hand in and touch him as long as I sterilized my hands first. That first touch – his skin so soft, but so bruised and red from the trauma of his birth. But I didn’t even notice the colour of his skin – all I could think was that I had birthed a perfect baby boy – a fighter. He was naked, save for a tiny nappy that could have fit on my fingers, and a teenie tiny leg band that won’t even fit over my finger. The doctors told us he was doing very well and that they were able to reduce the pressure of his machine and that he was starting to breathe on his own.

I could have stayed in that NICU unit for hours just touching his delicate hands and stroking his arms and head, but we weren’t allowed. Many of the babies in the NICU are very sick and I know they try and limit contact until babies can be removed from their special chambers. Regretfully I agreed to go back to my room.

It took so much begging to the nurses before the consented us to go back down and see him. They finally allowed us at 7pm, but when we got there, it was not cheerful anymore. The doctor was about to call us. Jasper had stopped taking oxygen and was suffering pulmonary hyperplasia, meaning his lungs weren’t developed. The doctor gently explained that with the amount of time he had been without sufficient oxygen, the chance that he would get through this was remote – and the chance that he would ever be able to see, talk, walk or be without oxygen for the rest of his life was nil. They told us they believed that his death was inevitable and that we had a choice. To remove his life support and let him fly to God peacefully, or keep him on his oxygen and to see if he improved.

How does a parent make this choice? My mind was numb. Could I possibly live the rest of my life knowing that I agreed to remove care? The doctors said his death is inevitable but what if they’re wrong? Can I live with that? My mind was numb. I looked at my husband. Silent tears streaming down his cheek – still in his work clothes from when he bought me in that morning. My only thought was that I didn't want to be alone. ‘Can I please get my parents here’ I remember asking. The doctors agreed and our parents were called.

Somehow I fought through the fog and mind numbing pain to ask for Jasper to be baptized. I don’t know if there is a life after this, but I wanted to make sure my baby got every chance at heaven and God. Our parents came and finally, Corey and I knew it was time. Time to make sure our baby suffered no more. We knew. He wasn't fighting anymore, he was still. He was exhausted. They placed him in my arms and slowly removed his tubes. I held him tight and all of his grandparents came and told him how much they loved him, touching his hair. In the final moments of life, all he knew was love and comfort. In his mummy’s arms and hearing the voices of people who loved him.

He passed away in my arms at 7.31pm. Finally I was able to give him to his grandparents for a cuddle. They said their goodbyes and I sat there thinking – I had to switch off life support on my son. My first born. I did that. Nothing will ever change what I did. I hope he knew I loved him. I didn't want him to suffer anymore. If nothing else in his short time on Earth I wanted him safe and loved. And I hope he felt that.

The absolute soul crushing, heart wrenching physical pain that comes with losing a child, and the guilt I felt for ending his care – words can never make someone who hasn't lost a baby understand. The pain – it’s physical and it tears apart your heart. You literally feel like your heart has shattered and you are surprised it still beats. Each beat is physical pain. My baby was gone. I helped that along. And 2 days later I walked out of the hospital without my baby, slowly, bruised, and with a broken spirit.

Dani    

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.

A Letter to My Daughter

Genevieve shares with us the letter she wrote to her daughter, Amalie.

"You are my rose, Amalie. My perfect little daughter. You made me feel whole… complete… for the first time in my life.  You were the piece of the puzzle I didn't fully understand how much I was missing having - the piece that rendered almost everything else in my life insignificant in comparison."

A letter to my daughter (read aloud as we planted a tree in her memory)

My darling daughter Amalie,

Thank you.  Thank you for coming into my life and bringing me more joy, peace and fulfilment than I thought possible, albeit only for six short months.

I felt you move inside me, and part of me wished I could kept you there, protected, forever.  I would have done anything, anything at all if it meant harm did not befall you.

But alas your life journey was tragically short, nipped in the bud.  I was lucky. We spent several months together. The rest of the world only knew you for a few short days.  But the ripples from your arrival and departure are still being felt, by so very many people.

There have been trees and flowers planted in your name all over Australia and beyond. Like this one. They will grow and flower, celebrating your life. And my hope is that as they are tended, they will not induce sadness in those gardening, but instead, gratitude and wonder at the blessings your short life has reminded us we have.

Your Dad, Nanna, Granddad and I will feel pain too, that is inevitable. Pain that we will never get to see your first steps, your first day at school, your first love, your first heartbreak. Pain that you will never know much love you can feel for a child growing inside you.

But pain is not only inevitable but invaluable for a full and fulfilling life.  The lows give life contrast and context.  They help breed resilience, empathy and humility, and these are some of life’s most important skills. So much comes down to attitude.

I won't complain because roses have thorns, but instead rejoice because thorns have roses.

You are my rose, Amalie. My perfect little daughter. You made me feel whole… complete… for the first time in my life.  You were the piece of the puzzle I didn't fully understand how much I was missing having - the piece that rendered almost everything else in my life insignificant in comparison.

I understand so much more now- about myself, about motherhood, about the world.

And for this, I will be eternally grateful.

All my love,

Mummy.

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