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’)

Now and Then by Bex

Before her, I took Motherhood for granted. I took everything for granted. That was when I lived in the ignorant, blissful “then” days. That’s all changed and I live in the “now”.

I wasn’t supposed to be able to have children, yet I found myself pregnant at 20. It was easy. My daughter was born, and life went on.
Twelve years later I met my soulmate, and fell pregnant. At 34 years old I was happy, it was smooth sailing. Still, it was a surprise just six months later, when I discovered I was pregnant again. There was a few overwhelming moments but we were excited. We started planning....
Just before our first scan I started spotting. Nothing major, I was reassured, and no one was overly concerned. This was only emphasised when we made it to the scan and saw our little bean happily bouncing about, her heart beating away. We were told after seeing the heartbeat we dropped down to 10% miscarriage risk. Relief.

A couple of weeks later the spotting returned, so I went back to my doctor. She sent me for another scan, and the sonographer was a lovely, older lady. The minutes ticked by as she rolled the Doppler over my belly. She said nothing, and I scanned her face for any sign of what she was feeling, or thinking. My anxious brain was screaming, “Please say something!!!” She didn’t.

The place where my baby was before was a black empty space. My baby had disappeared.

I felt instantly nauseous, like a million butterflies had settled in my chest, as she swapped to the internal Doppler. I looked at the screen and saw her. The saddest sight, our little girl, curled up into a ball in the deepest, darkest part of my womb. The sonographer apologised, and let us know she was gone, there was no heart beat.

I felt multiple emotions all at once. As fast as they came I locked them away. I asked the sonographer if she was ok, the look on her face was one of devastation and discomfort at having to tell us our baby had died. My husband squeezed my hand, poor thing what else could he do? We never imagined this could happen to us.

It seems our baby had died two days after our first scan. I carried her tiny body without a clue she had died . The next few days passed in a painful blur. When I left the hospital without her I felt lost and empty.
My life is now split into two...before we experienced baby loss, and the life we now have to lead without her. Now and then. Some days I hate living here in the now, and would give anything to go back to then.


♡ RIP Emmah Jae Lampe 10/3/2010

Bex

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

Bex Lampe

Bex lives on the surf coast in Victoria. She is wife to Gav and mum to four Earth side

babies. Emmah and Flynn are her two angels. Bex is also a first time Grandma! She recently achieved a Diploma of counselling and is hoping to complete her Diploma of Community Services this year. Currently a stay home mum with three little ones, she’s hoping to get back to the outside world next year. 

Bex has two rainbow babies born after her miscarriages. They were born with severe congenital conditions. Congenital Heart defects for her eldest son and Congenital Diaphragmatic Hernia for her youngest. Both requiring birth into NICUs and major surgeries. 

Bex has worked as an AIN in Aged, Disability, and Dementia care, as a private disability nurse and also as an assistant to a prison chaplain with the Salvation Army. She has also been an artist and a poet. Bex loves to help people and hopes to help many bereaved parents with her experiences. 

Her dream is to be published again, and to one day write a book. 

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

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Grief as Time Moves On by Therese

Thirty-seven and a half years ago I miscarried at 16 weeks. I felt this baby growing and knew to be a person in its own right and had been looking forward to seeing its face: I never knew its gender but felt it would have been a boy - after all don't we mothers just know, and of course this was my plan!

People often look at me and I can feel their thoughts: “Why does she still grieve? It's been so long?” and in my mind I reply “So?” Grief is not an emotion that simply disappears with time but rather it is interwoven with life as we now know it, whatever that may be. For some it will be other children and for others it will to never know the joy of watching their baby grow.

What amazes me still (and I don't know why I am still surprised) but no-one ever mentions this lost baby, except on occasion -  my youngest as her partner lost his son at a very young age. Maybe I have learnt to be cynical over the years because those of us who have had a miscarriage or a stillbirth  (though I have never experienced this) that this is always with us; something often buried deep inside to get us through. I always say I have had four babies, not three and because I don't have the breathing fourth child does not mean it is forgotten even now when I am a proud grandma! This attitude of those who know this can still upset me at times. After all this time I suppose people forget but I do not!

Sometimes I sit alone on a bench seat outside, listening to the breeze and sounds trying to find peace in a world that forgets trauma and grief so easily because it is a way of life for so many, which is sad in itself. Losing a baby is something unique and miscarriage again is different from a stillbirth, as in my case I never even got to see my baby. 

Sometimes I think those of us who have experienced the loss of a baby need to be teachers to others who don't understand. We need to let them know about how it is for us, because even though they may never experience what we have been through, they can learn just to listen or just to be there holding your hand.

Even now after all these years I contemplate what may have been and for those who have the support, please use it when you need to; there was no support many years ago. You are so lucky to have a wonderful group like SANDS to offer support and be at the other end of a phone when you experience the loss of your beloved baby. Please feel like you can use them, they understand as they have been through it too! Blessings to all Mums and Dads who grieve for their lost one.

Therese

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

About Therese

Therese has worked in the field of counselling and community development for over 20 years. She has worked predominantly in the health and welfare field. She has worked in the primary school sector counselling children through a range of loss and grief and traumatic experiences.

Therese has also delivered a number of conference papers on the theme of children’s loss and grief and articles on stress management too. She also worked as a Sessional teacher in the TAFE system and the Private Sector in the Community Services area, including Mental Health Welfare for over 20 years. She is also an experienced Supervisor.

Therese has as a small business conducting Reiki, Inner Child Therapy, Meditation and similar therapies. She is also works as a Group Facilitator and teaches stress management and relaxation techniques within the local community as well as running workshops in the areas of trauma and loss and grief and related areas.

Therese is a published poet and has three children and four delightful grandsons. She enjoys nothing more than a good cup of coffee and the occasional glass of wine or bubbly. She is passionate about climate change and the environment, wanting a clean world for her grandchildren to grow up in and one where any type of violence is not tolerated.

Single Bereaved Mother's and their Ex partners by Emma

As soon as I found out I had lost Lynette, I contacted my ex. 

As soon as I found out I had lost Lynette, I contacted my ex. 
I was in the waiting room at radiology at the hospital waiting to be taken back to the maternity ward to prepare for what was next. I needed him to know. My friend at the time started telling me that this was inappropriate that it could wait. In my head, it couldn’t wait. I needed to tell him. I needed him to know.

I think quite often it’s easy for bystanders to have a say in what we should or shouldn’t do. But its extremely hard when you lose a baby as a single mother. Its just you. On your own. Your world has fallen apart right in front of you and there’s not single thing you can do to fix it. 

Although I felt that my ex didn’t do right by me, I felt the need to do everything possible to ensure that I did the right thing by him for Lynette. I owed it to her to do the right thing by him regardless of whether he appreciated it or not.
My advice for other single mothers who have just lost their baby is to put aside any issues that you may have with the father for one brief moment and put your child first. 

Talk with the hospital and come up with a plan of how you are going to facilitate having them meet their child. I did not want him at Lynette's birth. But I was insistent on him meeting her. The hospital helped me facilitate having him there. I was able to enjoy Mothers Day with her and he came in to meet her on the Monday the day after. I was so protective of her, I didn’t leave her side. 

Don’t expect anything from the father. Men handle grief differently but also acknowledge that its unlikely you will get thanked for including him.

I spoke with the funeral director about different options. I decided on having Lynette buried. I arranged all the plans, invited who I wanted there. I included his family but kept it small. I even hosted a wake at my house afterwards. I did all of this on my own. This was the last time I saw any of them. 

I feel at peace knowing that I did the right thing. 

Weeks went on and a mutual friend informed me that he had posted a photo of myself and him lowering Lynette into her grave onto Facebook. I felt sick. Disgusted. These photos were of a private moment. No place for the internet. 
Grief highlights peoples true colours. It was at this point that I made the decision that I still needed to protect her. 

I arranged the plaque shortly after this. I kept the writing neutral. At the end of the day, he is still her father. He still loved her. I think we need to put aside grievances when we lose someone and focus on what really matters. We had a beautiful daughter Lynette Mary Rose. 

Emma

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

Losing My Potatoes by Alison

It never plays out the way I imagine it. Yes I do imagine it. Every scenario flashes through my head, I suppose in preparation for coping with the worst. I wouldn’t know, I’m no psychologist. My imagination tells me I’ll collapse, perhaps scream so loud the medical staff will feel awkward. Maybe I’d need to be restrained for threat of ending it all right there. Instead I am silent - the news registering but not processing. “Don’t take it off my belly,” I say to the sonographer. “Now’s the only chance to see what went wrong.”

They never find anything. 

The first night at home is always odd. There’s a baby inside me, but she’s gone. Yesterday I was pregnant, tomorrow I won’t be. But what am I now? I sip a glass of wine, hating that I’m allowed to, and welcoming the numbness it promotes. 

Necessary Processes

The car trip is silent. The occasional hand on my knee, which I usually can’t acknowledge. Sometimes I place a hand on top of his. It sucks for him too, I’m not completely self-consumed. Mostly I can’t think about it, I just have to survive. Everything about these days etches in my memory. The warm sun on the car, the sound of my footsteps upon the hospital floor. My trackies are dragging, I should pull them up. I look like a bogan. All the other day patients look better dressed – but I’ve been here before. After your hopes and dreams have been torn from your whatsies, the last thing you want to put on is your diesel jeans.

I hand my drivers licence to the clerk, knowing that if words are uttered from my mouth I’ll cry. A nurse gives me the hospital gown and shuts me in a cubical. Then the tears come. Right on cue. They ask me if I’m ok, I can’t answer. 

They hand me the chalky stuff and offer me pain killers in preparation for the cramping it will produce. I refuse. “I prefer the pain,” I lie and they look at me with sympathy. In truth I can’t swallow those enormous tablets with water. I can’t be bothered explaining.

I used to make ridiculous jokes with the anaesthetists. Some weird nervous response, I suppose. I don’t do that this time and I miss that little part of myself.

I wake up feeling groggy, but also better, as though my body feels relief my daughter has been removed from it. I hate myself for feeling like this.

The Healing Process

I sleep the first day. The second we get sushi and drink wine. Sometimes I even laugh, still numb to what I’ve just been through, enjoying the consumables I had to refuse only days earlier. I’m productive. I clean out cupboards, sort through junk. I’m keen to get the weight off, feel good about myself for once. I can’t sit still. Then it’s night and I have time to think. This time last week I had hope… I was almost halfway through, it was supposed to be ok this time. How stupid people must think me. I should have known. It’s the fifth time this has been my reality. Give up, idiot. Murderer. You should have known she wouldn’t make it. Another sucky Christmas without the family I dreamed of. I cry so much I at least don’t have to take my make-up off. 

Answers

They’ll test the product, then dispose of her as though she was nothing. I can’t keep her, it’s not procedure. I could have birthed her, they’d told me. A limited autopsy would have been performed. I know the result, all would be clear, it always is. My daughters are perfect. But I wouldn’t have survived another terminal birth. The hospital doctors feed me some stupid statistic that ‘historically after loss people have an 80% chance of success’. Specialists are a little more specific, telling me they’re sure it was this or that. Clearly I’m gullible, but it’s not as though I go into a pregnancy thinking I won’t have a baby at the end. I gamble responsibly. 

My Emotional Potatoes

The nurse calls me the next day. She’d prefer an adult home with me, she says. That’s because she doesn’t know the difference between being suicidal and not knowing how to live each day. I’m not alone, I assure her. Hubby is worried too.

Mostly I’m ok. There are triggers, many obvious. Bleeding, seeing pregnant mums, new born babies, siblings are a huge trigger for me, abrupt or snappy people, but also not knowing whether I’ll get my dollar back from the Aldi trolley. I had a full panic attack once because I ran out of potatoes for dinner. I didn’t need them, from a BMI point of view or for the night’s menu. But panic is a dirty mole. They say with panic your body goes into fight or flight mode. You know, where back in the days of our ancestors they would have run from the lion or tried to fight it. Well there’s another mode that doesn’t sound as sassy as fight or flight. Hide. That’s me. I shut down completely and can no longer process my environment. I literally blank people out if it’s too overwhelming. I tell myself that had ancestor me been faced with a lion I’d have scaled an enormous tree. Current me is just socially awkward.

Back to Reality

Then I’m back at work. Mostly I act as though nothing has happened. As though my belly doesn’t still look pregnant and my heart isn’t broken. They don’t give me bereavement leave, or maternity leave. Babies aren’t considered people unless they are born. Alive. And even then it’s apparently debatable. 

I’m triggered by everything and also nothing – A person talking about their grandchildren, a passing comment that brings me back to reality for no reason. Sometimes the conversations feel intentional. I’m probably paranoid. But also people can be heartless numpties. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and then sloppy sob into my hands. I’m gone too long and don’t know how I’ll go back to the office. I should have bought makeup to work. Red eyes are in fashion, right? When I do go back, no one says anything. I make jokes to over-compensate and actually it’s so awkward that I’m a little bit amused at myself. I can’t tell if I’m weird or fabulous. 

Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud

A few weeks after a loss comes the mud. The weight isn’t coming off, I’ve achieved none of the things I should have now that I’m not pregnant. It’s paralysing. I see the person I want to be, the mother, the wife, the human being, but she’s out of reach. Crying is unproductive, leaving the house unnecessarily presents too many unknowns. I took half a valium once, but felt trapped in my head, my muscles too relaxed to move. It was a strange kind of torture. I wish I’d enjoyed it.

One of the most difficult aspects of loss for me has been the reaction of others. The more losses I have, the less it seems to matter to the majority. I announce on facebook now. It’s easier than having to see the looks of sympathy in people’s eyes. Or watch them as they retreat into themselves, not knowing what to say. My close friends text me, usually with profanities and offers of alcohol consumption. These are welcome. I get private messages from people asking if it will be investigated or if I’ve considered this test or that. We’ve done every test. All of them. I want to tell them to sod of, but for some reason I still want to be liked. This all goes to snot when I bring up my losses randomly with strangers. Something about getting in before they ask me impossible questions such as how many children I have. At least now I have an excuse for being socially awkward (whoever said I couldn’t see the positives?!).

I go back to my GP for surgery follow up and her face lights up when she sees me. She doesn’t know. Screw you public hospital and your terrible correspondence records. More mud, more tears. I’d rather face a lion.

The Spiritual

I try to understand what lesson I might be supposed to understand from an ethereal being point of view. It’s too wasteful not to be angry about. If there is some higher power, it clearly has no idea who I am. This goes against everything I was brought up to believe. It makes me feel insignificant and isolated, and perhaps a little rebellious.

I have learnt a few things though:

• I can only control my life to a certain point

• A pregnancy will go the way it’s meant to, regardless of whether             you’re anxious about it or not

• People suck at dealing with the grief of others

• But their intentions are mostly good

• You think you’re doing ok and then someone keys your car

• Alcohol makes me happy, but also fat

Help, in all its Obvious Forms

You’re probably thinking I should see someone. I have of course. After I gave birth to my heart angel, Autumn, I was diagnosed with PTSD. My first psychologist focused on mindfulness and tried to teach me breathing techniques. There’s a place for mindfulness, but when I’m sobbing in a corner because I’ve lost my potatoes, the last thing I want to do is be in my conscious thought and experience every sensation. Perhaps I missed the point. Whatever. Hubby’s solution of a cider in the shower and taking over dinner is a little more genius. 

The second psychologist was brilliant. Apart from the fact he was on the other side of the city and both parking and being late are massive triggers for me. Also he charged $220 for 50 minutes, but I left his sessions feeling pumped. He told me my PTSD was more like severe depression, but actually I deal with it very well. Apparently the people he sees with ‘real’ PTSD are like shattered windscreens, which can be put back together, but will never function properly again. I’m balanced, he told me. Stable and strong. It took eight sessions before I realised I had paid him $1760 to complement me. He may also be a genius.

Self Perceptions

The strange thing for me is realising I’m no where near as resilient as I portray to others. When I was sixteen I lived in emergency housing, technically homeless, though less dramatic as I never slept on the street. The circumstances that landed me on the doorstep of Berry Street, a wonderful organisation, were domestic violence and a mother who couldn’t support us out of that situation. I’ll never forget the lady at Centrelink asking me why I didn’t live at home. I don’t remember if I verbally answered, but she saw something in my eyes (alright, I was probably snort-sobbing), and she lodged the documents as ‘unreasonable to live at home’. I was lucky. But at the time, I felt invincible. I had removed myself from the scary thing, got a job and supported myself. At sixteen!

When I was twenty-five I was in a relationship with an insecure guy with a temper. (insert metaphor of how you end up dating the same personalities as your male role-models). One night, after I’d broken up with him, but before I moved out, he wanted to go through my phone. He snatched it off me and hid it, then took my wallet and my car keys so I couldn’t leave. As I pulled out my laptop to message a friend, he marched to the kitchen to turn the internet off at the wall. This is when I grabbed the spare keys from under my pillow and fled.

On a digressive side note, if you find yourself sleeping with your spare keys under your pillow, you’re not dramatic, you’re clever. But maybe do a one, two, skip a few and leave now. 

My point of listing these two scenarios is that I still was somewhat in control of my life, regardless of how difficult it felt at the time. Pregnancy loss was new territory for my self-built life. I love the motivational speakers who tell you you’re the master of your own universe. Also I want to throw tomatoes at their stupid advertisements. 

Control. What a beautiful illusion. 

This gets heavy, but bear with me if you can. Before I birthed my Autumn they made me swallow a tablet to cut off the hormones. The theory was that she would pass peacefully inside me, rather than minutes after birth in a painful and traumatic manner. I thought of course that I was protecting her. Within an hour and over the next few days her movements slowed down. This is the worst thing I’ve ever been through. Ever. I had no control over her life. I couldn’t protect her and no matter what happened, I would have to birth her in a few days. It was like walking towards some kind of death. I knew I would be worse off for having gone through it, but I had no escape. No spare keys under my pillow, no centrelink lady rescuing me from starvation. I laboured for eight hours. I was refused epidural, but I needed the agony. It was the only proof I was still alive. She died in my arms. I wasn’t prepared for that. I wanted to die with her, as though I could walk her through the veil that separates life and death, in some ridiculous belief that she wouldn’t be alone. There was nothing spiritual about that day. No flash of light, no angels singing hymns of praise as they whisked her up to heaven. She was there and then she wasn’t. If I had died with her, I’d have simply been also dead. It was soul-destroying. 

The moment she was out of my body I felt relief that the worst of it was over. I was so wrong. 


And then…

I’ve lost three more daughters since Autumn. I don’t know why they’re girls, I’m assured in holds no significance to the pregnancy outcomes. The baby before Autumn was never tested for gender – or anything else. The first loss is not deemed significant enough for testing.

Where I’m At

I’ve explained my losses, given some insight into how I am (or am not) managing. I’m supposed to end on some positive note, so all the readers will feel warm and fuzzy. Humans need happy endings. I’m still working on coping. I haven’t discovered a fool-proof way through the mud, and I’m sorry that the only solution I’ve offered is alcoholic consumption. Maybe I’ll name my next blog post ‘Finding my Potatoes’ and feed you all some excellent story of how it all worked out in the end. Or maybe life is about moving on from the notions of happy endings – or endings at all for that matter. Perhaps life is about every moment, the good and the bad and how we adapt to what we’re dealt. 

My one little chestnut in my pocket is that perhaps when the mud hits after this loss I will find a way to feel alive. Maybe I’ll go skydiving and shock myself into living. I’ll let you know if it snaps me out of it. 

Alternatively I might have a freak parachute accident, furthering the doctor’s theories that I’m just extremely unlucky. 

Also, I’ll keep focusing on health and well-being, but because I’m vain, not responsible. That way when people ask me how I’m going, I can be honest and say I’m pretty shit. I’m shit, but I feel pretty so whatever. It’s the little things.

Alison

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

Ally Pritchard is an author and mother from Melbourne. She writes fictional novels and novellas under her maiden name A. Finlay. She’s lost five babies at eight, twenty-one, twelve, twelve and just recently at fifteen weeks.

Check out Ally's facebook page

Losing Friends as a Single Bereaved Mother by Emma

I wish I could tell you that people will support you through this difficult time. That the friends you have at the start of your journey will always be there for you. The ones that may have been at your child’s birth will still be there for you in 6 months time. 

Friends come and go. When you lose a child, people’s true colours are displayed. 
Those who are really there for you stick around no matter what. 

I found some friends judged or criticised me. I struggled early on with social situations. I was upset that some friends expected me to move on and get over it and just carry on with life. “Why delay the inevitable?” I was told. 

It’s hard because I found that I held onto ambivalent relationships because I felt so alone and isolated. What I didn’t realise that these ambivalent relationships were quite often worse than the toxic friends who I had removed from my life. 

When you lose a baby, you only have so much emotional and physical energy. Chances are you have been reliving the moments you lost your child, the whole pregnancy and days after losing your child in your head. The last thing you need to have in that space is who’s genuinely there for you and who’s not.

Put yourself first. Do what you need to do. If that’s going for a walk every day to clear your head do it. If its visiting your child at the cemetery every day, do it. I don’t care what it is but make sure that you do what you need to do to survive. No one else is walking this journey but you.

Cherish those in your life that see beyond your mask. Cherish those who take the time out of their day to send you messages and ask how you really are doing. Don’t settle for second best. If you are not getting what you need, ask and explain to those around you what you need. If you’re still not getting what you need, chances are you will find it elsewhere. 

I have met some of the most amazing people since losing Lynette. Work colleagues have become closer. I didn’t realise how much I could call my work colleagues family. 

You lost your child! It is not too much to expect that close friends will support you. 
Wouldn’t you do the same for them?

Emma

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

Terminating our Baby Boy's Life - Our Story with Spina Bifida by Lucy

You never think it is going to happen to you. The ‘it’ being miscarriage, stillbirth or medical termination. The ‘it’ that happens to so many women around us. The ‘it’ we don’t speak about until it’s happened to someone close to you. 

Falling pregnant and becoming a mum was something I had always wanted from a young girl.  Shaun and I had been together for years and together, we had made the decision that we were ready to start a family. For us, we fell pregnant easily and couldn’t have been more excited. 

Our 12-week scan was the best thing I have ever seen. Measuring perfectly to date and fist pumping to say, “Hey!” Feeling great and with a ‘healthy’ 12-week scan, we did what most people do. We told our extended family and friends. I decided to do a social media announcement, sharing our excitement with everyone.  Comments of congratulations poured in.  We were just so excited. If only we had known what was ahead. I now have a very different view on the ‘announcement’ of a pregnancy.

Our 19-week scan was booked and the weeks were dragging leading up to it. I couldn’t wait to see our little bub again! Mum even came along, being the first grandchild in the family, it was all so exciting. The sonographer explained that this scan would take longer because she had lots of measuring to do. It was difficult as bub was moving around so much.  She was silent throughout, paying special attention to the heart, spine and brain. As a trained paediatric nurse, I just assumed it was due to the importance of these organs.

The lady asked me to empty my bladder and we would finish the scan when I got back. When the lady returned, she came in with another women and introduced her as the doctor. My heart sunk. I was anxious, nervous and for some reason knew whatever was coming next, was going to absolutely ruin me. The doctor explained there had been some concerns with my scan and that I would need to book in to see my GP that day. I crumbled. Between the tears, I asked why and what. She told me she had to finish the report and my GP could go over the results. I asked again. I begged her to tell me. I asked what part of the body she was concerned about. Five words I did not want to hear… “the head and the spine”. 

We saw my GP an hour later, who booked a scan with a specialist at King Edward Memorial Hospital (KEMH) that afternoon. She couldn’t give us much explanation until we had a secondary scan. She spoke with that same devastating tone and body language. 

We arrived at KEMH feeling absolutely shattered already, knowing the day was nowhere near over. The waiting room was full; full of pregnant, happy and excited women, with their equally as happy partners. Shaun and I sat down, out of place, in a waiting room we wished we wanted to be in. 

We were seen by a lovely midwife who again spoke in that same tone as the doctor and my GP. We knew the news was going to be horrible. A clinical midwife was going to do the scan and finally explain what we were dealing with. She was calm, friendly and comforting.  I lay down on the bed and lifted up my shirt to expose my small baby bump that I was so proud of. It was finally showing and people were starting to notice. 

She pressed the probe against my tummy and showed us the head shape they had initially been concerned with. She ran the probe down my baby’s back, showing us a little sac growing outside the spine that contained important spinal nerves. Growing outside the spine meant these precious nerves were exposed and becoming damaged as my baby moved inside my womb. It was confirmed. Our beautiful baby had spina bifida, formed when the neural tube closes to form the spine in the first month of pregnancy. There was nothing I could have done differently, nor could it have been detected until 16 weeks. She explained what life would be like for our baby as he grew older. She explained the potential and the potential challenges. She was honest about what our future life would entail. We had a choice to make. The hardest and most unfair choice a parent should ever have to make.

We took the news home, with a decision to be made overnight. I made the call the next morning. I somehow managed to tell the midwife we had made the decision to terminate. Words that seemed so hard to spit out. We knew this was the right decision for us and there was no thinking otherwise. That doesn’t make it easier to say because we were ending a desperately wanted pregnancy.

I went in on the Friday to speak to the doctor before being admitted on Saturday morning to give birth. We sat in a quiet room, it looked and felt like the ‘bad news’ room we had in ICU when I was nursing. Couches, tissues and a jug of water on the table. The doctor explained what Saturday was going to look like. He explained the potential chance of theater if my body decided it didn’t want to pass the placenta within an hour after birth. He explained that it could take all day. He prepared me for the worst I suppose, as if it could get any worse than it already was. Then came ‘the pill’, the little, light blue pill that held so much power. The pill that would stop my pregnancy. Stop the hormones rushing around my body. Stop my baby’s heartbeat. Going against everything I thought I believed in, until it was me in this position. 

Saturday morning we drove to hospital in silence. I was going in knowing we would leave with nothing. I was admitted at 8am to a gynecology ward. The nurses were amazing. We got started at 9am and two tablets were inserted to induce labour. It was uneventful until 12pm. The pain started off like normal period pain and then started getting worse. At 1pm the nurse inserted the second dose and it only got worse from there. Contractions started and the pain grew. 
I can’t explain it in any words, other than it being the worst pain I have ever experienced. I suppose the only people that understand, are those that have endured childbirth. But for mine, there is no motivation of a healthy baby, full of life. I needed 3 intramuscular morphine injections throughout and the gas (which did absolutely nothing!). By 5pm the pain was unbearable. 

Shaun was my superstar during this whole ordeal. To see me go through that much pain and emotional suffering would have been horrendous, but he was incredible and inspirational. The doctor came in to review me. I was curled over on my knees and elbows, crying and screaming the ward down, when I felt something different. The nurse explained that my waters needed to break so nothing was going to happen until that happened. But it was. I knew it was coming. I gave a push because it felt right and out he came. The pain was over almost instantly. 

Our baby, William, fully encased in the intact amniotic sac, was lying on the bed, all 23cm and 220 grams of him. My waters did not break, instead I pushed a ‘balloon through a small cervix’ as the nurse explained. It was a ‘Caul Birth’, a 1 in 80,000 chance and apparently a sign of good luck. 

Shaun cut our son’s umbilical cord and the nurse took him away. I was somewhat relieved, but physically and emotionally exhausted. I had another injection to help my body pass the placenta, which ended up passing just in time – saving me from theatre. 

We asked to see our baby and the nurse returned with a tiny basket, something your young daughter might carry her doll in. She took off the blanket to reveal our little William. I felt this sense of joy. For some reason, I couldn’t cry. It was a strange sensation, but I felt so proud of our boy. I fell in love. He was perfect. His nose, lips, fingers and toes… all perfect. He had the obvious lesion on his back, confirming his diagnosis, but if it wasn’t for that, you couldn’t tell. He looked so small in his daddy’s big hands. It wasn’t the way it was meant to be, and it certainly wasn’t fair. No parent should ever have to do this. That night, we held him until we couldn’t keep our eyes open any longer. It was a huge day, and we were both exhausted.

Our parents and siblings came in to meet and cuddle their grandchild and nephew. It was something they were all hesitant about, but they are now so glad they did. A proper goodbye and closure for everyone, so when we talk about him, they just get it.

The next day, before discharge, we spent the morning with William. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was amazing. When the time came, saying goodbye and leaving the hospital was cruel. I still don’t know how I managed to walk out of those doors with my back to my baby boy, leaving him inside and walking away empty handed. We felt totally ripped off. 

And now, 12 weeks on, we manage… just. There are good days and there are bad days, but I know William Hugh Bryant is looking over us and will be looking over his future brothers and sisters. I am now on high dose folate, which should prevent this from happening again. Hopefully we can start trying soon. The nursery is ready and we are ready. 

We are both so lucky to have such a supportive family and a large group of supportive friends, but unless you have been through something like this, you don’t really understand, and that is what I have found quite hard and isolating. Through Sands QLD and a Mamamia podcast (Rebecca Sparrow on surviving and thriving after loss), I have found and joined two Facebook pages, both providing me with environments where I have felt safe and supported when sharing my story and questions to other amazing mums in similar situations. Reading others’ stories and journeys has reassured me that I will get through this and I am not going at it alone. It is place where I can share how I am feeling with people who just ‘get it’ that little bit more. 

I write this with a slight sense of frustration, as I wish I had been educated on just how hard having a baby can be. No one told me that these things happened as often as they do. It’s an unspoken topic that needs to be spoken more about and it frustrates me how little we all know about it. We need to start the conversation that having healthy children is a miracle and should not be taken for granted. Every pregnancy is a life that should be celebrated; miscarriage medical termination or stillbirth. This is to all the amazing mums and dads out there who have never met, held, or like us, taken their baby home from hospital.                     

Lucy

                                                                                                  

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

Lucy Taylor

Hi my name is Lucy, I am currently a primary school teacher, after making a career change from paediatric nursing. My partner and I lost our first child in May 2017 after finding out at 19 weeks he had spina bifida. We really had no idea how common miscarriages, still births and medical terminations actually were until it was us in the position. I wrote my blog to bring awareness to others like us, as well as to help other couples know they are not alone in this world.