Pain and Panic Attacks

Once Emilie's funeral was over there was an initial release as the limbo state we had been in was over.  But following the release we were plunged deeper into grief.  The funeral had given us something to focus on and something to move towards and once it was over we had nothing to replace it with.  John had still not returned to work but his return was moving closer and I was all too aware of my lack of job, and therefore (as I felt at the time) my lack of purpose.  A few weeks previous I had felt like I knew exactly where I was going.  I had finished work early to rest but knew it was temporary.  My plan was always to spend time with Sam and Emilie being a stay at home mum until she was a couple of years old at which point I planned to continue my career in childcare.  And now here I was jobless having suspended my business with no direction.  The rug had well and truly been pulled from under our feet.  

My blog, at that time, read:

13th October 2011

I feel like I’m really struggling.  I miss Emilie so much – I will be ok for a couple of hours and then my chest seizes up as if my heart is physically aching for her and the panicky feeling comes back.  I’m physically and emotionally exhausted from not sleeping and spending hours crying. I find myself staring at people with young babies and panicking when I see a pram.  I know that they are doing the things that I should be doing and am finding this incredibly painful.  I keep thinking about all of the milestones we’ll never have with Emilie – her first smile, weaning her, learning to sit up and learning to walk.  I can’t bear the thought that these are all things we won’t get to see.  

I had started to go back to toddler groups with my friends, initially with John's support and eventually by myself, but I was always in a strange, subdued state.  The world carried on around me and I felt like an observer in my own life.  I almost had the sensation of being under water - when all senses are dulled but you can vaguely hear people calling your name and talking about you.  Sam and his friends would run around as normal and I would watch them, in a daze.  My amazing friends - the same friends I had met when I had Sam - stuck by my side and ensured that I wasn't left alone.  The panic attacks I was having were becoming much more common but now, instead of taking me unawares they would be always present, just below the surface pushing down on my chest and suffocating me.  They would lie dormant rendering me unable to eat or sleep, unable to have a conversation without hearing a ringing in my ears and sensing how unreal the situation was, and unable to breathe deeply.  And then they would surface.  I would see a pram or a baby carrier, see new born baby or a pregnant woman or hear the cry of a baby and the panic would be unleashed.  I needed to try and learn to contain it.  I quickly learnt that, although seeing any pregnant woman or baby was painful, seeing a woman or baby whom I didn't know and had no relationship with was more than I could bear.  I didn't know their story and often they didn't know mine.  I envied them so much and desperately wanted to tell them how lucky they were.  I struggled to walk past them in supermarkets or cafes without feeling like I wanted to be sick.  Thank goodness people were still cooking meals for us as for weeks on end I became unable to go to the supermarket!  After a few weeks the panic was ruling my life and I became unable to function. I had lost weight - very quickly and very obviously.  My eyes were tired, my face was gaunt and my skin was pale.  I knew that people were becoming increasingly worried about me but I physically could not eat or sleep.  It didn't take long for this to become a habit and it was difficult to see where the inability to sleep and eat through grief ended and the habit started.  It was at this point that my GP suggested I start taking antidepressants in order to help me function more on a day to day basis.  The type of anti depressants I was taking would not work instantly but instead would take a month or so to build up in my system.  In the meantime (and in the time following) I continued to have counselling sessions with Carol, who had been with us on the day that Emilie died.  

I was continuing to read books that spoke about overcoming grief and losing a baby/child and was asking God to speak to me about what was happening.  I knew that I blamed myself for everything that had happened.  I was expecting the results of the pathology report to throw up something that would indicate I was to blame and knew that I'd have to pay the price.  I would rack my brains to think about what I might move done and would obsess about what I could have done differently; should I have eaten that?  Should I have taken Sam to soft play? Should I have gone to the hospital earlier?  Should I have slept in that position?  Should I have gone swimming the week before her death?  Should I have taken those baths?  Did I take the medication to prevent clotting properly?  Had I taken it at the wrong time of day??  The questions went over and over in my mind and I begged God to tell me why it had happened.  Why had he allowed it?  The only thing I knew is that I wouldn't know the reason this side of heaven and blaming myself for the rest of my life would be a very long, painful and possibly futile process.  That said, it took me a very long time to stop blaming myself and there are still days when the thoughts of self blame cross my mind.  I was reading a book one evening and read a passage that talked about God having a purpose for each and every one of us.  It was written by a lady who's baby had died of a congenital disorder and had been stillborn at the same gestation as Emilie.   She was talking about the purpose that her daughter had had in her 7 month life.  ('Wonderfully Made' by Jaclyn M. Olson).  I was absolutely blown away by what she had written and begged God to show me what Emilie's purpose had been.  I knew that the  Bible says that God ‘will fulfil his purpose for me’ (Psalm 138:8) and that this applies to Emilie also – that her short life was not a waste or in vain and that she did have a purpose.  That I didn't know what her purpose was at that time was no obstacle to God and he reminded me that he has a plan for me to prosper me, and NOT TO HARM ME – to bring me HOPE and a future.  I needed to keep clinging to this, especially when the doubts crept in.  At that time I also began to realise that the voice I’d heard accusing me of doing something to harm Emilie was NOT God's voice and that I needed to learn to hear and recognise his voice more.  I learnt that nothing can happen without God’s knowledge and permission... 29 What is the price of two sparrows—one copper coin[a]? But not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. 30 And the very hairs on your head are all numbered. 31 So don’t be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows" (Matt 10: 29 – 31).   I knew that I needed to cling to this and decided to wait to find out how God would use what had happened for good.  

The weeks seemed to go by in a hazy fashion and there is alot that I can't remember about those first few weeks after Emilie's death.  We were trying to work out what our lives looked like; what the 'new normal' was.  The medication I was on was beginning to work and, although still present, the panicky feeling I had become so used to was getting less suffocating.  I would still cry myself to sleep at night though and would put Sam to bed for his lunchtime nap and sit in a daze not knowing what to do with myself.  I began to watch TV box sets whilst Sam slept to keep my mind in some way occupied but looking back I can't remember anything of what I watched.  I would often arrange for friends to come round for coffee whilst Sam was asleep and would try to engage in 'normal' conversation but, as my mind was filled with thoughts of Emilie, this was something that I found incredibly difficult to do.

The day that Emilie had died had been a blur of trauma and confusion.  The only item we had kept of hers after her death was the pink and grey striped sleep suit that she had worn.  Before the funeral I had woken up in a panic that the funeral directors would have thrown it away and asked John to call to check.  They confirmed that they still had the sleep suit and her Princess dress and I asked John to go down to get it.  I wanted her to wear her dress so that we could remember her as a Princess but I was desperate to retrieve the sleep suit.  Grief is a funny thing.  It completely disables you and renders you incapable, not only to complete every day tasks, but also to think clearly with perspective for the future.  We were unable to think about what we might want to keep of Emilie's and this was something that, apart from being given the memory box, was not really spoken about at the time of her death.  I look back and wonder what, if I was in my right mind, I'd have kept.  Maybe the blanket she was wrapped in?   Certainly the wrist band she wore from the hospital.  Instead, the only material things we had to prove she existed was her sleep suit and her hand and footprints.  I longed for something physical to hold.  I didn't want to hold the sleep suit too much as it smelt as I had remembered her smelling and I didn't want to lose that scent.  I couldn't hold the hand and footprints.  I longed for something to show people - to say 'this was my daughters' or to enable them to raise the subject in conversation. 

 The week of the funeral, while John was still off work, I decided that I wanted to go along to 'Sticky Fingers' - the toddler group run by my church.  I wanted to try and get back some sense of normality and also wanted to see people before the funeral so that the funeral wasn't the first time I would have seen them since Emilie's death.  It just so happened that on that particular day Jemma, the leader of Sticky Fingers, had met a lady who made silver hand and footprint jewellery.  Jemma had felt really compelled to invite the lady along to the toddler group that morning and had shared my story with her, asking if she would be able to make me a piece of jeweller with Emilie's prints on it.  Jemma sensitively spoke to me that morning.  Through chatting, I explained that we didn't have anything physical to remember Emilie by and how much this was upsetting me.  She then relayed her conversation with Sarah, the jewellery designer, and asked if I would like a piece of jewellery making as a gift.  I remember the feeling of complete numbness that I was still experiencing at that time.  I had worked to put on a front that morning so that I could get through the group and I wasn't willing to let anything break down that front but the thought of owning something that represented Emilie overwhelmed me.  I have never been able to express how grateful I am for my necklace but remember that 3 weeks later when I picked it up and was able to wear it, feeling a huge sense of relief at being able to prove Emilie had existed.  I loved wearing something that people would notice and could ask me about.  I often say that the necklace is my most treasured material possession - I know that it is the material thing I would save if my house was on fire!

As the weeks drew by, Faye's due date was getting closer and I was so scared that she would want to stop seeing me once the baby was born.  It was a fear that was borne out of reactions from other people who did not know how to deal with the situation.  I sometimes wonder, had the situation been reversed, would I have known how to deal with things?  I learnt that my friends were grieving as I was and the pain was incredibly difficult for them to deal with.  I learnt that it was painful for them to see us in the situation that we were in and that this pain was even more amplified when they had young babies and no one knew what to say or do.  I couldn't bring myself to talk to Faye about how I was feeling incase she turned around and told me that actually yes - she did need some space from my pain.  Each time I saw her I worried that our friendship may come to an end as she wouldn't want to see me once her baby boy was born.  Eventually I met with another good friend, Sally - a very close friend of Faye's, for lunch and spoke to her about it.  Sally's mum had died a couple of years previously and she was one of the only friends I had who had experienced huge grief and wasn't scared of it.  We spoke about the way I was feeling about certain things and she assured me that it was completely normal.  I also spoke to her about my fears concerning Faye.  I remember her reaction - it wasn't one of surprise of ridicule and she simply said 'Faye loves you'.  She helped me to understand that Faye had also experienced loss in the situation - we had both been pregnant together and had looked forward to our children being friends and growing up together.  We had looked forward to attending baby groups together and doing the whole 'baby thing' as friends.  In a similar way to me adjusting to losing all of these things, she was also needing to adjust to losing the idea of us having babies the same age.  I decided to speak to her before our due dates arrived as I knew that once her baby was born he could become the perfect excuse for me not to deal with my fears.  As our due dates drew closer I asked Faye if she would help me clear out Emilie's wardrobe.  We sat on Emilie's bedroom floor folding tiny baby clothes to put away in boxes and I spoke to her about my fears.  I explained that, although I knew that it would be hard when their baby was born, I didn't want her to try and protect me from him.  I wanted to still be able to be a part of his life and I didn't want to be robbed from that opportunity in addition to what I had already been robbed of.  The morning after Jasper was born, Faye and Mark arrived on the doorstep.  Faye said that she wanted to give me the opportunity to meet him without other people being around.  They brought him into the house in his car seat and I was immediately struck by how beautiful - and how alive - he was.  I was also struck by the fact the he wasn't Emilie.  This sounds like a strange thing to say now but it was a huge thing for me, at the time, to be able to separate Jasper from my own baby and from my own desires.  He was his own little person and meeting him was a special moment.  It didn't induce any feelings of panic or any floods of tears, only appreciation for our friends and a desire to be a part of Jasper's life as much as we could.

Just before my due date arrived we had our debrief appointment at the hospital with my consultant.  It was the first time we had returned there since the day we went to register Emilie's death and as we drove into the car park that familiar feeling of panic and dread started to rise up in my chest.  We walked down to the fetal medical unit and the walls seemed to spin around me.  I felt physically sick and the thought that I should still be attending clinic there, being monitored before Emilie's delivery, struck me hard as we waited to find out the cause of her death.

We sat in a side consulting room and waited.  My post natal midwife, Angela, had kindly agreed to come with us so that we would have an extra listening ear.  Our consultant, and a haematologist, came in and sat down.  I remember trying to take deep breaths so that I wouldn't break down.  My consultant started by asking how we were, at which point I started to cry.  I couldn't speak so simply shook my head.  She emphasised that we had suffered a huge loss and bereavement and did not at any point belittle our feelings.  She noticed my footprint necklace and commented on how special and beautiful it was.  She then  began to go through the pathology report with us.  The problems I had had with Sam had recurred but to a more severe extent.  The onset had been very sudden, the reason for which was unknown  and I had also suffered a placental abruption in which the lining of the placenta had become detached from the lining of my uterus causing the oxygen supply to Emilie to be suddenly cut off.  There was no way she could have survived and I was also incredibly lucky as pre-eclampsia and placental abruption can claim the life of the mother in addition to the baby.   I began to ask questions - had I been overdoing things?  Had I been sleeping in a poor position?  Could I have prevented it.  My consultant reassured me that there was nothing I had done to cause Emilie's death - something I really needed to hear.  We were desperate to start trying for another baby; I couldn't think of anything else.  We were relieved to hear that we would be able to try for another baby and an action plan was put in place for future pregnancies.  I would be 'booked into' the hospital very early and would have a scan by 7 weeks.  I would take folic acid in preparation, aspirin as soon as I had a positive pregnancy test and fragmin injections when the pregnancy was confirmed as viable at the 7 week scan.  Miscarriage didn't even enter my mind.  We left the hospital encouraged that a reason had been found for Emilie's death and pleased that we could try for another baby.  It was 7th November and I was convinced that I would be pregnant by Christmas.

Saying 'Goodbye'

On the days when Samuel was at playgroup - and the emptiness was most apparent - we would go for coffees together.  A new garden centre had opened locally the weekend of Emilie's death and we made the most of the heat wave that had struck that week - very strange for the end of September in Liverpool - and sat outside at the garden centre drinking coffee and planning Emilie's funeral.  No parent should have to plan the funeral of their child.  

We were given a basic structure to follow and sat discussing how we wanted to pad it out and what we wanted to include.  Did John want to carry Emilie down the aisle or would we like the funeral directors to do so? What songs did we want? What prayers and readings did we want and who did we want to read them?  How did we want to acknowledge Emilie's life? What flowers did we want and who did we want to come?  I couldn't help but notice the stark similarities between planning Emilie's funeral and planning our own wedding yet I was all too aware of the strange juxtaposition between the two.  It still felt like a dream - were we really sat planning our own daughter's funeral? Was John really going to carry her down the aisle in a coffin rather that walk her down in a white dress?  I couldn't understand how it had gone so wrong. Thank goodness for the other people we had around us to plan the formalities of the funeral and the reception as I really don't think we would have had the capacity to do so.

7th October 2011 was the day of Emilie's funeral.  We had decided for Sam not to come to Emilie's funeral - not because we felt it would be inappropriate for him; we knew that the would be other friends' children there - but because we wanted to be able to grieve without worrying about the effect our reactions may have on him.  A childminder friend had agreed to have him for the afternoon and Faye had agreed to pick him up afterwards to bring him to the reception so that he could see our families. We felt that this was best all round. 

We woke up on the morning of the funeral with the knowledge that we were going to be saying 'goodbye' to our baby girl and wondering if this was going to be an end to the limbo state that we were finding ourselves in.  We sent Sam to playgroup and picked him up as usual and were given an amazing bunch of flowers from the staff.  We had decided to go for a family lunch together before the funeral to give us something nice to remember.  The lunch in itself was lovely although surreal.  The three of us sat together whilst John and I had the strange knowledge that this was the day of our daughter's funeral.  The staff at the cafe made a big fuss of Sam but I wanted to let them know that we had another child and this was the day we were saying goodbye to her.   I really struggled with the fact the people who didn't know us had no idea that Emilie had ever existed.  I longed for people to ask about her so that I could speak to them about her; so that I could acknowledge her existence and importance. But they would just see a family of 3 and have no knowledge of the fact that that had ever been different.

After lunch we dropped Sam off at my friend's house and returned home to wait for our wonderful friends, Tom and Lindsey, to arrive.  They had been close friends of ours for years in Liverpool, before moving to London to pursue a music career, and are Sam's godparents.  We had asked them to come to the house before the funeral and to come in the car with us.  There was no one I would have rather had next to us on that day and we needed their support.  Once they arrived there was no awkwardness of wondering what to talk about - we continued as normal.  We had a catch up, as much as we could, cried and laughed together and eventually prayed together before the car arrived.  My stomach was in knots the whole time and I begun to regret having such a big lunch as I felt quite sick with nervousness.  2:45 pm arrived and there was a ring at the doorbell.  I think that John answered the door and I followed behind but as soon as I saw the funeral limo and Emilie's tiny, white coffin in the back my legs crippled and the panic gripped my chest.  I began to shake and cry in huge sobs.  I needed to be virtually carried to the car and was held on one side by Tom and the other by Lindsey.  In the same way that I had known I wanted to write Emilie's Eulogy, John had known that he wanted to carry her coffin. He sat in the back of the car holding onto to his precious daughter whilst I sat in the middle with Tom and Lindsey holding my hands and helping to keep me grounded.  In through the nose - and out through the mouth.  The journey to the crematorium seemed to take forever and I shook all the way.  I began to wonder if I had enough tissues to get me through the service.  As we pulled up at the crematorium I could see our friends and family through the window and could see friends arriving.  I couldn't control the tears and panic any longer and sobbed uncontrollably in the car.  Tom and Lindsey were amazing.  I could tell that they were in immense pain seeing their friends go through the unthinkable and yet they managed to keep their composure and uphold us.

Dave came to greet us in the car and go through formalities with us before we got out of the car.  Nearly a week after Emilie's death a young man from church named Michael had also died.  He had had a cancerous brain tumor and put up a long fight against it before going to home to Jesus.  Dave had also officiated Michael's funeral on the same day and must have been exhausted yet he remained calm, kept his composure and was an amazing support to us.   I remember speaking to Mike's mum, Carol, some months later at coffee together.  She told me how much Mike had loved babies and children.  I  imagined Mike and Emilie walking through the gates of heaven together and Mike being a part of Emilie's heavenly upbringing.  I imagined them knowing the relationship that their mothers would build up and the common ground that they, and we, shared.  It has been a huge comfort to me since.

The time came for us to get out of the funeral car and go into the crematorium. We had asked for people to be seated before we went in so that we did not have to worry about meeting and greeting or taking on other people's emotions before the service.  We walked through the door and I focused on the front of the room.  Lindsey held on to my arm and helped to hold me up as we walked down the aisle and Tom did the same for John.  We made it to the front of the room in one piece and sat for the service.  It was an incredibly emotional and special service for our beautiful girl.  The songs we had chosen seemed to fit perfectly and Dave led a dedication in which we gave Emilie back to God.  The emotional release of giving Emilie up was amazing and we knew that it was something we had needed to do.

I was able to lead Emilie's eulogy - something that I am certain was only possible through the strength that God had given me that afternoon.  I wrote the eulogy down to save it and when I decided to recount my experience in writing I also decided to share the Eulogy:

As a family John, Sam and I were looking forward to Emilie’s birth so much. I had prepared myself for another early arrival just in case and had my hospital bag ready packed. I think I’d done it to avoid the sense of denial I felt when Samuel was born prematurely. We had waited 2 years to try for another baby as we were so fearful about what might happen. We not only had trouble conceiving Emilie but that it had been a far from easy pregnancy. In-spite of all this and even though we were worried about how things were going to pan out, when I did find out I was pregnant we were over the moon and have spent the last 7 months preparing our lives and home for Emilie’s arrival. Sam has known that he was going to get a baby sister and had been very much looking forward to meeting her.

I think that you can get to know a baby when you are carrying them and Emilie had a personality of her own – she was very different to Sam. She seemed to have a sheer defiance and despite hundreds of position changes from me she would stay wedged under my ribs. I remember going for a meal to John and Kirsten’s house a few weeks ago and being unable to finish my desert because she had wedged herself firmly between my stomach and ribs and refused any coaxing to move. The midwife told me she was probably just comfortable there. A few weeks later she curled into a tiny ball at the base of my stomach and again wouldn’t accept any coaxing to move. I think we would have had quite a character on our hands.

Finding out that Emilie’s heart had stopped was the hardest thing that John and I have ever experienced. There are no words to describe the feelings that came crashing down on us. I am so glad that we have the Women’s hospital on our doorstep as I genuinely don’t know what we’d have done without the staff whilst we were in hospital. I desperately wanted a caesarean to avoid what I thought would be the terror or giving birth to stillborn baby but I was encouraged to have a normal delivery and I am so grateful that the midwives and our consultant didn’t give up on me. I think that giving birth to Emilie made the whole situation more real to us and enabled HER to become more real. I was terrified about what she would look like and had asked the midwife to prepare me thinking that she would be preparing me to meet something horrific. We prayed and friends prayed with us that I wouldn’t have to endure a long, drawn out labour to add to the horrors we had already experienced. Emilie was born after only a 3 hour labour, was handed to us in the same way that any other baby would be handed to their parents and we spent hours just holding, kissing and cuddling her. I needn’t have worried about how she would look - she was perfectly formed and beautiful and would have grown up into a beautiful little girl.

I don’t think we’re ever going to know why Emilie was taken from us and I don’t think it would make any difference even if we did know. I know that she won’t be in any pain anymore and that we will see her again. I even believe that we’ll know who she is when we meet her – that she’ll be waiting for us. The one thing we’ve experienced in abundance since Emilie’s death is amazing love, support and compassion from the people around us. The pain has been unbearable but everybody has made it just a bit easier for us by caring for us and showing us we are loved. We have the most amazing support network around us and without that, and the knowledge that God will never leave us, I don’t know how we’d have got through the past weeks or be able to face the coming months. Emilie will always be a part of our lives and we will never forget her nor would we want to.

Close friends prayed for us and read readings at the funeral.  It felt so special and so personal for us.  We were surrounded by our closest friends and family and felt very loved.  Following the service we were encouraged to stay behind to spend a small amount of time on our own with Emilie.  As our friends walked out we were given hugs and felt like they truly shared our pain.  

We returned to church, to the cafe, in Tom and Lindsey's car, the four of us chatting and feeling the relief that the end of the funeral had given.  For the first time in 2 weeks I felt a release of the pressure.  I don't know if it was due to an adrenaline rush caused by the unrealistic and difficult situation being over or if it was God's comfort sustaining me for the day.  The reception that Jenny had organised for us was lovely.  All of our friends were present and the atmosphere was such that we were able to laugh and share together.  There was a wealth of homemade baked goods and tea and coffee served by friends.  We felt truly blessed that so many people were willing to spend that difficult day with us and to help to make it such a special afternoon.

Seeing in the Mist: Part 2

The days that followed are, looking back, a blurry haze of being carried through by those around us.  The sense of panic that had formed in my chest wasn't showing any signs of leaving and was getting progressively worse.  I had suffered from panic attacks in the past so the feeling was not unfamiliar but the intensity of it was like nothing I had ever experienced.  Normal, everyday tasks could suddenly trigger a memory or flashback and I would spiral into a feeling of tight chested-ness and feelings of being short of breath.  I spent hours downloading the 30 or so photos we have of Emilie onto the laptop and ordering them in various forms - key rings, black and white and sepia prints, a photo book, canvas collage and passport sized photos.  I was desperate to keep her memory alive and the ordering of multiple photographs helped me to do that at that time.

Throughout the days, friends and church leaders came and went.  People continued to bring meals for us and help with the care of Samuel.  I was assigned a wonderful midwife - Angela - and a fantastic GP - both of whom I learnt to trust quickly.  They showed me immense care and support and helped me to appreciate the magnitude of what had happened rather than to 'shove it under the carpet' or to try and be brave and move on.  My blood pressure remained very high and I needed to be monitored very closely for a few weeks.  This meant home visits from my GP and midwife every couple of days and this is something I found to be an amazing support.  I soon realised that talking about what had happened would help to momentarily relieve the sense of panic I was feeling.  The only way I can think of to describe it is to imagine a bottle filled with fizzy drink.  When the bottle is shaken and the lid is loosened the liquid escapes very quickly and with great pressure although after that initial 'escape and release' the liquid is more calm - until the next time it is shaken up and the pressure is increased.  I found the hours in between visits very difficult as the pressure began to increase and John and I were left with our own massive grief.  When people came to see us and we were able to talk about how we were feeling that pressure would be briefly released and thankfully both my midwife and GP were willing to sit and listen to the way that I was feeling without showing any annoyance of discomfort.  For the first few weeks after Emilie's death I was unable to sleep.  I would lie in bed haunted by flashbacks of the days around her death.  I would see the look on the midwife's face as she was unable to locate a heart beat, my consultant's furrowed brow as she gave us the news, Emilie's tiny and motionless body and the faces of those around us as we left the hospital.  I was physically and emotionally exhausted but couldn't get any relief from sleep.  At about day 4 my GP decided to give me some sleeping tablets to help me get some rest.  Although they provided some physical relief they did not stop the flashbacks and dreams.  I was, however, very pleased to get some rest.

Two of our frequent visitors were Jenny and Dave - Pastors from Church.  They were very willing to listen to us and were not at all uncomfortable by the things that we needed to say.  They shared our grief and accepted our anger.  They were also amazing supports in planning Emilie's funeral.  Dave had agreed to lead Emilie's funeral for us and helped us with the structural planning and legalities.  We had decided to include a dedication in the funeral to give Emilie over to God.  I am very glad that we did this.  Dave helped us to choose prayers and readings and supported me in knowing what to write in the Eulogy - something that I was keen to give myself.  Jenny planned the entire reception for us - an afternoon tea in our church cafe.  A self confessed 'organiser', she rallied up people to bake for the day and to serve for us.  Thanks to the support they both gave us the only things we really needed to do were to plan 'our parts' of the service, spread the word and to turn up ourselves!  We were also visited by Dan and Celia, a couple who, at the time, we only knew vaguely from Church.  Nearly 6 years previously their son, Joseph, had also been stillborn.  They had found out while Celia was pregnant with him that he had Down syndrome and a heart defect that required surgery in utero.  The surgery was successful but, unfortunately, at 34 weeks Celia noticed reduced movement.  She was given the option to be induced there and then and be able to spend a short period of time with Joseph knowing that he would not survive, or to wait and allow him to die in the comfortable and familiar surroundings of her womb.  She chose the latter knowing that this would be the least traumatic and most comfortable thing for Joseph.  This selfless act is something that I will always be in awe of Dan and Celia for.  Dan and Celia were the first couple who had experience what we had who we were able to sit down and talk with.  We shared our stories, talked and cried together and prayed together.  They were at the time, and have continued to be, an amazing support to us.  There is something incredibly comforting about shared experience.  Not only does it provide a level of understanding and empathy that is not otherwise possible but it also provides a level of perspective; a knowledge that we were not the only people to have suffered the loss of a child under those circumstances - nor would we be the last.  It was around this time that the maternal desire to have a baby returned.  I remember thinking that it hadn't even been a week since Emilie's death and I really shouldn't be thinking about having another baby but it was something that I could not get out of my mind.  I was desperate to fill my empty arms and have my life restored to what it should have been.  Speaking to Celia helped me to realise this this was a normal response - a natural urge - and although I needed to heal, instincts and hormones were responsible for the way I was feeling.

As those first few days and weeks drew on the one thing that gave us purpose and direction was caring for Sam and having family time together.  I wrote in my journal at this time:

30th September 2011

I woke up again this morning with the familiar feeling of emptiness and brokenness.  I think the only reason I get out of bed, have a shower and make any attempt to face the day is because of Samuel – he keeps us going.  A friend took him to a toddler group this morning to give us a break and so that he can maintain some sort of normality.  We decided to go for a coffee whilst we discussed funeral arrangements.  It was a very quick coffee as being out of the house and trying to enjoy some sense of normality just didn’t feel right to me and I was very panicky.  We talked about songs, readings and who we would like at the funeral.  We decided on immediate family and Liverpool friends plus close friends who have supported us over the years.  Thankfully Tom and Lindsey (very close friends who had moved to London a few years earlier) can come so we have asked them to come in the car with us as we don’t think we can handle going on our own.  After coffee we went to order flowers for the service.  This was very hard and the poor ladies in the florists were horrified at what we’d been through.  We chose autumnal flowers including sunflowers and pale orange roses – bright colours to reflect how beautiful Emilie was. 

This afternoon we actually had a really lovely time going for a family walk at one of our favourite places.  Sam was in a really good mood and we all enjoyed ourselves.  I feel that as long as I keep busy I’m ok – as soon as I sit down or have some time to reflect I’m hit full pelt by the emotions and such a strong sense of loss.  In the garden centre where we went for coffee there is a children’s clothing section and as soon as I saw all the pretty pink clothes my heart leapt as I thought ‘I can buy them for my baby’.  It is only then that the reality hits me – there is no baby to buy for. This sort of thing recurs so many times throughout the days and I just don’t know how to handle such strong and confusing emotions.

Sam was our rock.  We would go for coffees, for walks, or to the park and for that short period of time we were able to put on a mask of normality.  We were distracted by the innocence and, to an extent, the ignorance of our son.  Every so often he would ask a tricky question - where was Emilie, when was she coming back, why had she been so poorly - and we would be brought back into our pain.  But most of the time Sam's existence structured our days and we would talk and act with familiar normality until he went to playgroup or to bed at which point the silence and crippling emptiness would return.  One of my clearest memories is the aversion I developed towards television in those early days.  Generally I love my soaps - I love the escapism and mindless entertainment that they provide but after Emilie's death everything that was on television seemed mundane and trivial.  I would become angry at the conversations, situations and activities that were acted out on television and was unable to engage with them.  I would quite happily have starred at a blank screen rather than sit and watch what was going on.  They would increase the sense of panic that I was feeling as my anger and frustration grew and in the end we decided that I should have a break from soaps and we instead watched comedies and other things that did not relate to pregnancy, families, babies or loss.  Another thing that I struggled with at that time was reading.  As an avid bookworm this was something that surprised me.  Gradually I was able to begin reading other people's stories about grief and loss and for a good 6 months or so this was all I read.

One night a week or so after Emilie's death I decided to take a book filled with short stories about overcoming the loss of a baby and have a bath to try and relax me and calm me down.  We decided that it would be healthy for John to go climbing with his friends - something to take his mind off things and something to help me relax.  I lay in the bath as he got himself ready.  I wasn't able to bathe for long before the feeling of panic began to return and I needed to shift my attention to something new.  I had triggered emotions through reading some of the short stories and, although the release of some of these emotions and the knowledge that I was not alone were healthy, I began to feel waves of grief, panic and tears rising up.  I tried to calm myself down and slow down my breathing to reduce the panic attack; in through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth.  As I felt my chest loosen I stood up,  climbed out of the bath and wrapped a towel around myself.  I was suddenly gripped by dizziness and began to 'see stars' in the way that you might had you suffered a head injury.  I tried to reach out to grab something and steady myself but I had seemingly lost control of my body and of my sense of balance.  The last thing I remember before hearing John bang on the bathroom door and shout my name, was feeling a falling sensation and hearing a huge bang.  Seconds later I could hear John calling my name and I found myself on my feet in a confused state unlocking and opening the bathroom door.  As John enquired what the noise was I realised that the bathroom was in a state of disarray.  The bath mat was nowhere near the bath, a small unit of wicker drawers had been knocked over and the toilet seat had come off its hinges.  I was filled with a momentary sense of terror and confusion before a searing pain shot across my head and jaw, along my shoulder and down the base of my back and ribs.  It appeared that I had suffered from postural hypertension which had caused me to collapse, and in doing so I had somehow bruised my back and ribs on the sink, scratched my shoulder badly on the unit of drawers and had smashed the left hand side of my face, near my temple, and my jaw on the toilet dislodging the toilet seat.  I sat at the top of the stairs sobbing as John held me.  Even now I am unsure if I was sobbing from the pain, the fear/confusion or the release of emotions relating to Emilie's death.  John iced my wounds and agreed not to go climbing that night.  Instead we sat and cried together before going to bed.  The following morning I looked at my bruised features in the mirror and the bruises and scratches that spread across my left shoulder and down my arm and wondered what people at the funeral would possibly think.  There was also a part of me, however, that was relieved at feeling the pain.  It was something that felt real and was so much easier to contend with that the emotional pain that was overwhelming me more and more as time went on.

Seeing in the Mist: Part 1

The first night we were home after Emilie's death was like being a character in a film but not knowing what the director had in mind.  It had a feeling of unbelievable surreality about it - almost like an out of body experience.  I know that this is part of the stage of grief known as 'denial'.  I felt like I was waiting to wake up from a dream and was in a state of disbelief - in that exhausted state between being awake and asleep and trying to grasp hold of the final remnants of a dream before it slipped away.  I managed to eat a small amount before being sick.  I have no memory of conversation or of what was on TV.  We were both in a daze - trying to get our heads around the reality of a seemingly unrealistic situation.  We were trapped in a mist that fully engulfed us and pressed down on our bodies with the sheer weight of developing grief.  The one thing I decided to do as soon as we returned home as write.  I started keeping a journal - something I hadn't done for a couple of years, and begun to painstakingly write down everything I was feeling.  It is from these journal entries that my blog arose and this book was formed.

Eventually we knew that we needed to go to bed.  Neither of us had slept for more than a couple of fitful minutes for 36 terrible hours.  I don't think either of us really slept that night either.  I cried myself into a state of exhaustion and drifted in and out of semi consciousness expecting the nightmare to be over each time I awoke.  For weeks, on waking, the first thing I would do is put my hand down to touch my stomach hoping that it had all been a dream.  I would feel a sense of crippling disappointment each time I would feel my baby bump had gone and all that was left was loose skin.  Early in the morning, that first morning after Emilie's death, I was trapped somewhere between dream and fantasy and remember vividly fantasising about about receiving a call from one of the neonatal consultants who had cared for Sam in SCBU.  I imagined that he told me there had been a mistake - that Emilie had been in a state of deep unconsciousness and that when they had come to take her away they had realised she was showing signs of life and had called SCBU.  I imagined him telling me not to get my hopes up too much but that this was a good sign.  Such dreams and fantasies were not rare for me at this time and I would cling to their fibres willing them into existence.  I would go to sleep imagining that Emilie was in my arms and would try to convince myself that it was all a dream.  I knew that I was in danger of being caught up and trapped in the fantasies.  

We somehow managed to get up and get ourselves dressed.  I sobbed in the shower and my eyes permanently stung.  I had a constant feeling of dread and a real tightness in my chest that debilitated me.  I was learning that heart ache was a real thing - a tangible pain that prevents you from functioning in the way that you are meant to.  Sam woke up as his usual self - nothing is permanent when you are 2 1/2.  He was chirpy and full of life.  He had his breakfast as usual and walked around happily in the mist that engulfed John and I.  Faye came to pick him up on her way home from dropping the boys at school.  I opened the door to her worried about how I would feel seeing her heavily pregnant frame.  Her compassion helped me to see past the obvious and I knew that she was also in pain for us.  I remember her saying "I fell asleep thinking of you and I woke up thinking of you".  She, as all of our friends, was keen to help us in whatever way she could.  She took Sam to playgroup for us whilst John and I completed one of the hardest tasks of our lives.

After Sam had been picked up we went to a small local cafe to prepare ourselves for returning to the hospital.  Our friends owned a cafe not far from where we lived and we were torn between going there for coffee and feeling the love and support of people who knew us well and remaining ominous in a cafe where people didn't know us.  We decided to air on the side of caution and go to the cafe where we didn't know people.  We didn't want to risk breaking down or becoming emotionally overwhelmed by grieving with our friends before going to hospital.  We sat in the cafe and wondered what to talk about.  I can't even remember the conversation - we mulled over our coffees as the constant pain I had begun to feel clutched at my chest.  I knew that we were going to the hospital to register Emilie's birth and death but I had no idea what to expect.  Before leaving for the hospital I had planned to go into the chemist for some maternity pads.  Although painfully obvious now, it had never occurred to me that my body would respond in the same way whether my baby was alive or not.  John suggested that he go in for me to avoid people jumping to the wrong conclusion.  On his return, he explained that it was a 'good job' he had gone in in my place as the lady in the chemist was gushing and asked him how old his baby was.  Such kind words become so cruel at times like this.  He didn't tell her the painful truth.  We learnt very early on in the experience that it is sometimes best to protect other people from our own pain.

The journey into the hospital was surreal.  As we drove in, my GP called to offer condolences and sort out a time to come out and see us.  I was beginning to feel overwhelmed at the number of things that needed to be done - I would still need post natal midwifery care, would need to see the health visitor and GP and needed to somehow plan a funeral for our daughter.  During the journey it dawned on me that I would have to step foot in the hospital again - that I would have to go back to the place where not 24 hours earlier I had had to leave our daughter behind.  Again the constricting panic continued to set in and as we walked through the door I felt like my chest was going to implode. Once inside, we let the reception desk know that we had arrived so that they could notify our support worker, Val.  As we waited I was painfully reminded that not 3 weeks earlier I had notified the same receptionist of my arrival so that she could call down to consultant midwife for me with whom I was meeting to discuss the most appropriate birth plan.  What a contrasting appointment this was.  

We had met Val the day before, following Emilie's birth.  She was kind and compassionate and a real voice of calm and reason in the chaos around us. As she approached us she greeted us with ‘this is going to be hard for you’.  We were taken up to the registry office where we met our registrar – a very well meaning lady who unfortunately was not prepared for meeting a grieving couple.  We filled in the necessary forms and I broke down at putting ‘full time mother’ in the occupation box.  I had taken a bold step to take a career break to look after Samuel and Emilie-Rose.  I think this is the first time it dawned on me that I was going to have alot of adjusting to do.  After registering we came out of the registrar’s office and were greeted by a waiting room full of happy couples and their new babies.  I could tell by the expressions on their faces that they were all too aware of our empty arms and teary faces.  I knew that this was a happy occasion for them - registering their baby's births and I often look back wondering what  effect seeing our situation must have had on them.  I held my breath as I walked past them to prevent the sobs that I could feel rising.  The few feet distance to the door seemed immense and I once again felt every eye on us as we stumbled through the waiting room and out into the corridor where once again I broke down.

We were then taken down to a special quiet room to see Emilie.  Val had told us that she looked beautiful.  She had been laid in a tiny crib in a special nursery room.  The crib was decorated with lace and ruffles in the way that it would be if a family were bringing their baby home.  They had made every effort to make the experience special and make us, and Emilie, feel valued.  I have since found out the the crib contained a special mattress called a 'cold cot' which is placed in the crib and helps to keep babies body temperatures down so that parents can spend more time with them before they are sent to the mortuary.  I have since wondered what must happen for parents in less fortunate countries - do they have to immediately give up their baby?  Is stillbirth still such a taboo subject in other places?  I am so grateful that, through Val's support and the support of the hospital staff, we were encouraged to acknowledge Emilie's death as the loss of a child and to grieve appropriately rather than it being shameful and something to avoid talking about.

I looked at Emilie lying in the crib wearing her princess gown.  She looked so quiet and peaceful – my beautiful little angel.  I leant down to touch her and was startled by how cold she was.  This scared me and I nearly refused to hold her but Val encouraged me to do so.  Once I’d got her I wondered how I was ever going to let her go again.  My arms literally felt empty without her and holding her was the only thing that remotely filled that gap.  I knew that she was just a body and not really my beautiful girl – I know that my real baby is in heaven and that one day I will get to meet her but clutching to her body was the only thing I could do to feel close to her.  We spent a while with her before speaking to a bereavement counsellor and discussing funeral arrangements with Val.        We also discussed how best to support Samuel and were given the contact details for a centre called 'The Alder Centre' at Alder Hey Children's Hospital who provide services to support families who have suffered bereavement.  Over the next year or so the Alder Centre were a great support, particularly for John who attended counselling there and for Sam, for whom we were given great support in dealing with.  Once the formalities and offers of support were dealt with we spent some more time with Emilie.  We knew that we would have to leave her and that, although we were told we could come back as much as we wanted to, this would be the last time that we would see her.  We placed her back into the crib and arranged the blankets carefully around her.  Even though I knew that the elements had no hold on her, I still felt a maternal need to protect her and keep her warm.  We then said teary goodbyes to Val and left the hospital with Emilie's death certificate to return back home.

Our Girl

When Emilie was born, I waited for the cry that would tell me that the whole scenario had been a mistake.  For the shout from our midwife, Amanda for a doctor to come and see to her as she was showing signs of life.  Instead, there was silence and I felt consumed by a blur of dizzy shock.  I had given birth and I had nothing to lesson the pain.  There was no one to root for a feed and no cries of joy at the sight of our new baby.  There were no giggles  as said baby wriggled to get free of the confines of towels, scales and midwives grips.  However, Amanda still looked after her like she was the most precious thing in the world and cleaned her up with the care she would any baby.  She then handed her to me but I could barely look at her.  I gave her to John whilst I cleaned myself up and sent a text message out to people to let them know she'd been born.  The message read "our beautiful baby girl Emilie-Rose Grace was born asleep this morning at 32 weeks due to pre-eclampsia/hypertension.  We are utterly heart broken but know that she is no longer in any pain and we will meet her one day which we will look forward to for the rest of our lives".  I longed to know what it was like to send a text message out to say that 'mum and baby are doing well'.  I longed to know what it must be like to hold my life baby when they had been born instead of having gem whisked away to special care or having already died.  

After I had cleaned myself up, Amanda handed me a prem nappy explaining that meconium would still be secreted.  I put the nappy on Emilie and remember observing how unreal the situation was - how I felt like I was putting a nappy on a doll.  I remember wrapping her in a blanket before putting her in the cot that was in the room with us.  She looked like she was asleep.  A this time her body was still warm and soft and if it hadn't been for the tell tale stillness of her chest I would have been convinced that she was alive.  I kept waiting for her to cry.  Amanda asked for some clothes to be sent up from special care that would fit Emilie.  They were the same size as the clothes that Sam had worn when he was first born.  She laid them out on the bed next to me and asked me what I would like her to be dressed in.  I looked at the clothes , wondering at how surreal everything was.  I wondered at the juxtaposition between choosing your baby's first outfit and choosing the outfit that my little girl would wear for her burial or cremation.  Most of the clothes were neutral - safe.  I desperately wanted to dress her in something beautiful; to put on the tiny tights that I had bought for her and to  dress her in shades of pink and flowers.  I wanted to put her in the tiny snow suit we had for her, to wrap her in the blanket I had made and put her in the car seat ready to go home.  I looked at the tiny outfits that lay on the bed in front of me and chose out a pink and white striped baby grow.  Amanda gently carried Emilie away, took hand and footprints for us to keep, weighed her (2lb 12oz - 1oz less than her big brother) and gently dressed her.  She put a tiny white knitted hat on her and brought her back to us.  She laid her in the cot next to my bed and we sat and looked at her.  

Again, the day blurs in to one for me.  John picked Emilie up and cuddled her and we both marvelled at how beautiful she was.  Photographs were taken as a memento; photos of John holding her, photos of me holding her and photos of us both holding her.  My face and neck were still puffy from the pre eclampsia.  My hair was undone and I had no make up on.  I didn't want my photo taken - and what face was I meant to pull?  What emotions was I meant to show as I cradled my stillborn daughter - someone I would never get a chance to know.

The void and silence after Emilie's birth was lessened through our church leaders -Jenny and Dave - and my counsellor, Carol, coming back in to spend the day with us.  They all held her and spoke about how beautiful she was.  I willed her to move, to breathe and to break the silence with a scream but she just lay peacefully.  She was passed around from person to person and showered with love as she would have been in life.  Dave and Jenny  - always great in a crisis - acted as outlets for our emotions.  They listened while we cried, listened to our anger, reassured me that it wasn't my fault and helped us begin to think about the practicalities that needed to follow.  We needed to begin to think about funeral arrangements; we needed to decide whether we would opt for a post mortem or not and we needed to decide on cremation or burial.  The words were thick and heavy in my mind.  Why was I sat discussing whether my daughter was going to be cremated or buried?  Surely that wasn't how things were meant to happen.  I didn't want to think about it but we were encouraged that these things were better decided on early before the rawness of emotion could take hold.  We decided to opt for cremation.  To say it like that it sounds flippant - a 50/50 chance of opting for each - choose one.  We talked about it and I expressed my fears over both.  I was terrified that cremation would mean that she wouldn't have a heavenly body.  It was a fear I had kept with me since childhood and now it was gripping me with full force.  But I was equally terrified of lowering her tiny body in to the ground.  Of knowing that it would be there as the years went on, cold and decaying.  I needed reassurance that the body I cradled wasn't Emilie.  That she was in heaven - happy and well in her glorified body and this body, beautiful as it was, was just her earthly body.  

Our visitors stayed with us for the majority of the afternoon before leaving to give us some time with Emilie.  As they left I found a tiny sink gown on the end of her cot that had been left for her.  It was beautiful - white and embroidered.  It was the princess dress that I had wanted to dress her in and I put it on her over her baby grow so that she wouldn't get cold.  She looked beautiful and I realised that she looked like she was dressed up for her Christening - in a special gown ready to be welcomed into God's family.

As the afternoon went on I developed an excruciatingly painful headache which required pain relief.  I had also broken out in hives as a reaction to the morphine and needed antihistamines.  I was given some medication to help prevent production of breast milk and the reality of what had happened was starting to sink in.  I felt truly awfully emotionally and physically.  I desperately wanted to go home and be with Samuel but needed to wait for my blood pressure to stabilise.  I was advised to try and have a sleep and to see how I was afterwards.  I have lost huge chunks of the day.  There is part of me that feels like it was the longest day of my life and another part of me that feels like it went by in a flash.  I would give anything to have that time back - to be able to hold her tiny body again before the cold had set in.  I long to be able to feel her weight in my arms, to stroke her fingers and toes and to tell her how much I love her.  I can't wait until the time that I can meet her and cradle her in my arms knowing that I have all eternity to get to know her.

Eventually, although still high, my blood pressure had settled enough for me to be able to go home.  I would once again have to leave my new baby at the hospital but this time there would be no coming back to feed her and dress her.  There was nothing to look forward to.  We were told that we could come back in to see her as much as we wanted to.  She would be kept in a cold cot to maintain her body temperature and slow the decay process.  I thought, with some horror, about the stark contrast between this and Sam's incubator which he was placed in to keep him warm.  We needed to come back in the following morning to register Emilie's birth and death so we planned to see her again then.  

I collected up my belongings and Emilie's memory box, said goodbye to my little girl and walked out of the door with John's support.  The noise from the corridor hit me full pelt and I felt like every eye was on me as I clutched my precious box that held Emilie's meagre belongings.  I needed to be virtually carried through the hospital by John and Amanda and they supported me as we took the 'back route' through the hospital to the car park so that we didn't have to walk past pregnant women, babies and wondering onlookers on the way out.  We reached the car and I knew that this was final - I was leaving my baby behind.  I didn't want to think about where she would go.  I remember asking Amanda if she would look after her for me and her reassuring me that she would.  We got into the car and began the 4 mile journey home to Sam; the longest journey of my life.

From this moment on we began to see our friends rally around us.  We were assured by Faye that we didn't need to worry about childcare - that Sam would be looked after.  He was due to be in playgroup the following morning and Faye arranged to pick him up, take him on for us and let playgroup know what had happened so that we didn't need to be faced with the questions as I stood in public with my post birth body.  A good friend had arranged to do us a meal plan and she emailed it through to us later that evening.  We decided to get a take away that night in the hope that I would be able to stomach some comfort food; I hadn't eaten anything since the previous morning.  When Julie emailed the meal plan through we realised that people had offered to cook for us for five weeks so that we didn't have to think about what to do.  In my 'in state' shock I don't think I realised what a blessing that would be but as the days and weeks went on I was, and will always continue to be, incredibly grateful for the meals; for  the pressure that was taken away for us.  Some days I was just about able to get up and get dressed in the mornings.  To have a healthy, nutritious and tasty meal brought round for us every night for five weeks was amazing.  I still don't know how well I'd have coped without being so well looked after.

On returning home, John and I took Emilie's memory box upstairs and placed it in her cot.  Her room was still made up for her; her cot ready made, the curtains hung, the walls decorated, nappies hanging in the holder at the side of her cot, changing mat out, wardrobe filled with clothes and the blanket I'd made hanging on the end of her cot ready to be used.  Walking in there was an incredibly painful experience and I keeled over at the door.  We should be bringing our little girl home to put into her cot - not placing a memory box of her things in her cot in her place.  I couldn't believe that we were having to go through her death.

When Sam arrived home we sat him down and showed him some pictures of Emilie.  How do you explain to a 2 1/2 year old,who has no concept of death or loss, that his baby sister won't be coming home?  We showed him some of the photos we had taken of Emilie and explained that she was his baby sister.  We also told him that she had been very poorly and that she had died 'in mummy's tummy' meaning that she wouldn't be coming home.  We then left it there for him to process and ask any questions as and when he felt ready.  We didn't want to bombard him with information.  Sam was elated from the time he had spent with Faye and her family and, at that time, wasn't able to take in much of the information we had given him.  We were hoping that, having seen the photos, he would begin  to ask questions over the next few days so that we could talk to him about what had happened.

A Father's Perspective

When I first started writing this story down, about 18 months ago, I wrote chronologically as the memories came back to me.  I knew, at some point, that I would need to write about the events that led up to Emilie's delivery but I struggled.  I left a huge blank in my story as I carried on writing, documenting the events following her birth and the months that followed. However, the hours following the confirmation of intra uterine death continued to be  a blur for me and I had never fully been able to recall the memories. I later learnt that this is common in severe traumas.  I spoke to John about a year ago asking if he would be comfortable writing down what he remembered from the day. Initially he wrote in bullet form to trigger my memory but as I sat down to write it in my own words it felt like I was writing about someone else's memories....like I was a fly on the wall.  We decided that to fully convey what happened over the 24 hours or so after the confirmation John would write his own chapter.

This is his account.

I recall most of the events of the day although the order of things, with different friends coming and going is a little patchy.  My first memory of the day though starts in the assessment bay with the nurse looking to find the heart beat.  Having tried for a minute, and despite quickly finding Claire's, she was struggling to locate that of our baby.  I could see the nurse's hand shaking whilst she tried to stay calm and reassure us - suggesting that a smaller machine would help.  When this machine could also only locate Claire's heart beat the nurse, again very calmly and reassuringly said that she needed some assistance and would be back shortly.

Despite the nurses best efforts to assure us that babies can quite successfully hide in their mummies tummies we were panic stricken and I quickly text one of the pastors of our church to ask for prayer.

After a few minutes, our consultant together with 3 or 4 other ward staff including the original nurse entered.  Although it was amazing, and exceptionally fortunate we would later find out, to have our consultant there the number of extra nurses and porter only fuelled my fears for what to expect.

Moments later our consultant confirmed it with the image of a motionless ultrasound as she turned to Claire and said the words "I'm so sorry Claire but your baby's heart has stopped".  A tear immediately ran down Claire's face and we hugged, cried and wailed together.

Claire cried out that she wanted Sam cuddles but we were both too upset and the nurses led him out followed by us.  The assessment bay is only a small room with 3 or 4 beds separated only by curtains; we were now on our way to our own private room, specifically reserved for such bereavements.  We walked arm-in-arm down the corridor crying in such a way I can't really describe.  I remember being vaguely aware of passing others and just thinking how it must be obvious exactly what has just happened.

We were led into our room and Claire, sat in an arm chair in the middle, had a huge panic attack.  Sam wasn't in the room at this point but Claire desperately wanted to cuddle him.  First the nurse advised that it may be upsetting for him but it took me to convince her that we both need to calm down a little and then he can come in.

With Sam in the room we gave him the biggest cuddles, both of us completely overrun with emotions including a fresh revelation of how amazing he is.  We said our 'goodbyes' to Sam before he went home with a close friend Faye.  He had been given juice, biscuits and a latex glove which was blown up and had had a face drawn on it. As far as Sam was concerned this was possibly one of the most exciting days of his life.  Much to our amusement he kept the glove for weeks at home until it was completely shrivelled.

As we sat in the room with the various medical staff the realisation that Emilie was still in Claire's tummy hits us both bringing about fresh panic.  Claire had always been unsure about a natural delivery for Emilie so our first instinct was to insist on a c-section.  Our consultant explained that natural is best here and what she would recommend; it wasn't what we wanted to hear it.

I next had to go and call our parents to break the news.  I found an empty room down the corridor.  I called Claire's mum first then mine; I wasn't really sure which I expected to be easier but neither was.

On the way back to the room I saw our consultant and the midwife now looking after us.  I raised the topic of a c-section again explaining to them that a natural delivery had never been appealing or what we were planning.  Whilst she conceded that a c-section would be an option our consultant maintained that she wouldn't recommend it.  The conversation was restarted in our room and Claire was slightly more open to natural, although quickly went off it when it was explained that it takes a few days with a home stop inbetween.  The idea of having to go home today still pregnant traumatised Claire just as much as having to wait two days.

I called our pastor who I'd text earlier to update him but only got his voice mail.  I left a message and called our other pastor at home and spoke to his wife.  Jen said they'd come over immediately.  Claire also asked me text Carol to let her know the news but that she didn't need to come down.

As we sat in the room, with time passing irrelevantly our consultant came back in and asked if anyone had taken Claire's blood pressure, they hadn't and on doing so confirmed early preeclampsia.  I didn't know much about what this meant back then but I could see that our consultant was quite concerned at this point and informed us that going home today would no longer be an option.

Not being allowed to go home reopened the delivery conversation now with the possibility of doing it all whilst we were in now.  Our consultant mentioned the possibility of a specific drug combination that she was hopeful would allow is to start induction for a natural delivery today.  She needed to check the details but this sounded encouraging to us both.  Claire was becoming convinced about the post op immobility argument caused by a(nother) c-section and also warming to the idea of giving Emilie a natural birth experience.

I clearly remember that Claire asked what Emilie would be like.  I remember it so clearly because it hadn't occurred to me at all and half expected our consultant to brush off the concerns.  Instead though, she explained that depending on when death occurred the skin can become fragile surrounded by the embryonic fluids.  To my relief though she also added that from the scan she'd performed it looked like death was probably within the last 24 to 48 hours so she didn't have any particular concerns over this.

When Nic and Jen arrived they sat with us and prayed.  Jen also prayed if there was any way that Emilie could be born alive then it would happen; I admired her faith and confidence to make such a prayer and appreciated that at least it had been asked of our God.   One of the hospital staff brought in a memory box supplied to bereaved parents.  Inside was a poem which included a line that God had decided to take our baby early which Jen spotted and commented that God didn't plan this.

Jen had also spoken to Claire's counsellor, Carol who apparently had decided would come down later anyway.  Claire had known Carol for many years but I had only met her the week before - a meeting, an initial introduction, that I became increasingly grateful of over the following months.

Nic and Jen stayed for an hour or so by which time our other pastor, Dave, had arrived. 

Dave stayed for quite a while.  I can't remember the conversations but we were definitely finding it was good to have company with us.

Our consultant was able to confirm that we could start the induction that night but first they need to take blood samples.  I think they took something like 12 different samples and at first the nurse really struggled to find a vein.  Dave nearly stepped in as he said he was always good at that in his nurse days!

When Carol arrived we gladly welcomed her and she joined us while Dave was there and then several hours thereafter.

With Sam taken care of we now needed to prepare for an overnight stay so asked another close friend Sal to bring us over night bags.  Claire had one packed but asked for all baby related items to be removed although was still a little worried this wouldn't be done.  It was.

We were brought some food but Claire didn't eat.  In a state of shock her body was in shut down and she didn't really eat for a couple of days.

The induction treatment started that evening and we were advised that it could take 12-24 hours to 'start'.

As evening turned into night we cuddled up in bed and listened to a Hillsong album followed by some Mumford & Sons on our phone speaker.  Drowning out the moans coming from the surrounding labour rooms.  Crying and dozing together.

I slept for parts of the night on the sofa in the room, wishing that it hadn't happened or that it would all be over in equal measure.  The only thing I could pray was that the labour would be quick; and I could only pray that angrily.  Despite my anger though I knew that God was big enough and good enough to understand.  I text my close friends to ask them to pray, in particular because I could recall how unbelievably painful it was the day I drove Claire home from hospital after she was discharged following the c-section with Sam, leaving him in SCBU.  How much more worse would tomorrow be?

The drugs started to work quite quickly and by 11pm (I think) some contractions had started.  Claire was now fully feeling the hit of the mixture of pain numbing drugs and those to used to induce labour.  Through the trauma, tiredness, pain and drugs Claire became increasingly spaced out, talking slowly, lispy and often incoherently.

In the early hours the staff shifts changed, which didn't coincide well with Claire's drug supply running low.  The drugs actually ran out just as the contractions were getting worse.  The doctor who came to restock the supply was therefore under quite a lot of pressure as Claire/we were clearly distressed and the machine wasn't cooreperating either so it took 3 or 4 goes to make it work properly.

We continued to doze through the night as the pain came and went.  By early morning things were getting closer though with the mid wife coming in a few times to confirm that things were going well.

Claire went to the ensuite toilet, needing my help to move across the room.  Back in bed the contractions were now pretty frequent.  Having missed all opportunities for antenatal classes I didn't really know to expect other than what I gleaned from TV dramas.  I had therefore been taking mental notes of the gaps between contractions throughout the night and by my reckoning things were getting close.  I was therefore a little concerned when Claire said, no insisted, she wanted to go to the loo again.  I think we just made it off the bed though before Claire decided it was a bad idea, at which point (perfect timing) the midwife came back in and confirmed that Emilie was coming.

Emilie was born just after 7 am, pretty much exactly 12 hours after the start of the treatment.  After she was born, as discussed the previous day, the midwife gave her a quick clean then passed her to Claire to hold.  We all cuddled and cried.

After that initial cuddle I could tell that Claire didn't really want to hold her much.  I did.  I didn't want her to be put down.  I hated the thought of having such a short time to be with her and having her just lie in the moses basket. 

Carol and Dave both came back for many hours.  Nic and Jen also returned and brought a beautiful baby gown as a gift; one of only two changes of clothes she would wear.  Everyone commented how beautiful she was.  We took photos and I encouraged Claire to hold her as much as possible.

A doctor came to take Emilie for a medical examination and confirmed that she was perfect.  A little later a different doctor came to talk to us about post-mortem and what this would involve.  We were very tempted and took the paper work but that night decided there was nothing to be gained, as we were fairly sure already what the problem was.  The same placental problem, just with a quicker onset, that caused the problems with Sam.

Dave gave Emilie a cuddle, something he later told me he wanted to do so he could lay hands on her and pray for a miracle.

We had to register Emilie at births/death registry office in the hospital.  We didn't have to do it that day but felt it best to get it done while we were there.  Doing it all now seemed much more preferable.  The office had been forewarned of our arrival and Emilie's stillbirth to make the process as easy as possible.  When we went in the waiting room outside the office was empty.  Going through the papers was difficult but Claire broke down when asked what occupation to put on the form.  Claire had left work to look after Emilie and Sam.  We had a plan.  A few years out then back to work with Faye who was also pregnant, setting up their own business.  The anguish was palpable and I knew I could not say anything to soften that pain.

When we left the office the waiting room was full with at least three sets of mums, dads and new borns.   We put our heads down, linked arms and walked out in tears.  As soon we got out in to the corridor we both broke down and cried.

Later that day we went home, we were desperate to see Sam.  I went to fetch the car to save Claire having to walk across the car park.  Other than my toothbrush I hadn't used anything from my night bag.  Some weeks later I binned the clothes I had been wearing.

We had already made plans to go back the next day to see her again but had also decided that would be the last time. 

That night we broke the news to Sam, who as a very clever 2 year old had been fully excited about being a big brother.  We desperately wanted to get it over and tell him together but also knew that it would be best if he first brought Emilie up in conversation.  Despite some prompting throughout the afternoon this didn't happen - until bed time that is when it was just Claire who had to do it alone.

We ordered chinese takeaway, Claire's body still wasn't ready for food and she didn't eat.  Later on our friends John and Kirsten came round followed by Dan and Celia the following night.  On both nights we shared tears as well as laughter with those who cared for us and would be part of the many who supported us over the next days ...  weeks ... months ... years.