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.

Crashing Down

24 and 25 September 2011

John and I had our normal Saturday night routine - Dr Who, X-Factor and Casualty - and I lay on the sofa waiting for movements.  I prodded my stomach and could feel a faint 'shifting' which reassured me although I knew that she wasn't kicking.  Not really. I was absolutely exhausted and decided to go to bed.  During the night I woke up experiencing pins and needles up and down one of my arms and had to take my wedding rings off as my hands were so puffy.  I went to the toilet and went back to bed although didn't really sleep.  Looking back, I am certain that I knew something was wrong.  When I woke up the following morning my face and neck were puffy, my hands were puffy and my feet and ankles were puffy.  I also had a terrible headache and cramping.  I asked John to take Sam to church without me so that I could get some rest-but the rest didn't come.  My head continued to ache and each time I prodded my stomach there was no response.  The baby seemed to have wedged herself in a position that was uncomfortable for me and I couldn't get her to wriggle out of it.  I spent the morning moving around, drinking sugary fruit juice and trying to get her to move but nothing happened.  As soon as John and Sam got home I called the hospital and sobbed down the phone.  "I feel really poorly and exhausted.  I've got a headache, I'm all puffy and I can't feel my baby move.". I told the triage nurse.  She reassured me over the phone but asked me to come down and get checked out.  We called round a few friends to see if anyone could have Samuel but couldn't get hold of any as they were all still at church.  I decided that we couldn't wait any longer and we took Sam into hospital with us.

We arrived at the assessment room and sat in the waiting room.  There were a couple of other women in there who were much bigger than I was and I looked at their sizable bumps jealously.  As we waited to go in, Sam became restless so John took him for a walk round the hospital to get a snack.  I sat in the waiting room nipping to and from the toilet to try and get a response from the baby. I carried on prodding my bump and couldn't feel any kicking but was reassured by the shifting motion that I could still feel.  I was certain that I was going to be admitted there and then for delivery, that the lack of movement was the same thing that had happened with Samuel as he began to become weak before he was delivered.  I'd even packed spare contact lenses and make up in my hand bag so that I could re-do my make up for photographs in special care after delivery.

No sooner than John and Sam arrived back from their walk was I called into the, now all too familiar, assessment room.  I was asked to give a urine sample and lay down on the bed for monitoring.  Immediately the midwife commented on the size of my bump and measured me commenting that I was measuring about 3 weeks behind - something to try not to be too worried about.  She had a feel of my bump for the baby and asked when I'd last eaten.  I explained that I'd tried some porridge for breakfast but couldn't manage anything.  She suggested that the lack of movement could be as a result of low blood sugar levels and wanted to run CTG fetal heart monitor test to reassure us.  I knew the score by now and fastened the pink and blue bands around my middle whilst the midwife positioned the sensors under the bands.  When she couldn't find anything she repositioned them, joking about what a 'little pickle' the baby was and how she was going to have wake up and say 'hello'.  Still, she couldn't find anything and carried on trying different positions and poking my abdomen.  Eventually, she said that the baby might be too small to pick up on a CTG and got a sonic aid to try again.  Minutes dragged by and I started to cry.  I kept reminding myself to be brave and telling myself over and over that the baby was just being awkward.  She pushed the sonic aid into my stomach and tried various positions.  Finally, I heard a heart beat but no sooner had I got my hopes up that the midwife stated "no, that's you.". This pattern repeated for a number of minutes as I stated to feel dizzy and was unable to hold back the tears.  Suddenly, my consultant walked into the room.  She said that she was on call and had seen my name on the board so wanted to come in and see what was going on.  I broke down as soon as she arrived and told her how bad I felt.  Looking back, I don't know what I'd have done had she not been there.  I know that, as hard as it must have been for her to tell us what had happened, there is no way I could have taken, or trusted, the news from someone I didn't know.  From a stranger.  When my consultant found out what was happening she requested a mobile ultrasound unit and it seemed to arrive within minutes.  I sat crying and sent a text message out to my most trusted friends.  I still have it on my phone.  It read "hi guys, please can we have some prayer over the next couple of mins. Just in hospital as had a bad night but midwife can't find any heartbeat for baby. Thanks x".  

The ultrasound machine arrived and my consultant began to scan me.  I could see the look of concern on her face and her furrowed brow.  It seemed to be the longest scan I'd ever had and she'd scanned me enough times for me to know that the first thing she always pointed out was the heart beat.  This time she remained silent.  After what seemed like a age she put the ultrasound wand down and said "I'm so sorry Claire but the baby has died.'. Immediately John began crying next to me and I started screaming.  There was no way I could control what was happening to me.  Anyone who knows me will know that I hate losing control.  I hate showing weakness, vulnerability or emotion in public and here I was screaming and shouting at the top of my voice in a room full of strangers.  The only thing I knew that would comfort me was Sam and I asked for someone to hand him to me.

The next few minutes are a blur as I remember being taken out of the assessment room and helped down the corridor to another room.  I carried on crying hysterically and couldn't focus on anything around me.  I know now that I was in the middle of a massive panic attack.  I sometimes find myself looking back and trying to piece things together in my mind but there are still huge gaps in my memory.  The walk from the assessment room to the bereavement room seemed to take forever and although we were accompanied by a team of medics I could only focus on myself, John and Samuel who was clinging to me not knowing what was going on.  With each step I took, my legs seemed to cripple more and I could feel myself sinking lower to the ground.   Once we made it to the bereavement room we were advised to let someone take Samuel whilst we talked.  I screamed and panicked at the thought of them taking away my little boy – my little girl had already been ripped from me and I hated being apart from Sam at the best of times and didn't want to let him go. I was told it was for the best to avoid him seeing us in such a state and know that that was the right thing to do but at the time I was certain that they weren't going to bring him back.  I called Faye and managed to get the words "I've lost the baby, please can you come and get Sam?" out on the phone.    

I can’t really piece together the next minutes and hours of the day – they seemed to pass in a haze of panic and dread.  I had, at some point, realised that our baby dying meant she was still inside of me and that we would somehow need to get her out.  I began to have another panic attack at the mere thought of having to give birth to her and begged the doctors to allow me to have a caesarean.  They explained that this would not be the best option for me due to recovery time and urged me to have an induction instead.  They explained that I would be given a tablet to block progesterone release into my womb and then would come back 2 days later for induction to begin.  2 days?!! How was I going to sit at home for 2 whole days pretending that nothing had happened and knowing that my beautiful baby was dead inside me.  Again the panic set in.  Eventually my consultant came into the room telling us that she had some news.  There was protein in my urine and my blood pressure was dangerously high indicating pre eclampsia.  I would need to be induced as early as possible. 

Faye arrived to take Samuel home with her.  He came back into the room and was oblivious to what had happened.  He was treated like a celebrity and had been given juice and biscuits by the midwives.  Someone had blown up a latex glove and drawn a face on it to make a puppet for him.  We kept this for months afterwards until I deemed it a health hazard.  I could never bring myself to throw it away and recently found it tucked into Emilie's memory box!

 Sam loves Faye and was more than happy to go home with her and spend the night with her, Mark and the boys.  I asked Faye if another friend could bring in my hospital bag, which I'd already packed, for me.  I specifically asked for any baby clothes, dummies, bottles etc to be taken out of the bag and for one blanket to be left in.  We have such wonderful friends and Sally, who brought in my bag, didn't even think twice about doing so.

Once Sam had gone home and I had stopped panicking, I asked John to call our Church leaders and let them know what had happened.  Unbelievably they all came out to the hospital to spend the afternoon with us as did Carol - a lady I'd been seeing for counselling throughout the pregnancy. I don’t know what we’d have done without them as their presence was so loving and supportive.  I think the panic would have continued for the whole day as we bounced off each other but I am certain that the fact we were able to talk to them meant that alot of our terrified emotions were contained on the first day prior to delivery.  

 My consultant popped in and out throughout the day offering amazing support.  One of the biggest ways in which she supported us on that day was to remind us what a special boy Sam was.  She kept reiterating how she couldn't understand what had happened but reassured me, in my panicky state, that nothing I had done would have caused it.  She carried out umpteen blood tests to try and find out what had happened whether it was the same thing that had caused Samuel to be born prematurely and growth restricted. Throughout the day, various people came to talk to us about post mortem and funeral arrangements but the whole day is a blur.  I remember saying over and over again to anyone who would listen that (at that time I felt) there was no point in trying to find out what had happened as I wouldn't be able to go through it again and wouldn't be having any more children.  I had wanted, and still wanted this baby.  I couldn't bear the thought of giving birth to her and not seeing her breathe, hearing her cry. The thought of finding out what had happened to prevent it happening to any future babies could not have been further from my mind at that moment and thank goodness that 

there are guidelines and protocols that have to be followed. Thank goodness for practical people who are able to function well and keep their heads in a crisis. I just wanted the whole situation to be over with. I wanted to go to sleep and wake up when it was all over. I wanted to forget it all. 

Instead we had to live through what no parent should have to endure.

Back to the Grindstone: Part 2

The weeks went by in a blur of appointments, ultrasounds and tests.  To our relief a strong heart beat was found at my 15 week midwife check up and the ultrasound at 20 weeks confirmed no abnormalities.  It also confirmed that we we're having a little girl.  A complete set!  Sam was going to be an amazing big brother and I couldn't wait to see what our daughter would look like.  There was one thing worrying me, however, so I asked the sonographer if growth looked ok.  She reassured us that everything looked fine but it was too early to tell about growth; third trimester was when fat reserves were laid and that would make the difference "between a six pounder and ten pounder", to which I muttered under my breath "or a two pound thirteen ouncer!".  

We came out of the hospital and I couldn't stop looking at the scan photo - my precious little girl.  I couldn't believe how lucky we were.  That evening I went out and bought a tiny purple dress and a pair of pink tights.  Every time I needed cheering up I would go up to the baby's room and take them out of the wardrobe just to look at them.  A week later, Faye found out that she was having another little boy.  She turned up with a huge box of tiny pink clothes from her sister that she had been holding on to 'just incase'.  I sorted through the box and lovingly placed the clothes into the baby's wardrobe - hats, tights, sun dresses, knitted dresses, cardigans and baby grows.   I couldn't wait to dress my daughter in the beautiful clothes.

We met with my consultant at 21 weeks before going on holiday.  It was such a relief to see our beautiful little girl again.  We could see her sucking her thumb and swallowing.  These are such precious memories of when she was so full of life.  Of all the photos we have of her, the pictures from this scan are my favourite as I remember seeing those signs of life.  We trusted, and still trust, our consultant completely and were very reassured when she said she was happy with the way things looked.  I was still worried about the size of my bump and thought about this the whole time but we had in front of us photographic and written proof that everything was ok.  We went on holiday the following week safe in the knowledge that this would be our last holiday together as a family before our lives fell apart 10 weeks later.

We had a really lovely holiday together but for me it was plagued by exhaustion and nightmares.  I had dreams about tiny micro preemies and giving birth to a non viable baby that was unrecognisable as my baby.  There were a number of times that I was certain that the baby's movements had slowed down and would want to lie still for however long it took for me to be comfortable with the fact that she was still moving.  I was worried about what would happen if I needed to go into hospital.  Neither John or I speak French and I had written down a number of phrases I had found online about obstetric problems, reduced fetal movement and premature labour, just incase.  I found myself wanting to check if any of the residents at the gites in which we were staying were midwives so that I could get thoroughly checked over.  Most of all I was obsessing about what would happen if my little girl was delivered at that gestation of 24 weeks - particularly without the hospital that I knew and trusted so well on our doorstep!  We arrived home two weeks later still in one piece and relieved that people started to comment on the fact that my bump had grown!

At 25 weeks I had another check up, this time with a different consultant.  He was very happy with how things were going and even felt that there was a chance I could go full term.  An appointment was made for me to see a specialist consultant midwife at 29 weeks to discuss delivery.  I was adamant I didn't want to risk going to 40 weeks and was hoping for induction or a c-section at 38 weeks so that I wouldn't have to endure the stress of 'going over' and the added risks that that held.  A week after my appointment I began experiencing cramping and wasn't happy with the baby's movements so called the hospital and was advised to go in for a check.  They seemed happy with everything and the CTG confirmed not only a strong heart beat but also picked up fetal movements.  The midwife tried to reassure me but I really felt that something was wrong.  She explained that I had been through a traumatic experience with Sam and of course I would feel on edge but that I needed to try and relax as everything was fine.  I went home but still couldn't get out of my head the possibility that something was wrong.  My next appointment was at 29 weeks so I tried hard to relax until then, at the same time spending each day allowing time to lie still simply to feel the baby moving.  I would take warm baths to feel her kicks in the water and would prod my stomach gently to feel her response.  As long as I could still feel her moving I knew that everything was ok.

The weeks went on and my following appointment confirmed that things were still  going well.  I was still having the cramping which was becoming increasingly uncomfortable but there seemed to be no probable cause.  I was torn between wanting my baby to stay inside me for as long as possible and just wanting the pregnancy over.  I felt awful and was permanently on the verge of tears.  I just couldn't accept that I was going to have a baby until she was safe in my arms and constantly compared the way I felt, looked and acted with other pregnant women including Faye and other friends who were pregnant.  It is as these times that you begin to realise how patient your friends are.  I don't remember anyone once telling me not to be silly or shunning my fears.  They stood by me and reassured me as much as they could.  

One of my last memories before Emilie's death was dropping Samuel off at the new playgroup that he had started.  As I stood waiting for the doors to open I got talking to another mum.  We exchanged small talk before she asked me how long I had left of my pregnancy.  I told her that I had about 9 weeks left and immediately saw the concerned look cross her face.  "You're very small," she exclaimed.  I began to justify myself and the situation with lots of rumblings about how I just carry small and that I've been seen at the hospital and everything is ok.  Her words, however, stayed with me all day.  Later that afternoon I went to the dentist for a check up.  Sat in the waiting room another lady asked me how long I had left.  I decided to try a different tact this time and tell her that I was 31 weeks.  Her reaction was the same as the playgroup mum's reaction and I was very relieved when my dentist called me into his room and congratulated me on the pregnancy rather than commenting on my size.  10 days later I would agonise over what may have been different had I just shared the concern of those ladies and gone to the hospital to get checked out.  Would my baby have survived?  The reality of the situation is probably not.  The problems that she had would have been so advanced by that week, and the onset so sudden, that had she been born, she would well have died in SCBU or endured severe brain damage.  There is no way of knowing for certain but for months afterwards I took comfort in the thought that there was probably nothing I could have done differently to prevent what happened.

The week leading up to Emilie's death was difficult.  John was in London with work, Sam's behaviour was struggling - possibly from the tiredness of starting playgroup and towards the end of the week I had developed a stomach bug.  Strangely enough, I don't have many other memories from the week other than that.  I remember feeling really poorly and going to the doctors on the Tuesday as I had had a nasty rash for a few weeks that was worsening and was exhausted.  I was given antibiotics and advised to rest as much as possible.  I put the stomach bug down to this.  I'd love to be able to remember more of the week;  how much could I feel the baby moving?  Was I experiencing any puffiness?  Had I had a bump or fall that could have exaggerated things?  Sadly I can't remember any of this.  In all honesty I can't remember the last time I felt the baby move.  All I know is that over the course of the weekend I became certain that she wasn't moving any more.

Back to the Grindstone: Part 1

Sam was about one when we started talking about having another baby.  We had always wanted children very close together but the problems we had had with Sam had made that less likely for us.  When we started talking about things, John was a lot more keen than me.  I was still suffering the trauma of having Sam (and later found out that I had post traumatic stress) and was scared of going through prematurity, and all of the problems that came with it, again.  I was also very happy working and, looking back, know that work was a distraction and an excuse for not getting pregnant again.  I even remember thinking that I was happy with just Sam and told John that, although I'd like another baby, I never wanted to be pregnant again!  John wasn't content with calling it a day though and I knew deep down that neither was I.  We were in the process of moving house at the time so decided to get that out of the way and then rethink the situation.  Once again I was seeing babies everywhere, my friends had begun to get started on baby number two and people who had been married for less time than us were having their families.  I was beginning to feel left behind and knew that it was time to start moving forward from the experience we had had with Sam.

We met with some good friends for dinner and spoke about how we were feeling.  I was terrified of not being able to love another child as much as I loved Sam.  I was worried about the possibility of our new baby being in special care and/or being disabled as a result of pregnancy difficulties and how this would affect Sam and any future children we might have.  When Sam had been in special care we met a number of other families and a couple of them had older children.  It seemed so hard to juggle their lives and attention between the older children and their siblings in special care and I couldn't work out how we would possibly do this.  SCBU was all consuming and I wanted all my attention to go on Sam and not on a hypothetical baby that may or may not come into existence.  Our friends helped us to understand that all of our feelings and fears were normal with uneventful pregnancies, let alone with high risk pregnancies that demanded so much time and attention.  They helped us realise that love wasn't something than ran out or had to be split between two children, but was something that was renewed and came in abundance so that each child was loved unconditionally but often in different ways.  The concept of unconditional love, for both children, is something I've only understood since Emilie's death in that I love her, regardless of what she can or can't give me.  I will never, in this lifetime, get cuddles and kisses, cards, presents or loving words from her yet I adore her inspite of this.  And so, with a sense of trepidation we decided to make a pre pregnancy counselling appointment with our consultant so that we could start trying for another baby.  We were reminded, at the appointment, of the action plan and medications that would see us through any future pregnancies and were advised to contact our consultant as soon as we found out I was pregnant.  A referral up to the fertility centre was also made for us so that we didn't have to go through months of trying without ovulation.  We returned home hope filled and expectant to fall pregnant straight away in the way we had with Sam.  That wasn't to happen.

Since having Samuel I had only had a couple of periods which hadn't bothered me at the time but once we were trying for another baby it, once again, began to consume me.  Months went by without anything happening and then, shortly before Sam's second birthday, I began to experience the tell tale pains that signified that start of my period.  We were at the birthday party of one of Sam's friends when the pains started.  It was a strangely bitter sweet feeling - I knew that it meant that something remotely normal was happening with my body but it was also categorical proof that I wasn't pregnant.  I was gutted. 

The weeks went by again after my period without anything happening and once again the weeks turned to months and I continued to throw myself into work.  My business partner and close friend, Faye, was also trying for a baby at the time and had been for a couple of years so we were both strangely comforted by each other's struggles.  As more friends announced their pregnancies we both remained significantly not pregnant.  We both had appointments at the fertility clinic within a couple of weeks of each other.  Faye had her appointment first and received clomid to take at day one of her next cycle.  A couple of weeks later I had my appointment to receive my tests results from my referral at the end of the previous year.  I sat in front of the doctor as she looked at my notes and told me quite simply that my test results indicated that I wasn't ovulating and would need to receive medication to induce a withdrawal bleed before having clomid to trigger ovulation.  I naively expected to be given the medication there and then and was distraught when I was told that another appointment would be made for me to see a consultant and receive the correct treatment plan.  My appointment date was 2 months in the future.

I drove home in a blur of tears and anger just wishing that, for once, my body would do something normal.  I arrived home where Faye was still working and poured my heart out to her.  I knew that pregnancy would be difficult for me and didn't understand why it had to be so difficult for me to even get pregnant in the first place.  It just didn't seem fair.  I felt for Faye who had been trying a lot longer than I had at the time and had also suffered a miscarriage.  I couldn't imagine longing for a baby and then having that baby taken away from you before having to endure years of unsuccessfully trying for a baby.  I longed for her to be pregnant as much as I longed for myself to be pregnant.

Feeling very low and tired I decided to make myself a doctors appointment to talk about what as going on.  Once again, I sat in the doctor's room and cried.  The previous 2 1/2 years or so had been so incredibly hard and had been taken up with either trying for a baby, enduring a high risk pregnancy and special care and caring for a baby with severe feeding difficulties.  Once that had become more easy we had thrown ourselves straight back into the emotional merry go round and I was exhausted.  As I was physically and emotionally exhausted, my doctor explained that he felt it was best that I didn't commence fertility treatment at that time due to how draining it can be.  He suggested that we try naturally for a bit longer before deciding what to do from there and ran a pregnancy test for completeness as I hadn't had a period for a few months.  He agreed with me, however, that it was likely to be negative but in the middle of work four days later on 22 March 2012 the phone rang.  It was one of the GPs from the surgery who called with the surprise news that I was pregnant!  She needed to book me an appointment as soon as possible to start my treatment plan and get me booked into hospital and referred back to my consultant.  Coming off the phone my shaky demeanor gave me away and Faye was the first person to find out our news.  I could tell that, inspite of her desires, she was truly happy for us.  I was terrified.  I called John when work had calmed down and asked him, jokingly, how he thought we would afford two children.  His reaction showed sheer delight.

 

A week later I woke up in the middle of the night with alot of abdominal pain and cramping I tried to sleep it off but couldn't take my mind off it.  The pain continued throughout work the following day and I decided that I needed to go to hospital to get checked out.  Once there I was checked over thoroughly and was asked the usual questions - was I experiencing bleeding? How severe was the pain? Was I experiencing any dizziness.  I had an internal examination which confirmed that my cervix was closed so I was given pain killers and was booked in for a scan the following morning.  I went home terrified of losing the baby.  I'd seen friends go through miscarriages and was certain that if I miscarried I wouldn't be able to handle it.  We arranged for Faye to have half of the childcare children the following morning and for me to pick the other half up after my scan, as long as things were ok.  I was annoyed at myself and at the situation.  I hated letting parents down and, as my scan was late, sat in the waiting room sending numerous update text messages to parents to continuously apologise for the time that was ticking over.  Finally my name was called and we went down to the scan room.  I nervously lay on the bed while the scan took.  Virtually straight away the sonographer confirmed "there's a good, strong heart beat, you're 5 weeks and 6 days".  I couldn't believe it-I was certain that I'd lost the baby.  The pain still continued but no cause could be found.  We returned home reassured and clutching the scan picture of our tiny bean on which you could see the tiny flicker of heart beat that had been miraculously caught on the screen snap image as it had been made.

The Easter holidays came as a very welcome break to work and I sat round at Faye's house one evening to complete our tax returns.  Knowing that I would be finishing work very early (in the July) to rest I decided that I would speak to Faye about keeping the accounts once I had finished.  I was worried about what a sensitive issue it would be. I desperately wanted her to be pregnant and felt guilty at her potentially having to continue working without me.  "When I finish," I began, "I don't mind still helping you out with the accounts - just until you've got your head around it?".  Faye smiled at me. "That's great but it won't be for long...". Straight away I knew why she meant.  We were to be pregnant together - I couldn't believe it.  I was so excited for her and so excited for us, as friends, to be going through our pregnancies together.  Our 12 week scans confirmed that there was a week between us.  I was due on 23rd November and Faye on 1st December.  There was no question of it in my mind - our babies would grow up spending time together and being great friends.  Nothing could have made me happier.

Home and Dry? Part 3

A few weeks after Sam's discharge from hospital we had our 'debrief' with my consultant to learn the results of the placental histopathology from Sam's pregnancy.  I knew that the news wasn't straightforward when we were introduced to a haematologist who was also attending the meeting. We were also introduced to medical terms that I had never heard before and I remember making a conscious decision to learn more about IUGR and placental insufficiency.  The findings showed 'severe maternal vascular undersperfusion, featuring infarcts, accelerating maturation of villi and introplacental haematomas'.  My consultant explained to us that this was not normal placental development and was the cause for Samuel's IUGR and premature birth.  I was fascinated by the amount of information that could be gleaned from looking at a placenta after delivery!  I was desperate to learn more and gain more understanding about what had happened so spent time reading medical journal articles to try and improve my knowledge.  Although still somewhat sketchy, I learnt that an 'infarction' is 'an area of dead tissue in the placenta that is due to an obstruction of circulation in the area' the placenta had matured, and begun to die, too early meaning that Samuel wasn't provided with all of the oxygen and nutrients that he should have been provided with.  When the placenta was weighed it was found to be very small which was conducive with the other findings and occurrences.  It was explained to us that these problems could occur in future pregnancies and as these problems can be caused by thrombaphillias, blood clotting disorders, I had to have a blood test to confirm or rule this out.    The results came back a number of weeks later to confirm that there were no found blood abnormalities so I would be given low dose aspirin in future pregnancies, and monitored very closely, to keep me and the baby safe.  If there was a recurrence of the problem, or if I developed preeclampsia, the baby would be delivered early by C-Section.

When Sam was 12 weeks old things started to take a turn for the worse.  His feeding took a set back and he became more aggravated than he had been.  At first I put this down to his immunizations that he'd had a few days previously but when he didn't pick up I began to get concerned.  Some friends came down from Harrogate to see me for the day and I was so excited about them meeting Sam for the first time.  However, by late afternoon he hadn't taken a single feed properly, had brought up anything he had taken and was very sleepy and floppy.  I had to call the doctors to get him an appointment and was thankfully able to get an appointment straight away.  I gave my friends the house keys and asked them to post them through the door when they left.  The perfect hostess as always!  Thank goodness they are good friends who know that that is not my usual behaviour!  He was checked over at the doctors and nothing seemed to be wrong with him.  The doctor thought he may have reflux and prescribed a feed thickener for him.  I picked up the prescription and returned home, relieved that things should start to improve. 

Over the course of the next few weeks Sam's feeding continued to deteriorate.  I began to feel like I was spending the whole day trying to wrestle bottles down Sam when he obviously didn't want them.  He would cry because he was hungry, take a tiny amount of milk and then cry as if he was in pain.  He would quite often bring up the whole feed within half an hour of having it.  It would take him a good 45 minutes to take this tiny amount so that by the time he was finished he would be so tired that he needed a sleep.  He wouldn't have taken enough milk to get him through for long so would then wake up uncomfortable and so the cycle would continue.  One night I got ready for bed as John gave Sam his last feed.  Things seemed to be going relatively smoothly until I heard John call my name on panicked tones.  I went into Sam's room and found them both covered in vomit.  I took and cleaned him up whilst John cleaned himself up.  We then did our best to clean up the vomit all over the feeding chair.  Sam had seemed hungry and had taken his milk but had turn brought up that feed and seemingly the rest of the milk that he had had throughout the day.  He was inconsolable.

We returned to the doctors the following day and were prescribed ranitidine, which helps to prevent excess stomach acid from flowing back up the oesophagus, in addition to the feed thickener.  He seemed more comfortable but the improvement was short lived.  

A week later I attended a mum and baby group with my friends.  I was tired and emotional and felt like Sam's dysfunctional feeding was taking over my life.  A small group of us sat in a quiet room at the baby group for a baby massage class that we had been taking part in.  I loved attending this group.  Throughout the session we would be plied with hot coffee and toast and the ladies who ran the group were more than happy to take our babies for a few minutes so that we could have a hot drink or something to eat.  My friends and I felt truly cared for at this group.  At the end of the baby massage class I gave Sam his milk before he became too sleepy.  Surprisingly he did really well with his feed and took a good amount.  I was delighted.  One of the leaders made me a  cup of coffee and brought it to the quiet room so that I could keep Sam still and upright until his feed had settled.  I sat for a good half an hour before getting up to go and join the others for lunch.  As I walked across the room Sam's whole body went tense and he brought up the whole feed plus, I think, everything from throughout the day.  I was covered in vomit, soaking wet and smelly and only had a change of clothes for Sam.  The exhaustion took over and I began to cry.  Again we returned to the doctors and this time were referred to the hospital to see a specialist.  Sam's weight was checked and although he was still very tiny he was gaining weight as a result of our perseverance to keep feeding him.  None the less it was obvious that we were struggling and that he was uncomfortable.  In addition to the medications he was already on he was prescribed domperidone which helps encourage the stomach to empty before taking more feed - the idea being that it would prevent nausea and vomiting.  By this time, however, Sam had begun to associate his bottles with discomfort and had developed a feeding aversion.

Over the next few weeks we spent a fortune trying every bottle, teat and feeding cup that we could find to try and make feeding easier for all over us but Sam continued to fight his feeds. He would scream, wriggle and arch his back yet he was hungry and, as a result, uncomfortable so was very hard to console.  I withheld from going out to toddler groups, other that the one that I loved, because I couldn't handle feeding him in front of other mums who I didn't know.  John and I spent hours in Starbucks just to find a new environment to feed Sam in.  Other than seeing friends who I was comfortable with, and even then I would often make a quick escape to avoid feeding in public, I didn't really see anyone or go anywhere and began to feel isolated.  It is through this that I began to trust my 'mummy friends' who were willing to spend time with Sam and I even though we came as a very noisy, stressed and often vomity smelling package!

When the feeding aversion continued we were referred to a dietician.  With her support we weaned Sam onto solids and began to see an immediate improvement.  Finally he began to be more comfortable and content.  He seemed to enjoy his solids, all be it in very small amounts, and very quickly learnt to feed himself and become independent.  Things started to look up!

When Sam was 7 months old, I went back to work. I set up my own childminding business and very quickly my places filled up.  Not long later a friend, Faye, came on board with me and we offered the childcare together.

...to be continued ...