The Goodbye Journey - long post and maybe tmi for some...
The Goodbye Journey...
When I saw the two lines on the test I didn’t feel the same thrill of excitement. I didn’t dream of a life that was to be. This was unusual for me. I put it down to the death of your sister 7 months before. I no longer was one of the “it won’t happen to me’sâ€. I was one...
I changed obstetricians. Only because I wanted a new experience. I didn’t want to lay on the same table under the same ultra sound scanner as I had when I learned of the death of my last baby. Foetal demise. No reason. Just unlucky... James had been beautiful with me. Supportive and oh so empathetic and caring. I just needed a new face and a new chapter.
George was recommended to me. I liked him instantly. He showed compassion and understanding. I liked his sense of humour and ‘humanness’. A scan at 6weeks and 2 days showed a viable pregnancy. Heart beating away. The heart beat on the screen didn’t melt my heart. I just dropped tears of relief. For another day I had hope...
I felt an immense sense of anxiety that I analysed as being fear of a repeat miscarriage. Deep down I knew it was more. It was all encompassing. Exhausting. Weekly visits to George and weekly ultrasounds didn’t allay my fears. I remember George telling me at 10 weeks – ‘this is looking good’. ‘We have no reason to expect anything but a good outcome’. ‘Your baby is alive and looking good’. "For now". I said, it could die by the time I walk out the door’...
I am sure George thought me bizarre, morbid. It was a knowing I had. I can’t explain. I just knew I would never meet my baby alive...
Nuchal scan went so well. I was so afraid of Frank telling me my baby was dead. But no! Our baby looked well and healthy. Measurements good. Very low risk of chromosomal abnormality. “Relax Deb.†“Begin to enjoy this pregnancy.†I’ll see you in 6 weeks at your morphology scan. His words still ring in my ears – “The chance of the same thing happening twice at the same time are about 1 in a millionâ€. So, that’s me. One in a million!
Off to see George at 13 weeks – the last time I saw my baby. Heart beating reassuringly. All is good. The chance of anything going wrong now are only about 2 per cent. Somehow that just doesn’t seem to make me feel good. We still haven’t told our other children or the big wide world of our baby growing inside.... George is off on holidays, I see my gorgeous midwife Lynne. Baby’s doing well, growing, heartbeating so well...
13weeks and 6 days Lynne listens to the sound of my baby’s heartbeating. First try on the doppler, no hunting around. Loud and reassuring. Still I don’t feel comfortable telling the other children. “On Friday Lynne after we’ve heard it again...†I felt so incredibly anxious that week...
Friday, on goes the gel and the doppler. Nothing. I know. He’s gone... “Just let me have a little huntâ€... Still nothing. Just the loud boom of my heart beating. My heart beating alone... Off to see Ted for an ultrasound. I am glad George is away. At least he only deals with live babies...
Still there is a glimmer of hope that there is a heart beating in there. I don’t want to get up on that bed. While I don’t have an ultrasound I can still hope even just a little... I tell Ted I don’t want to see the screen. He asks why. “Because I don’t want to see another dead baby on a screenâ€. “Oh I am sure you will see a nice heart beating there soon and be eager to look.†“ I know my baby is deadâ€...
I look at those kitchy Anne Geddes pictures on the wall – for some reason those photos make me feel angry – I remember James #1 had them on his wall too. I find a spot on the wall that I can focus on. “Why the hell doesn’t he invest in some real life photography?â€
The silence is deafening. "I am sorry Debbie there is no heart beat". Your baby has died. “Why†I croaked. My voice sounded reptilian. "Often it’s just one of those things...â€. I looked at this grey haired man and thought that I couldn’t quite believe such a stupid statement would come from his mouth. “Just two of those thingsâ€. I said but clearly he didn’t understand. “Now, from here you can wait for your uterus to shrink as your baby degenerates or you can have labour induced.â€
It sounded like he was arranging a trip to a footy match, or to the local shopping centre. “Take some time to make your decisionâ€...
I wanted to birth my baby. I wanted to get out of that room. Away from the machine that told me my baby was dead. Ted didn’t even touch me. I wanted George or James. I wanted a human, feeling, touching doctor who understood...
I stumbled from his room into a waiting room full of women with bulging bellies. All of them benignly flicking through outdated magazines. I smiled brightly at a woman who made eye contact. I didn’t want her to know. I wanted her to go on believing that bulging bellies mean live healthy babies....
I carried my angel daughter for 2 weeks without knowing she was dead. I didn’t want this little baby inside me breaking down. Degenerating. I wanted to birth him. I wanted to go through a process. Birth was something I could do for him. For me. It seemed important to complete the cycle.
Chris’s face was shocked. He was incredulous this could happen again. I was calm. I knew this was going to be the outcome. We held each other but I couldnt ‘be’with him. This was a journey I had to complete on my own. This didn’t feel like it was about him. It was about me and this baby we had made. I know and understand that pregnancy just doesn’t seem real for him until there is a kicking moving bump. I know the whole concept of the death of this living thing inside me was a little hard to grasp. Our babies didn’t used to do this. Our babies grew as they should. I pushed them out just as my body intended. We held them all wet and gooey. They all cried boistrous loud cries. Together we cried releived, grateful happy tears. My babies used to be safe in my womb...
I just needed Chris to be there for the kids. I didn’t want or need him there for me. Chris has always been so ‘there’ and so supportive during our childrens labours. They have been joyous beautiful bonding occassions. This was different. I knew it was way outside of Chris’s comfort zone. I didn’t want to drag him through this process. I wanted to save him from seeing my anguish. I knew that it would be something that would scar him. I didn’t want that for him. I wanted him to remember that I could birth live babies. I didn’t want him to hold the memory of the birth of a dead child. I knew that he wanted to be there for me and he looked confused that I didn’t need him. We always lean on each other he and I. We do that well. We support and love and nurture each other. This time though I needed to do this without him. I needed to complete this journey alone. I am still not sure why but it was the right choice for me... It was the right choice for all of us...
James # 2 was on call for the weekend. Kind, gentle and peaceful. Melanie was the midwife that evening. Sympathetic and reassuring. I had cramps. I think my body knew I had to give my baby up. Melanie and I talked and I felt blessed to have this kind woman to begin my goodbye journey with. I asked for sleeping tablets. I just needed to sleep. I knew the next day would be a long one...
Zoe came on night duty. She had the most beautiful voice. The cramping continued. She reassured me that she would be there with me to help me birth my baby if that was what would be that night. We talked, she talked of her life and her travels. She was a beautiful soft gentle woman... I slept fitfully.
Saturday the 11th of March and I had to fast. In case I had to go to theatre. I ate breakfast. It felt like I was swallowing cardboard... James #2 requested a repeat ultrasound as he didnt’ feel comfortable inducing labour when he had no written report to confirm that the baby had in fact died. That ultrasound was like torture. There was a piece of me that held hope that it had all been a mistake and that my baby’s heart had started beating... Maryanne my midwife for the day, so small and so earthy. So very much what I needed that day.
I had asked her to be my eyes. She looked for me. I didn’t want to see another dead baby on a screen. Yes Deb, your baby has died... Foetal demise...
James came and the first pessary of Cervagem was pushed up onto my tightly closed cervix at 9.45am. To be repeated every 3 hours for up to 5 applications until my baby was born...
The second one was put against my still tight cervix. Hot packs were more for comfort than for pain. I felt cold. Maryanne and I talked about life, the Universe and everything. Soon it was time for her to go. We hugged and I hoped that we would share more time together in aother time...
Then came Julie. Her eyes were warm, she sat with me. Rarely leaving. She sensed I didn’t want to do this alone. I was afraid of being alone when my baby was born. I was afraid of being horified at the sight of my own child. I knew he would be tiny. He wouldn’t look like a fully formed baby. I had seen babies of this gestation. I didn’t know how I would cope with seeing my own baby. This was different. I needed some woman energy to experience this birth with. We talked, we hugged. I cried some. She got my chart and read to me the birth notes of the birth of my last daughter Eva. I laughed and smiled at the memories. I heard babies cry down the hall. She gave me a little rug, a momento. The hot pack was wrapped in it. The only tangible thing I have left of my baby. The only real thing left to remind me of this night...
The cramps were very manageable. I guess like severe period pain. I have never found the pain of labour to be unbearable until right before the pushing stage. This was different. The pain only had the purpose of delivering to me my dead child. There wasn’t a lot to be welcoming of. I had 50mgs of Pethidine, not for the pain but more to dull the reality. I was tired. Oh so tired...
I began to lose blood. It seemed like a lot. We changed position from the bed to the loo. This we did each hour or maybe less. The pot in the toilet caught the blood and clots. Each gush I thought may be my baby. But no. Julie put the fifth and last pessary up against my cervix. “It’s softer now.†“It won’t be long now sweetie...†It was time for her to go home. Her part of the journey with me was over. We hugged, goodbye...
Lynne #2 came. Gorgeous English voice. She sat by my bed. The cramps were still very bearable. Very uncomfortable but nothing at all like a full term contraction. I didn’t realise why I was afraid of being alone. Only now is it clear. During the birth of a live baby there is that excitement. The prize at the end. The little body to explore. The face to kiss. This was the unknown. I had been with women who miscarried. I have collected their babies in buckets. This was my baby. This was different. I thought of all the women who have done what I was doing. I felt the oneness that I feel when I birthed my other babies. There is an immense strength in that for me. The oneness that you feel with all the other women that have ever birthed. I felt the oneness with all of the other women who have birthed a Goodbye Baby. A knowing... A wisdom...
I was so thankful for the blessing that was Lynne. The blood continued to gush and the clots fell unceremoniously into the pot in the toilet. I felt like I was releasing something. It was somehow cathartic. Lynne and I thought it may have been placenta. No baby. My body didn’t want to let my baby go... Lynne told me of her journey to live in Australia. Her sons... More hot packs, more gushing... Up to the loo. I felt clammy and cold and ill. All signs of a dilated cervix. I knew this was good but I was scared of what was ahead. I knew that soon I would feel the lump in my vagina. The lump that was my baby... I thought of the births of my other children. There is always candles. Music. Oils. So much anticipation. A name chosen. An outfit warming under the heater. The smiling faces of eager siblings. The gentle firm hands of my beautiful husband ready to catch his child. This baby would have none of that. I said a prayer. That was all I could give him. Did he hear? Did you hear little one?...
Lynne was worried. Blood pressure low. Doctor came. Drip went in. My hands that are usually plump with veins were flat. I didn’t want this drama. I just wanted it to be over... I had lost a fair amount of blood. I knew that. I felt faint. I felt lost. I recognised that feeling – it was to a lesser extent the same feeling I have when I reach transition...
James #2 was called. He had creases on his face from sleeping. More gushing. More clots. “I think the baby is just above your cervixâ€. I knew what that meant. I knew he would thrust a gloved hand inside my body and pull my baby out. I knew that would mean my baby would not be whole. I couldn’t think of it. I let my mind inch toward the vision and I cried with the thought. This little person, the one I had grown and nurtured so carefully would be tugged from me and broken in the process. I nodded for him to go ahead...
Lynne held me in her arms while James did what he had to do to bring my baby out. It hurt. It hurt my heart. I saw Lynnes eyes. I saw how my eyes had looked. The sympathy. The empathy. She knew. She understood. I knew that after this she could have a cup of tea. I knew that after this nothing would ever be quite the same for me... I wanted to run from what was happening but I forced myself to stay...
I said: “I don’t want to lookâ€. James said – “I am sorry Deb your baby was damaged coming outâ€- “it’s probably best you don’tâ€. “It looks like a little boy...†“I am sorry Deb...†He gathered up my baby... I thought of my other babies at home tucked into their beds. I just wanted to hold one of them and touch their perfect faces...
I knew from now on he was no longer my baby but rather “products of conception†a "fresh specimen" for a pathology courier to collect. In a few hours he would be in the path lab. I couldn’t protect him...
I sobbed into the tiny purple rug I had been given...
I felt immense relief. I felt a weight had gone. I looked between my legs and I saw the twirly purple cord. So tiny and so delicate.... I felt a pain in my chest. I said goodbye... It was almost midnight. This birth was my second longest. Lynne gave me a card that said: “Delicate baby boy born March 11, 2006†...
It wasn’t over. More gushing. The placenta hadn’t come away. “Can you give some pushes?â€. Nothing but blood. James wants to take me to theatre but I truly believe if I go under anaesthetic I wont’ wake up. I am jinxed. I am not going anywhere. James looks uncomfortable. I know I am making it hard for him. I feel sorry for him. “I am sorry James, I just can’t...†I have to follow my gut instinct. I don’t want to die. Syntocinon goes up into my drip. Still no placenta. Slowly the blood stops. I shower. I sleep fitfully again. Only sips of water to drink then nothing. “You will need to go to theatre if this placenta isn’t born by morning...†Sleep doesn’t come easy... The cramps continue... I clutch my purple rug...
No placenta and James comes early to plan our trip to theatre. I am sure I won’t awake from it. I know it’s an irrational fear, probably fed by no food for over 24 hours, blood loss, fatigue and grief. The theatre nurse who greets us at the doors to the the operating suite answers when she is told that I am feeling afraid: “Oh you won’t die, it’s too much paperworkâ€. I remember her from my last D&C - her manner hadn't improved... It is a stark reminder that humour has it’s place and it’s place certainly wasn’t then. I wanted to punch her but I was too weak. There was a kind nurse who stroked my head as the bung went in my hand. I wake and it’s over. Placenta out.
I spent the rest of the day dozing from the drugs and crying for myself, for my baby, for my husband... I felt so angry. “There is no Godâ€. “Why do you keep taking my babies?†“Well you can’t have any more of them.â€!!! “You have taken three and that’s enough†!!! I cried until I felt at peace. I cried until I was dry. I needed to be alone and to cry and to be angry and to blame. I really needed it... I took some more sleeping tablets and some panadeine forte for my migraine and I slept. I slept for a long time clutching my purple rug...
I woke on Monday, I showered, I blowdried. I drank my tea and ate my toast. A knock at my door and it’s George. “Hello, Deb you just knew, didn’t you?†Yes I did George. Yes I did...
I felt like I would cry, there were times I wanted to see a face I knew over these past days and it felt good to see one. A face that held some hope. A face that could perhaps offer some answers. A face I trusted... He gave me a hug, and I felt I had been there before. We talked of tests, and George promising to research for me. I was glad I had him on my side. I was glad he hadn’t been with me on the weekend. I needed to save him up for the day that I birth a healthy, whole, live baby...
Maybe he won't be in the room when that day comes. But afterward he can congratulate us. He can hug my husband and me. He can smile at my other children. We can all celebrate the birth of life. The birth of a life that is also part of this journey...
I heard the voices of my little girls and their Daddy as they came up the hall to collect me. I choked. I needed them so much. It was time to go. It was time to start anew. It was time... I left that day a different person to when I arrived. I felt somehow stronger. I felt braver. I felt more capable... I felt so blessed to have my live children, my beautiful husband. I felt strangely peaceful. I felt the cycle was complete.... When death touched me I was reminded that we all dance to a music beyond our control. Sometimes we are willing dance partners. Sometimes not. I just have to let the dance go on and listen to the music. And hope and pray...
Some people say “It’s not fairâ€. I don’t know if that is so. I don’t think it is that simple. I don’t think it can be that simple. What is fair? Statements like that imply that I am a victim. I am not. I am a part of this story. My baby was a part as were his siblings and his father. Even the midwives and the doctors are all part of this story. The story is intricate. It is not as simple as not being fair. There is a lesson to learn from all that enters our lives. I know I can choose to feel I have been badly done by or I can choose to act with courage and strength and I can learn to trust. To let go and trust. Trust that I cannot control the outcome. I can play my part, but ultimately I have to let go and let life unfold. I need to listen to the music...
The death of my babies isn’t “one of those thingsâ€. There is a reason. We may never know exactly why, but there is a reason. This experience has taught me to not be afraid. This has taught me that there are no guarantees. Babies sometimes die but I can survive it. I can still smile. I can still laugh. I am going to try very hard not to be afraid. I am not going to let this be the end of my story.
I will again birth a live, healthy, strong baby. I will. I will go forward knowing that every pregnancy doesn’t lead to a baby. I will go to bed every night and be thankful for the blessings and the lessons I have learnt through this. Because in the face of all of this pain there have been so many blessings. So many lessons...
I ran my fingers over Finn’s face while he slept. He doesn’t know he has an angel brother. I wondered what my angel boy’s face would be like. Would he have the same skinny legs, the same soft hands... I will always wonder, but I will never know. For some reason that’s the way it is and I accept it and I let you go little boy. Watch over us won’t you? Whisper in our ears as we sleep. I will tell your brother and sisters about you one day. For now, they don’t need to feel sad. They need to smile and laugh and play and not be burdened with the sadness of the loss of you who they never knew...
Another rose will be planted in our garden. A rose for you next to the rose we planted last May for your sister.
You were my second Goodbye Baby. I pray that you will be my last...
March 29,2006
