Stacey: Right Where I Am 2015: 2 years 4 months 3 weeks 5 days

Well firstly I am late, by almost a month, my sincerest apologies but hopefully by then end of this blog you will all understand why.

So it has been a long time since I last blogged for Loss Through The Looking Glass, my last post was just after my rainbow daughter Florence was born, after writing every week about my pregnancy I definitely used blogging as an outlet for my hope, fears and darkest thoughts. That is what I love about this page it is a safe place for those who have lost a child to write and read thoughts shared by those who are years on from having last held their child inside them and some who are only days on from this life changing event. The death of your child.

Where am I right now then?

Rambling I guess as I am not entirely sure. My life is so different now to how it used to be, I see myself as many different people; before Maisie, after Maisie, during my rainbow pregnancy and after. These events have changed me into a different person each time and I can never go back. I cannot be the person that I was before I lost Maisie because I know too much now. My innocence and naivety is gone. I can never be that person who doesn’t know about pregnancy and infant loss, I can never be that person who looks forward to announcing a pregnancy as soon as possible, I can never innocently go through life thinking that nothing will go wrong and that only good things will happen to me. After all child loss isn’t something that happens to you it happens to someone else…

Until it does happen to you.

So I am a different person now, am I a better person? The big question is has the death of my first daughter somehow enriched my life, made me a better person and in some sick way am I ‘glad’ that it happened?

Yes, no and sort of to all those things. She enriched my life because she taught me true love, the love a mother feels when she holds her child in her arms; this love is no less just because I never got to hold her alive. She lived for such a short time and there was such panic to get the placenta delivered that I never held her during her short life but the time I did hold her I will cherish in my memories forever. She taught me patience, she taught me understanding, she taught me forgiveness, she taught me not to allow others to hurt me so easily, she has made me a better mum. She showed me the strength of the bond my husband and I have that we can survive something so awful and become closer and stronger together. Because of her I don’t take anything for granted, I cherish every second of happiness in my life because I now know what true heartbreak is. Not the small meaningless upset but the true, deep, dark, monstrosity of horrendous heartbreak that comes from seeing your child die in your husbands arms, planning a funeral for your baby who never really lived, buying an outfit in a shop full of happy pregnant women to bury your daughter in and watching your husband lower a tiny white coffin into the ground with your child inside. That is true heartbreak. That has made me a better and stronger person.

So no I am not glad that my daughter died, but I am glad that she lived. I am glad that she chose me to be her mum, although it was only for a short time that I carried her inside of me and held her in my arms, I will carry her in my heart for the rest of my life. And I am glad that for the rest of my life I get the chance to honour her memory and make sure that the rest of the world doesn’t forget that she, Maisie Rose Davis, is my first child.

For those of you who have managed to read this far through my ramblings well done! I said at the beginning of this blog that I would share why this post is a month late. For those of you who followed my pregnancy blogs last year you will know that there is a certain point in any pregnancy that we have to reach before we know whether the pregnancy is 80% likely to have a positive or negative outcome. Well, I’ll let you work it out yourselves…

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You can read Stacey's previous posts for the blog here:

Right Where I Am 2013: 15 weeks
Trying Again
Christmas
A Rainbow Pregnancy: The Start
A Rainbow Pregnancy: Weeks 4 to 8
A Rainbow Pregnancy: Weeks 9 to 12
A Rainbow Pregnancy: Weeks 13 to 16
A Rainbow Pregnancy: Weeks 17 to 20
Right Where I Am 2014: 1 year 13 weeks 6 days
A Rainbow Pregnancy: Weeks 21 to 24
A Rainbow Pregnancy: Weeks 25 to 28
A Rainbow Pregnancy: Weeks 29 to 32
A Rainbow Pregnancy: Weeks 33 to 36
A Rainbow Pregnancy: Weeks 37 to 38
A Rainbow Pregnancy: My Birth Story

Nicole: Right Where I Am 2015: 4 years exactly

Where am I right now?  I’m in what feels like a really odd place.  I am mum to a boy who never lived outside my body, and who would have been turning four on 16^th August.  I am mum to a boy who is coming up for 2 and a half, who fills my life with joy and frustrations as only toddlers can do.  And I am mum to a third boy who – if we are really, really lucky – will be born next month, a last addition to our little family.

Four years on from losing Xander – from his death and birth (always, forever, the wrong way round) - my grief is manageable in a way that both pleases and angers me.  Day to day, the grief lies under the surface of my heart - barely noticeable, ultimately manageable.  It’s like a vague, dull ache – an awareness that something isn’t quite right in the world, something isn’t as it should be.  It is simply there, a fact that I accept and doesn’t hugely hinder my life.  I think of my first son every single day in some way.  It isn’t always heart-wrenching, it doesn’t always make me cry. 

But there are times – less frequent than they were, but still there – when the grief overwhelms me.  Sometimes it hits me by surprise – something reminds me of him, and the pain is so sudden it takes my breath away.  Other times I do it intentionally.  I take the pain of my loss, the utter hopelessness of it all, and focus on it. I know some people would wonder why I would do that to myself.  Well, simply because I need to.  Sometimes, in amongst this incredibly busy, rushed life of mine, I need to take the time out to focus on him.  On the desolation I feel at his death, the anger I feel at the lack of care we received, and - most of all - the love I feel for him. 

My second son, Barney, gets most of my time.  My love, my affection, my attention.   And, hopefully, my third son will share in that when he arrives.   But Xander?  My first, beloved boy, who would have been going off to school in a matter of weeks?   He gets so little of me.  He gets a few snatched moments where I can focus on him.  He gets our ‘week of new things’ which we do in the lead up to his birthday.  He gets a tattoo on my arm. He gets a plaque at the cemetery that we visit once a year on his birthday.  It’s not much when you think about it.  A mother likes to treat all her children equally, and in reality I can’t really do that.  So I feel like I can’t give much to him. 

But as for what he gave to me – it’s huge.  My children have been the best gift I could ever ask for.  Xander taught me so much.  He gave me a sense of renewed hope when I needed it most.  He made me treasure the people I have in my life.  He showed me what I am here for and gave me a purpose.  I don’t think I can ever really repay him for what he gave me.  But if taking time to think about him, to value him, and to give thanks for his little life is all I can do…well maybe, in time, I can learn to make that enough.  I really hope so.

Happy birthday my beautiful boy xxx   

BlopMamma: Making memories to last a lifetime

BlopMamma blogs about her life as a NICU nurse and mummy on her own blog 23 week socks. Her blogs have made an interesting addition to Loss Through the Looking Glass, looking at loss from a different perspective to that of the bereaved parent.

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As neonatal nurses we deal with death on a regular basis. We don’t see it every day or even every week but it is something we are always aware of. Each and every time a baby dies our hushed voices, expressions of pain and words of sadness are completely real. We each deal with these deaths in our own way, taking some harder than others but being marked by them all the same.

I am someone who reacts to death with tears, unable to stop this very physical manifestation of grief from showing itself. At first glance it may seem as though this is a hugely unhelpful thing for me to be doing when parents need my support but I truly believe that my tears show them how much I care far more than any words ever could.

I know from my own experience that going into premature term labour is one of the most terrifying things that can happen. In the space of a few hours I went from being six months pregnant to having to face the very real possibility that Squidge might be born very sick and far too soon. As frightening as the whole experience was, had the doctors not been able to stop my labour the Northern One and I would have had some warning that things were likely to be bad and a little time to decide what we wanted to do. It wouldn’t have made things any easier for us but at least we would have had some time to try and prepare ourselves.

However, there are some babies whose parents have no warning, either because things go wrong at the very last minute or because they have already safely delivered their baby and tragedy strikes seemingly out of nowhere. The loss of each and every baby is a tragedy but it is the babies who die unexpectedly that, for me, cut the deepest.

The first time I ever cared for a baby on the last day of their far too short life came as a complete shock to me. I knew the little boy was very sick; so sick that he required my undivided attention for the entire shift but I didn’t realise that by the end of the day he would be gone. Just a few days ago he had been pink and healthy and full of life; feeding and growing and getting ready to go home with his parents to start their new life as a family.

Now he lay silent and still, tubes and wires snaking all over his little body, his skin grey and his eyes closed.

The only sounds came from the insistent beeps of the monitors and the click and hiss of the ventilator as it moved air in and out of his tiny lungs; breathing for him because he was too sick to be able to breathe for himself.

By early afternoon it became clear that no matter what we tried, nothing was working. Despite the tireless mechanical breaths of the ventilator we were unable to get enough oxygen into his bloodstream and the effects were beginning to show.

No longer was he just still, instead his little face had taken on an almost mask-like quality that was the truest sign that although we had fought hard, battling for his life with all the medications and technology available to us, we had still lost.

The parents had barely left his cot side, silently watching him as though they could fight the very thing that was taking him from them with sheer force of will alone. The spoke occasionally but otherwise they stayed quiet, as though they were afraid to ask any questions because deep down they knew what the answers would be.

But even the strongest will or the greatest love cannot hold death at bay and we have to tell the parents that there is nothing more we can do to save their little boy.

Mum bows her head and tries to choke back the sobs that threaten to engulf her.

Dad turns his back on us and marches out of the room, unable to stay and listen to us a moment longer. When he returns a few minutes later he is calmer and he and Mum ask to hold their baby for a little while. I tell them that they can hold him for as long as they need; that he is still their baby and that it is more important than ever that he knows they are there.

I sat beside the parents, camera in my hands, taking photograph after photograph of the little boy as they carefully hold him on a pillow. I am acutely, painfully aware that these are the last memories these parents will ever have of their son and that somehow I have been entrusted with making them.

The photographs that I take will be one of the few physical reminders that their little boy lived; photographs that will be stored in a box of precious keepsakes to be taken out when the grief becomes overwhelming and the images that they keep in their minds just aren’t enough.

In my mind I can see these broken, grieving parents opening their box of memories; taking out the items one by one and turning them over in their hands as they have done so many times before.

The little plastic name bands, inscribed with his name and date of birth, that circled his hands and feet. The biro letters are clear but the writing is slightly scribbled, as though someone wrote them in a hurry, not knowing how valuable those few words would become.

The stocking hat that was put on his head almost as soon as he was born that may yet still bear the faintest trace of his baby smell.

The knitted blanket that kept him warm during that last, bitter sweet cuddle.

I carry on taking photographs; of his little hands and feet, his face, zooming in so that he fills the camera frame. My hands shake so badly that I have to rest the camera on my knee so that I don’t blur these precious pictures of their last minutes together as a family.

The parents are adamant that they don’t want their baby to suffer and so they have already agreed with the consultant that she will remove the breathing tube when they tell her it’s time. Mum and Dad ask if I’ll stay with them until it’s over and I promise that I won’t leave their side for even a moment until they want me to go.

I put the camera down and help the consultant to gently remove the breathing tube, being so careful not to tug at the little boy’s skin or to distress him in any way. I talk to him softly, calling him sweetheart and telling him not to be scared; that his Mummy and Daddy are here with him and that they love him so very much.

The consultant waits quietly until Mum asks her if her baby has gone and she listens for his heartbeat with her stethoscope. His heart is still beating, slowly and faintly, waiting a few minutes more before quietly slipping away.

The tears that I’ve tried so hard to keep at bay start to run down my cheeks but they are silent and for this I am grateful. I try to discreetly wipe them away but they keep falling unbidden and there’s nothing I can do to stop them but at least I can keep the sobs inside until I am alone.

Somehow the end of the shift has arrived and as I step out of the room and into the corridor a noisy sob rises and escapes before I have time to choke it back. I quickly look around but no one else is there and so I manage to keep my emotions in check until I’m safely sat inside my car and I know no one can hear or see me as I cry.

After a few minutes my eyes are swollen and my head aches and I would have given almost anything to be home already. But I know it’s nothing compared to the pain those parents are feeling; whose arms are empty and whose baby boy now lives only in photographs.

Courteney: My Story

I'm Courteney and today I am telling my story.

In August 2013 I decided I was ready for a baby. In October I found out I was pregnant. I was overjoyed, excited and happy. I started to think about names and looking at what I could buy my baby. It didn't even cross my mind what was to happen next. It was the following month and it was time for my first scan. I went into the room and got ready. It took about five minutes and then I was sent into another room to speak to another midwife, she told me maybe I got the dates slightly wrong, she said that happens all the time.

I remember her telling me to hope for the best but prepare for the worst.

She booked me in for a week later for another scan. The next week came and I went for my second scan... my baby wasn't growing, there was no change from last week. I was sent into a waiting room and I was left there for what felt like forever. Finally a nurse came and I followed into her room, she explained everything to me and told me what would happen, she told me there was several things I could do.

I was blank. I was then simply sent home, I was going to have my baby naturally as the other two options just weren't right for me. It was now December, Christmas was going to be here soon... one night this excruciating pain just came over me and I couldn't move. I was rushed to hospital. I had no idea what was going on, the nurse I seen at the end told me there wouldn't be much pain so I was terrified. I was having my baby.

The rest was such a blur as I was given morphine for the pain. I was in the hospital for about 7 hours. Before I left the hospital a nurse came to talk to me and all she had to say to me was that I could now get on with my life and I was still young. I was shocked and heartbroken. I was in a small room by myself and I came across these two very small baby hats in a cupboard next to me and I kept one and took it home with me, I don't know why but I did and it kind of helped looking at it and holding it because I didn't have my baby to hold.

I am so happy to have shared my story, I hope many other women can do the same. I want to break the silence on this taboo there is with pregnancy loss. I want to change this and I hope in the future no one will have to feel ashamed, guilty or anything like that, it is something we should be able to talk about. Thank you for letting me share my story.

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Courteney currently has a petition running asking parliament to recognise October 15th as an official Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. You can sign the petition here:

https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/105303