Saturday 12 November 2011

today

I buried a baby on this day, two years ago.

A beautiful tiny baby boy we named Joel. 

Finding myself pregnant for the third time was indeed a blessing and a surprise. The kids were beside themselves, I made plans with my employer  that  would work around a new baby, clothes were being washed in preparation,  everything was going smoothly.

I could not have anticipated what happened next. Just when I thought I was ‘safe’ I miscarried six and a half months into the pregnancy.  The picture that had appeared in every scan to date had been of a vibrant little baby who had given me the thumbs up after seemingly dancing at a rave party within my tummy.  Now the graphic on the screen told a very different tale, showing me a lifeless little soul lying perfectly still.

My mind screamed ‘No no no no no’  as I stared at the screen, the image now etched in my brain. My world stopped.  The news that shattered me was also about to shatter all those around me. Just like that.

Despite assurances from my fantastic obstetrician Rod Kirsop that it wasn’t my fault, that I had done nothing wrong, that these things happen, a woman will always carry some form of guilt with them.  There’s guilt if you eat fetta cheese in pregnancy ‘just’ in case it’s a soft cheese, guilt if you have a coffee too many.  Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. I thought I had let the team down.

I was put in hospital and induced overnight. The irony that I had to deliver the poor little baby, that the induction took all night like a ‘normal’ birth, wasn’t lost on me. For here was a life, albeit a very short one in utero that was not to be forgotten. The nursing team at the Sydney Adventist Hospital  told me that as common as miscarriage and stillbirth is, many many couples opt for the seemingly ‘easier’ option at the time of a delivery like ours - which is to request not to see the baby, not to bury or cremate the baby but to let the hospital staff deal with it accordingly. However by dealing with this devastating loss this way has also seen a return of these same couples 6, 9, 12 months down the track who want to see their baby. They want……(I won’t say ‘closure’ - my days as a news journo taught me to avoid that term) a momento, a reminder, a keepsake, something…anything.  But of course, it’s too late. With all babies born after a certain gestation hospitals produce photos with hand and foot prints as a reminder to help couples deal with their loss. They also have terrific support programs in place where a psychologist is brought in to help you through this time. We opted for the harder choice which was to deal with it properly. By properly I mean we met and touched our tiny tiny little boy, my obstetrician helped dress him, we named him, we had a blessing for him and we spent time with him.  

The burial was a small, quiet affair. Who has words at a time like that? Witnessing the placing of a tiny box in a gravesite for tiny babies who would have if they could have, seemed so unjust.

My point is that in Joel’s resting place, there are hundreds of plaques that read just like his. Hundreds, thousands of couples out there have experienced this loss, this sad, seemingly lonely road. Everyone deals with the pain of bereavement differently and I had to remember that as it placed a strain on my relationship with my husband. Partners suffer in their own way too. When well known personalities like Kristina Keneally  talk of their own experiences I applaud them.  We are all in this life together, we should all lend each other the occasional hand and speaking up can help someone. I'm a private person but it's these real stories that resonate. We need to hear more of them so people don't feel like they're alone. That's why I'm sharing this with you.
It’s raw. It’s real. It happens.