Seven Minutes.

Beth left a comment on my last post that got me thinking. She said that she hadn't realised that Emma had died SEVEN minutes before she was born. I'm not surprised. I talk a lot about how I plod my way through grief and I even wrote this post about the person I thought my daughter was or might have been. But I've been reticent about sharing the details of her birth - which was also her death. Partly because I've done pretty well at avoiding the attentions of the malevolent "anonymous" trolls who leave despicable and thoughtless comments on the blogs of grieving parents. I suspect a post about birth choices might draw some of them out of the woodwork. Mainly, however, it's because I'm frightened of being revealed as a fraud. I think all of us grieving parents recognise guilt as part of the grief process. We also understand that mostly the guilt is not based on reality. But, how do you process it when choices you made are implicated in your child's death?

In real life, I have worked hard on this. Mostly, I have made peace. My obstetrician assured me just hours after Emma's death that I would never know if she might have lived through an elective section. He was sure that arriving at the hospital sooner would not have changed the outcome. They were some of the kindest words I could have heard in the immediate aftermath of her death.

But, as I approach Jurgen's increasingly imminent arrival in this world and I feel the familiar dread of a surgical birth enfold me, I realise that this might be one part of my grief that I will never fully accept or "heal" from. I'm hoping writing here will release some of the panic I feel as I prepare for our fourth child. I will have the planned section because I am a mother and I want what is best for my child. It seems that operative deliveries are best for my children so, of course, I set aside my own preferences to hopefully obtain the best and safest outcome for my baby but I miss feeling joy and anticipation at the prospect of labouring and birthing my baby myself.

Emma will be my only vaginally birthed child. Her two older siblings were born by emergency section after long and difficult labours. I experienced some post-natal post traumatic stress disorder after the birth of her elder sister. It isn't nice - it isn't, of course, one billionth as painful as living for the rest of your life with babylost grief - but it isn't a pleasant or easy way to start mothering a child. I know that some babylost parents feel very frustrated by mothers who profess birth trauma after the birth of a living child - and I understand that entirely. I mention it here because it is part of the path that led to me making the decision to pursue a vaginal birth at home with Emma. NHS protocols here meant that I would have been offered a planned section at 39 weeks for her birth. Would I be here if I hadn't declined that path? What if ... what if... two horrible words to live with.

We don't know because we don't exactly know why Emma died. I went into labour spontaneously, my labour for the most part was straightforward. Emma, by every indication used to determine distress, was a perfectly happy baby for the duration of my labour. The last time we heard her heartbeat at 2.17am, just after we had transferred to the hospital so I could have a little bit of help with my second stage, it was well within the healthy range for a baby so close to birth (and we're pretty sure it was her heartbeat not mine, something I've been asked about when I share this part of the story). At 2.25am, I birthed a baby with no breath and no heartbeat. We didn't have an autopsy because it seemed so obvious to us that it was a "birth accident". Sometimes I wonder if a postmortem would have showed something more but I think that's because I want to believe that healthy babies being born to healthy mothers during healthy labours can't die. I'm proof to myself that they can. She was a good healthy size, her placenta and cord were healthy and revealed no clues. The best guess we can make is that her cord became pinched between me and her in those final minutes.

In the absence of any definite answers to her death, I have had to simply surrender to the course of action that will bring Jurgen into the world. I don't feel like I can make any choices for this little boy or little girl. I tried last time to make the choices that were "best" and safest for myself and my child. With the benefit of hindsight, it turned out they were neither.

SOOO done with the snow

I've just read Jeanette's post and all I can say is a hearty "I agree".

This is the view from our front door:





Beautiful - but treacherous. I'm at the stage of pregnancy where, by instinct, I slow down, withdraw and go just that little deeper inside myself. But, previously, I've been this heavily pregnant during the dog days of summer (three autumn babies). I've never been forced into this sort of hibernation before.

When it first snowed, I was so excited - the potential for a white Christmas, the first I can remember (and it was!). But since Christmas, there have been four people and two guinea pigs living in what are feeling increasingly cramped conditions. Cabin fever and Pregnancy after Loss anxiety are not making for pleasant bedfellows. We have had lots of fun, the great Christmas LE.GO rebuild was a great success - Ben is now able to have full on St.ar Wa.rs LE.GO battles now that we have reconstructed most of his battle fleet.

But it's all come to head today. The children have been off school and Dave has been off work and I was supposed to go to the hospital for my 36 week scan and my final appointment with my consultant - the one where I would get to know Jurgen's birthday for definite, the one where I'd be booked in for a pre-operative blood draw and meeting with the anaesthetist. In other words, an appointment I *really* wanted to go too. We couldn't get through to the hospital - the road was blocked and we couldn't use the car. Buses weren't running and people have generally been hunkering down and keeping warm. In the scheme of things, it isn't a big deal. The appointment is rescheduled for next Wednesday and, fortunately, little one has been as good as gold. As if realising that mama needs extra reassurance today that things are okay, Jurgen has been more active than he/she has managed in a while (even in my voluminous belly, space is at a premium). But, it hasn't helped my anxiety levels. In the unlikely event I were to go into early labour, could I get to the hospital? Would an ambulance make it onto the ice rink that is our estate? What if there's a problem with my placenta or umbilical chord that might have been picked up today, an issue with fluid or growth? Might it be too late next Wednesday? Given the pregnancy I've had, it's such an unlikely scenario - but then so was a healthy baby dying 7 minutes before she arrived in the world at the end of an uncomplicated labour. ... unlikely isn't impossible and I'm having to force myself to take deep breaths and find a little bit of optimism from somewhere.

I don't need sunshine and roses but a thaw would be nice.

Never think at 4am.

Because you know, whatever you think, it won't be rational or erudite. I'm seeing a whole lot of the wee small hours right now, thanks to a baby sat firmly and very comfortably, thank you very much, on my bladder plus the whole entertaining rigmarole of trying to turn over in bed. I'm at the point when, if this was a "normal" pregnancy, people would be joking about the wakefulness being "good practice" for baby coming. Except, that even in jest, I can't let people assume that a living, wakeful baby might be a foregone conclusion.

During the day, my grief is muted now. I've learned to let it co-exist alongside all the other emotions. Mostly, my days are okay - even good and happy. It's at 4am that I realise how close to the surface the pain and the horror and the anguish of losing Emma really is - especially right now. It manifests itself as utter and abject fear for her baby brother or sister. Last night I was very suddenly and completely awake at 4am absolutely convinced that this baby had died too. I was utterly paralysed by the terror of going through the loss of a child again. Even when Jurgen tried to reassure me by moving and shuffling and prodding me insistently I couldn't quite shake off the residue of fear. I have felt it all day today, despite good movements from an endlessly obliging fetus.

I am just three weeks away from the date my OB has proposed for my planned section. It really can't come soon enough.

Lucia Paz

Angie,

I just wanted to add my voice to the many speaking your daughter's beautiful name and remembering her - and all of you - with love.

33 weeks.

We're growing, Jurgen and I. Baby is growing right as he or she should. Serial growth scans suggest a baby of "good" size - not too small, not too big. I'm growing at a slightly more alarming rate - measuring 37 weeks at 33. Note to pregnant self - "No more mince pies - you are pregnant, not Father Christmas."

Physically, I have developed pelvic pain - a brand new symptom for my fourth pregnancy, which means I have the advanced pregnancy "ship in sail" waddle down to a tee - and occasionally I just lock up all altogether and can't move! I don't care. I continue to feel absolute gratitude for this gorgeous child.

Emotionally, it's as I expected. Both Dave and I have felt the anxiety levels ramp up these past weeks. We continue to cherish Jurgen and sometimes (occasionally) dare to talk about *when* he/she comes home rather than *if*. But neither of us sleep well and I do believe this poor baby (along with all other rainbow siblings I'm sure) is the inhabitant of the most prodded belly ever.

But we chug along, taking it a day at a time. I'm at the stage where I'll be having weekly checks with either my midwife or my OB - and it isn't long until B-day really, even if it feels as though every day is a lifetime.

And the world turns ...

In a couple of hours it will be a milestone date again - fourteen months on the fourteenth. In a couple of weeks it will be Christmas again. Things move on apace and I wonder if I have too. I suppose I have in some ways. Crying is no longer a daily occurrence and the anger is all but gone (sweet relief). I am fumbling my way towards some sort of reconciliation in my faith - tentatively and in a piecemeal fashion - but it feels like progress.

But, I still wake up some days and it hurts. I couldn't explain why yesterday was so much harder than the days preceding it - there was no obvious trigger but there it was. Grief - sharp, bitter, uncomfortable and draining. Sometimes it's a relief to know the tears can still come - they remind me of how much I love my baby. How much I miss her. How much I still want her back.

Not many words.

I just don't seem to have many words at the moment so the gaps here have lengthened again. I can feel myself drawing in as I prepare for another Christmas without my youngest daughter. I have been doing well - I have shopped and wrapped and written Christmas cards and made plans for the festive season. I have even found myself looking forward to parts of it. We put our tree up yesterday. Last year my sister gave us tree ornaments for each of our children with their names engraved. Putting up Emma's ornament prompted mixed feelings. I felt the same pleasure I felt last year, to realise that someone had thought of her. At the same time I feel such sadness thinking of the bright stockings upstairs, already stuffed with gifts for Ben and Lucy. Emma has one, small but beautiful tree decoration. We will find other ways to include her - a gift to charity in her name perhaps - but suddenly her absence, always there, feels bigger all over again.

***

I don't really have many words to describe how my pregnancy feels right now either. We're as ready as we're able to be. Clothes and bedding are washed and hospital bag supplies purchased. I don't have the same sense of something imminent and bad that I had last time but I still have no strong sense of this little being who is so physically present within me. I am in love but I couldn't tell you I had a strong sense of the gender of this baby or that I have any true belief that we'll get to bring him/her home with us. Just hope. I am anxious about the birth of this baby. I have not really had anything that would constitute a "good" experience of giving birth. I'm hoping our bereavement midwife will be able to help a little when we see her this week.

***

In the absence of anything profound to say, I thought I'd include this song. Our nephew stayed with us this weekend and he played this a lot. Just after Emma died, my best friend sent me a link to the song saying how much it reminded her of Emma and I: