“I’m so so sorry.” I’ll never forget the doctor’s face as he looked at me to confirm that my baby had died. A perfectly formed body on the screen, but with a heart that no longer had a beat. I was on the cusp of being six months pregnant, and it seemed impossible that I was being delivered this news.
Within that few seconds, my heart had broken into a million pieces, some of which I knew would never be found again, and my world changed forever. Nik didn’t let go of my hand, but he gently sobbed, grieving for our baby, the baby that we would never bring home.
I wiped the gel from my stomach and got dressed in a state of numbness, unable to cry. I could feel Nik’s eyes fixed on my face, and although I didn’t look back at him, I knew in that moment he felt both helpless and lost. He was my fixer, and this time he didn’t have the tools. The doctor explained what would happen next and said that I would need to take a tablet to soften my cervix ready for labour. He said I didn’t need to do this straight away, but I was desperate to get the process started, I couldn’t bare the thought of prolonging this anymore when there was nothing I could do to change the outcome.
The doctor paused, and gently placed his hand on the calf of my leg, he urged me to go home and simply do nothing. He acknowledged that whilst he couldn’t change the outcome, there was no need to put myself though any further heartache by having to make a decision in that moment, he asked me to do it for him. I had no energy to think, I wasn’t even sure how I was breathing, and so I silently nodded in agreement.
The kind nurses at the maternity assessment centre took care of Virrae for us, which enabled us to protect him from the harrowing moments during which our world was turned upside down and shaken to destruction. I didn't get their names, but I will never forget their faces as they too sobbed with us and did the only thing they could do to help as our nightmare unfolded before us. I will be forever grateful for this act of kindness, and for shielding our son as the thunderbolt hit.
Moments later we were led to a private bedroom, I don’t remember how we got there, or how my legs were able to function, for every part of me felt dead. I do remember Nik's arms around my shoulders, and I remember the silence, a silence that echoed in my ears. It was nothing like a hospital room, it wasn’t clinical, instead there was something warm and comforting about it, but something very sad. This was the room where mummies and daddies didn’t get to take their babies home. I never even thought about hospitals having this kind of facility, oh how naive I had been in both my pregnancies. I was now in that 1% of mothers who deliver their babies sleeping, and my innocence had been snatched from me as cruelly as my baby.
Seconds later, a senior midwife came in, Debbie her name was, we were told that she was very familiar in dealing with baby loss and in preparing mothers to deliver their stillborn babies. I wanted to scream loudly that she had the wrong mum, but I opened my mouth and nothing came out. She held my hands and I broke down, hot tears streamed down my face and my heart ached beyond belief. I didn’t want to be in this position and yet I knew it was irreversible, I knew I needed to prepare myself to deliver my baby.
Debbie explained what we would go through over the next three days, and I immediately wondered how on earth the hours would pass, or how day would turn to night. She said that this would be our room, the room in which we would say goodbye to our child before we even got to say hello. I looked around, the dim lighting, the candles, I wanted to get up and run away, but my body failed me. She answered the questions swirling around in my head, but that also failed to come out of my mouth. Why all of the sudden did I just feel like I was failing at everything. She held me close as I sobbed in pain and told me that I was not a failure, it was as though she could hear my thoughts, and whilst I felt no hope, I felt comfort, and I felt cared for. She walked Nik and I out and told us this route would ensure we did not pass any pregnant women, I felt a wave of relief that I had one less thing to worry about. With sincerity in her eyes, she also promised that she would be waiting for us in the morning, and in that moment, I realised the true meaning of kindness.
We told Virrae at the hospital that our baby, who he had named Jellybean had died, we didn’t want to confuse him, especially as he had been in the room when we first found out. We felt it hugely important to be honest, and I gently explained to him that Jellybean’s heart had stopped working and that he or she needed to go and be with God now. He seemed to be more concerned about me and kept asking if I was better. How did I begin explaining that I would never be better again, that there would forever be a hole in my heart, and a rain cloud over my head? Instead I held him close and prayed to God to never to take him away from me, for I knew that he was going to be the lifeline in my grief.
Nik and I held hands, and silently walked back to the car. There were no words we could say to comfort one another. We had lost our baby, the baby we waited so long for.
I remember calling my mum in the car park and asking if she and dad were together, when she said yes, I simply couldn’t find a delicate way to tell her that her grandchild growing inside of me was no longer alive, and so I blurted it out, “I’ve lost my baby.” She screamed and sobbed down the phone, and I cried violently wanting to bang my head against the car so I could physically feel the same level of emotional pain I was in.
The journey home was filled by Virrae’s innocent chatter, which I was very grateful for, and I just stared lifelessly out of the window as Nik held my hand tight. After what felt like an eternity, we arrived back to our house and everything felt empty, my stomach, my heart and my home. I needed to shower, and I wanted it so desperately to wash away some of my pain. As the water fell over me, the tears began to flow, and my body shook in pain. I cradled my stomach and begged my baby to kick me. Everything felt surreal and I couldn’t comprehend that this was happening to me.
Later that evening my parents arrived, and as they walked through the living room door, I screamed, they held me, and I screamed some more. We spent the next few hours in complete and utter silence, you could have heard a pin drop as all of us sat internally praying for a miracle.
That night I didn’t sleep, and time felt as though it was standing still. It was torture. I logged onto my laptop and did some work, answered some e-mails and tried in vain to tire myself out. It didn't work. I kept replaying the day in my head, seeing the doctor’s face as he told my baby had died, and in my exhaustion, I closed my eyes as tears once again began to flow, and I prayed that it was all a bad dream…
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