Five Special Gifts

There is nothing quite as special, wonderful or exciting as being pregnant for the first time, and for me, it was an amazing experience made even more enjoyable by the fact at it was text-book perfect.

When my due date came and went without any sign of the onset of labour, it was decided - as the baby already appeared to be quite big - that I should be induced. Not long after labour started I asked for an epidural (OK, so I'm no hero!) and then even labour was a breeze. As the day progressed - seemingly endlessly - I kept thinking - "This really is IT! Today we're actually going to have our baby"!!! I felt apprehensive on the one hand, but incredibly excited on the other. I couldn't wait to see Graham as a father. I'd thought a lot about what a gorgeous Dad he'd make and what a great little family we'd be.

Our baby's head emerged after only a couple of pushes, but then everything went horribly wrong. Our little boy's shoulders were large, and to further complicate matters, his arms were crossed over his chest and, as a result, his delivery was obstructed (in medical terms it was called severe shoulder, chest and abdominal dystocia). (To this day I don't know how my doctor eventually managed to get him out and have never asked nor wanted to know what would have happened if he hadn't).

After what was probably only minutes but seemed like hours, our precious Andrew James was delivered. A paediatrician was on hand and we were told from the outset that Andrew's chances weren't good; that if he survived he would almost certainly have suffered brain damage from lack of oxygen. In the space of a few moments our lives were shattered.
The next few hours were a blur. Andrew was transferred to KEMH and we waited for news. We were expecting the worst and this eventually came - our little boy only survived two and a half short hours. He had suffered massive haemorrhage from the traumatic birth.

Our doctor was one of the first people we saw, and he was as devastated as we were. We will be forever grateful for the way he helped and supported us not only during those horrific first few days, but throughout the years to come. How can one ever be prepared for the death of a child? It is so shattering to go into hospital anticipating birth and to be faced instead with death. I mean, the two just do not go together. Instead of planning our future with our child, we were planning his funeral! It is totally incomprehensible.

Not knowing any better, we initially thought it would be easier not to see our little boy again (a notion I still can't believe we could ever have entertained). Thank God our doctor talked us round.

I have never felt such powerful feelings as when I held our little boy. I still somehow hoped there had been a mistake and that he'd open his eyes at any moment. I had the strongest need to take him home to nurture, cherish and protect him, and I was filled with e most overwhelming feelings of love and sadness that will never leave me. He was a beautiful, beautiful baby, and nothing can erase his special time or place in our hearts.

Graham and I both come from close-knit, loving families and we've got the most amazing friends. I could go on here for hours telling all the wonderful and touching things they all did then - and continued to do over the following years - but I'll just say instead they were the essence of love and support and together with our faith they helped us to survive.
Eight months after Andrew was born I became involved with SANDS and for the next couple of years it was an important part of my life. Having had so much support and never having felt the need to seek it elsewhere, I was surprised by the impact of the first meeting I attended. It was like coming home! There really is something to be said for talking with others who have experienced a similar loss.

Shortly after joining SANDS I became pregnant for the second time. However, the pregnancy only lasted 10 weeks at which time an ultrasound diagnosed a blighted ovum. This was followed 3 months later by an ectopic pregnancy.
When I finally became successfully pregnant again and passed the 12-week milestone, we were overjoyed. Because Andrew's death was such a freak thing, and because I was so happy and relieved to be pregnant, I wasn't overly concerned (beyond the usual maternal concerns for a normal, healthy baby) about the outcome, and, like the first time 'round, I enjoyed every aspect of being pregnant.

Then, on a weekend at around 27 weeks, I sensed a lack of fetal movement. I was with friends who were very reassuring that a baby can sometimes be quiet for a while, but, nevertheless, by the Monday a niggling worry (verging on panic) had started to take hold. I made a detour to my doctor's rooms on the way to work to ask whether it was normal not to feel the baby moving for 24 hours. He smiled and gave me a look that seemed to say - "I've been expecting this sort of paranoia" - and happily took me off to listen for a heart beat. Silence. An ultrasound confirmed a short time later that our second precious baby was no longer alive. So began the all-too-familiar roller coaster of numbing shock, disbelief, horror, incredible sorrow.

It was the most terrible feeling knowing my baby was dead inside me and that I was still expected to go through labour and birth - what was the point? It just seemed so cruel. Once again our doctor was our lifeline and somehow helped us through the ordeal. We were also blessed to have two close midwife friends looking after us throughout the birthing process and subsequently taking special care of our beautiful little boy as only people who loved him could. Nicholas Andrew was stillborn at 27 weeks with a complication called hydrocephalus (excess fluid on the brain). (It was at first difficult to accept that our baby had had an abnormality, but I came to feel that it made him even more special and I felt incredibly protective towards him).

We were so stunned that it was difficult to even function, but somehow we went through the motions and made the appropriate decisions and arrangements. All the while it just didn't seem to be sinking in and I couldn't even seem to cry. It worried me later that we should have done things better because, after all, we'd been there before. But I was honestly incapable of thinking straight at the time. It was very difficult once again leaving the hospital, as going home meant facing reality head on, and a future without Nicholas was not one I wanted to have to think about.

Due in no small measure to the help of family and friends, our doctor and copious prayers, we managed to stay sane (though sometimes barely). I also had the benefit of professional counselling and because I had a real need to talk and talk and talk, this helped. (I'd like to be able to say it also took the pressure off my poor friends and sisters, but they then had to put up with a word-by-word account every time I had an appointment!). Graham was amazing in his ability to get on with things and cope with me whilst trying to come to terms with his own feelings. He was also completely unselfish in his tolerance of my desperate need for another baby.

It was 12 long and stressful months before I was able to fall pregnant again - but this resulted in a miscarriage at 8 weeks. I was falling apart. I started seeing a wonderful woman for counselling, who really helped me to get my act together and to start believing in the power of being positive. She gave me hope at a time when I was ready to curl up and die.

Around this time, blood tests were showing that my cycle had gone haywire and indicating that I was 'pre-menopausal' - I freaked! My doctor wasn't too concerned as he was sure it was all due to stress - but I, of course, panicked. Still, we managed to fall pregnant again but only just; no sooner was this confirmed than I miscarried again. I felt an absolute failure.

I've always been fortunate to have good health and so for my body to keep letting me down when I needed it most was infuriating and very hard to accept. I know now that my doctor was right about stress being the catalyst of my problems; but at the time I felt sure there had to be some sinister gynaecological reason for the inability of my body to function properly. I could not accept stress as the reason, so for five months I underwent infertility-type treatment to suppress and then artificially control my cycle in an attempt to fall pregnant and to then be able to maintain the pregnancy.

Finally, success! ! Once I passed the first trimester I was ecstatic. However, it wasn't quite the same joyful experience for Graham. I tried to handle his apprehension and fear by not talking about the baby too much in his presence. It must have been so hard for him to even look at me - the growing baby a constant reminder of Andrew and Nicholas and all that we'd been through. As well as coping with the thought that this baby, too, could die, he was also very worried that we would have an abnormal baby. (We now had a one-in-four chance of having another baby with hydrocephalus, and added to this was the fear that all the drugs I'd been taking might cause a birth defect). At least I had the comfort of already having fallen in love with this miracle inside me, and every little kick or nudge kept me going.

Sadly, Graham's fears would prove to be well founded. We were having a holiday at Rottnest with one of my sisters and her family; I was 31 weeks and feeling great. Ever since I'd first felt 'flutters' I just craved any little movement and was happiest when the baby was most active. Then one day by late morning I realised that it was a while since I'd felt anything - and even though in actual time it probably hadn't been all that long, my heart started sinking. I mentioned to my sister that I was a little concerned - and felt mean that I'd then worried her - but I didn't want to alarm Graham when my common sense was telling me that it just couldn't happen again; that any moment I'd feel a kick and be able to laugh off my paranoia. Meanwhile I poked, prodded and prayed. Nothing. By evening I was so sick with fear that I just had to tell Graham. Being at Rotto meant we were isolated till the following day. By now the whole household was filled with a sickening dread. I honestly think it was the worst and longest night of our lives and its memory is indelibly printed on my brain. I pleaded with God to make our baby move, but as the night wore on came the sickening realisation that too much time was passing without any sign of life.

We caught the first plane home the next morning and by now the baby felt so unbelievably heavy that I knew there wasn't much hope. I will never forget the look on our doctor's face when he had to confirm our worst fears. He, too, cried.
Our darling third son, Elliot Ray, was stillborn at 31 weeks, just four days before Christmas. The cause of his death was a subdural haemorrhage - a spontaneous bleed into his head that no one could explain. It was like a sick joke; a nightmare that we never seemed to be allowed to wake up from. What was God thinking? What did He want from us? Was this His way of trying to tell us we would have made lousy parents? How could we possibly get through this again? How could we put everyone else through this again? We felt cheated, confused and emotionally exhausted. We felt like freaks.

We wouldn't have blamed our family and friends if they'd left the country but instead, they rallied around, stronger than ever. Our doctor was always there whenever we needed him (which for me was often). He provided not only all our medical needs, but also the emotional support and positive attitude that I desperately needed. I know I must have been a thorn in his side a lot of the time, but the strong bond I felt was in no small way due to the fact that he had been with us through the most traumatic and saddest times of our lives, and I needed to be around someone who had known our boys and how special they were. (The poor man also had to contend with four of my best friends who were also his patients, who were often a mess and who also needed comfort and reassurance. He used to jokingly refer to them as 'the Mafia' !).
I relied heavily on my faith. I'm not saying I easily accepted things and I certainly didn't understand any of it, but I guess I always felt deep down that God must know what He was doing and that our children are really only ever on loan. Nevertheless, I felt so let down. I did derive some comfort from my belief that our boys are together, happy and safe, that they're watching over us and that we will one day all be together again. This isn't something I hope will happen, but something I firmly believe will happen.

Life was very hard for a very long time, and I would not have been easy to be around for a lot of it. I was never suicidal or anything, but I would happily have succumbed to a peaceful death! I was very unhappy and I was becoming concerned that if all this was supposed to be making me a better person, it was doing the opposite; if it went on for much longer I was afraid I'd become bitter and friendless!

One of the hardest things to have to deal with over the years was coping with the pregnancies and new babies of my sisters and closest friends. It was like being pulled in opposite directions. These were the people I loved and most needed to be with, but it was incredibly painful - for them and for me. I will never forget their compassion and acknowledgement of my feelings. They were so giving - of themselves and their babies - and I was never made to feel left out of any part of their lives. (Still, nothing really seemed to ease my yearning for my own baby). We shared many tears, but there was joy and celebration too. They were just wonderful, and the way they handled things made it easier for me to handle things too.
I was too self-absorbed to appreciate at the time the effect all this might be having on our lovely and loving parents. Not only would they have been hurting for us, hey would also have been grieving the loss of three grand-children. They're a hard act to follow!

I will feel eternally grateful to my wonderful husband, Graham. What a special man. Despite the fact that he wanted to call it quits and get on with the business of accepting that we were to be childless, he again indulged my obsession to be a practising mother and agreed to try again (even though this would mean further infertility treatment complete with its own stresses and heartache, as anyone who's been down that path will know). I realise now the huge strain I placed on our relationship, but I had tunnel vision. I just had to have a baby. Even though part of me had lost hope, I just could not accept that we were to be childless. For all this to come to nothing would have been more than I could bear, and at least while we were trying there was a purpose to my life.

Almost seven years after our first child was born we were blessed with a live, normal, healthy, gorgeous baby girl, Shelley Kim - and then two years later we hit the jackpot with a second beautiful daughter, Eloise Dianne - our very own miracles and a testimony to hope and prayer. The joy they have brought to our lives is as impossible to express as the sorrow at losing our boys. Having Shelley and Eloise has in so many ways reinforced what we've missed out on, and the specialness of Andrew, Nicholas and Elliot has been heightened. I think of my boys often with a mixture of love, pride and sadness. I look at my girls and am filled with inexpressible gratitude and so much love that I feel I could burst.

It was such a hard road to travel but there were so many things along the way at helped, inspired and amazed us - and ultimately kept us going. I've spoken already of the love and support of family and friends (in 11 years one of my sisters has never missed acknowledging the boys' birthdays!). There were also virtual strangers who sent us messages of sympathy and comfort during the bad times, and congratulations when we realised our dream. We could never speak highly enough of our medical and nursing care - our positive hospital experiences helped the healing to begin; and our doctor will always hold a special place in our hearts. (God must have been looking after us all along!).

We have much to be thankful for - and our own endless supply of angel kisses.

Anne-Marie
June '97