existence seem very real. Our enormous loss was immediately apparent. For Josh, the baby had been an abstract. He hadn’t felt him move inside his tummy, or had him live and grow inside him for almost six months. But the moment his baby was earthside, he could see that he was his son, his child – but one he would never see grow, or get to know.
I knew instantly that this baby wasn’t a Marcus: he was too delicate. I searched my brain for a different ‘M’ name and stumbled upon Miles. It suited him. It wasn’t a name I’d considered and I had only ever met one Miles (spelt Myles), which appealed to me. I wanted our little boy to have a unique name. When I first held him, I tried to soak up every detail of his little face. I could see he would have been handsome and quite possibly tall, like his dad. He had very long legs, a button nose like his sister and ears like mine. I couldn’t get over how lovely he was. I’d been terrified that I would be repulsed by him, unable to hold him or love him. But I felt the opposite. Knowing how short our time together would be, I wanted to make the most of it.
My placenta had other ideas: it was stuck. The second midwife who was assigned to us, an absolute angel, tried a few things. She was almost apologetic. An obstetrician was called in and tried to manually extract it, but after some uncomfortable prodding and pulling, it was decided I’d need to go to theatre. I remember signing forms, agreeing to various things, talking to the anaesthetist and everyone saying how sorry they were that I would have to go through surgery on top of labour. By this stage, I couldn’t have cared less what they did to me. They could have amputated an arm for all I cared: I felt dead inside and was physical and emotionally at rock bottom. Surely whatever was next – surgery, recovery, after pains – could not be harder than what I had just endured.
An orderly came in to wheel me down to theatre, a big bruiser of a guy with tatts and piercings. “Hello love, I’m Marcus, I’ll be taking you through to theatre.” I couldn’t believe we’d almost given Miles the name of this gentle soul in a gruff casing. This confirmed we’d picked the perfect name for our little boy. He was definitely a Miles, not a Marcus.
The surgery felt surreal. Waiting in recovery afterwards was torture. The spinal block I’d been given had a greater effect than intended. I had no feeling up to my shoulders and ended up unable to walk until midnight. The lovely anaesthetist apologised and said it often happened with smaller people, as the dose sometimes had a greater impact. I’d delivered Miles at 5:45, was in surgery by 6:30, and was still in recovery at 8:30. I was freezing, itchy, starving and above all heartbroken. How had this happened? Why had this happened? Had it really happened at all? I just wanted to get back to my room and see Miles. Josh had gone home while I was in surgery to feed the dog and bring me back something to eat. I felt like I should be incapable of such a mundane task as eating. I had just lost my baby: how could I still have my appetite? It was the first of many, many times I felt guilty for how I felt or for doing something I wanted or needed to do. I didn’t know how to act. There was no guidebook for what was ahead, and I had no idea how I was going to make my way through any of it.
So that is our story, and Miles’ story. A baby boy we so desperately wanted and through a cruel twist of fate, had to say goodbye to. The days, weeks and months ahead were the hardest of my life. I was scared the loss would break me. That I would never be the same again, or would remain in the first, shocking stage of grief forever. Words cannot adequately describe the horror of it.
If you have picked up this book because you have lost a baby, or if you are reading this in the hope of supporting someone who has, I hope that the following sections of this book provide you with some comfort and helpful suggestions. I have included some stories of others who have experienced baby loss in different ways, as well as interviews with health professionals. I talk about how I processed my grief, what worked, (and what didn’t), what upset me, what comforted me and what I was feeling throughout it all.
It’s a hopeful story: I was determined to survive, even if some days I didn’t believe I would and on the some of the really early dark days, I didn’t even know if I wanted to. Everyone responds to and recovers from a tragedy like this differently, but I hope hearing someone else’s experience brings other baby-loss parents a little bit of comfort, eases their isolation, and makes them feel like they’re not alone.
Chapter 8 The taboo topic of baby loss
Over and over again while researching this book, women said to me, I didn’t know how to begin talking about my loss, I felt like I was being overly dramatic or too sensitive, I had to campaign for my baby’s worth and meaning, or I felt like had no right to be grieving at all. All of these comments broke my heart. For some archaic reason, and despite it happening to so many women, baby loss is a taboo subject – an event that is usually shared quietly, privately and often only in detail with those who have also experienced it. The death of a baby in utero is one of the few deaths within our society that is not routinely announced publicly. This may be because it is so traumatic for the bereaved and because we are yet to create a safe space in which to communicate it openly.
Community awareness about stillbirth is minimal and many people misunderstand and undervalue the emotional and physical impact of miscarriage. Funding for research into the cause of both stillbirth and miscarriage is lacking, as they are sadly viewed as inevitable potential outcomes of pregnancy, rather than a medical crisis to be investigated. The ongoing psychological impact the loss of a baby has on mothers and families is immeasurable and we need to help reduce this and stop unnecessary suffering.
As someone who grew up in the 1980s, I have vivid memories of Red Nose Day, in support of SIDS (sudden infant death syndrome). We would take a two-dollar coin to school to buy a red nose to wear for the day. We all knew we were giving money to help scientists and doctors find out why some babies suddenly died in their sleep: this fact wasn’t hidden. We all knew that some little babies went to sleep and never woke up. Sadly, we don’t have open conversations about babies lost in the womb, as we were encouraged to do with SIDS. This needs to change.
I only recently discovered that (as of 2017) for every baby lost to SIDS, thirty-five are lost to stillbirth. That is six babies a day, in Australia alone. The rate of stillbirth, unlike the rate of SIDS, has not dropped significantly in the past twenty years, and in my opinion, the information (and in many cases, the support) offered to women who have had a miscarriage has not evolved adequately either over the last few decades. Many women I have spoken to feel that their loss is minimised and (wrongly) think they’re at fault. The Red Nose Organisation now contributes significant funds and resources to support research into baby loss during pregnancy as well as neonatal death. Red Nose also offers support to anyone who has suffered the unexpected loss of a baby or a child, be it through miscarriage, medical termination, stillbirth or after birth. While in many cases miscarriage cannot be prevented, new research is emerging and gaining momentum. There is also strong evidence that the rate of stillbirth could potentially be reduced by educating women of signs to look out for during pregnancy.
Due to the exceptional work of the Red Nose organisation, the rate of deaths from SIDS has reduced by 85% in the last twenty years. In 2017, 87 babies were lost to SIDS. In this same year, 2107 babies were lost to stillbirth, and an estimated 100,000 plus to miscarriages. According to some statistics, there is one miscarriage every three and a half minutes. That amounts to a lot of heartbroken parents. The death toll in 2017 from motor vehicle accidents was, tragically, 1225. Despite the fact that the rate of stillbirth is almost double that of the road toll, information to help educate parents and reduce the rate of preventable stillbirths is not communicated in a consistent or ongoing way. Conversely, public awareness about road safety is broadcast far and wide in government funded campaigns to help reduce the rate of accidents. We drive cars fitted with multiple safety devices, are legally required to wear seatbelts, adhere to the speed limit and know not to drink and drive. This information is communicated via television commercials, radio and on social media. By comparison, simple practices such as counting kicks and monitoring a baby’s movement, which can in some cases help prevent stillbirth, are not spoken of broadly or even directly between health professionals and expectant mothers. In no way do I wish to pit the impact of one loss against another, but these figures highlight the lack of public awareness and education surrounding stillbirth.