Monday 18 February 2013

I can never thank you enough

I feel deeply indebted to so many people who have been there for us over the past few months but I will never be able to write enough cards or buy enough gifts to return all the kindnesses extended to us. This is my attempt to express my gratitude:

To all the nurses, doctors and hospital staff at Southmead, thank you for treating us so tenderly and compassionately. Thank you for your advice, sympathy and kind words. Thank you for the medication that took away some of the physical pain. Thank you for giving us time together. Thank you for giving us time with our baby after he was born. Thank you for a positive birth experience that we can treasure.

To the community midwives, health visitor, my GP and the physiotherapist, thank you all for your help on my road to recovery.

To the Registrar, thank you for registering my son as a real person and for giving me a copy of his stillbirth certificate. I know this is your job but you validated my son's existence and I am grateful.

To the medical examiner and research lab staff, thank you for looking after my son with respectful care. Thank you for investigating thoroughly and finding an answer. Please use the results to try to prevent this happening to another family.

To the chaplains, thank you for not trying to calm me in the throes of my grief. Thank you for making arrangements and explaining processes. Thank you for putting us in control of the funeral service and for allowing visitations at the chapel of rest. Thank you for recording Monty in the hospital's book of remembrance.

To our family, thank you for your love and support. Thank you for rallying round, for feeding us, and for looking after our daughter. Thank you for listening, crying and smiling. Thank you for visiting our son in the chapel of rest and for keeping photographs of him.

To my mother, thank you for being there at Monty's birth. I'm sorry that the only grandchild whose birth you have witnessed was stillborn. Thank you for washing and dressing him and for helping the midwife to take handprints and footprints and a few locks of his hair for us to keep. Thank you for helping to write the order of service for Monty's funeral. Thank you for doing things I could not.

To our extended circle of friends, thank you for the cards, letters, texts, gifts and flowers. Thank you for the phone calls. Thank you for all the cups of tea, the cake, the playdates. Thank you for being here and for listening and talking. Thank you for sharing your stories with me.

To everyone who donated money to the Mum's the Word appeal in Monty's memory. Together, we have raised over £700 (plus gift aid) and we have a balloon dedicated to Monty on the fundraising wall.

To all participants of the Festival of Light, thank you for lighting candles and lanterns in memory of our son on his due date. It was a special night. One that I will remember forever.

To the people whose names I don't know but who see us each week at toddler groups, thank you for your sympathy. To you, I am 'the lady whose baby died', I can see that in your eyes but I thank you for not avoiding me and for not asking questions. To the one lady who gave me her phone number and an offer of coffee, thank you.

To colleagues, thank you for the flowers and cards. Thank you for offering support. Thank you for not putting pressure on us to return to work.

To the Government, advisors and policy-makers, thank you for providing maternity leave and statutory pay to enable me to take the time I need to recover from my son's stillbirth.

To SANDS, I am grateful to the people who established you, although I wish there was no need for you to exist. Thank you for empathy and good advice. To the Bristol SANDS Bereavement Support Group, thank you for listening and understanding.

To my husband, thank you for everything. Thank you for the gift of Monty and for helping me deliver him. Thank you for taking beautiful photographs of him for us to treasure. Thank you for holding me tight and for sharing and wiping away my tears. Thank you for all your support, for being strong, for keeping me grounded. Thank you for loving me. I love you too.

To my daughter, thank you for lighting up my life. I love you so much.

Saturday 16 February 2013

If I had known, would it have made a difference?

There is a temptation, now that I know what caused Monty's death, to investigate the current state of scientific research into the links between viral infection and stillbirth. Somewhat ironically, the virus in question (human cytomegalovirus) is one that I spent six months studying during my biochemistry degree, although I was investigating it for reasons unrelated to pregnancy.

I don't plan to research very deeply, as I believe nothing could have prevented what happened to us - I was just unfortunate to pick up the virus in the early weeks of my pregnancy. However, it is interesting to know that CMV is beginning to be recognised as a potential cause of stillbirth: Pregnancy and cytomegalovirus

I never expected my baby to be stillborn. No-one does. If I had known about the risks associated with CMV infection, would it have made a difference? I don't know but I don't think so.

Wednesday 13 February 2013

Brokenhearted

Today, by rights, you should be 8 weeks old.

Today, fourteen weeks after the last time I heard your heartbeat and felt you moving inside me, I went back to the hospital to find out why you died.

It seems I picked up a viral infection in early pregnancy. A virus that is carried by the majority of the population and which causes asymptomatic infection in most adults. A virus that is not routinely tested for in antenatal bloodwork and which cannot be treated or avoided. A virus which took hold in the placenta and prevented you from growing.

I am so sorry that there was nothing I could have done to save you. There is nothing anyone could have done to save you. There was no sign to suggest anything was wrong until it was too late...

******

Even before your big sister was born, you were on my mind. I knew I wanted children: more than one. You were an idea long before you became a reality. I planned you. I wanted you. You were conceived on purpose. You would have been loved but I never had a chance to show you how much.

I lost you and now I am lost without you. You are the hole in my heart that will never heal.

My precious baby boy.

Saturday 9 February 2013

I'm not sick but I'm not well

I'm in a state of anxiety.
I can't rest my mind.
It's exhausting.
At least I can sleep at night now.

This morning I was in a deep sleep when my daughter woke me up. Every morning, when her 'gro-clock' changes colour, she pads across the landing, opens the door to our bedroom and climbs into my side of the bed for a snuggle. I enjoy a few minutes of holding a wriggly toddler (she's always been wriggly, that's why we called her 'the wriggler' before she was born...) before she decides which of us has to get up and make her breakfast. This morning it was my turn.

One of the things I was looking forward to was lazy weekend mornings in bed. All four of us. Me, nursing the baby; my husband reading stories or watching something on iPlayer with our daughter.

As I cuddle my daughter each morning, I feel so grateful to have her and so sad that I don't have her brother. I start every day tired and sad. It's exhausting.

I'm still on maternity leave (not sick leave) and am waiting for test results before I decide when to return to the office. I don't know how I will feel after we've seen the consultant next week. Do I want to know if there is a reason why Monty died? Will it help to have my questions answered? Am I strong enough to hear the answers if they are there?

I can't summon the energy to do things that I used to love. Will I ever find the strength to sing again? Why can't I bring myself to cast on stitches for the cardigan I started making for myself before I knew I was pregnant? Will I wear it once it is finished or will it just remind me of what should have been?

I can't shift this cold. Together with the pregnancy-related rhinitis, I don't think I've been able to breathe clearly for about a year now. I'm taking multi-vitamins to boost my immune system.

I worry about the impact of my anxiety and grief on my family, particularly my daughter. I decided weeks ago that I didn't want to be a sad mummy. Yet, I spent most of yesterday afternoon close to tears. A few trickled out as we sat on the sofa together, watching "Wallace and Gromit".

Bereavement: it's exhausting.

Thursday 7 February 2013

Why today?

Why, today, do I feel so sad? Why do the tears flow so readily? Yesterday, I was fine.

Why, today, do I feel emptiness where you used to be?

I've been thinking and talking about you a lot. I miss you. I want you back.

Tonight, I will talk about you and think about you some more, in the company of other people who are in this club that no-one wants to join.

Our one night was special. Precious. Too short. It's all I have of you and I clutch it tightly.

Friday 1 February 2013

Thinking of Monty

It has been three months since I found out Monty had died. In two days' time, it will be three months since he was born. Later this month, I will return to the hospital to see my obstetric consultant and receive the results of the postnatal tests and post mortem. I really don't know what to expect and I feel more and more anxious the closer it gets.

I've been feeling low again this week and I've been thinking about Monty a lot. I don't know if that's because these dates are hanging over me? Perhaps it's because of all the baby-related news I've heard? Maybe it's because a friend of a friend organised a candle-lighting to remember her baby? It could be because the next Sands bereavement support meeting is next week and I'm building myself up for it.

Whatever the reason, he's been on my mind and I'm missing him.