Would you know my name?

It's that time of the year, again.

Another year passed; another anniversary come.

Happy birthday, Monty xxx

I'm thinking of getting you a tree. Your big sister would like an apple tree. We could plant it at the arboretum and look at it each time we visit. We could have a plaque with your name and decorate it for you...
like we have decorated your rose bed in the front garden.


I think about you every day. I hold you close in my heart.

How is it that three years have passed?

I want you to remember

October is Baby Loss Awareness month. Next week is Baby Loss Awareness week. October 15th will see another Wave of Light ripple around the world. I will light my candle and post a photo.

At the end of this month, we will mark the anniversary of the day we realised that something might be wrong with our second pregnancy; followed by the anniversary of the date we found out that our baby had died; followed by the anniversary of the date that our son was stillborn.

Nearly three years have passed since we lost Monty. I wouldn't say that time has healed us but that we have got used to living with loss. I no longer wear bereavement like an open wound; it has been woven into the fabric of the 'new me', the person I have become since losing my son. I am forever changed and will live the rest of my life as a bereaved parent.

I have two beautiful daughters and they bring me immense joy. Yet, there is a gap between them. Not just an age gap but a sibling gap - the space where their brother should be. A space where he will always exist (or, at least, be remembered).

I want my son to be remembered. By his family, by our friends and by the people that we meet and with whom we share his story. He was real and he existed (albeit briefly and only inside me).

I want you to remember: Monty Turton (stillborn) 3 November 2012

A picture of you...

I spent about half an hour today on a coffee break, talking to a colleague about his son, who was born a couple of months after mine.

My colleague described his son's interests, likes and dislikes. They love playing Lego together; they have started 'hanging out' with each other at the park; they are becoming real pals. My colleague said that he is really enjoying this new stage of parenting, where the child's personality really begins to develop and shine through.

During the course of the conversation, I began to wonder what Monty would be like at two-and-a-half years old. Would he enjoy playing with construction toys with his sister? Would he chase her around at the park, follow her up the climbing frame, or try to swing higher on the swings? Would he be able to speak in sentences or form an opinion? Would he like to snuggle up for a bedtime story?

I imagine that he would be boisterous and noisy and give us a cheeky grin. I imagine that he would share his love freely, with hugs and kisses for his sister. I imagine that he would like songs and stories and painting and sticking. I imagine that he would be lots of fun. I imagine that he would fit right in.

Turning orange

June is SANDS Awareness Month. This year, SANDS aims to turn social media orange, encouraging people to change their profile pictures and upload selfies to raise awareness and money for the charity.

I'm doing my bit, too. This month, I acted as a lay-person reviewer for research proposals looking at attitudes towards post mortem examination for babies and children. Instead of accepting the fee for my work, I asked for the money to be donated straight to SANDS. I'm also still knitting and collecting blankets to send in for the SANDS memory boxes.

I have also written an article for the Willow Tree Centre newsletter, due to be published later this month, about how bereavement counselling helped me to deal with my loss and rebuild my life.

As more time passes since Monty's stillbirth, my strength grows. His loss is no longer a physical and visible wound; my bereavement is becoming more neatly woven into the fabric of my life. I still want something positive to come from my experience, so I look for opportunities to give something back, to raise awareness and to raise funds.

Always loved, never forgotten

#Sands2015

Seeing what isn't there

This photo, taken just over a year ago, makes me smile. It also makes my heart ache.

We had gone for a day out with my family: grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins. We found this fallen tree log and my mother suggested that the kids sit on it for a photograph. They duly hopped up.

At the time, I just thought it was lovely to capture a shot of the three of them together. It wasn't until later that I noticed the gap between my daughter and her eldest cousin. The space where my 18-month old son *should* be sitting.

To others, this photo is simply a memento of a happy day out.

To me, it is a reminder that there is always someone missing.

Counting conundrum

The passage of time does nothing to ease the burden of answering the seemingly innocent question: how many children do you have? In the past week, I have encountered this question three times in situations where I have not wanted to disclose the 'right' answer.

In general, my rule is that I will talk about Monty with people I am likely to form a friendship with or with whom I will come into contact often in the future. I have told other parents in the school playground, for example, as I don't want my son to emerge like a skeleton from the closet.

I don't tend to tell people with whom I am making a fleeting acquaintance because the revelation that my son was stillborn is usually met with an apology and condolences, followed an awkward silence. Then, I find myself saying that it's OK...

but it's not OK and it's never going to be OK.

It isn't that I dislike talking about Monty. In fact, the opposite is true. I love talking about him because I love him and talking about him preserves his memory and reinforces his place in our family. It's just that I prefer to talk about him on my own terms. Memories of him are all I have and to share them is extremely personal.

I am a mother of three, with two surviving children. I like to talk about all of them and to omit Monty feels wrong. Besides, I believe that being open about my experience of stillbirth helps to break down the stigma and taboo that persists around baby loss.

I still hesitate, though, each time the question is asked, when I try to decide how to answer. A moment during which I have to choose whether to be truthful or not.

The first time ever I saw your face: birth story #3

Baby 3: Another daughter

Mid-morning, I called the Antenatal Ward at the hospital to see if there were any spare beds. I was 38 weeks pregnant, it was late August and the weather was hot. The midwife who answered the phone spoke in a bright and breezy tone. There was room on the ward; I could arrive after lunch.

My in-laws had come to stay to look after our daughter whilst my third labour was induced. My pregnancy had been closely monitored and had planned a 'managed, natural delivery'. They drove us to the hospital and wished us good luck. My daughter, sitting in the back seat, gave me some advice: "Mummy, don't forget to push the baby out like this!" *made a 'straining for a poo' noise*

We were shown to a small room on the antenatal ward and I was officially admitted to the hospital. Over the next few hours, there was lots of monitoring of baby's heartbeat and movements. We knew that we were expecting a baby girl. She kept wriggling around and kicking the foetal monitor, so the readings were inconsistent and had to be repeated several times. When the doctor was happy with the results, we were allowed to begin the induction process. A hormone-laden pessary was inserted; we were told it could take up to 24 hours to take effect. The waiting game had begun.

I walked around to stimulate the induction and, within an hour or two, I could feel a strange set of nervous pulses down the backs of my legs and around my lower back. It was difficult to work out whether or not I was having contractions. Sitting down made some of the sensations subside, so I sat and tried to concentrate on what I was feeling. There was something regular but not very painful. We called the midwife and I was hooked up to another monitor. Yes, there were contractions and they were regular but they weren't doing much and baby was very active.

It took a while for the doctor and midwife to reassure themselves that the baby wasn't distressed - she was very active. I told them that she was often active but since her heart rate kept rising and falling, they wanted to be careful. After a few more hours, they removed the pessary and performed an internal exam. The doctor thought I was probably dilated enough for them to be able to break my waters. "It won't feel very comfortable" she warned "but it will move things along." I went to the loo, my husband gathered my bags and we walked slowly along the corridor to the Delivery Suite.

I was shown into a large, high-tech delivery room. The midwife chatted to us about our birth plan and talked us through the net stage of the induction: breaking my waters. The doctor marvelled at how active the baby still was and gasped when she saw the outline of baby's foot through my bump! My husband got the TENS machine ready and the midwife filled in her paperwork and got her tools. We waited for a big contraction and she broke my waters. I felt a gush of warm fluid and breathed deeply through the pain. I stood up so that the bed sheets could be changed and my husband applied the TENS pads.

Very quickly, the contractions came faster and more intense. I knew things were progressing rapidly. "Does it feel pushy?" the midwife asked. "It can't do!" my husband exclaimed "It hasn't been long enough!" It did feel pushy, though. I climbed back onto the bed and knelt up. The midwife told me to let her know when I wanted more pain relief and my husband got ready - he was going to catch our baby girl as she was born! In just over an hour, she arrived. There hadn't been time for extra pain relief.

Our daughter cried out. I was so relieved to hear her cry! My husband passed her through my legs to rest on the pillow under my tummy. I looked at her face and noticed her dark hair. I requested the hormone injection to speed delivery of the placenta and within another few minutes, that was out too. I turned around to sit down and cradle my baby girl. The midwife weighed her and checked her over, then brought her to me and popped her inside the top of my nightie for some skin-to-skin cuddling. My daughter turned her head and latched on for a feed.

It was nearly midnight.

I was told that, like her brother and sister before, my third baby had been born with her hand by her cheek; this time, I only suffered a small scratch and didn't need stitches. After the feed, I got up to shower and change into clean pyjamas. It was hard to walk or stand up straight - my back and abdominal muscles were incredibly sore and I felt weak. Tea and toast helped. My husband dressed our daughter and we got ready to be transferred to the postnatal ward for the night.

My husband wasn't allowed to stay. We said goodbye and he promised to return in the morning with our elder daughter. I spent the rest of the night dozing next to my beautiful new baby, watching her chest rise and fall as she slept in her crib.