Today I want to share a stroy with you. This is a part of something I started last year a week or so before the anniversary, and writing helped me not only get through that time, but move on as well. It's long but it's worth reading if you want an insight into what happened to our first angel.
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Three years ago today, Drew and I both took the day off work
to go to our follow up ultrasound. Two weeks before I’d been to emergency at
the Mersey because I was having cramps, and that’s when they’d discovered a
large haemorrhage. We’d been told that things would most likely be fine and all
I had to do was rest. So we were looking forward to seeing our little boy
again, and I had a really good feeling that all of my positive thinking was
going to pay off.
I don’t remember a lot of what happened that days. Things
have come back to me over the years, especially once I started to write about
it and talk about it more, but there are still huge gaps in the day that I don’t
think I’ll ever be able to fill. It’s probably for the best really.
The radiographer did not say a single word to us for the
entire time that she was in that room. She did not point things out on the
screen and she didn’t even turn the screen so that we could see what was going
on. When she was finished she walked out of the room, saying she’d be back in a
moment.
I sat up on the examination table, wiped the cold and sticky
gel from my belly and looked at Drew. Neither of us had any idea what was going
on. She had given us no indication that there as a problem, just walked out! I
don’t think I was even worried at that point, just incredibly annoyed with the
radiographer for not telling us anything. But as the time passed and she still
hadn’t returned I started to feel sick. Something had to be wrong for her to be
taking so long. I don’t know how long we waited there alone with no answers,
but it felt like an eternity.
When she walked back in and sat down, it was impossible to
read her face.
“You need to see you’re GP.” She said to me as soon as she’d
sat in her chair.
“I have an appointment tomorrow, yes.” I replied.
“No, you need to see your GP.”
“Um, ok, but, he’s hard to get in to see at the best of
times, I don’t think we can just change the appointment. Is, is there something
wrong with our baby?” I was starting to get more and more scared and upset.
Something wasn’t right, and this woman wasn’t prepared to tell us anything.
“You need to go see him now.” Was all she would say.
This is where things get a bit muddled in my head. I know
that I yelled at her. I don’t remember if Drew said anything or if he was just
trying to drag me out of that room and stop me from throttling the person that
I saw as taking away my last little bit of happiness. I don’t remember leaving
the room, or meeting up with Bec (who was transporting us for the day) in the
waiting room, or leaving the hospital.
I knew then that my baby was gone. I couldn’t understand it,
but even then I knew that that was what Dr Naiker was going to tell me. Drew
did too I’m sure, but I think he was holding himself together for my sake. He
must have explained what had happened to Bec as we drove back into town towards
the doctor’s surgery.
When we arrived at Dr Naiker’s office it was obvious that the
radiology department of the hospital had called ahead and told them what had
happened. One of the nurses, Jenny, was waiting in reception for us, and took
us through to her office to wait for Dr Naiker to finish with his patient. I
know that she held me and tried to calm me down, but I don’t remember it. All I
remember is her saying how unfair it was. At this stage no one had actually
told us what was going on, and hearing her say this confirmed our worst
nightmare was coming true.
Doctor Naiker and Jenny were amazing that day. Times like
this show you the true importance of having a family doctor who understands
your situation, and genuinely cares about his patients.
His eyes were full of sadness as he told us that the
ultrasound had detected no sign of a heartbeat, and unfortunately there was
nothing more that could be done. He was surprised that we had been sent to him
though, as we would now have to return to the hospital anyway. Neither Drew nor
I were really listening to anything that was being said. We were still stuck on
the fact that our little boy was gone.
Back at the hospital we presented to emergency and were
forced to wait for almost three hours in the busy waiting room. As far as the
emergency department staff were concerned, we were far from an emergency
medicine case. The patient had already died. Why bother rushing to bring things
to a close? Sitting there waiting my sadness took a turn towards anger, and I
held onto that anger as my rock to cling to, my one thing that would help me
survive.
Eventually we were taken through, and again placed in a
cubicle to wait for the doctor to arrive. While we were waiting mum and Mel
arrived, both of them in tears having heard the news from Bec. I tried to tell
them all I was OK, tried to help them calm down. I didn’t want to be the one making
everyone so sad.
A doctor finally arrived and confirmed that there was no
heartbeat on the scan. Our baby had died two days before, at seven weeks and
six days. They wanted to organise a D&C there and then, but I refused the
suggestion. I demanded a follow up blood test, clinging to the last little
scrap of hope that their scan may have been wrong, and our baby was still with
us. Mum helped me argue my point. With a roll of his eyes that clearly said we
were wasting his time, the doctor agreed to take blood and send it away for
immediate testing. We would have the results in two hours, so he suggested we
go home and get something to eat, then come back to get the test results.
Back home everyone was waiting for us. It was awkward sitting
there with everyone staring at me, wondering when I was going to crack. The
tears were still falling silently down my face. I don’t remember what we talked
about for that hour and a half. It was 7pm, and it had been a long day. Part of
me wanted to crawl into bed and never come out. The other part of me knew that
the second I closed my eyes I would be playing it all back over in my head. So
instead I fought off the exhaustion and concentrated on getting through the
rest of it one second at a time.
Back at the hospital the blood tests confirmed a drop in my
hCG levels. This was the last bit of proof needed to convince me that it was
over. My baby was gone, and nothing we could do or say was going to change
things and bring him back to us. I don’t know how I managed to keep breathing
in that moment, I guess my body just knew what it was supposed to be doing and
did it without prompting.
The triage nurse charged with the uncomfortable task of
delivering us the news told us to go home and get some rest. She wanted us back
at the hospital at 9am the next morning to finalise things, and asked that I
not eat or drink anything after midnight. Drew asked her to give me something
to help me sleep, but she refused, saying that it “wasn’t something they
usually liked to prescribe in these situations.”
It’s impossible for me to say what happened that night
between when we got home and when I took the little purple pill that mum handed
me. I know that Drew held on to me like I was about to slip away, and Bec was
there with Ash. Eventually I guess I went to sleep, and with the help of mum’s
tablet it was thankfully dreamless.
If the Mersey had even one staff member who was able to relate
to the struggle and pain we were going though it would have been immensely
easier to deal with. As it was, all we had were over-worked emergency
department staff and, later, uncaring and unaware surgical nurses. I had
statistics chucked at me as their idea of support. The doctors and nurses think they are saying the right thing.
They think they are being supportive
and helping you deal with your loss. All they’re really doing though is making
you angrier and angrier.
Two of the things I heard a number of times from different
medical professionals at the hospital on the day we went back for the D&C: “It’s not that uncommon, one in five
pregnancies end in a miscarriage.” and “The
body can tell when it’s not carrying a healthy baby. If the baby was born it
would have had serious health complications.” Well great! What about the
four in every five pregnancies that don’t
miscarry? Would I not have loved my baby if he was sick? All these words seemed
to say to me was that my baby, and the loss we were feeling, was insignificant,
and we should “get over it.”
The emergency department doctor tried to talk me out of it,
but I demanded another ultrasound that morning. Drew and I both knew that it
was over, we just wanted one last chance to see our little boy before they took
him away from us forever. As far as the hospital was concerned it was a
colossal waste of time and money, but I think in a situation like this a
parent’s wishes have to be respected. The doctor finally agreed – I think more
because he figured he had better things to be doing than arguing with me – and
sent us back down to the radiology department to wait for a technician to
become available.
I was worried that we would get the same radiologist as last
time, but Drew promised that if we did he would demand someone different. I
don’t think he really trusted himself around that woman either. Luckily, the
woman that came out to collect us was different. She was older, and immediately
we could tell that she had a much nicer bedside manner. As she did the
ultrasound she pointed out our baby, and quietly explained that there was no
detectable heart beat. She apologised for having to give us such bad news, and
wished that things were different. At the end of the scan she asked if there
was anything else she could show us. I explained that we had just wanted one
last confirmation before I had the pregnancy removed. I think she understood,
and she apologised for the way things had been handled by her colleague the day
before.
We returned back to emergency, where Bec was waiting for us.
She had been there with us through everything, and it meant a lot to us to have
her by our sides while we mourned the loss of our little boy. She is one
amazing young woman.
She even went into bat for me, yelling at the doctor when he
tried to tell us to stop making a fuss, and that we would be seen when he had
time. I remember I screamed at him too, something along the lines of “yeah, of
course, because the patient is already dead, so why bother rushing to do
anything about it huh!” It was close to 2pm, and I hadn’t been allowed to eat
or drink anything since midnight the night before. I had a headache and I
wanted the whole mess to be over with so that I could go home and hide in my
bed for the rest of my life.
It was decided sometime around 4pm that I would be admitted
and moved to the surgical ward for a D&C procedure. I had a clipboard
thrust in my face with a form to sign to say that I agreed to the procedure.
The only thing was, the procedure wasn’t explained to me at all, I only knew
what was going to happen because I read about it previously. When I later asked
the surgical nurse to explain it to me, she gave me a lecture about signing a
form to say that I understood the procedure when I really didn’t. She was just
as horrible as the rest of them.
I had thought that Drew would be allowed to come to the
operating theatre with me, just until I was put under, so that I had someone to
hold my hand. When the nurse arrived to take me down and told him he had to
stay there I was terrified. I didn’t want to have to do it alone. I didn’t want
to have to do it at all! I had tears streaming down my face as Drew promised me
he would be there waiting when I came back. An orderly came in to wheel me
away, and the nurse stood by me holding my hand, taking the place of the one
person I truly wanted by my side.
As we headed down the corridor towards the operating theatres
I said a silent goodbye to my little boy. He was never going to come into this
world. He was never going to learn to walk or talk. He was never going to grow
into a beautiful young man, and I was always, always going to miss him, and the happiness that he would have
brought us.
And know,
three years to the day later, I can finally, finally accept it. I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt any more, but it’s
more like a dull ache in the back of my mind, rather than a searing pain in my
heart. And I don’t feel like staying in bed crying my heart out today. I’m a
hell of a lot stronger person today than I was back then, and it’s because of
Ollie that I have that strength.
We love you
little guy. We really do.
