I’m writing this first and foremost for family and friends. I think those of you who know me well, know that I don’t like to ‘talk’, I don’t express my emotions easily, I’m not a sharer. The past few days have been filled with well meaning health professionals sat….waiting…watching…expecting (in vain) an emotional response. Neither me nor Tom want or feel comfortable publicly sharing our grief, tears, anger, snot… 🙂 Together though we are an unstoppable team who will get through this, in our own time and in our own way.
Part of that ‘way’ for me is blogging. I started blogging 5 years ago, just before I discovered I had breast cancer. I found that writing a blog was very cathartic, and the only way at the time I could openly express all the emotions I was feeling. I wish I’d of kept that blog going, but I figured, ‘I’ve moved on I don’t need this anymore’. Now, well it seems the right thing to do, to keep this blog alive. As ironic as it sounded to me at first, ‘Mother Mands’, I AM a mother and I need to write, to tell our story, it’s up to you if you want to carry on reading knowing the subject I’m about to discuss is the death of our daughter.
I just remember staring at the ceiling, focused on the light fittings, willing myself to ‘wake-up’, because I had to be dreaming.
The deafening silence of the heart monitor and the midwife’s apologetic looks as she searched for another, ‘newer’ machine, it all became unreal and I almost felt as though I were floating. Surely this was a dream?
Then I heard Tom’s voice in the corridor, back from picking up my notes, we we’re in such a rush to leave the house, so excited, I’d completely forgotten them.
I felt like I was suffocating, how could I tell him?
As he entered the room I was staring blankly and I just whispered, “the machine, I can’t hear anything on the machine”. I knew…we knew.
Two monitors and a scan later, the consultant confirmed my dream was actually a nightmare. 40 weeks and 3 day over, our baby girl had no heart beat, the daughter we were so desperate to meet had died.
I don’t remember anything else that was said, though I recall it wasn’t much and the silent observing began. All I wanted was to hold Tom until we melted together and everything else disappeared, to close our eyes and forget, but the growing waves of pain reminded me this was just the beginning. The beginning of a journey I never expected or wanted, but I am so glad I’m travelling with the love and support of my family and friends and especially Tom.
I can’t write all of this in one go, it’s really painful remembering some of the details, but I want to share our story because its not all tears and sadness, there is a lot of joy, humour and in particular love and I hope something good will come from all of this.