Not making a sound

The world keeps on turning, around and around,
And your heart keeps on breaking, not making a sound,
You know it cant last, you'll recover one day,
And you know that they're right with the things that they say,
"It's for the best" "just not meant to be"
But inside you're screaming "but why to me?"

And you know that in time the sun will come out,
Your pain still a whisper but at least not a shout,
You'll never forget the dark shadows of this,
The truth is you'll never feel their soft kiss,
And you keep on thinking "What if?" and "Why not?"
The "Why cant I be happy with what I HAVE got?"

But really they're right with the things that they say,
Though accepting that now seems a long way away,
The pains still too raw, the anger too deep,
So tired of grieving yet not ready to sleep,
You want to move on, get back on your feet,
But you're scared of forgetting their memory, so sweet,

And although their time was so basic and brief,
That still doesn't lighten the unbearable grief,
You sit there and think "There are worse off than me"
"A bit of perspective's what there needs to be"
There are days that you think "I'm feeling alright"
But then you feel guilty for feeling so bright,

And even those closest think it's time to move on,
That the time for wailing has now been and gone,
Dont punish them though, they're just caring for you,
Want to end all the pain that you're going through,
Feel that if you just start living your life,
You'll return somehow into their sparkling wife,

Well maybe they're right, what else can you do?
One step, than another, keep plodding through,
Some will be dark days, some not so bad,
But in time the good days will out-number the sad,
So your life goes on now, decisions to make,
And you're bright and you're bold, for everyone's sake,
And the world keeps on turning, around and around,
But, at times, you sit weeping, not making a sound

Submitted by Lesley.

The Silence of Loss

When I discovered I was pregnant for the first time, my husband and I were ecstatic.  We'd been trying for awhile, and finally we had a positive pregnancy test.  For anyone who has been trying to conceive, you would understand the roller-coaster ride.....the waiting game.....month in, month out.  When it finally happened, we couldn't contain our excitement, and so shared our news with everyone.  I was 8 weeks pregnant.

A couple of days after we shared our news, I started spotting.  A "reassuring" GP convinced me that this was normal.

At 10 weeks, a scan confirmed there was no heartbeat.

Sorry for your loss.  When I heard those words, I felt something I had never felt before.  Absolute devastation.

It was awkward at first when people were still congratulating us on the pregnancy and we had to say We lost the baby. But life went on.....superficially.  I recovered physically and continued on with work and my involvement in church life.  But emotionally, I was fragile. Nobody understood what I had just been through.
 
About 6 months after our loss, another test revealed we were pregnant again.  I breathed a sigh of relief when we passed the 10 week mark. And this time we waited until the "magic" 12 week mark “to be sure" before we told anyone.  Things were fairly smooth sailing with this pregnancy.  Sure, I suffered from fatigue in the first trimester, and I was queasy - but nothing that couldn't be fixed with some food right now!  I was enjoying my pregnancy and the amazing way my body was changing to grow the life within me.  We were in awe when we had the first scan and saw that everything was in its right place.  No words can accurately describe the intensity of emotion when seeing your baby on the ultrasound screen for the very first time and seeing that it's all okay.

At 24 weeks, as I was getting ready for work, I noticed some very, very, very mild spotting. Because of my previous miscarriage, I sat there, unsure what to do.  Was it enough to warrant a call to my obstetrician, or should I just go to work and see if anything happened?  Something told me to make the call.  After speaking to my obstetrician, I rang work and said I wouldn't be in.

My husband drove me to the hospital.  At this stage we were assuming I'd be checked over, sent home and I'd go back to work the next day. But after my obstetrician examined me, I knew this wouldn't be the case.  Your cervix is dilating.    

So, I was put on bed rest, hooked up to monitors and given injections of steroids to try and slow things down.  All the while, I was asked Are you in any pain?  My answer was always No. My husband rang our church so people could start to pray.  Then, after a couple of hours: You're still dilating. We are going to transfer you to another hospital with a NICU just in case.  Ok.  At this stage, I still thought things would slow down and I would be sent home.  But the pain started in the ambulance on the way to the other hospital. Wow did the pain start!  It was 12:30pm.

Five hours later, after enduring a drug-free labour, I gave birth to a tiny 790g baby boy.  He was immediately whisked away and came back to us after what seemed like an eternity.  He looked so tiny in the humidicrib.  He was ventilated and the paediatrician was inflating his lungs as he brought him over to us.  Despite being so small, he was perfectly formed in every way.

The next 12 hours were a blur of doctors and nurses faces, combined with a growing sense of uncertainty.  I slept very little that night.   I was in a single room in the maternity unit - and the sound of crying babies evoked such sadness when I realised I wasn't able to hold my own baby and comfort him.

After hours of praying and soul-searching, I was taken to the neo-natal unit in the early hours of the morning.  Alexander hadn't made it through the night.  Despite being given doses of steroids, his lungs were too immature to keep him alive.  The next few hours were a fog of phone calls and tears.  Our family came but most of the time together was spent in silence because nobody knew what to say.  The social worker who visited didn't know what to say. Silence.

After being discharged from hospital, we had to make funeral arrangements. It’s not something we expected to be doing at 25 years of age.

The days, weeks and months after we lost Alex were surreal. We felt like we were in a time warp.  We were standing still while everyone and everything continued to move around us.  The days and especially the nights, were so heavy with the pain of sadness and loss. And the intensity of grief was something that we had never experienced before. People didn’t really know what to say to us, so many stayed away. The silence of our loss was so difficult to bear.

Eight years have passed since that day, and while life has moved on, and the sun has shone again for us, there will always remain a deep sense of sadness and loss within my heart for our beautiful little boy, Alexander.

This post was first published by Debbie on her blog, Aspiring Mum.

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Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about.  If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing.  You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.
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My New "Normal"

~ Author Unknown

Normal is having tears waiting behind every smile when you realize someone important is missing from all the important events in your family’s life.

Normal for me is trying to decide what to take to the cemetery for Birthdays Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Years, Valentine’s Day, July 4th and Easter.

Normal is reliving that day continuously through your eyes and mind.

Normal is every happy event in my life always being backed up with sadness lurking close behind, because of the hole in my heart.

Normal is staring at every baby who looks like she is my baby’s age. And then thinking of the age she would be now and not being able to imagine it. Then wondering why it is even important to imagine it, because it will never happen.

Normal is telling the story of your child’s death as if it were an everyday, commonplace activity, and then seeing the horror in someone’s eyes at how awful it sounds. And yet realizing it has become a part of my “normal”.

Normal is each year coming up with the difficult task of how to honor your child’s memory and her birthday and survive these days.

Normal is my heart warming and yet sinking at the sight of something special that my baby would have loved, but how she is not here to enjoy it.

Normal is having some people afraid to mention my baby.

Normal is making sure that others remember her.

Normal is after the funeral is over everyone else goes on with their lives, but we continue to grieve our loss forever.

Normal is weeks, months, and years after the initial shock, the grieving gets worse sometimes, not better.

Normal is not listening to people compare anything in their life to this loss, unless they too have lost a child. NOTHING. Even if your child is in the remotest part of the earth away from you – it doesn’t compare. Losing a parent is horrible, but having to bury your own child is unnatural.

Normal is trying not to cry all day, because I know my mental health depends on it.

Normal is realizing I do cry everyday.

Normal is being impatient with everything and everyone, but someone stricken with grief over the loss of your child.

Normal is a new friendship with another grieving mother, talking and crying together over our children and our new lives.

Normal is not listening to people make excuses for God. “God may have done this because…” I love God, I know that my baby is in heaven, but hearing people trying to think up excuses as to why babies were taken from this earth is not appreciated and makes absolutely no sense to this grieving mother.

Normal is wondering this time whether you are going to say you have three children or two, because you will never see this person again and it is not worth explaining that my baby is in heaven. And yet when you say you have two children to avoid that problem, you feel horrible as if you have betrayed your baby.

Normal is knowing I will never get over this loss, in a day or a million years.

And last of all, Normal is hiding all the things that have become “normal” for you to feel, so that everyone around you will think that you are “normal.”

Submitted by Rachel.

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Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about.  If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing.  You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.
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Welcome

It is finally here, created with many, many personal tears of love shed over the past few months.

Since losing my own baby at 16 weeks gestation, my dream has been to create a place of support and understanding for those who have experienced the loss of a baby, through pregnancy or shortly thereafter.  Here you will find the stories of those who have shared their grief in the hope that they can provide comfort to others, information for family and friends for supporting mothers and fathers who are grieving, and links to other online support services.

Pregnancy loss is not spoken openly about in our society.  Oftentimes, this grief is left unacknowledged as we are awkward and do not know how to comfort each other when we are grieving the loss of someone we never really had the opportunity to get to know.  And yet mothers, fathers, children, grandparents, extended family, friends - all are left changed by the loss of a baby, the dream of a life together which is shattered when that life is taken too soon.

In the days following the loss of my own baby, I had absolutely no idea how to feel or what to expect.  I searched the internet for stories of other mothers who had stood where I was. I ached for a sense of connection within my loneliness. I needed to know that there were others out there who understood, that I was not alone in what I was feeling, and I needed to find hope that I would come out of the other side.  And although each person’s story is different, reading about the experiences of others helped me.  My dream is that With Tears of Love will also help others.

The loss of any baby is tragic, whatever the circumstances.  Please respect that this is not a place to debate personal beliefs or values, instead this is a place to honour those babies lost and to reach out and uphold those experiencing personal grief.

Today I invite you to read these stories and be open with your support, you might also like to subscribe so that you stay updated when new stories are added.  I also invite you to light a candle at 7pm this evening as October 15th is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. If everyone lights a candle tonight and keeps it burning for at least one hour, the whole world will be lit in a continuous wave of light burning bright in memory of our angels.  I cannot tell you how much the picture in my mind of this wave of light which acknowledges the life of my baby boy comforts me, especially as I have so little to remember him by.

With tears of love, Christie x

Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about.  If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing.  You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.
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The Loss of Another Baby

I don't know whether I am up to writing this or not.

But I think that writing things down will actually be therapeutic for me at the moment. A way of proclaiming that this baby was here. This baby existed. So here goes...

This morning I had a scan which confirmed that I had lost my baby. It really didn't come as much of a surprise. But more of that in a moment. For now, I want to share the joy we felt at finding out we were pregnant again after the ectopic pregnancy I had earlier this year.

I think it was about the fourth cycle after the ectopic pregnancy that we conceived this little one. We had been trying for a few months but we were anticipating that it might take a while longer since I now only had one tube. I think I knew I was pregnant a couple of days before my period was due. Every other month I'd been getting little signs that my period was coming, but nothing this month. I was feeling slightly light headed and strange the day before it was due, while at work, so decided to do a test when I got home (even though I had told myself I wouldn't do one until the following day!)

POSITIVE. I spent ages in the toilet trying to get the damn test to work. Turned out I didn't put enough wee on it so it took absolutely ages to show up! Chris ended up coming to check on me because I took so long. But those two lines did eventually turn up. I was so excited! I took the test down to show Chris and he was equally as excited. I felt that all would be well with this pregnancy and didn't worry too much about all that had gone on beforehand. We decided that we would keep this news to ourselves until we were quite far along this time as I couldn't bear the thought of telling people we were pregnant and then having to tell them we had lost it again.

6 weeks: I went for an early ultrasound just to check that this pregnancy was in the right place. We couldn't take the risk that this was another ectopic pregnancy seeing as I only have one tube. Good news, it was definately in my uterus! But the sonographer dated my pregnancy at 5 weeks along not 6+2 weeks like my dates. Straight away, this gave me a little niggling feeling. My periods had been so regular and I didn't really see how the dates could be more than a week different. But I guess it is possible. So I tried to put my doubts behind me and focus on the fact that the pregnancy was in the right spot.

The pregnancy continued for a couple more weeks. I was feeling pretty good although initial symptoms such as tiredness, light-headedness and the occasionally sick feeling seemed to wear off a bit. I'd already been questioning why I hadn't felt so sick, as I had with both other pregnancies. But, once again, I passed this off.
I got to about 7+3 weeks and then when I went to the toilet that afternoon, discovered some blood. Not much at all but enough to make my heart sink. I'd said to Chris earlier that as soon as any bleeding started I'd know it was the end. The bleeding increased just a little bit each day until Wednesday when I started bleeding quite heavily. I experienced period pains all day and then Wednesday evening I had quite bad cramps and passed a large clot.

I knew that was it. That my baby had passed. That moment of realisation is the worst moment in the world. This was the moment during my ectopic pregnancy that I knew my baby had gone too. There are no words to explain that feeling. It evokes such strong emotions. Hurt. Sorrow. Disbelief. Shock. Anger. Bitterness.

So the scan this morning didn't bring any surprises. Although there was some small part of me that was still hanging onto a shred of hope. But in my heart I knew. It appears that my body was able to pass this baby on it's own which I guess is one positive about the whole thing. I was terrified that it wouldn't have all passed and that I would have to go to hospital again (you know how much I hate hospitals!!) The sonographer said there was still a tiny amount of blood left and to expect some spotting over the next week or so but that's all.

I have found the second time round to be so much harder than the first time. The first couple of days I just cried and cried. Chris had to take time off from work because I just wasn't capable of looking after the kids. I fear that I am a bad mother because whenever I look at my kids I am reminded of what I have lost and I resent them for that. Yet, everyone tries to tell me that I should be grateful that I have them.

And then there have been the reactions of people. Some people have no idea how to respond. Some people pledge that they care about you but then offer no support other than the initial 'sorry to hear about what happened'. And then there are the unthinking kind of comments. I was at the pool with Esme the other day and the supervisor at the pool asked how old Esme was. I said two and then made a comment about how she was growing up too quickly. So what did the person say to me 'Well, why don't you have another one then?'. That comment made me feel like bursting into tears.

And the future? I am scared to get pregnant again. I am scared that my body will let me down again like it has done twice already. How on earth can I trust it to do it's job? I know, in my heart, that I need to learn to love my body again after this. That I will need to do that to be able to fall pregnant again. But right now I feel like my mind is in conflict with my body. I am feeling exhausted after losing this baby. But I can't allow myself to just stop and rest. Part of that is to do with not wanting to give myself time to think too much. But I think another part is, subconsciously, wanting to punish my body for what it has done to me.

For now, I have to focus on each day as it comes. Thinking too much about the future is just too hard right now.

This post was first published by Narelle on her blog, A Bunch of Keys, on 3rd September 2010.

Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about.  If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing.  You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.

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Blossoms

I knew. I could see the face of the woman performing the ultrasound and I knew something was wrong.
“Something is wrong isn’t it? What’s wrong with my baby?”  The woman put her hand on my arm, gave me a sympathetic smile and said, “I’m sorry. There is no heartbeat; it looks like your baby died around 2 weeks ago."

I was 18 and almost 13 weeks pregnant. I was in the clinic alone because my parents were not happy about my decision to keep the baby and my boyfriend was at work. Why was he at work? Because I had lost my job for being pregnant as it was going to “hurt the image of the company” to keep me on.

The baby had been a surprise. I had been on oral contraceptives. My boyfriend and I had not made the decision lightly to keep our baby. A doctor insisted I have an abortion. It caused upheaval in our families but I rubbed my belly each night and told the tiny person growing inside me that I loved it, no matter what everyone else thought. That I would take care of it, even though I was still a baby myself. That even though it was not planned it would be loved. And that no matter what happened we would always have each other.

From the moment I knew I was pregnant my whole life changed to make room for a baby.

And my whole life was changed when I was told my baby had died.

Everyone was relieved and assumed I was too. I was even told that “nature had done me a little favor”. I was treated as if my baby didn’t matter when I was sent in for a D&C. That at 18 I couldn’t possibly grieve over a baby I had not planned in the first place.

But I was shattered. I grieved deeply and in private. I mourned and fell apart. I just couldn’t fathom why this would happen. I blamed myself. I blamed everyone else. I cried and cried. Eventually I healed. I’m 13 years older and have 3 wonderful daughters. But every year on November 12 (my due date) I wonder what my child would be like today. She (I have always thought she was a girl) would have been 13 this year and sometimes it still feels raw. Why am I telling you this?

Because I want you to know that it’s OK to grieve. That it’s OK to be totally devastated at losing your baby. Please find support. Talk to people who understand. Go gently with yourself. Accept help.

A dear friend gave me flowers when I miscarried another baby 4 years ago, the card read “in memory of those who blossomed so briefly”. I think that description of babies lost before birth is apt. Much love and support to those of you who have had babies who have blossomed briefly.

This post was kindly submitted by Shae of Yay for Home.

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Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about.  If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing.  You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.
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To The Child In My Heart

Precious, tiny, sweet little one
You will always be to me
So perfect, pure and innocent
Just as you were meant to be.

We dreamed of you and your life
And all that it would be
We waited and longed for you to come
And join our family.

But now you're gone... but yet you're here
We sense you everywhere
You are our sorrow and our joy
There's love in every tear.

Just know our love goes deep and strong
We'll forget you never-
The child we had, but never had,
And yet will have forever.

~ Author unknown 

This poem was kindly submitted by Narelle.  Read more on her blog, A Bunch of Keys. 

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Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about.  If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing.  You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.

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To My Angel

I lost my little angel before she reached 12 weeks. Apparently that makes me lucky because I didn't have enough time to get really attached.
The pain I felt burnt me from the inside out.
We recently gave birth to a little baby girl. I held my breath for 9 months, praying that nothing would go wrong.
She is perfect. Just like my first. I know this even though I never met her. Call it mothers bias if you will!
 
Here is my letter to her... 
 
Dearest Angel of Mine,

It will be a long time until we meet, not the nine months I originally envisioned.

When you were tucked up in the safety of my womb I dreamt of what your life would be. I dreamt of the future, of your future, of our future together.

You made your father and I so happy, even if it was only for a short while, you were real and so is our love for you.

I bled for you. I cried for you. I mourned your passing loudly, quietly, openly and in private.

I think about you all the time. I take comfort in knowing you will never feel any pain. Never know rejection or embarrassment or fear. But you know love because we love you. We will always love you.

We will meet again in heaven, finally, I will hold you in my arms. Until then, know that your mother loves you, and that love is eternal.

All my heart,
Mum

Submitted by Aly via email.

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Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about.  If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing.  You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.
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Lost... but not forgotten

We always wanted a large family, my husband and I. After the birth of our two daughters, we were excited about adding another child to our family. I was still breastfeeding my 9-month-old when I had a sudden attack of severe pain. Then I started to bleed. I originally thought the bleeding and pain were due to my menstrual cycle returning for the first time after pregnancy and breastfeeding. For the next 2 weeks I bleed off and on coupled with intersperse periods of pain. I then had this sudden thought: maybe I’m pregnant and this is a miscarriage. I visited my general practitioner, who immediately did a pregnancy test. It came back negative. The doctor told me to go home and take panadol for period pain. This was Thursday. On Sunday at 11.40am, I was in the car with my husband and two girls when I experienced a sudden pain like someone had stabbed me in the stomach. I couldn’t help but allow a scream to escape my lips. My husband said, “We are going to the hospital.” I didn’t argue. The pain got worse and then all of a sudden, I knew my life draining away from me. With eyes wide I looked over at my husband in the driver’s seat and said, “I’m going to die.” Later I found out I was -- I was dying.
We reached the hospital emergency centre and my husband ran out and left me in the car with the girls. I was screaming from the pain. I remember trying not to because I knew the girls were in the backseat, my eldest being only 2. “What’s wrong Mum?” I heard her say but I couldn’t speak. Soon after, three men rushed out and somehow got me inside the emergency centre.

I didn’t want drugs. I don’t know why – I just didn’t. But the doctors gave me some anyway. It felt like ants crawling inside my body as the medicine surged through my veins. I couldn’t move but the pain eased some.
“We’ll have to do a pregnancy test,” someone said.
“I’ve just had one done and it was negative,” I replied.
“It’s just standard procedure.”
Right then, my husband left with the girls. We had no family around, so he planned to go home and find someone to mind them so he could come back and be with me.

The next thing I knew I was having an ultra-sound. After being whisked back to the emergency bay, I was told I needed to be transferred to another hospital by ambulance. No one told me anything else.

Could. Not. Move.

The ambulance officer wheeled me into the ambulance and starting doing observations.
“How many weeks along are you?” He asked looking up from his clipboard.
“Excuse me?”
“How many weeks pregnant are you?”
“I’m not pregnant,” I said
There was silence, followed by some other questions.

On the journey to the nearby hospital I felt every bump.
“Mate, be careful of the bumps,” the ambulance officer called out to the driver.
“She’s in a lot of pain.”
I was wheeled into the emergency bay of a much larger hospital. I stared at the ambulance officer’s belt line where a watch was hanging. I liked it so I just kept staring. The watch captured me and I kept my eyes fixed. The watch was important to me.

“She needs some more medication,” I heard someone say, “She’s in so much pain and I’m not sure we can move her.”
I kept starring.
“One. Two. Three.”
I screamed as they moved me to another bed.
“How many weeks pregnant are you?” the attending doctor asked.
“I haven’t been told I’m pregnant but I obviously am because people keep asking me.”

Silence.

I remember at this point feeling a wave of loss sweep over my body like a hot pain. I had been pregnant but something was very, very wrong. I couldn’t see the hanging watch anymore. It had become a lifeline to me. Where was it?

“Where’s my husband?” I asked.
“We’ll ring him for you sweetie,” a kindy-looking nurse said from beside me. I didn’t realise she was there.
I started to shake. I couldn’t control my body. I wondered what was going on. No one would tell me. I was in pain. I could hardly breathe. I didn’t know anyone. I was alone.

Another doctor peered down at me. “We have to operate. And I’m sorry, but we might have to take your entire womb. You may not be able to have any more children.”

I was devastated. And then I prayed: Thank you God for my two girls, and if that’s all the children I’m meant to have, I thank you. I felt content. I didn’t feel so alone.

I was wheeled down corridors, up a lift and through rubber swinging doors into a cold room. It felt like death. I lay there and I was shaking uncontrollably.
I felt desperate to see my husband. I needed to see him. I wanted to hear his voice. Where was he?
I heard people talking outside the cold room and someone came in and whispered to the anaesthetic doctor on duty.
“Your husband is here. He is insistent on seeing you so we are going to wheel you out. I warn you though, as soon as the surgeon comes, we’ll be taking you straight away.” The anaesthetic doctor looked rather annoyed.
There he was – my husband: tall, handsome and ever so worried. “I love you precious.”
He held my hand for a moment, then I was taken away – back to the cold room. It was a poignant moment; it was a moment that seemed to occur in slow motion. I kept my eyes fixed on my husband until I could see him no more.

Lights everywhere. Masked faces looking down. Cold around my face. Nothing.

I slowly open my eyes. My husband’s brown eyes met mine. “They didn’t have to take your womb darling. You had an ectopic pregnancy but you’re going to be okay.”

Later the surgeon came to see me. He told me I had been bleeding internally for 2 weeks and by the time he got to me, I was bleeding profusely – and dying. I had at least 2 litres of blood sitting in my belly and was losing more – fast. He also said that I needed a blood transfusion and that I may not be able to fall pregnant again due to the damage caused internally.
I begged him not to give me a blood transfusion and he said he would wait two days for my blood results to come back at an acceptable level, and if not, he would have to do a transfusion due to blood loss. My blood tests came back just over the threshold and I was glad.
“You’re young and healthy,” he said, “You have bounced back amazingly.”

After a week in hospital, I went home. I was given a large plastic bag, with my belongings from emergency room. I took out my clothes to wash them and something fell out at my feet. It was my positive pregnancy test, lying there at my feet, with 2 lines so obvious. Then it hit me. I had lost a baby and to this day, I wonder who he/she was. I love my child. I miss this child I never had the chance to know. I also had potentially lost the ability to conceive more children.

My body grew stronger and I went through the motions of mental healing too. I cried. I grieved. I prayed. I accepted. I then, was truly content. A few months after the operation, I was blessed to fall pregnant with my third child, and then later – a fourth.

To bring a feeling of conclusion to the matter, I purchased two things because I felt I needed something physical to acknowledge that my lost child – was a life. I purchased a Pandora charm for my bracelet and I hunted down a hanging watch, just like the ambulance officers, for my husband. Something was lost... but not forgotten.

Read more about Kelly at Be A Fun Mum.

The ones we never knew

It's rather strange saying goodbye to a stranger, and that’s one of the many surreal moments that comes when you lose a baby through miscarriage. Those that have been there often aren’t quite sure just what they’re supposed to feel or think, as well as the family and friends that surround them.

After we had our first baby boy, I went through the painful experience of losing my brother.  Soon after that I discovered that we were expecting our second child, and the fact that it was due around the anniversary of my brother’s death made that pregnancy even more special – a life to celebrate and bring joy after having been through such a sad time.

I was rather shocked then, when I miscarried. It was a sad experience (and rather scary going under general aesthetic at the hospital). I kept a little box with mementos in it - the positive pregnancy stick, my maternity booklet and sympathy cards... and life moved on.

I was amazed through this experience to discover how many others around me had also experienced miscarriages – many family members and friends shared with me about their losses.  Some had found it sad, others had been seriously grief stricken by their loss, especially those who had dreams and hopes shattered after previously struggling with infertility.

A few years later we had another beautiful baby boy added to our family. Not feeling that our family was quite complete, we were happy (and surprised – haha) to find I was pregnant again. The pregnancy seemed to go along fine, and once I was past the ‘safe’ pregnancy stage I began to relax. You can then imagine our shock when at 18½ weeks pregnant, no heartbeat could be found during our maternity check up. An ultrasound soon revealed a perfectly formed image of a baby with no beating heart. Although I tried, I could not hold back the sobs.

I assumed that I would be put under general aesthetic and wake up afterwards and go home. Symon left the hospital to collect my things from home, and although I felt all alone, I knew God was with me.

That day turned out to be such a full on day. Because of the stage of the pregnancy, I was told I would have to deliver it naturally. Nothing can prepare you for facing a labour without a happy ending. The labour was painful, but during it, all I could think of was all of those amazing women who have had to give birth to still born children a lot further along than ours. My heart went out to each and every one of them.

After the encouragement of my AMAZING hubby and midwife, we chose to hold and look at this tiny baby that we never got to officially meet. It’s little nose looked just like our eldest boy's nose. It had teeny-tiny toes and fingers. A few weeks later we sprinkled our baby’s ashes where my brother’s ashes were also sprinkled (a local surf beach).

The next few weeks felt like a bit of a daze. I did cry and feel depressed at times. I knew God would turn this situation into something beautiful, so I held onto that promise. I knew that one day we would get to meet these precious little people.  We could literally feel the peace of God surrounding us.

I felt to share my story to encourage those of you that have been through the loss of a child, that there is always hope in every dark situation you endure (including struggling relationships, pain or suffering, depression, loneliness). Keep holding on. Look up to Him, who can bring peace and hope in the midst of the most devastating of circumstances.

Chris Pringle (author of this book) encourages all women who have been through  the loss of a baby to write about them as part of the healing process.  This is what I have done, and encourage you to do too. xox

This post was first published on Kristy’s blog, Paisley Jade, on 6th September 2010.

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Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about.  If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing.  You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.

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Maybe One?

Not viable.

That was the news I got yesterday when I went for an ultrasound.

I was six weeks pregnant.

The doctor said he knew things weren’t quite right before he even did the ultrasound, based on my lab work alone.  I’ve already had bloodwork done three times since last Thursday.  (I also went for an ultrasound last week, per doctor’s orders, but they couldn’t see anything yet.)

Obviously, I was upset with this news.  I had been crazy tired, which always happens to me in early pregnancy.  A little bit queasy.  But there were no obvious signs that anything was wrong, as there had been in my previous miscarriages.

Nevertheless, I wasn’t completely surprised by the news of this miscarriage.  The odds weren’t exactly in our favor.

Because if you’ve been keeping track…
Miscarriage at 5 weeks, December 2006
Finley was born, August 31, 2007
Miscarriage at 12 weeks, with resulting D & C, August 2009
Ruptured ectopic pregnancy (with removal of left tube and a chunk of my uterus), December 2009
and now….
Miscarriage at 6 weeks, March 2010.

The doctor said repeatedly that I didn’t do anything wrong.  That it isn’t my fault that this happened.

But at the same time, I was thinking….

Maybe I shouldn’t have taken that Amoxocillin and Tylenol for my sinus infection, even though both my family doctor and OB said it was safe for early pregnancy.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been drinking even the DECAF coffee (because it still has a little bit of caffeine).

Maybe I should have eaten more veggies.

Maybe it’s because I’m overweight.  (Though my BP and cholesterol are a-ok, and my doctor said that this shouldn’t make a big difference…)

Maybe I should have exercised more.

Maybe I should have done less and relaxed more.

Maybe I shouldn’t have lost my cool and yelled at Finn yesterday.

Maybe this is God’s way of telling me that we’re only meant to have one child.

Maybe we should have waited longer after the ruptured ectopic.  They did take a wedge out of my uterus, after all.  After the doctor told me that the pregnancy wasn’t viable, he also said that it is probably for the best.  That maybe it was too soon after the ruptured ectopic and that I should let my uterus heal a little longer before trying again.  (Wait!  Didn’t he also say that I didn’t do anything wrong?  And tell me that it was okay to go ahead and try again back in January?!  Way to make me feel guilty.)

I think The Picky Apple and I (and the doctor, too) were surprised by how quickly I was able to get pregnant again.  We figured it would take a little longer since I am down a tube.  But apparently not.

And clearly it doesn’t matter anyway, if I can’t STAY pregnant.

For now, we’re taking a 6 month break.  Then we’ll decide where to go from here.

Neither one of us has felt a strong urge to have a large family.  I was always okay with 2 kids.  But then after The Littlest Apple was born, it took us a while to decide we wanted a second child.  It would be nice to have another child, but I don’t think either of us feels like our family won’t be complete until we have a second child.  We might be okay with just one.

My doctor isn’t ready to send us for testing just yet.  Nor has he said that we won’t be able to have more kids.  But how much more can I really take, emotionally and physically?

And if this keeps happening, THEN what?  I don’t think IVF or fertility treatments would really help, since fertility isn’t the problem.  Surrogacy?  Not sure if I want to go there.  Adoption?  Not sure about that either.
It’s starting to become more and more clear to me just how much of a miracle it is that we have The Littlest Apple.  His name, which means “fair haired warrior” is SO appropriate, don’t you think?

Maybe one child is enough for us.

It is for now, anyway.

This post was first published by Cara on her blog, The Picky Apple,  on 19th March 2010.


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Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about.  If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing.  You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.
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No more baby

It was the 6th of September when I went for the O&G check up after a week of spotting and leakage. The nurse advised me to get a scan from the O&G. I have never felt so anxious while waiting and since I could sense that something is not right about this pregnancy, I felt even more anxious. I can only pray...

When I was called into the Gynecologist room, I told the whole situation to her and up to the examination bed to get my scan. The 1st scan (abdomen scan) failed to trace the fetus's heartbeat and it was confirmed by the 2nd scan through the vaginal. My heart dropped upon hearing this and I was ALONE! The gynecologist said I need to do a D&C immediately to avoid any infection since the fetus has died in 7 weeks old although through her scan it showed 8th week.

I cried when I called hubby but what needed to be done, need to be done fast. I signed the consent letter and then admitted.

The process was fast! It happened just like a blink of eyes - when I was conscious, it was DONE. My baby has gone! I was too tired to think or be sad about it... what I could do is just talked about the future plan with hubby as I lay down in the ward. And my mind was thinking about my lil Maximus. I miss him so much at the moment and wanted to hold him close in my arms.

It's just a feeling of loosing something precious and I guess Maximus is the one whom I hold preciously. But God is good...and He is good all the time.

Through this time of trial, I cling unto Him for His Mighty strength. I found strength in Him... thus I was able to control my emotion. When I went home, I has the comfort of Maximus, hubby and also my mother. It's a feeling for warm and secure.

Late at night, we had our bed-time bonding with Maximus. Low and behold, he uttered the word "No more baby'" and it surprised us! I guess my lil guy here know what has happened. He was aware or somehow in his spirit he was connected to us.

Well... I was relief when he uttered those words and it seems a confirmation to me that I have to accept this fact. So I surrender it to God and let him plan for our next one.

This post was first published on Danielle's blog, Reflection of Life, on September 9th, 2010.

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Losing a baby can feel like the most isolating experience in the world and it is something we often don’t talk openly about.  If we can let one mother (or father or grandmother) know that she is not alone in her grief, then that is a good thing.  You can help us support families experiencing baby loss by submitting your story, by leaving a comment below, and by sharing this post on Facebook or Twitter.
Share