I can't believe that I last posted in August 2009. How life has changed since then.
I got married in November of that year. Had a daughter in summer of 2010, then got pregnant again in February last year. I thought my life was complete, that I could never be happier: Then tragedy struck!
The following is that story.
Losing a child is a club no one wants to join. Its membership is the one most feared by parents, and by virtue, it’s an uncomfortable one - to even contemplate. Unlike most other clubs, though, this one has no discriminations, it can welcome anyone; class, wealth, age, class or creed, are no barrier to inclusion. The one common denominator is the worst kind of grief.
There are no words to begin to describe this grief. It is one built on hopes and dreams, instead of memories. It is one of longing to do the most basic of all parental duties – care & protect one’s offspring, and the profound guilt that this duty has failed… how can mourning any other relative compare?
The tiny little lifeless body instils such a protective instinct, coupled with the most overwhelming sense of emptiness. It never feels as though you can be whole again. It’s an insane feeling that is so utterly desperate and exhausting.
I cannot begin to explain the despair I feel. The endless nights I can’t sleep, the mornings I wake, my eyes wet with tears. Longing to have the empty crib occupied, by a happy, sleeping baby. Wanting to run away, to escape, but I can’t escape the pain.
At times the pain was so severe, that I even picked up a knife, and seriously thought of driving it deep into my womb – my useless womb, that failed to keep my oh, so precious baby safe.
I still can’t get over the guilt. Why didn’t I know she was in trouble? I fancy now, that I did, that I chose to ignore it, I can’t remember her movements in the final days… what if her hiccups were a sign of distress, and I just ignored them? What if her more painful movements were because the fluid levels were too low?
All of these thoughts go round my head, spinning me round and round, till I’m almost dizzy. I feel confused and disorientated as I try to make sense of it. I feel so overpowered, like being adrift the ocean, on a tiny piece of driftwood, trying to ride out a tsunami. I want to give into it, to drown. But I just can’t. My body betrays my heart, as it goes on beating, carries on drawing breath – continues to survive.
I want my little girl back so much. I would give anything to swap places with her. Babies aren’t supposed to die; their tiny hearts shouldn’t just stop beating. How can a life be over before it’s begun? How can such an innocent little soul deserve that? How on earth is any of this fair?
Here is the sad story, which I so wish I didn’t have the experience to share.
It was a foggy morning, Friday 28th October 2011. I remember it well. A day when you knew it would be sunny, once the initial blanket of white had lifted.
In the hospital room, that was to become my home for the next few days, I tried to peer out of the only window that wasn’t frosted. I was searching; looking at the crowds of people arriving for work, and trying to find the one – the one who could be my superhero, the one who was a miracle-maker, able to erase my pain & give my story a different ending.
But there was no miracle maker; superheroes really don’t exist. And sometimes, a story has to have an unhappy ending.
It had all begun so well. From the very first scan I was in love. The little fetal pole, with a tiny flickering heart, was the most beautiful sight to my eyes. I wish I had a picture of that scan, but, ironically, I was denied, just as I was all later scans, in complete contrast with my older daughter a year ago.
The pregnancy was easy; certainly easier than last year’s; easier in fact than with my son too. But I could never shake the feeling that there would be problems.
The triple test & the nuchal scan came back fine. The anomaly scan was great too. But still little doubts remained.
I was determined to be healthier than during my last pregnancy. I ate more carefully, cutting out all sugary foods, eating low GI foods & plenty of protein.
My blood pressure was low. The glucose tolerance test was fine. I felt great, except for crippling SPD. The only other slight concern was a petechiae rash – which is caused by bleeding under the skin. The GP wasn’t too concerned; she took bloods and wrote in my notes that I had a severe cough (which is NOT true).
As things progressed I shook off my negative thoughts and got organised. I bought a double buggy, a cocoon, Moses basket, new mattress for the crib. We got down newborn baby clothes & washed them, and I still went on a spending spree & bought several new ones.
At the 36 week scan it was confirmed that Tamsin was oblique breech – just like her sister had been last year. The scan revealed a far greater worry for me… her AFI levels – which at the 28 week scan had been 16 & on the 75th centile – were now 11 & on the 10th centile.
The registrar was unconcerned about the fall in amniotic fluid. She said that it was still within normal levels, and until it hit 5 then they wouldn’t be concerned. Of course this didn’t satisfy me – it may have been within normal levels, but it was a drop for *Tamsin* and that was a concern for me.
I was told that I’d be admitted the following Thursday, at 37 weeks, to deliver Tamsin between then and 38 weeks.
The Saturday was my son’s birthday, so I spent the day baking cakes. That weekend was fantastic; the last bit of happiness, when I was still blissfully unaware of the tragedy about to unfold.
My daughter had been waking often at night. It was during these times that Tamsin was most active. She’d try in vain to kick her sister off my lap, and I so looked forward to the future interaction of my two girls.
On Tuesday morning I woke in a panic. I realised that my daughter had slept through, and Tamsin hadn’t kicked, but as I was so deeply asleep I put it to one side.
I was busy with my daughter in the morning – it’s hard with a toddler to concentrate, so although worried, I still thought Tamsin was fine – I will NEVER forgive my arrogance that morning.
I went to meet a friend that afternoon. Again I was too busy to notice movements, but was excitedly telling my friend of my plans, going to the shops & buying more baby clothes.
That night I was more concerned. The movements were very difficult to feel , even after drinking ice cold drinks, lying on my left side etc.
We went to the hospital. The midwife placed a fetal doppler monitor on – she struggled to find a heartbeat. I knew, from the deathly silence, that all was not well. Usually you can hear swishing noises, the crackling as the baby moves, but there was nothing – nothing at all.
The midwife persisted until she found ‘a’ heartbeat low down, she then walked off to the other couple in triage. I was concerned with the heart rate – it was 112bpm, far too slow for a baby’s. Darren, who’d looked really concerned, was relieved there was a heartbeat; I was not.
A Dr came in with an ultrasound machine. He started running it over my tummy. He didn’t say a word, just stared intently at the screen, for what seemed an age. Darren looked concerned & held my hand – I felt as if the world was spinning so hard, that I was being forced through the floor.
After what seemed an eternity, the Dr suggested that we move to another room to “complete the scan in more depth”. I was worried, I very much doubted that he had good news to tell us, and as we left the triage room, the sound of another woman’s baby’s heart happily beating on a Doppler, filled me with envy.
In the next room another midwife was already waiting. I felt panicky, sick & dizzy. The Dr sat down & I never heard what he said – the sound of my heart beating in my head, drowned out the words. But I knew what he said all the same…I could see in his eyes: Our beautiful little girl’s heart had stopped beating. We begged for him to scan again. He told us that we’d have to wait till the morning for a proper scan, as he wasn’t qualified to confirm anything. I felt that I was going mad. I screamed for them to do the proper scan now, there may still be hope – why the hell were they waiting?
Darren panicked too – begging them to get her out, to save her, if there was any chance.
We were taken to a special room – The Primrose Room. This was a lovely room, with tea & coffee making facilities, a tv/dvd player, a double bed. This was our room for the night. Though I hardly slept…my heart was broken, and I still didn’t quite believe it.
The next morning we were taken to the proper scanning room. This was in the antenatal department, and it was pure hell, walking past blissfully unaware pregnant women – as I was the day before, now my innocence was gone, pregnancy wasn’t always joyful & I was facing a different future.
The consultant carried out the scan. She confirmed the baby had died. She also said there was no fluid around her – which made me so angry as they knew it was falling just 5 days before.
I was told that I’d be given a pill to take that day (weds) and would be induced on Friday. I questioned whether this was wise, as I’d had a caesarean the year before and the baby was transverse now. The consultant said a caesarean was not recommended as it was not as safe for the mother, and that the contractions would force the baby into either a breech, or cephalic position.
So we went home. It was the worst two days of my life. Strangely though, I was struck by a rainbow which appeared in the blackest sky – it seemed to have a significance, and was to become our baby’s middle name.
On the Friday the induction began – as I said at the beginning no superhero appeared.
The contractions began around lunchtime, but were easy to manage, and we were blessed with fantastic midwives. By the evening I did need something stronger, and was given diamorphine. This had an unusual effect on me. It started by making me chilled, then very drowsy. I fell asleep, but was woken by Darren, after my breathing became very laboured & wheezy.
When awake I became aware of very strong pain… and total confusion. It was like being cast into a nightmare. I had no concept of where I was, I didn’t know anyone – except Darren; though I didn’t know who he was, just that he should be looking after me, but he was trying to make me stay – stay in this place which was like a nightmare. I struggled with the pain, so I was given another shot of diamorphine – this again sent me to sleep, and again I had trouble breathing. I’ve since discovered that diamorphine is pure grade heroin, and am pleased to say that I could NEVER be an addict.
I asked for, and was eventually given, an epidural. Even that didn’t go to plan, as the first attempt hit the wrong space, just like every cannula attempt that day had failed… I felt that nothing was going to plan, and I was about to be proved very right.
The next 24 hours proved uneventful. I had different midwives, I wasn’t allowed to eat; labour progressed very slowly.
By Saturday evening I was put on a syntocinon drip. I was very worried as they had said they wouldn’t give it me, due to the risk of uterine rupture, but still they went ahead. By late night I had dilated from 2 – 5cm in one hour. The Dr was happy & came back an hour later. By then I’d stopped dilating. He asked the midwife to stop the drip – she refused, citing the consultant’s opinion that they should wait 3 hours. So another two hours passed. I could feel a pressure, but didn’t know what it was.
The Dr came and checked me. I’d failed to progress anymore, and the baby was still laying across the top of my uterus. He pulled the plug on my drip & went to call the consultant; he also said the baby’s cord was hanging out of me. I was scared, I asked for Darren to be woken, but the midwife refused… luckily when she left the room her student woke him for me.
The Dr came back in with a consent form for an emergency caesarean due to “obstructed labour”. I now know that meant that my contractions were strong, but the baby was stuck, and the contractions were moulding my uterus around her.
We reached the theatre. It was 2am (though more like 3am as the clocks went back an hour before). The surgery began before I knew it. It seemed an age before they got the baby out – she was in such an awkward position that they had to extend the usual cut, and then cut up each side too. In doing so they cut the major uterine blood vessels, causing a haemorrhage. It was if she didn’t want to leave me, and my body had no intention of letting her go.
My baby finally appeared beside me. She looked very much like her sister, but with differences I do not wish to share. But she was beautiful & had thick, jet black hair, so unlike either of my two older children. The umbilical cord had a true knot in it, and was wrapped twice around her neck.
The rest was pretty traumatic. The machines started going off as my blood pressure fell to 44/22, I started to fall in & out of consciousness, and was incredibly thirsty (later found out I had hypovelmic shock). There were phone calls for blood to be transported asap, and the consultant was called from his bed to repair my uterus.
Eventually I was taken to recovery & placed under a special blanket with warm air, whilst several units of blood & plasma were transfused.
When I finally went back to Primrose Room, I broke down. I howled the most animalistic cry possible; it was like a lioness crying for her cub. The pain was so intense, so shocking, so agonising – I could hardly breathe. It took ages for it to pass, and the memory of it still chills me & chokes me up.
The day passed in a blur. I was in physical, as well as emotional pain. I had my beautiful baby, and I could hold her. But I could never hear her cry. Her little body – which used to prod me from the inside, was floppy. Her muscles, which she used to flex so well, were now useless. I ached, and ached for her. I yearned to hear her cry, I prayed for her eyes to open.
We had photos taken, we dressed her, had foot & hand prints taken…and we cried. The next day we had her blessed; we also left hospital and beautiful Tamsin behind, my dad & Amber being the only two family members to meet Tamsin.
We saw Tamsin again – twice. We dressed her in her final outfit, and took the first one home. We gave her a card, put our photos in with her, gave her two teddies that we’d slept with. I longed to see her again, but was advised against it.
The final time we saw Tamsin was at 9pm on Saturday 5th November 2011. It was our second wedding anniversary, and forever more our anniversary & bonfire night, will be tinged with bittersweet memories, and an added poignancy.
The sky was alight with dazzling fireworks on the way to the hospital. I’d always loved fireworks, but the glittering, dazzling displays; the shrieks & bangs, did nothing to alleviate my sorrow, instead they just added to the drama of it all, as if the world was joining in with saying goodbye – as if Tamsin’s last goodbye was being celebrated with bang…this did nothing to help life my heavy heart though, and my heart & tears were as thick as the heavy smog, created by the gunpowder and bonfires.
I didn’t want to let her go that night, I desperately tried to imprint her weight in my memory, and how she felt in my arms. How she smelt – every facet of her being.
The next day we went back to the same ward. I’d called my midwife, as I was feeling ill, and during her observations she hit two yellow boxes, this meant a trip back to labour & delivery, on the obstetrician’s request.
Tamsin Rainbow Scott was born asleep on 30th October 2011 at 2.26am GMT.
