On the morning of Friday 17 July, at 39 weeks pregnant, my husband and I went in to the Auckland Hospital Women’s Assessment Unit to be induced, for the much-anticipated arrival of our first child. We were led to a room where a nurse briefed us on what would happen in terms of the induction. I was full of nervous excitement.
Jumping up on the bed and she put an IV line in my arm, took my temperature and popped the heart monitor for baby around my tummy. Baby’s heart rate was a little on the slow side. The midwife said that this was okay and that baby might be sleeping.
She gave me a clicker to push whenever I felt movement. The midwife then said to buzz her if anything happened while she was away. Baby’s bpm was fluctuating up and down a lot, going steadily lower each time. When it got to 90bpm we were already pushing the emergency buzzer, while watching it drop even lower.
The midwife and doctor came rushing in. The doctor quickly decided they would perform an emergency C-section as baby was clearly in distress. The doctor pressed the huge, red, emergency button on the wall. This resulted in about 12 people, midwives/doctors, running in to our room.
A couple of them started stripping off my clothing while another was attaching monitors to parts of me, one asking me questions, getting me to sign a consent form with my left hand, removing nail polish from my toes so that they could put the pulse rate machine on my foot (as my hands were shaking too much). They positioned themselves at different corners of my hospital bed and started exiting the room. They then literally ran my bed straight down the hall, around the corner and into the operating theatre.
It all starts to become a bit hazy here.
They had me rolled on my side in the foetal position, chin to chest trying to insert a spinal epidural. While this was taking place, they were lining my arms with different tubes, putting compression tights on my legs, inserting a catheter, asking me questions; all while I had an oxygen mask on, which made it difficult to answer and be properly heard, I was shaking with fear and panic. After no luck inserting the epidural, they decided to go ahead and put me completely under with a
general anaesthetic.
The nurse putting the mask on me is the last thing I remember, taking in deep breaths and trying to stay awake.
I woke in a fog, I could hear people around me but kept my eyes shut. My husband whispered,
“She didn’t make it, our little girl didn’t make it”.
The wave of emotion I felt was immense and all encompassing, yet immediately stunted, as I was so doped up on morphine and coming off the general anaesthetic, that I could barely speak, let alone cry.
Our parents were there. They were all crying, hugging me, trying to talk to me. I felt like I was behind a glass wall just watching it all. A doctor came in and handed me my baby.
She was perfect in every way, lying silently in my arms.
I couldn’t even cry! These damn drugs had rendered me emotionless at the most crucial time in my life.
They told me what happened, after working on her for an hour and trying to resuscitate her without any luck, the team had brought her to my husband and our parents while I was still in recovery. They were going to perform a post-mortem examination to find out exactly what had caused this.
I just held her and stared while nurses were running around me, hooking up more lines, asking about my pain levels, pressing on my stomach - which was excruciating.
She was absolutely beautiful.
The next few hours are just a blur. Crying, hugging, holding our baby. All very foggy and emotionless for me. I hated it. I hated this feeling. But I had zero control over it.
I was given some medication to stop my breast milk coming in and then moved to another ward. We were told they would keep the baby in the Women’s Assessment Unit Rose Room and would bring her to us whenever we wanted to see her or spend time with her.
The rest of the weekend was spent holding our baby. Cuddling, kissing, counting her little toes and fingers. Putting some of our clothes on her, although nothing really fit as she was so small. Something that really saddened me was not being able to see the colour of her beautiful little eyes, Not even just once.
The WAU were beyond amazing in the care they provided us. They had people come in to do professional photos with us and baby. Another lady came to take moulds for hand and feet castings. They also did hand and feet ink prints and a booklet detailing everything about her. Any time of day or night we wanted to see her, they would not hesitate to get her for us. The staff were all quite traumatised by the events of the day, as situations like that don’t tend to occur in the unit, we were told. Emergency c-sections are normal, but the baby normally lives.
4 days later we held a funeral service for close family only. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
Being able to spend so much time with her had been beyond amazing but at the same time, made it so much harder to walk away. I was still a zombie during the service, no tears, no emotion. Not until it came time to screw the lid of her casket shut and say goodbye forever… then, I broke.
Our baby girl.
Our first born.
Our daughter.
Elise Charlotte was born, a sleeping angel, at 12.20 p.m. on Friday 17 July.
My rainbow baby, Frankie, was born 2 years later after a very nerve-wracking pregnancy. He is the absolute light of my life. He knows all about his big sister and often speaks of her. I want him to know about her. I want it to be a normal part of our family to talk about and remember Elise as she was and always will be, such a huge part of who I am.
My biggest learning from this is to always trust your gut. If something doesn’t feel right, don’t brush it aside. Don’t feel silly for bringing up something that could be nothing. You are being looked after by professionals for a reason, it is their responsibility and their job to take care of your and your unborn child.
Let yourself feel whatever emotions you need to. Don’t suppress your grief. It is a horrible and uncomfortable ride at times, but it is necessary. Let yourself cry. Even now, 9 years later, it still hits me when I’m not expecting it to. Don’t be afraid to talk about your baby. Be proud. This is your child!
Do not be ashamed or worried about making people uncomfortable. You have endured the worst thing a parent could ever endure. Say their name, get a special tree or flower to remember them by. Hold a service for them. Celebrate them. Every loss is a loss, no matter how small.
You are stronger than you think.
If you have a friend that has suffered a loss, talk about their baby. All they want is for people to recognise their child. Ask the baby’s name. Ask if there is anything you can do for them. Just be there. Even just sitting in silence with a friend is sometimes helpful.
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