The circle closes - at last
I've felt a sort of melancholy today - for no particular reason. It's been a busy day, with company - until late afternoon, since when I have pottered in the garden. It was as I stood, hosepipe in hand, watering the vegetable plot, that my thoughts began to wander and this feeling of melancholy overtook me.
I wandered into the kitchen - the cat was looking for food. My mobile phone bleeped and for once, I managed to read the message without the aid of my glasses.
"Raise a glass to Isobel at 6 pm. She would have been six months old today"
My heart burned and my eyes filled with tears. Dates are so important. Where has the last six months flown? Six months on from that awful phone call from my daughter.
"Mum - the baby hasn't made it. Mum, my baby's dead"
Twenty eight years, seven months on from that dreadful night and those awful words
"I’m sorry dear, we've lost the heartbeat. Your baby's dead"
Six months on, and time to close the circle, with this article for Sands - and to share the thoughts that have been circling in my mind these last few months.
February 4th, 2007
I had travelled down from my home in Wrexham to Bristol to be near to my daughter Emma and her partner Stuart for the birth of their (overdue) first baby. I had shared with them the excitement of the 20 weeks scan and been there at the last midwife clinic, marvelling at the latest gadgets and sharing the joy of a first pregnancy. Karen (my fifth child) and I sat enjoying a glass of wine and waiting in anticipation of the birth of my second grandchild. Instead - that awful phone call. The disbelief, the panic, the pain, the shock and then the overwhelming need to be there.
Where's Southmead? We're going. Get in the car. Which way? You MUST know – you live in Bristol! Please let this be a nightmare. Please don't let it be true. Please.............
January 6th 1978
My fourth baby, James, was stillborn at full term, in Brecon War Memorial Hospital. James was an accident - not planned, but a much wanted baby who would be a wonderful brother for Iain, Emma and Christopher. It was not to be. Abruptio placenta.
"What you've never had, you'll never miss. You'll get over it dear - you have three lovely children at home"
February 4th, 2007
I DO NOT BELIEVE THAT THIS IS HAPPENING TO MY DAUGHTER. Surely, in this day and age? She's been there all afternoon, waiting to be seen. Why didn't somebody DO something?
Kick, scream and shout - it makes no difference. The baby is dead. My daughter's baby for whom they had tried so hard, and for whom they had waited so long, is dead. The pain that I felt in watching my daughter experience my own worst nightmare was one hundred times worse than any pain I had ever experienced myself. Mums are meant to protect their children from pain, sadness and devastating events.
January 6th, 1978
"Sedate her, and she won't know what’s happening".
I certainly don't remember much about that day, other than waking up on the receiving end of a blood transfusion. I don't know how my husband coped, what support he had. We didn't ever speak about the events of that day.
"The baby dear? It was a lovely little boy. But don't fret - you just concentrate on getting better. We'll take care of everything. What you haven't had, you'll never miss. Just remember dear. You are so lucky. You have three wonderful children at home". "No, we didn't find anything wrong with him. Just one of those things, dear".
4th February 2007
I pushed the entry button and blubbed into the microphone.
"Come in Mrs Burgess. We're expecting you".
The receptionist had been briefed, and Karen (baby James' successor) and I were shown in to the antenatal ward.
I found Emma and Stuart - distraught, in a side ward. How could I take their pain away? How could I stop them from having to ride this rollercoaster of pain and anguish? I knew something of what lay ahead.
The midwives were sympathetic and offered their condolences.
I was told "We'll get her onto the bereavement ward as soon as we can".
Stuart's parents arrived. We hadn't met before, and the circumstances made for a difficult introduction. We sat, hugged, cried, drank coffee and stared at each other. I decided that Emma's brothers needed to know what was happening, and I made that dreadful phone call that begins with "I have some really bad news for you....." We decided as a family that Great Grandma and Grandad should be spared the pain for the rest of the night and the boys travelled to tell them in person, the next day.
6th January, 1978
and no mobiles, but the awful message quickly spread amongst the family. My Mum had come to look after the children. My Dad drove down from North Wales. My brother and his wife arrived. But visitors were not encouraged.
"Best if she doesn't talk about it. Least said, soonest mended"
And so I lay in that lonely side ward, within hearing distance of the maternity ward – the screaming mothers and their babies' first cries. This was the first time I saw my Dad cry - even though he was a very emotional person, he obviously felt the need to keep control - until that day. His lead gave me permission to grieve for my son. I didn't have to be brave, or just be grateful for my three lovely children. I was allowed to cry. I went home the next day, clutching a chrysanthemum plant caringly bought by my sister in law. I remember hurling it the length of the car park, as I screamed "I don’t want to take a ............ chrysanthemum home. I want my baby" No photos, no lock of hair, handprint, footprint. Nothing. A community midwife called at the house, and on seeing my tears, asked if maybe the baby wasn't feeding too well? She clearly, hadn't read the notes! Friends didn't know what to do or to say, or not to say. I sat at home and ate my way through a large tin of Quality Street, kept back from Christmas and cried, and cried and cried. The GP phoned one lunchtime, about a week after James' death, to ask what I wanted to do with the baby who was still in the mortuary. My husband picked the phone up from the floor and, whilst the GP held, we had a thirty second discussion about whether or not we should have a funeral. I decided not. A decision I have regretted ever since. I have never been able to bring myself to visit the public grave where I believe James is buried.
4th February 2007
The system eventually kicked into place and as a family, we were moved to the Maple Suite, which offers tranquillity, peace and rest from the storm. This room is set aside from the main maternity suite and designed specially for grieving parents. Such thought has been put into that room, I guess in partnership with Bristol Sands - books, music, tea and coffee making facilities, a fridge, and calm décor that looks like anything but a hospital ward. Detail, even down to the Maple Leaf cards to put in the car window, to save problems with car parking fees.
A dedicated, specially trained midwife introduced herself to Emma and Stuart and explained to them exactly what would happen. She listened to their questions and fears. They had closed the maternity unit to any other admissions that night so that Emma and Stuart could be guaranteed the continuity and quality of care that they needed.
But the care didn't stop with Emma and Stuart and the baby. The midwife had read Emma's notes, which recorded the significant bits of my obstetric history. The care and compassion shown to me by all of the wonderful staff that I met over the next few days was amazing. Every time I phoned to ask after Emma and Stuart (and this must have run into tens of calls) I was asked how I was coping and offered the opportunity to spend some time in the unit, away from Emma, just talking with the midwifery staff. The re-opening of an old wound had been very painful, but this time, it was properly healed with the help care, compassion and skill of the midwifery team at Southmead. The circle began to close, at last.
5th and 6th February, 2007
The days just merged into a blur of physical and emotional pain for Mum and Dad, and eventually, Isobel was delivered in the early hours of 6th February. Emma and Stuart took her back to the Maple Suite where they bathed her and dressed her and wrapped her in her (grandma knitted) shawl. Her handprints, footprints, photograph and a lock of her hair were beautifully presented in a special little folder. Karen and I went to see Isobel, and to hold her for a few, precious minutes. Such a short time to say hello, to give her a lifetime of love and then to say goodbye. Which baby was I holding? Well, for just a few seconds, I think I was holding baby James. The circle continued to close.
The midwife arranged for a car to take Emma Stuart and Isobel to the mortuary, where they said their goodbyes, and left Isobel to await her post mortem examination, which again, was explained and discussed in detail and it was Emma and Stuart's decision to proceed.
Steve, the hospital chaplain met Emma, Stuart and Isobel and worked with them to plan a simple, non-religious funeral service, liaising with the funeral director appointed by the hospital.
The sun shone that morning as we walked, as a family to the cemetery. We said our sad farewells to Isobel, as a family, of which she is now such an important part. A special mention of baby James closed another circle - he had his funeral too, leaving a mother and daughters with a special bond that we did not want and sons experiencing as men something that they had probably not understood fully as little boys.
My Dad died just ten days after Isobel. I like to think that they are together, somewhere, having fun. He was a fantastic, wicked Granddad and Great Granddad!
Walking away from the hospital empty armed is no less painful in 2007 than it was in 1978. The shock, the pain, the disbelief, the anger, the overwhelming feeling of helplessness is the same. It may even be that the open acknowledgement and acceptance of stillbirth, the open and public recognition of a very real loss and the sharing of grief amongst family, friends and colleagues all contribute to an intensification of the pain. But I really know, that every little thing that the midwifery, medical and support staff at Southmead did; the support that Emma and Stuart received from the community team; the time spent discussing post mortem results and the management of future pregnancies are all contributing positively to the healing process. Every card and bouquet that Emma and Stuart received; every listening minute; every hug from family and friends made a difference, and each of these has helped them begin their journey on the long road to recovery. They are now expecting their next baby - a little brother or sister for Isobel.
1979 – 1986
Life got back to normal on a day-to-day basis and one day I read a Bel Mooney article in the Daily Telegraph (no internet in those days!). She wrote about the (then) Stillbirth and Perinatal Death Association - a new self help and support organisation that she and a lady called Hazelanne Lewis had established following the loss of her baby. (You can read a detailed history of Sands on www.ayrshiresands.co.uk) I wrote to Hazelanne and a few days later received a phone call. That was the beginning of my 'career' with Sands. In the seven years I was involved, and with the hard work of some wonderful people, the organisation grew from a one-woman band to a well-resourced national organisation - much as it is today, with the two key elements of work - supporting bereaved parents and educating health care professionals.
How did I end up speaking at the national conferences of funeral directors, burial and cremation organisations or health visitor seminars? I still wonder! I enjoyed two years as the national chairman of the organisation, and so it was with an extra sense of pride that I picked up and read the Sands leaflets as I sat in the Maple Suite at Southmead Hospital, Bristol. Since then, I've visited the Sands website and have been very impressed at the size of the organisation and the fantastic work that it does. For all of you who give freely of your time at a national, regional or local level, remember the difference that Sands makes. The hours that you give now are just as important as those pioneering days and will be, far into the future, for as long as our babies die.
Sands gave me an opportunity to find a way of resolving my grief and of making sense of something that I did not understand, by campaigning for many of the things that are making a real difference for Emma and Stuart.
Those good people in Brecon in 1978 were doing their best for me. It's just that they did not know any better. Thank heavens that Sands is still there, doing a great job - supporting health care professionals to keep raising their standards of care and helping parents through their worst nightmare.
In September, my daughter Karen ran the Bristol half marathon and raised over £1,600 for Sands, in memory of Isobel and James. And so, the circle is closed. The pain is still there - but it’s a 'healthy' pain now. Life's strange, isn't it?
Sue September, 2007