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This is My Story - Jaimee

Updated: Mar 1, 2023

This series of personal stories from parents who have suffered pregnancy or baby loss opens up a space for talking about loss and grief publicly.


In sharing their stories about pregnancy, infertility and the death of their babies, the parents whose personal accounts you can read on The Possum Blog are beginning to exorcise the demon of social taboo afflicting many conversations on perinatal loss. Parents share their journeys and their advice, if any, on living with loss. They share how they have changed, who they have become, and what truly matters now.


Angel baby boy Remi with his siblings



We fell pregnant with Remi exactly one month after losing Summer, and two and a half years after losing Autumn (our first two losses). We were not expecting to fall pregnant again so soon, and we were petrified. We clung to any shred of optimism we had left that this pregnancy would succeed. We so wanted to believe that this was going to be the baby that soothed our aching hearts. Our rainbow. Remi was so wanted and loved from the very beginning. I'll never forget how I found out I was pregnant. I wanted my husband to be the first to know for a change, so I handed him the test without looking at it and expectantly watched his face. "Jaimee, you're pregnant!" he said in disbelief. We waited until nearly 9 weeks to have our first scan. We didn't want any confusion over the viability of our baby. At that point, your baby is either alive, or not.


When you've been to as many scans as I have, they are not a cause for celebration. I was borderline having a panic attack in the waiting room. When Remi flashed on the screen, I knew he was perfect. He was flipping and dipping around with a strong heartbeat and measured ahead from the beginning.

When you've been to as many scans as I have, they are not a cause for celebration. I was borderline having a panic attack in the waiting room. When Remi flashed on the screen, I knew he was perfect.

My husband and I looked at each other and I felt happy tears well in my eyes. Everything was going to be okay. The ultrasound technician noted a 4cm subchorionic hemorrhage, but said they were very common and that it should heal. I had had one in my pregnancy with Theo and it healed by 10 weeks, so I wasn't too concerned. We had another scan as standard practice before going ahead with the harmony test, and the subchorionic hemorrhage had shrunk by half. Not I, nor any medical professional will ever know what caused it to spiral out of control after that scan. The harmony test came back perfect. We decided not to find out the gender, despite the knowledge sitting on a piece of paper at the doctor's. I was around 11 weeks pregnant when I woke up in the middle of the night to find I was bleeding. "No, no, no. Fuck. This isn't happening again. I can't do this. No!" We went straight to emergency. This would be the first of countless trips to the hospital throughout Remi's pregnancy. Each one culminating in the same fact: he was alive and doing well, but there was nothing they could do to "fix me".


This would be the first of countless trips to the hospital throughout Remi's pregnancy. Each one culminating in the same fact: he was alive and doing well, but there was nothing they could do to "fix me".

We had our 12 week scan - perfect.

20 week scan - perfect.

But all the while, the hemorrhage grew. I was in constant, debilitating pain. I had lost so much blood, it began to impact my work and my social life. One day, at around 17 weeks I was teaching a class of Grade 2s and had to shield myself from their view in a cupboard while I desperately shoved tissues into my pants. I was in such constant fear of losing Remi, that I felt I never embraced his pregnancy as I should have. I will always regret not taking all those bump photos and not freely sharing that I was pregnant with the world. I wish I'd known avoiding those things would not save me from the unspeakable pain of losing him. I should have celebrated his life while I could.


I will always regret not taking all those bump photos and not freely sharing that I was pregnant with the world. I wish I'd known avoiding those things would not save me from the unspeakable pain of losing him. I should have celebrated his life while I could.

Towards the end, I had episodes of pain so intense I couldn't walk. I would have to lie down for an hour in the foetal position to feel any semblance of normal. I started losing clots of blood the size of my fist. There was nothing they could do. He was still so happy and so strong in there. I went to bed on the 13th of July feeling uneasy. Suddenly, I woke in the middle of the night. I felt the need to get on my knees. The pain was coming in waves. These weren't the pains I'd gotten so used to in the past weeks. These were contractions. I knew in my heart the nightmare I was about to embark on. We called my mum to mind Arlo and Theo while they slept. She arrived within 10 minutes. "What does this mean?" she asked. "If I am really in labour. . . it's too soon, he won't survive." I couldn't believe I'd actually said the words. It made it all the more real. I left for the hospital carrying only a pillow and a drink bottle. I put on the jumper Arlo and Theo had given me for Mother's Day. It had Arlo's drawing of our family, including the baby growing in my tummy embroidered on the front. It was my way of showing that I hadn't given up hope. The hospital was expecting us and ushered us into a dimly lit room in the birthing suite. The room glowed with salt lamps and the calming light of an oil diffuser. Only I wasn't calm. I heard the faint cry of a newborn taking its first breaths and wanted to be anywhere but this hell.


The hospital was expecting us and ushered us into a dimly lit room in the birthing suite. The room glowed with salt lamps and the calming light of an oil diffuser. Only I wasn't calm. I heard the faint cry of a newborn taking its first breaths and wanted to be anywhere but this hell.

They did a number of quick tests and examinations. They felt my stomach and checked on Remi with a bedside scan. He was perfect and well, of course. The doctor and midwife looked at me with pained looks on their faces. I braced myself for what I already knew they were going to say. "Your waters have broken, you're dilating, you're having contractions and your placenta is beginning to come away." In that moment I wished Remi was already dead. I felt so guilty for feeling that way, but it broke my heart to think of him in there, completely unaware of what was to come. At 21 weeks he was just a few weeks shy of viability and almost certainly wouldn't survive for more than a few moments on the outside. After the doctor left, the midwife reached for my hand, "don't give up hope yet, but be prepared for the worst."

In that moment I wished Remi was already dead. I felt so guilty for feeling that way, but it broke my heart to think of him in there, completely unaware of what was to come. At 21 weeks he was just a few weeks shy of viability and almost certainly wouldn't survive for more than a few moments on the outside.

I was put in a wheelchair and taken to a room away from the others with a picture of a butterfly on the door. The room for labouring mothers whose babies would never be brought home. A new doctor entered our room to talk to us. She had an air of positivity about her. I could tell she was smiling, even with her mask covering most of her face. "If we can get your body to stabilise, we can look after you for a few weeks here, then tranfer you to the Royal Children's Hospital. They have the best NICU there. They will give your baby the best chance of survival." Hope filled the room. "What is your baby's name?" she added. My husband and I looked at each other. We had only really just thrown around name ideas so far, and hadn't settled on one. "What about Remi? Remi Rae Fraser." I said.

It felt right to give our baby my middle name. We had been on such a momentous journey together already. If he was going to give his life for me, I wanted to give him something of mine.

It felt right to give our baby my middle name. We had been on such a momentous journey together already. If he was going to give his life for me, I wanted to give him something of mine. Hours passed in a blur. My mum came to bring me some clothes and essentials. Another tortuous moment: asking her to bring swaddles for the baby. She put her hand on my belly one last time. As the night fell, the contractions and bleeding got worse. My body was going into survival mode. They tested my haemoglobin levels and found I had lost half my blood. They arranged two units of blood for me. My temperature then spiked and I could sense worry in the staff. The doctor came back to tell me they might need to do an emergency ceasarean. For that reason, they put a second cannula in. In desperation, I asked if I could be awake if a cesarean was necessary and they declined. They needed to be able to knock me out quickly. The only thing more heartbreaking to me than birthing a baby who could not survive, was not being conscious to hold him as he passed.


In desperation, I asked if I could be awake if a cesarean was necessary and they declined. The only thing more heartbreaking to me than birthing a baby who could not survive was not being conscious to hold him as he passed.

From that moment my focus shifted. If my baby wasn't going to survive, I wanted to birth him the way he deserved. I didn't really give a shit about my wellbeing at that point. When they asked me how I was feeling, I said, "I'm okay". I stayed quiet. Anything to avoid the operating theatre. They did another bedside scan. He was alive with a strong heart beat, still. "My poor, sweet baby," I thought. His walls are caving in around him. That was the last time I saw him alive. Shortly after the scan, I lost a piece of what appeared to be the placenta. I knew that wasn't good. I told the midwife, but she didn't confirm what I suspected. I think so as not to panic me. I didn't want to know, so I didn't ask again. She offered me some sleeping tablets and endone to allow me to get some rest. I accepted, and for the first time, I felt peaceful. The way I'd imagine you'd feel before passing away. I guess in a way, I was in that twilight phase. That version of me is long gone. The contractions had settled and the bleeding had slowed. Perhaps we'll be alright after all. I drifted off to sleep.


She offered me some sleeping tablets to allow me to get some rest. I accepted, and for the first time, I felt peaceful. The way I'd imagine you'd feel before passing away. I guess in a way, I was in that twilight phase.

I woke up just before dawn. The room was quiet, except for the faint sound of my husband snoring beside me in an arm chair. Normally I would have thrown a pillow at his head, but the rhythmic sound soothed me. A moment of normalcy. The contractions had woken me. They were intense, with little break in between. I closed my eyes and dug my nail into my hand to distract myself from the pain. Every time I felt a contraction coming on, I found myself repeating these words in my head: "One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, knock at the door. . ." It helped. I certainly wasn't going to be chanting birth affirmations like "every surge brings me closer to my baby", as I'd done in the past. I tried to shift my position and instantly knew it was time. I stumbled to the bathroom. In the lonely light of the morning, while the world slept, Remi was born.


In the lonely light of the morning, while the world slept, Remi was born.

The silence was heavy. Not a cry or a murmur could be heard. I was frozen. Afraid to look at him. Afraid he was dead. Afraid he was alive. I was shaking. I felt a bubble of sound rise in my throat and it cut the silence. "Cam! I've had our baby. Help me, please help!" My husband sprang up from his sleep and hit the emergency button. A midwife entered quickly. The same one who had been there when we first arrived, which I was grateful for. "I'm scared," I cried to the midwife. I still hadn't looked at him at this point. I feel so ashamed that in that moment I couldn't bring myself to look. The midwife asked us to go sit on the bed and said she would bring our baby to us swaddled. After a moment she emerged holding him in a knitted blanket. "I'm sorry to say that your baby has passed. He's a beautiful baby boy and he's perfect." With a shaking hand, I pulled the blanket away from his face and all my fears subsided. He really was perfect. So tiny and precious. I cannot explain the extent of the pain I felt in that moment. It was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. So immense. It felt tangible, like it was something I could rip from my chest, only I couldn't. And I still live with it, hoping one day I'll find a way to accept and live with it.


He really was perfect. I cannot explain the extent of the pain I felt in that moment. It was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. It felt tangible, like it was something I could rip from my chest, only I couldn't. And I still live with it, hoping one day I'll find a way to accept it.

I saw my own features staring back at me and knew in that moment I had died too, because a part of me literally had. He was so strong and fought till the end. My body had failed him and I will carry that guilt with me for the rest of my life. I hope some day I will find peace in the way Remi's short life unfolded. We spent two nights with Remi after he was born. Dressing, holding and sleeping with him. At times I almost forgot I wasn't your typical new mum, with her baby sleeping silently beside her. Saying our final goodbyes took every ounce of strength we had left. I kissed him one last time and made sure his teddy was snuggled up close to him. I turned away and didn't look back. We walked the maternity hall in silence holding a box of keepsakes instead of a baby. I kept fighting the urge to run back and kiss him one last time.


I kissed him one last time and made sure his teddy was snuggled up close to him. I turned away and didn't look back. We walked the maternity hall in silence holding a box of keepsakes instead of a baby. I kept fighting the urge to run back and kiss him one last time.

A few months after Remi died I began a pregnancy loss page on Instagram. It allowed me to channel my grief in the hopes that it would help me heal, and support the healing of others going through a similar journey.


There were many dark days, where I didn't recognise the person staring back at me in the mirror. After a few months we were finally somewhat ready to take yet another leap of faith in the hopes of bringing home a baby. 6 months after losing Remi I found out I was pregnant. As if hand picked by their three siblings in the stars, we discovered we were expecting not one but three precious babies. . .triplets!


6 months after losing Remi I found out I was pregnant. As if hand picked by their three siblings in the stars, we discovered we were expecting not one but three precious babies. . .triplets!

We were beyond grateful for the miracle that had been laid before us, but completely terrified by the prospect of another high risk pregnancy. After a textbook pregnancy (if you can call a triplet pregnancy textbook) my waters spontaneously broke at 32 weeks and it became clear one of my placentas was detaching - just as Remi's had done.


We made it to hospital with not a second to spare and my beautiful babies were born. Sonny, our youngest, wasn't breathing, and was taken to a tertiary hospital. I am not particularly religious, but I felt Remi's presence in the delivery room and just knew they would be okay under his care. Watching them grow is bittersweet. I look at their features and wonder whether Remi would have had Sonny's eyes or been as chubby as Ziggy. He's tied to them forever. I watch them grow and am reminded how he won't, and how unfair that is. They wouldn't be here if he had lived, and that is a conflicting reality to process. The guilt and the joy, mixed with EXTREME exhaustion, is intense!

Watching my triplets grow is bittersweet. I am reminded how Remi won't, and how unfair that is. They wouldn't be here if Remi had lived, and that is a conflicting reality to process.

I am learning to carry what can't be fixed. Moving forward with my life, but not on. And choosing to live, if not with him, for him. Anyone who has experienced pregnancy after loss would know of the duality of this journey.

The hole in our hearts will never be mended, and our babies do not replace what we've lost. Instead, they bring light into the dark and are very much part of our healing journey.




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