This is My Story - Emily

In this series of personal stories we hear from parents who have suffered pregnancy or baby loss. We hold space for loss and grief, and we remember our babies gone too soon.

In sharing their stories, these parents are beginning to exorcise the triple demons of stigma, silence and ignorance that afflict so many conversations in the perinatal bereavement space.

Parents share their journeys and the lessons they have learned about grief, parenthood, friendship and living after the death of their baby. They tell us how they have changed, who they have become, and what truly matters now.

Baby boy Gilbert in his mum's arms

After unsuccessfully trying to conceive for a year, I was diagnosed with Stage 4 endometriosis. I was in my early thirties, and now desperate for a child. One heartbreaking medical appointment after another, and after surgery to treat the endometriosis, Pete and I began the IVF process in earnest.

Our first two attempts ended in bitter disappointment. I was unable to produce viable eggs. Our third IVF attempt was to be our last – without an egg, there could be no baby. The inclusion of an extra medication made all the difference though, and we finally created an embryo.

Seven months after we had first visited the IVF clinic, I received the call to say we had achieved our dream! It was an amazing feeling: hope, excitement and relief.

My pregnancy went well and we felt very lucky to be expecting a baby. 

I was overdue by a couple of days when I finally went into labour. After a night of labouring at home, the contractions were not getting closer together.

I said nothing to Pete or to our obstetrician when he called to check in on things, but deep in my heart I was beginning to feel that things were not right.

As soon as the sun rose, we headed to the hospital to get checked out. The first ultrasound machine was declared faulty by the midwife. My worse fears began to crystallise. Though I hadn’t spoken my fears aloud, I knew now that our darling boy had already gone. The staff wheeled in the new machine. There was complete stillness on the screen. Our doctor shook his head slowly and placed a hand on my belly. I think he may have said he was sorry. I could sense Pete by my side and hear his deep, strong protest to this news – a single heart wrenching sob.

Grief sticken and  in shock, it was established that I would have an epidural and drugs to induce stronger labour. The anaesthetist was calm and efficient. I felt her compassion and her professionalism and trusted her implicitly.

I was so grateful to her for taking away the pain that I could no longer face now that I knew our baby had died. I felt the irony of my pleasure in receiving the drugs that I had been so determined to go without.

The afternoon passed in a strange sea of kind midwives and quiet checks on my progress. Somewhere in the distance I could feel the deep tug of grief and the whisperings of our baby boy saying his goodbyes.

When it came time to deliver him, I no longer felt any fear, only resolve to bring this baby into the world. I knew he wouldn’t breathe, but I could love him and hold him regardless.

Suddenly he was there on my chest, heavy but limp. And so quiet. His face was full of character. He looked like he was sleeping peacefully. He was not small, and if it had not been for his motionless body and fragile skin, he would have passed for a perfect eight pound baby boy. We named him Gilbert, the name we had picked out months before.

We speak Gilbert’s name often. He will always be our first child.

I sense Gilbert’s presence whenever I see birds in the sky and whenever I look out at the ocean.

He is there in the wonderful friendships I have formed through the experience of losing him. He is in the new beginnings that Pete and I have made since coming home from hospital without him. He lives on in the love and friendship that was heaped on us by so many in the months after we lost him. And joyfully, I catch glimpses of his likeness in the faces of his younger brother and sister.

I feel so grateful for the gift of a Possum Portrait. We have only a few photos of Gilbert that I like, as we took them ourselves on a cheap camera and it was gloomy in the hospital room. To receive a hand-drawn portrait feels like the most exquisite gift I could imagine and I know I will treasure it for the rest of my life.

Our approach regarding talking about Gilbert's death with his siblings has always been to be as honest and open as possible. They have asked all the questions under the sun over the years and this is both hard and a privilege.

I hope I have given them what they need so as to process the sad fact of their older brother’s passing. It’s also OK for children to see our tears and our heartbreak. We can reassure tham that it’s normal to be sad when someone dies, especially when it’s our precious baby. Picture books about loss and grief are so helpful in discussing feelings and memories with children. Books such as "The Invisible Thread" and "Beginning and Endings wit Lifetimes in Between" have been a great source of comfort within our family.

Finding the right picture books for your own family can be challenging, but it’s worth the effort as children will come back to these stories many times over.

Losing Gilbert has made me more aware of the fragility of life and the importance of support and connection in navigating loss and grief. I would say now that humans can survive, and even thrive, through the most tragic of circumstances, given adequate support.

I have also learned, as we approach Gilbert’s 14th birthday, that the grief never ends. It is not as sharp or overwhelming, but it’s still a part of me, just as Gilbert is. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

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Emily has written a children's book called Gilbert's Cake, due to be published in 2025. Please visit https://www.instagram.com/gilbertscake/ for more info!