This is My Story - Hayley

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 girl Adriya with her mum and dad

Our baby girl was conceived after a very long, 8-year IVF journey following a miscarriage in the previous cycle. We found out we were pregnant very early on, as a result of the tests required during the IVF process. 

Due to the prior early pregnancy loss at 8 weeks with our son in the previous cycle, we were excited to learn we were pregnant again so soon after. But we were also filled with anxiety about whether we would also loose this baby.

We have wanted a child for so long. I remember asking my obstetrician when the fear would go away and he responded, "maybe when your baby graduates university, and even then, probably never". That is an accurate representation of how I felt learning that we were pregnant. 

Our baby girl died during delivery, being too young in gestational age to survive outside of the womb. I was having very regular check ups and scans, as I had had some light bleeding throughout the pregnancy. Yet no evidence on any check ups indicated that something was wrong. I was consistently told everything was ok and just to rest.

The day prior to going into premature labour I had been seen by my obstetrician and had scans done. Everything had come back perfectly normal. My baby had a perfect heartbeat, her prior DNA testing had come back showing no abnormalities, my cervix was normal, she had plenty of amniotic fluid around her and she was wiggling around happily inside my womb.

My obstetrician told me on that scan that whilst there is a 1% chance of anyone losing a baby at 15 weeks' gestation, he truly believed my baby would make it to term, based on how I was presenting. 12 hours later she was born. When she was placed on my chest, I saw one movement in her face and then she was gone. No cries, no sounds, just too small for this world. 

When I went into labour, I didn't know it was happening. I awoke at night with slight cramping and bleeding. I was so scared about the bleeding, but being in labour never crossed my mind as to what was happening. We called an ambulance, and no sooner had I arrived in ER they started taking my clothes off and telling me that my baby was going to be birthed.

I kept asking the nurse "But is she going to be ok?" and no one said anything. I vomited, had an extreme contraction and then felt something come out of me.

Then she was placed on my chest, so tiny. The room fell silent. She was forever sleeping. With the next contraction I birthed the placenta, with her still on my chest. They whispered something to my husband and the room suddenly became very busy and very noisy. My husband picked Adriya up off my chest and said "Babe, you're losing a lot of blood."

A doctor then went inside me and yanked on something behind my cervix. I hadn't felt too much pain whilst birthing her, but the pain I felt from whatever he yanked on was the most traumatic thing I have gone through. Whatever he did made everything worse. I was rushed into emergency surgery as I had now lost 1 litre of blood and was at risk of not surviving.

Adriya was perfection in every tiny way possible; she was the size of my hand and every detail in the minutest of size was perfectly formed. Tiny little fingers and toes, her eyes closed and peaceful.

I had only held her for a mere moment before being rushed into emergency surgery, so it wasn't until hours later, once I had recovered from anaesthesia, that I got to hold her again. Feeling her cold was heartbreaking. I didn't believe she was gone until much much later, I was in shock. I sang to her, I cuddled her and I kissed her. I just wanted her to know how much I loved her. 

I know rationally, deep down no one ever means to say the wrong thing when someone is grieving. There probably aren't right things to say in these moments. 

But this experience has given me a new perspective on how much words and gestures can and do impact someone's emotional state. Words like "it wasn't meant to be" or "God has a plan for you" made me so angry.

What do you mean?! My perfect baby girl, who was so deeply wanted and loved before she even existed, wasn't meant to be? How can this be anyone's plan for me. 

There is no amount of preparing that would have changed this experience for me, my husband or those who love us. But I was not at all expecting for my little girl's loss to be referred to in such medical terms, without compassion for the fact that she was a real baby, with a real life ahead of her, taken away too soon.

She wasn't a miscarriage, she was born.

But medically, due to her gestational age, she was referred to too often, and very coldly, as a medical mishap. I was told I was ineligible for many services that would have supported women through the birth of a stillborn child due to the fact that she was technically a "miscarriage". 

I also was also not prepared for my milk to come in: without a baby to feed. I didn't know that was even something that could happen when someone was not full term.

Again, despite my milk coming in, I was denied the medical support from lactation specialists or maternal health nurses due to the fact that I did not have a living baby.

I tried to donate the milk to Lifeblood to save another baby's life, but unfortunately due to the lack of support I was unable to pump effectively and lost this opportunity.

I found comfort in knowing that despite me wanting her to have a whole life ahead of her Earthside, the only thing she ever knew was the warmth and love provided inside my womb. 

She never experienced pain, heartache, woes or troubles of the world. She was conceived in love and died with love, with nothing but love in between. 

One of the services we were offered whilst in hospital was a professional bereavement photography session. I never even knew this was a possibility. My husband was told to go home and get a change of clothes for us both, and that a photographer would come to our hospital room. We of course said YES to this opportunity. We so badly wanted a way to remember her.  

While my husband was at home retrieving clothes to change into, the hospital staff came back to me and said that I was not eligible because I had only had a miscarriage. This was told to me whilst my baby girl was in my arms. 

I pointed to my girl, and I said "Explain to me how you can stand in front of me looking at her and call her a miscarriage, especially after offering something so beautiful to us and then cruelly ripping it away." 

I would have never even have known to ask or look for such a service. So, for it to be offered and then taken away felt extremely hurtful. 

We did our best to take a few phone selfies, but none turned out very well. 

Possum Portraits was suggested to me when telling someone the above story. It's a way of gaining something back that we wanted but were denied.

I hope that the medical world changes some of their practices and terminology with regard to the loss of babies that have not reached a certain gestational age, and who as a result they determine not to be worthy of life and commemoration. 

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