This is My Story - Marina

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 Henry with his mummy

In September 2022 we welcomed our third baby boy, Henry, into the world. He was born at 35 weeks, following what was an uncomplicated pregnancy until I fell very ill at the end.

In that moment we said 'hello' and ‘goodbye' to our beautiful, curly-haired brunette with chubby cheeks and big hands. 

In the craziness of a spontaneous labour, I'll never forget how the room all of a sudden fell silent. Happy faces and smiles, excited to bring new life into the world, turned into looks of despair.

Hearing the words "there is no heartbeat." There is no going back from there. We were never the same again. 

The pain of losing Henry was, and still is, breathtaking. Upon finding out Henry's little heart had stopped, I vividly remember this primal scream uncontrollably bursting out of me.

The loss of our son blew our whole world apart. Everything inside our perfect life as we knew it had changed instantly and forever. 

Henry was very much planned for, wanted and needed in our family. To unexpectedly lose him at the finish line like that shifted the centre of our gravity and changed us as people and as parents to our core. 

The loss of a child goes against the natural order of life. It is by far the most painful life experience a human being can endure. It is such a lonely and dark path to walk, such a dark time of life.

In the days that followed Henry's birth, the blackness of shock and grief was ever-present. How do you survive a loss like this?

Hearing the newborn cries of other babies on the maternity ward, seeing Henry in a ‘cold cot’ next to a bed, the physical pain from an emergency C-section without a baby to look after for distraction, leaving the hospital with a memory box in your arms instead of the beautiful baby you carried in your body for nearly nine months. None of it made sense.

I wasn't able to look at or be around other pregnant women or newborns. I woke up in the middle of the night to feed a newborn who wasn't there. I heard the words "God must have needed him more", and "There must have been something wrong" from others who had no idea how to support us with a loss of that magnitude. It was soul crushing.

It's been a rough two years. To this day we are still navigating our way through severe PTSD, flashbacks, depression and anxiety. 

We try really hard to focus more on the love and joy Henry brought, and still brings, to our life and family. We focus on the fact that Henry, for his whole life, only knew our love and nothing else. Our family includes Henry in our day to day. We speak to him, receive his signs, feel his presence in our home and with our closest family and friends.

Henry has taught us to love hard, to not waste time on things that do not matter and to live fully in the now.

Each year for his birthday we do kind things for others and donate to the Stillbirth Foundation in his honour. 

The loss community has become an integral part of our life. It's literally the worst club to be a part of. Aside from our closest family and friends, the loss community has supported us fiercely. 

After reaching out to Possum Portraits recently we were gifted this beautiful portrait of Henry. I could not stop the tears from flowing when I first saw it.

Although you can see the anguish on my face, so much love is captured in this portrait. We are forever grateful to the wonderful artist and the beautiful people behind such a kind organisation. 

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who is living with loss.

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