You might recall that my manager had pressed me to seriously consider seeing a psychiatrist.   I agreed and made an appointment with the doctor she suggested.   I arranged to take Tuesday off as I expected the first appointment to be emotionally draining, but late today I had a call from their office cancelling the appointment.  The secretary said she couldn’t make another appointment for me “at this time” but suggested I contact my GP to arrange referral to a different doctor.

Whatever, I didn’t want to go anyway.

I received a phone call today from the geneticist we saw following Max’s birth. I saw her again following Nicholas’ nuchal test and once more after the MRI was done. When our care was transferred to our current geneticist, he wrote to her to update her on our situation and to get a copy of the results for the tests she ordered back in 2008.

The phone call from this doctor came as a complete surprise – I hadn’t really intended to update her on what had happened and I didn’t expect that she would really want to know. She wasn’t proactive and didn’t want to see me again until she had a post-mortem report. Anyway, she said she had been thinking of me and she wanted to know if our current geneticist had done the RET gene testing that he had intended to do (as per his letter to her, cc’ed to me, dated January). I described the events from the meeting with our team on Wednesday and we talked about his conclusion that our recurrence rate was now 25%. She said she agreed with everything he’d told me and recommended that we go ahead with the RET gene testing, even if it is simply to rule it out.

Since I had her undivided attention, I asked her to tell me what she thought we should do. It’s such a loaded and difficult question but one that I’m sure she is asked at least once each day. She said that we shouldn’t forget that we essentially have a 75% chance of having a healthy baby and went on to say that often couples are given the scary 25% recurrence rate for other conditions, including those where the affected offspring may live a short and painful life. In our case, this birth defect is always fatal immediately after birth (if the cord isn’t crushed during pregnancy or labour) but given the nature of the defect, the baby is not in any pain and does not suffer. Nicholas simply became very sleepy and gently slipped away. He never experienced pain – he only knew love. She said that given the only pain or suffering was that of the loss to myself and my husband, it wouldn’t be selfish to try again provided we were emotionally strong enough to endure another loss.

This changed the way I’ve been thinking recently. Certainly I am NOT strong enough to endure another loss but I hope that the psychiatrist will be able to help me with that and that I could try again, just one more time.

It’s eight weeks today since I lost Nicholas and I’m feeling his loss more now than ever before. As each day goes by, I feel as though I’m drifting further away from him. All I have is this overwhelming emptiness that is so agonising to me but completely invisible to everyone around me. My memories of him are very hazy at best and I am struggling to remember what it was like to hold him. If this is how little I can recall now, what will I remember in another month, or in a year? What sort of mother can’t remember her son? And my poor Max; he never had a chance because I did nothing to help him. I just blindly went along with everything the doctors said, only to learn later on that they were wrong about so many things.

I am still waiting for the results from the post-mortem and I don’t believe I will start to heal until we have that last appointment. There’s too many things left unfinished. It took most of the morning for me to get brave enough to call the hospital – I had barely said my name before I was crying again. I spoke to a geneticist (but not the one we saw) and she said the report was likely to be another month away at least. I cried so much that I had to put the phone down. She called back and asked if I’d seen a social worker. I did, before I was discharged but as I keep saying, talking to someone is not going to fix what is broken. So here is stupid me, putting so much hope on results that will probably only confirm what we already know. The reality is that these results are our last chance to find out why this keeps happening. I really need for someone to tell me that it won’t happen again.

I’m suppose to go back to work in four weeks but I don’t see how I can. It’s 2pm and all I have done today since getting dressed is cry. I have no control over any part of my life – I can’t seem to do anything right. I’ve lost count of the mistakes I’ve made and the things I have broken recently. I am so overwhelmed by my failure to achieve the most simple goals. What’s the point of even trying anymore? I must be the only person on earth who stops eating for six weeks without losing any weight. I have four weeks left to lose the 5kg I desperately need to shift so I can fit back into my work clothes and I can’t even manage that. I am miserable and pessimistic. I am irritable and short tempered. Sometimes I think my babies were taken away because I would’ve been a terrible mother to them. They’re actually better off as ashes in a box than in my care.

I don’t remember what I use to do or think about before babies. I don’t even know what sort of future I am suppose to prepare for, I have no direction and no purpose anymore. I don’t recognise myself anymore. I’ve gone from being a clever and capable person to that woman who lost all those babies, the one who cries a lot and has a room full of baby things and not much of anything else. There are women in famines and junkie teens that can have babies… why can’t I?

The autumn weather has finally arrived.  It’s cool, dark and raining today – much better for laying on the couch and being sad.  I thought about driving the husband to work today so I could have the car but then I decided against it.  I have a stack of forms from the hospital that I need to take to Medicare – I had to wait until Nicholas’ birth certificate arrived, but now I have it, I just don’t think I’m up to dealing with the forms.  I also said I would go and see Fiona but I don’t feel like that either (she has a one year old).

My grandmother called this morning to tell me that the daughter of her friend has just brought home two Ethiopian children.  Their adoption process took eight years.  She also said that many of her friends have told her about their relatives that have lost babies and my having lost three pregnancies “is nothing compared to the number that some women have lost”.  This really doesn’t help me at all, but she seems to think it does and she’s very elderly so I just let it slide.  My grandmother also had some “helpful” ideas to help me get through the depression.  Apparently I should play tennis.  A couple of weeks ago, she suggested I drink some orange juice because that will make me feel better.  I just keep telling myself that she means well and she’s old and doesn’t really understand what she is saying.  0.o

In truth, adoption is an option for my husband and I but we have only briefly discussed it because we think there is still a chance that we can have our own children.  When we last talked about adoption he said he thought intercountry adoption is “immoral”.  Now I don’t understand what he means by that, and he has never qualified the statement.  As for local adoption, we’ve barely discussed that either but again he wasn’t keen.  And it’s moot anyway, as I’ve just discovered that he is too old to apply.  We could adopt a special needs child locally but I don’t know that we’re are really truly one-hundred-per-cent able to provide an ideal home for a special needs child.  The reality of our current situation is that we both need to work.  I have stock-piled a lot of annual leave and my workplace agreement is such that I can take paid maternity leave plus that annual leave at half-pay which would permit me to be at home for a year.  After that, I’d use my employer’s on-site day care and work part-time (probably two days, possibly three).  I put Nudge on the day care waiting list when I was just 10wks pregnant to guarantee I would get the days I wanted.  I don’t know how we could possibly work adoption into this plan.  And I really have no idea what we would’ve done with our own children once they reach school age – I just always figured that I would find a 9-3pm job by then or at worst, hope that before/after school care would be available at which ever school they attended.

Fostering is also an option for us but both my husband and I know two couples that have opened their homes and hearts to foster kids and for both couples, it has been disastrous.  His friends were living in fear because the biological parents decided to wage war on them.  They were viewed as having “stolen their kids” and the feral family vandalised their house, cars, etc.  They were in and out of court, applying for apprehended violence orders, etc and with little support from the relevant government body.  Who needs that?  My friends are in financial ruin having dropped from two incomes to just one, the kids were very emotionally and physically damaged when they arrived and have required a lot more than just TLC, it’s destroyed their relationship, they had to sell their house and are now renting.  And at the drop of a hat, those kids could be removed from their care and given back to the biological parents.  I just don’t know if fostering is for us.

I’ve also been looking into donor sperm/egg but with the introduction of the NSW Assisted Reproductive Technologies Act (2010), the waiting lists have inflated as donors opt out.  I was discussing this with the husband a few nights ago and I told him that if our fertility wasn’t an issue, I would be very happy for him to be a sperm donor.  I wouldn’t be upset to be eventually contacted by an eighteen year old produced via donated sperm.  I think I’d rather a situation where the recipients were unknown, simply because I’m a firm believer of live and let live.  It would be a whole lot easier to live and let live if those children were raised by people we didn’t know or see regularly.  Anyway, I think that if we reach the point where it becomes apparent that we can’t have a healthy baby on our own, then I would seriously consider asking for a donor embryo.  There are so many little snowflakes stored away in freezers around the world; something like 500,000 in North America alone.  It would be very difficult, I know, for parents to know their IVF children have a full sibling out there somewhere but it is something I would still seriously consider.

Yes, this is what I do all day.  I alternate between crying for the babies we have lost, searching for a solution, or a way out of this mess.

It’s been gently suggested to me that I should get some help.  I am really struggling at the moment but I don’t want to see a counsellor.  I saw a bereavement counsellor after losing Max and I don’t think it helped me.  The sessions were filled with her telling me that it is ok to cry/grieve and that no one can tell me when to stop.  I already knew this, her validation wasn’t needed.  She did some visualisation exercises with me (“visualise what will happen if you don’t fall pregnant when you hope”, etc) that were somewhat useful though completely pointless now.  I may be clinically depressed now but I am refusing help on the grounds that me taking a pill or paying $150/hr to listen to someone tell me what I already know isn’t going to fix what is wrong.  I am depressed because my babies died.  Unless they’ve invented a new pill that can fix that, I’m not interested.  I’m stuck in limbo until we get the results from the post-mortem.  I just have to wait.

And I’d just like to say that I feel it is really very unfair for aunt flo to arrive today given I still had post-partum bleeding/spotting.  Seriously, not cool.  It’s no wonder that I’m so tired.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, late last night I discovered I had head lice!  I’ve never ever had head lice before and completely lost it.  Ugh.  The husband googled for a late night pharmacy and found one that was still open then raced off to buy some vile-smelling lice treatment.  I washed the goop out of my hair over the tub and counted fifteen lice in the water when it was done.  I’m told that’s not a lot but it still upset me.  Of course now I want to know who the hell gave me lice as apparently they’re spread via head to head contact.  Well I’ve received a lot of hugs from a lot of people recently and am completely disgusted that one of them has given me lice.  Ugh.  I had to warn my sister inlaw and she checked her kids this morning but they’re lice-free.  I was with them on Friday so I hope she doesn’t have an infestation on her hands next week.

On my last day in the hospital, the horrible horrible day I had to leave little Nicholas and go home, there was a midwife that was assigned to look after me that wasn’t very nice.  She didn’t do any observations, didn’t help me when I told her that the food services ladies hadn’t given me any breakfast and when I was heading out to buy a cup of tea from the cafe in the main hospital foyer, she reprimanded me for carrying Nicholas.  I don’t care about the observations but she should’ve at least stuck her head through the door to see if I was ok.  And the breakfast thing made me cry but in reality I only wanted the cup of tea from the tray; they could keep their square eggs and cold toast.  But telling me that I couldn’t carry Nicholas after I was specifically told that I could provided I was discrete was just mean.  She also wouldn’t let me put Nicholas into the box that goes to the mortuary – she made me put him down in the cot and leave the room, then the hospital.  As we were walking out the main doors, she appeared behind us to return my hospital visit card (the clerk had taken it from me when I was admitted and it ended up in my file).  She gave me a big hug and wished us well then she was gone.

Some time during that day between these events, she stopped me in the hallway while I was pacing the corridors and told me that she was also working as a volunteer at Dr Hamlin’s Fistula Hospital in Ethiopia and would be going there again in April.  We talked briefly about her work and she told me that the ladies treated at the hospital arrive with nothing, usually having walked very very long distances for treatment.  She said her knitting group were slowly making blankets, headbands, etc to give to these ladies and these items give them comfort during their time at the hospital.  The midwife explained that many of these women are married by the time they are 12 and their injuries are the result of horrific childbirth complications that almost always result in the eventual delivery of a stillborn baby.  They live with these injuries for many years and are ostracised by their families.  They are fragile, timid and child-like despite having been forced to grow up so quickly.  Just like so many little girls, these women love to receive dolls and enjoy having their nails painted.

Once home again, I packed up some of the baby things I had made to donate to the hospital, and I put together a bag containing fifteen knitted teddy bears that fit snuggly in the palm of your hand.  I ran out of time and wasn’t able to embroider faces on the bears but I gave them to the social worker to pass on to the midwife.  Then I didn’t think of them again until yesterday.

Late yesterday afternoon I received a phone call from the midwife, Marianne, thanking me for the bears.  She spoke quietly and described how another nurse was now stitching little faces onto the bears and how she thought the bears would be loved by the ladies at the Fistula Hospital.  We spoke for well over half an hour and shared the story of her own pregnancy loss.  I’m not surprised at all now that she kept as far away from me as possible while I held Nicholas – it reminded her of her own loss.

She asked me how I am and I told her the truth.  I am struggling.  I cry all the time, often for no reason but for much longer and uncontrollably when I think of Nicholas.  I sleep but always wake up feeling very tired.  I have no appetite and don’t eat except for the two apples I ate in the last two days.  I drink a lot of tea and water, and I cry a lot.  Nothing holds my attention or interest anymore, if anything I care less about most things.  Two weeks ago, in a bit of a fit, I deleted my Facebook, Twitter, etc accounts and I don’t miss them.  I find it very difficult to be around people, and I’m constantly forgetting what I was saying.  When I wake in the morning, I’m already fighting back the tears.  And rather than lay on the couch in my PJs all day, I get up and shower right away and get dressed.  Then I lay on the couch all day.  The truth is that I do this only so I can use the same baby wash we used in the hospital for Nicholas’ bath — this way I can smell him again.

Marianne asked if it would be ok for her to call me again and I agreed.  We also agreed to meet for coffee when she returns and she said she will bring photos from Africa to show me.  I’m trying very hard to say yes when people ask me to go to coffee, etc.  Yesterday afternoon I went to a friend’s house and she was taken back a little when she opened the door.  My eyes are very puffy and I have dark circles around my eyes.  We sat in her kitchen and drank tea and I fought back tears the entire time.  She has a 4 year old, a 2 year old and is now 19 weeks pregnant.  I am very happy that she is pregnant again and that everything is going welll.  She fell pregnant at the same time I did with Nicholas but her pregnancy ended with a blighted ovum and I know it wasn’t easy for her to have to watch my pregnancy continue.  Another friend said she would come over on Monday but again she has a 19 month old.  I’m surrounded.

We met with the funeral director on Thursday and again on Friday to make the arrangements for Nicholas’ funeral.  Thursday didn’t go too well (too many tears) but I was able to think more clearly and make some decisions on Friday.  After that, we went to the Births, Deaths and Marriages office to submit the forms for Nicholas’ birth certificate.  Our employer (we work for the same organisation) has requested a copy of the certificate in order to pay paternity leave to my husband (paying him at all is something they have only managed to do once since he started that job at the beginning of February; got bills much?) but BDM have kindly informed us that they are currently taking six weeks to process new birth registrations.  This means that we will most likely have Nicholas’ death certificate before we get his birth certificate.

Speaking of Klaus’ work, he’s been there for four weeks.  He had a call yesterday to say that they had done a collection for flowers but they’ve collected too much money to send flowers and would we prefer it if they bought us a star or donated the money to charity (we’re thinking of giving it to Bonnie Babes).  At the same time, my colleagues of three years (the ones that called me every day of the first week of my leave to ask for help), haven’t done a thing.  I am completely floored on both accounts.

Shortly after arriving home, we had a call from the funeral director.  The hospital had contacted her to let her know that they are ready to release my little Nicholas which means the postmortem has been completed.  I don’t know how I feel about that (my poor darling little boy) but at least it means we now have a date for the funeral.  Next Thursday, 2pm.  I just need to make the order of service and pick some photos for a montage.  Everything else, including the catering for the wake, has been arranged.

I have to organise my postpartum check up for some time around the 8 April.  We’re not expecting any reports etc to be ready from the PM for 10-12 weeks so our “debrief” appointment at the hospital won’t be until May some time but I’m really hoping we can have that appointment before I go back to work.  Until then, the only thing left to do is lose weight.  I went into hospital weighing about 87kg (22kg gain, ouch).  This morning I weigh 78.8kg.  I have the new Wii Fit Plus to play with but so far can’t be bothered.  I did put away all of my maternity clothes a couple of days ago (Klaus use to call them my Nudgie Smugglers*) and I’ve pulled out the suitcase full of fat clothes from the back of the wardrobe so that I actually have something to wear other than PJs.  Most of my fat clothes don’t fit; they’re too big in the butt/thighs and too tight in the waist but I did manage to find a skirt and a pair of three-quarter cargo pants.  Right now I have nothing to wear to the funeral which is upsetting me a lot.  I really don’t want to have to wear maternity clothes because they make me look pregnant.  And I swear, if Klaus offers me that bloody Cornetto from the freezer just one more time…

So aside from all of that, I’m doing a smashing job at reversing my sleep patterns (which would work fine except the nights are long and very lonely) and I’m just trying to remember to keep breathing.  I tried to explain to Klaus that I really need to make my life better, to live every day in such a way so that every single day counts, because Nicholas didn’t have that opportunity and therefore I owe it to him.  I don’t know that he understood what I meant, but I need to keep thinking that way so I don’t fall into the void.  Falling would be too easy.

* Play on words – Nudge + Budgie Smugglers

I started my maternity leave on Monday — it’s weird being home during the day. Yesterday I put a massive effort into a client’s website redesign and only stopped because my feet and legs became so swollen. It’s hard to make fluid retention look sexy. I did try to rest and put my feet up but that’s a whole lot easier said then done. By the time my husband arrived home from work, I’d done some laundry, polished all the timber furniture, cleaned the kitchen cupboards and the fridge, made a pavlova and had dinner in the oven. No wonder my feet were so swollen.

My husband made me promise that I would try to relax today so I scheduled a mani/pedi for 9am then met with a friend for coffee (tea for me) at 11am. While waiting for the salon to open, I stopped in at Big W and found the most adorable baby mobile to hang over the cot. It has safari animals on it and plays “It’s a small world”. Of course I bought it, because it’s a perfect match for the nursery and because I am obviously mental. Why did I buy a mobile for a baby that won’t be coming home from the hospital???

Anyway, my toenails are now the most shocking shade of candy floss pink and I am full of tea and hot chocolate. Gillian and I started our catch up with a quick stop at Lindcraft. I bought two knitting pattern books (both baby clothes because, as already mentioned, I am frigging mental) and the press-studs I need for Nicholas’ burial gown. Meeting with Gillian was good but I was a bit miffed that she didn’t ask at all how I am, or about the baby. We’re both in pretty shitty places right now — a month ago she was diagnosed with a brain tumour and underwent surgery to remove it. She’s now having radiotherapy and chemotherapy but ultimately has a 25% chance of being alive in 18 months and 10% in 24 months. I understand that what she is going through is horrible and harsh and completely unfair; it just would’ve been nice if she could’ve asked me how I am, you know?

I have a hospital appointment this afternoon and came home to have a quick lunch and write this update. And now I have something else to mention. I’ve just started spotting. It’s super super light (two tiny bright pink spots on a liner, but nothing on the toilet paper) and I have absolutely no pain or cramping and I can feel some light movements from the baby. Egads. I am really not ready for this to be over. I phoned my husband at work earlier and he was telling me that it’s horrendously busy there so I won’t bug him with this new development. I’ll just go to my appointment and see what the midwife makes of it all.

Wish me luck.

__________

Edited to add:

I’m home from the hospital.  I saw both the midwife and the obstetrician; neither were impressed by my tiny two blood spots and neither think I’ll be going into labour before my due date.  This week the baby is measuring a perfect 37 weeks so the chunky monkey has bulked up a little since last his last measure.  He hasn’t dropped at all which explains the dreadful reflux I’ve been having – my stomach is basically somewhere over my left shoulder!