I never dreamed that it would end this way. I wake up each morning and just for a sleepy moment, my hands reach for the baby that isn’t there anymore. Apparently it will get easier. I don’t know. The pregnancy books never prepare you for this.

This has definitely been the best five months of my life as well as the worst two weeks. I will never forget our little boy — they do say that your first is special and Max is definitely that. The tears still fall but I am starting to accept that I have done everything possible for him, and further, that I couldn’t have done anything to prevent it. We have no idea what could have possibly caused this birth defect but the hospital is doing some chromosomal testing and we should know the results by the end of the year.

I don’t think any baby will ever replace the little boy we lost, but I really do want to be pregnant again soon. I was never as happy as when I was pregnant, it really was a fabulous time for my husband and I and this tragedy has brought us even closer together. I don’t think there is anything I couldn’t do without him by my side.

We had the tertiary ultrasound on Monday morning and it confirmed what we already knew – our baby’s kidneys and bladder have not developed and he therefore cannot produce the amniotic fluid he needs for his lung development, etc (everything else on the scan was perfect). I had told the sonographer of our experience with the previous scan and how I’d appreciate it if she would show me my baby as previously the sonographer wouldn’t show me anything at all. She was so kind and together with the radiographer, they explained everything as they saw it, and explained what it meant for our baby. She even printed the scan of our baby’s little face and gave it to me to keep. That single action meant so much to me and I will never forget it.

“Not compatible with life”…

This was the hardest decision we have ever had to make but not inducing labour right away was only going to prolong the inevitable. The obstetrician was doubtful that we’d make it past 32 weeks and without the fluid, the baby would have trouble turning, etc which would probably mean I’d need a c-section.

We left the fetal welfare lab and phoned the midwife at the antenatal clinic. She recommended that I pack an overnight bag and come straight to the hospital. I was admitted to hospital and induced shortly after midday. It was a very slow afternoon, and while Sue (the first midwife I saw) said we could go for a walk, I really just wanted to crawl under the covers and cry. Between visits from the obstetrician and midwives, we flicked through trashy women’s magazines, drank cups of tea, gazed out the windows and cried. The social worker came to see me during the afternoon and at first it was awkward, she wasn’t really helping by stating the obvious — yes, I feel that this is very unfair; yes, I feel angry that there is nothing that can be done to help our baby; yes, I feel so very sad that I’m going to lose my baby. We sat in total silence for a few minutes before she asked me if I knew what to expect when the baby was born. It only dawned on me then that I would really truly be having a full labour and the end result would be a tiny baby that may or may not be stillborn. She explained that the hospital would encourage us to hold our baby, if we wanted to, and to name him. She said that he would be dressed in tiny clothes that were supplied by a volunteer group and that I would be given little mementos to take home. At that moment the reality of our situation finally hit me.

My wonderful sister came to the birth unit after work to sit with us and dispense medicinal doses of chocolates and lollies. Never underestimate the healing properties of a bag of M&Ms!

That night I lay awake the entire night, wondering if I was doing the right thing and listening to the wind howling through the gaps in the building.

If this is the “right thing” to do, why does it feel so wrong?

The obstetrician explained that we needed the baby to come out with the membranes intact, but there was a very big chance that the membranes would rupture and the umbilical cord could break during the labour, and if this happened I’d need to go to theatre to remove it.  Could it get any worse?

It took five doses of Misoprostol and thirty hours to dilate just five centimetres. I was so tired and emotional, and still in shock of everything that was happening. I felt so lost and horribly ill-prepared — I hadn’t read the later chapters of the pregnancy books so I didn’t know how to deal with the contractions. My wonderful midwife, Delvene, showed me how to breathe through the contractions and that made a huge difference. I had declined most pain relief that was offered (with the exception of two panadeine forte tablets on the Monday night) until mid-afternoon on the Tuesday.

Allow me to explain: Whenever I was offered pain-relief, I would look across at Klaus who is a fantastic barometer for me to gauge what is really happening. I can tell by the look on his face if he thinks I need pain relief or not. I expect the midwives thought I was looking to him for permission or something but the truth is that I just don’t like to use medication if it’s not necessary. Sometimes I will get a headache and rather than pop a couple of pills, I’ll just drink more water, have a stretch or something to eat. It’s got to be a pretty big deal to make me reach for the meds. When the midwives offered me panadeine forte, I decided to take it only because I thought it might dull the cramps I was having and help me get a little sleep but my mind was so busy that sleep was never going to come. I consider morphine to be pretty huge on the scale of available pain relievers and each time it was offered, I would mentally calculate my current level of pain and compare that to what I expected would come later (“unbearable pain”) and decided that I was better to just keep using the heat bags and reserve the hardcore narcotics for later.

By 3pm on Tuesday, the generalised period-like cramps had developed into full-blown contractions but they were so irregular it was almost impossible to time them. I was starting to move around a lot more, alternating between positions for each contraction but the heat bags just weren’t doing it anymore. Delvene offered me Entonox and a morphine injection and I readily accept the gas without as much as a sideways glance at Klaus. The gas was exactly what I needed – it made my scalp feel warm and tingly, and I slid into the bed half-laughing, half-crying. Delvene asked if I was ok, and I giggled something about being stoned and she laughed. I have a vague memory of not being able to say the word “contraction” and getting giggly each time I called it a “contraption”. The gas definitely helped me to get through the next few hours of contractions. Delvene returned with a morphine injection but if I had my time again, I wouldn’t have it because it made me feel a little nauseous.

Contractions are difficult enough without wanting to throw up with each one.

By 6pm, the contractions were three minutes apart and getting stronger, and we knew we didn’t have much longer to go. My sister arrived to the hospital having been phoned by Klaus and she took over the support role while he dashed home to eat something and tend to our diabetic cat.  My memories of this time are very hazy.  I know my sister was there but I was in and out of the bed with every contraction, one moment my hair was down, the next it was pulled up in a pony tail but I didn’t know how.  My sister was brilliant, she walked into a very difficult situation without any warning and she performed like a superstar.  If she does decide to become a doula, she will do FANTASTICALLY!

By 7pm, I was really suffering and felt the need to push. Klaus phoned (I don’t remember this) and Amanda told him that I wasn’t doing very well at all so he said he’d come straight back.  Delvene had just checked my progress again and was out in the hallway speaking to the other midwife Fiona when Klaus returned. He told me later that he passed them in the hall and registered that they were talking about me. Delvene was explaining to Fiona that our baby was a little stuck and that I just wasn’t dilated enough. They came back into the delivery room and with some gentle coaxing from Fiona and two big pushes, our son was born.

It was 7.46pm.

He came out with the membranes intact and the midwife asked me if I wanted her to break the membranes, which I did. I tried to sit up a little and watch Fiona tear away the amniotic sac and clamp the umbilical cord, while Delvene injected my thigh with anticoagulant. They asked Klaus and I if we wanted to cut the cord but we both declined. Neither of us wanted to do it wrong. Delvene placed our tiny little boy onto a blanket and put him in my arms. His strong little heart was still beating and for the next hour we watched attentively for signs of movement in his tiny chest, each of us taking turns in holding him, and crying.

His skin was so translucent and he was sticking to the blanket a little.  I wanted to hold him, to keep him warm and let him know how much I loved him and that he was safe but he was so fragile.  I was terrified I would hurt him or tear his skin.  I gently touched his leg and his little chest rose sharply in response.  His tiny face was so beautiful — he had his daddy’s chin and mouth, his mummy’s hands and long fingers.

Our beautiful son, Max, came into the world at 7.46pm, Tuesday 23rd. He weighed just 250g and was 19cm long. He was just one day short of 20 weeks gestation. His tiny heart was so strong and he held on for over an hour before passing away in our arms.

The hospital midwives were absolutely wonderful and we could never have gotten through this without their compassion and support. They left us to hold our baby until his little heart stopped, and only then did they take him away to be weighed and measured. His wonderful loving aunt didn’t leave his side, and she helped to choose his little clothes and a quilted rug and helped the nurses dress him. They took photographs and made hand and feet prints which they put into a little memory book for us to keep along with his quilt and cot card.

The hospital arranged for the chaplain to come to the birthing unit to bless him and today we made his funeral arrangements.  He will be cremated at Northern Suburbs crematorium and we will bring his ashes home sometime after that.

Stolen from Manda Propaganda-

Porn star name (first pet, first street where you lived): Huxley Paddington

Rock star name (favourite pet, current car): Happy Golf

Gangsta name (favourite ice cream flavor, favorite type of shoe): Vanilla Mary Jane

Native American name (hair colour, favourite animal, favourite hobby): Blonde Cat Knitting

Soap opera name (middle name, city where you were born): Louise Sydney

Star Wars name (first 3 letters of last name & first 2 of first name, last 3 letters of middle name): Fleta Ise

Stripper name (favourite perfume, favourite candy): Happy Chicos

TV Newsreader name (grandparents first name, any town that starts with the same letter): Vivian Vegas

Spy name (favourite season, favourite flower): Summer Poppy

Cartoon name (favourite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing now): Strawberry PJ

Hippie name (what you ate for breakfast, favourite tree): Smoothie Frangipani

We’re off to the fetal welfare lab on Monday for a more detailed tertiary ultrasound and we’ll either get a confirmation of what is already suspected, or perhaps there might be good news. Depending on how you read the report, the organs I mentioned “can’t be identified” but the sonographer didn’t include these areas in the films and my ob wants verification before proceeding. Actually the sonographer was terrible. She tilted the screen so I couldn’t see it and my poor husband was left forgotten in the corner. I asked her if she could see if our baby was a boy or girl and she just answered “no”, then said she couldn’t speak and concentrate on the scan (in other words “shut up”). She didn’t show either of us the baby, and besides the odd view of an arm here and a leg there, my husband didn’t recognise much of what he could see. At the end, she told me to wait on the bed while she got the radiographer who came in and said that we “don’t have enough fluid around the baby”.

We waited for the report and he told me he had called my doctor who wasn’t there, but that my dr’s partner was in the practice and that we should go there right away. We got to the car park and opened the report – that’s how we learned that they couldn’t see our baby’s kidneys etc. We arrived a short time later to the doctor’s office and the other gp took us straight in ahead of the people that were already waiting. She glanced at the report, didn’t attempt to explain anything to us and just wrote a referral to RPA’s emergency dept for a termination! It was very harsh.

So…. no matter how you look at it all, I am still pregnant and my baby is still alive and kicking. I’ve got to keep positive, try not to stress, eat well, get plenty of rest etc. Oh, I mentioned kicking. I am pretty sure I felt movements yesterday morning and then again last night. It’s bitter sweet to say the least.

I sincerely hope I’m not depressing you all, but writing here does help me get it off my chest so to speak. Obviously it’s a hard time for my husband and I, and I have started to notice that our “grieving” has gotten out of sync. When he is ok, I’m a teary mess and when he wants to talk or cry, I’m ok. I’m going to see if the antenatal clinic will refer me to a counsellor pending Monday’s scan.

I’ll post again after the scan on Monday, – I’m not getting carried away with false hope but I do hope I will have some good news to share. Who knows, maybe there is something that can be done in utero?

We phoned the antenatal clinic this morning and Glynnis told me to come straight in. Klaus had to go to a meeting so my sister came with me to the hospital. We saw the midwife and the obstetrician and they explained the scan results to us. They have referred me to the fetal welfare lab at another hospital for a tertiary scan for a second opinion and I have an appointment there next week.

I’ve done a lot of internet searching as well as searching through CIAP (medical journal database) against my husband’s wishes but I really need to understand what I am fighting here. Our baby has anhydramnios meaning there is no amniotic fluid. The ultrasound didn’t show our baby’s renal arteries, kidneys or bladder which is something called Potter’s Syndrome (bilateral renal agensis). Without the kidneys and bladder, our baby can’t urinate and therefore can’t create the amniotic fluid it needs for lung development. Our baby also has pulmonary hypoplasia (undeveloped lungs) which, if we continue with the pregnancy, will be the ultimate cause of death. Worst still, without the amniotic fluid, my baby doesn’t have the protective cushioning and is unable to turn properly. As the baby gets bigger, the uterus compresses the baby resulting in physical deformaties. Potter’s Syndrome has a 100% mortality rate.

I’m devastated but I have to go on. I need to get plenty of sleep, eat well and try not to stress. My baby is still alive.

We went for our 18 week morphology scan today, expecting that we’d find out if our little baby is a boy or a girl.  The sonographer was very quiet and when I asked if she could tell the baby’s sex, she just said no.  I thought it was odd that she didn’t show us our baby or talk about what she was seeing or doing.  Infact, I couldn’t see the screen at all and kept looking across to my husband to see if he could see anything.  After 45 minutes she left to get the radiographer who told us, very matter-of-factly that our baby doesn’t have “enough fluid”.  He asked if I had lost the fluid which I  hadn’t.  He told me to clean the gel off my belly then wait while he phoned my doctor.

I had been under the care of the midwives at the antenatal clinic at our local hospital but the clinic had already closed.  The radiologist tried to call my GP but as he wasn’t there, he spoke to one of the other doctors at the office and then told me to go there right away.

My husband and I waited for the report then left the imaging centre.  I still hadn’t seen our baby and as soon as we got to the car, I opened the scan.  The report said “anhydramnios – absence of renal arteries, kidneys, bladder, ? stomach”.

In that single moment, the world crumbled away under our feet and the sky fell in on top of us.

We arrived to the doctor’s surgery and the other doctor (Dr. C.) took us straight into her office ahead of her other patients.  Rather than explain anything to us, she took another phone call to give a patient their blood results while she wrote a referral to a different hospital’s emergency dept for a termination.  I said I didn’t want to go to that hospital and that if I was going to go anywhere, I wanted to go back to the midwives at the antenatal clinic.  She reluctantly wrote a new referral for our preferred hospital and told me to go home and have some dinner then to go to the emergency department for a termination.  End of story.

My husband and I are devastated — we thought we’d be phoning our families tonight with the “it’s a boy/girl” news and instead we’ve had to tell them that our baby isn’t going to survive. I’ve skipped out on the hospital tonight, and instead have come home because I’m just not ready for this to be over yet.