I'm so sorry for your loss. I second the recommendation of taking time with your baby, pictures, mementos, everything. This is still your beloved baby and you deserve to have the cherished memories.
Thanks ladies, especially for the comments about blaming myself and recommending that we take the opportunity to meet him and say goodbye. Such good advice. It really helped our thinking to evolve and we ended up coming around 180 degrees. I am so grateful for your support.
I'd like to share his birth story on this thread this morning. I don't want to put it in my BMB or on existing birth story threads, as no one needs that. By putting it on third trimester, there is a chance that in a year or 2 from now, if some poor woman is facing induction at this stage and she searches for it, it is here for her to find and read. On the night that we found out he had passed, I found the loss board impossible to search through / read because it did not have the information I was hoping to find. I'll update the thread title and trigger warning for that hypothetical person.
I also need to write it down for myself because he was real. And because I am so very afraid of forgetting even a single moment of what DH calls the most beautiful and terrible thing that we have ever had the privilege to be a part of.
I look forward to reading your beautiful angel's birth story! You and your family are in all of our thoughts and prayers and I'm so very sorry you had to experience this!
Married: 2012 --- BFP: 2013 - Little Miss arrived: 2014 --- BFP #2: 2015 - EDD: 2/2016 (Team Green)
First pregnancy. Our son John Allan was born still at 33 weeks 5 days.
It was a smooth pregnancy overall, with no issues other than a tiny uterine bleed at 11 weeks, and a few brain cysts that showed up on his anatomy scan (called choroid plexus cysts, which just means that his brain hadn't yet developed in a few spots at the time of the scan).
I was working 2 jobs and we had a busy home life. At the beginning of third tri, I was supposed to get a gestational diabetes screen, which I skipped. I had come down with a cold, and had none of the risk factors except advanced maternal age (37 years old). I recovered from that cold quite well.I felt him kicking every day, although he'd never been especially active.
Then, 7 days before Christmas, I came down with a second cold. This one felt different, though I can't describe it. I felt greasy and feverish. I called in sick for both jobs and treated the fever with Tylenol Extra Strength (cracking them in half, and taking one half tablet every couple of hours). The Tylenol brought the fever down, but I don't think I ever felt completely fever-free. Not sure if that is an accurate memory as I am struggling with self-blame and clouded with grief. I did not see the doctor, and will never forgive myself for that.
Last Saturday/Sunday, the baby dropped and I noticed he was not kicking. I had read online that it can be difficult to feel kicks right after the baby drops -- the changed position and increased size of the baby means that he can't really wind up. So I mentioned it to DH and we decided to wait a bit.
On Monday, DH asked me about it and I said that he hadn't kicked. We decided to go in. We stopped at 7-Eleven and bought a Dr. Pepper. I drank some on the way, and no kicks. At assessment, we got in right away, but there was the definite message that this would be a routine check. The ultrasound tech could not find the heartbeat with the sound machine. It just sounded like water. She left and a resident and a nurse came back with an ultrasound machine. They told us that he was not alive. I made some awful sounds at first. Then I asked if maybe there was still time to do something to save him, that maybe there was a mistake, and I asked what diagnostic indicia they were relying on. Then they told us that he had passed some time ago. The cord was not pulsing, his heart was visible but not beating, his fists were clenched, there was pleural effusion.
They gave us some time to process, and when the nurse returned she gave us information about our options. This information ended up being incorrect; I think because it is rare to lose a baby at such a late stage of pregnancy and even rarer that my body had not gone into labour in response. She told us that we could start induction and then come back when I was in labour, or we could go home that night and return in the morning to start induction. We opted to proceed with induction and then go home to wait for labour. At that time, I was panicked and feeling like I just wanted to get him out of me. All I could think was that there was a dead baby inside of me and that this was profoundly wrong. These feelings changed very much in the next 36 hours.
We were admitted to labour & delivery right away. The OB eventually came by and explained that no, if we were to start induction, we could not go home and return when in labour. This is because with fetal loss, the drugs that they prefer for induction are different - they induce aggressively and manage pain aggressively when the baby's health is not in issue. The priority is to speed delivery for the grieving mother. So we opted to wait for induction until the morning. We went home to sleep a bit, pack our bags, and cuddle with the dogs. We have 2 children by adoption and they were visiting with grandparents this week, so that was not an issue. I texted a friend I had lost touch with, who I knew had experienced a late loss at 19w, and who coincidentally had delivered at the same hospital. She was so generous - she called me at 1am and we spoke until 3am. She told me what I could expect after delivery - the questions that would be asked and the decisions that needed to be made, both short term and going forward. It was a tremendously painful conversation for her, which opened up some very deep wounds for her. She was so generous and I will always be grateful. At the same time, I was getting messages on this thread urging me to meet him and say goodbye. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Through the night I had back-to-back Braxton Hicks contractions, which were painless.
We packed our bags and here is what I would recommend - pack music! We set up an iPad and let Songza handle the rest. We played music continually until we had gotten through delivery -- even when we were both sleeping. Even when on the epidural, I wouldn't have wanted to wake during the night to listen to silence. My friend also recommended to pack LOTS of excellent-quality Kleenex. We packed a few lunch bags - sandwiches and fruit and veggies & dip. Also toiletries, bath towel, slippers, phone chargers, eye drops, sleep mask, change of clothes in maternity size for me, sweater, and our own pillow.
We re-attended directly at labour and delivery at 1pm. They had told us to come in between 10am and 11am, but it was a rough night and we knew it wouldn't make a difference. We skipped past assessment and registered directly at L&D. Some well-meaning people tried to redirect us back to assessment since I clearly was not in labour, but DH jumped in with the wording the OB had given us -- that we have had a demise and have been instructed NOT to go to assessment. I had a breakdown outside of L&D, because it seemed so final to walk through those doors. I just wasn't ready to have John Allan leave my body.
At L&D, they put us in a birthing room and we settled in. We waited maybe 1.5 hours for the OB. When she arrived, she explained that I would be given misoprostil (brand name Cytotec -sp?- which is also known as the abortion pill), administered vaginally in tablet form. This medication is not as gentle and slow as Cervidol (used for regular inductions), and would soften my cervix. It has the added benefit of potentially bringing on contractions, so that my body might take over from there. I had a fever and they gave me the maximum dose for Tylenol.
We then waited for a couple of hours. Side effects were supposed to be diarrhea and other things, but that was not a big issue. I had a few bowel movements but nothing terrible. I began having contractions but they weren't readily identifiable or separated from each other. Just sort of continuous spasms accompanied with moderate discomfort. At the 4 hour mark, a 4th year resident checked my cervix and found it was still closed. He was quite rough when he was checking me, and I became apprehensive about what was coming.
During this wait, we called the grandparents and advised that baby John had passed away and that DH and I and our 2 kids would have a chance to meet him and say goodbye to him as a family once he was born in the next day or 2. (Before making this call, we called the kids' therapist (they are only recently adopted) and confirmed that seeing baby John is real and saying goodbye to him in person would be preferable considering the particular loss/trauma background of our kids.)
I can't remember if I was given more misoprostil at that point, or if they just went straight to a Foley bulb insertion. This was performed by the fourth year resident and was extremely painful. The first bulb he inserted was matched with a catheter tube that was the wrong size for the bulb - when he began to pump in the water to expand the bulb, the bulb burst. He explained they had made a mechanical error and needed to try all over again. He went in without warning a second time and the pain was both extreme and startling. I screamed and tried to get away. I only let him near me again after he agreed to advise of what he was planning to do and when. I don't believe I would ever agree to deliver again at a teaching hospital as a result of my experience with this resident. I noticed that his movements were jerky and rough in general, and the nurses often requested that he speak more clearly in his instructions.
At this point, the nurses asked if I wanted an IV for pain medication or just a single injection to get me through. I opted for Fentanyl, which was wonderfully effective and also reduced my anxiety.
At the same time, the Tylenol they had given me had lowered my fever but not gotten rid of it. They began a course of IV antibiotics, which also proved to be ineffective at eliminating the fever but which I stayed on until delivery.
The second Foley bulb was properly placed and we waited for my cervix to expand to the requisite 3cm. They told me that it would just "pop out" when my cervix expanded and I would be the one who knew first. Instead, they ended up checking after a while and found that yes, it had fallen out of my now-dilated cervix but was just resting in my vagina.
During this wait for my cervix to expand (it took a couple of hours, I think), the nurses recommended that I try morphine on a manually-operated pump. However, the pump machine was new to the hospital as of this week and either due to a problem wit the machine or lack of experience in using it, the pump did not work. The controller indicated that only 3mg was delivered over a long period of time, and those 3mp were only delivered when the nurse would input an override code. Once the nurses found this out, we returned to Fentanyl, thank God. I had a nausea reaction to the small amount of morphine I did receive, and the Fentanyl was a much better medication match for me. While I was supposedly on the morphine, I was in considerable pain. DH was a saint in terms of distracting me during the less-painful moments -- he pulled out some adorable videos from years ago of when we first got our dogs, and other things like that. It was sheer genius. I even asked him later if he had preplanned that, but it just came to him. When the pain was at its peak, he just held my hand or we stared at each other.
Once the bulb had done its work, my contractions were not of the quality that indicated that my body was taking on a labour-type rhythm. We decided to proceed with an epidural and a simultaneous Pitocin drip via IV. The epidural was not painful to receive, although there was an unsettling crunching sound, and was completely effective. I was able to identify my contractions only if I concentrated. They attached a belt to my midsection to electronically monitor the duration and intensity of my contractions. They also inserted a urinary catheter, which was weird but painless. DH and I went to sleep - I had to force him to go to sleep, and had to keep repeating that I couldn't feel anything at all and it would be impossible for me to sleep knowing that he was perched over top of me sitting on that uncomfortable steel stool after the hours he had already sat on that damned thing. (There were more comfortable seats in the room, but the morphine drip machine was bulky and the right side of my bed was occupied by nursing paraphernalia and traffic.)
They told me that when I felt the urge to have a bowel movement, that I should call them, because that would mean that the baby was crowning.
In the early hours, maybe 4am, I felt the baby come down and then go back up. I pressed the call button but no one came. Since the feeling went away, I went back to sleep. I think the feeling happened a few times, and I pressed the call button a few more times. Then the feeling came back (it felt like a bowel movement, but in a weirdly sensation-less way, due to the epidural-enforced immobility) and it was urgent. I shouted DH awake and he took off for the nursing station at a dead run.
The nurse came in and checked and found that the baby was coming very fast. She pressed a special button and the room filled with 8 people in less than one minute. The OB was very compassionate. I was crying because I didn't want this to be happening. I wasn't ready to not be pregnant anymore. She indicated that she would be giving me his body to do skin-to-skin, but I told her that my preference was that the baby be washed and wrapped before being brought to me.
Bright overhead lights and a few pushes (by bearing down as if it was a bowel movement) and he was outside of me. No one really spoke very much, because it was just so fucking sad. A single push for the placenta and that was done too.
Within about 2 minutes after delivering him, my fever completely lifted. Nothing had worked to eliminate that fever, not even the IV antibiotics. I now suspect that he died of an infection, and that he was making me sick. Trying not to speculate too much, though, and to just wait for proper answers when they are available.
When the nurses saw my baby they got quiet and took him out of the room. Maybe half an hour passed, and DH and I were really wondering where he was and what was going on. We wanted to see him so badly. The nurse returned without John Allan, to help prepare us for seeing him. Since he had passed away a couple of days prior to delivery, his skin was macerated. This was very upsetting to me. I was unfamiliar with the word and thought that it meant that he was rotting. She gave us the option of not seeing him, but at this point we couldn't imagine not seeing him. She also advised that his skin was deep red / purple. She told us that the mementoes usually prepared by the hospital, footprints and handprints, were more difficult because of his condition, but that they were able to get some footprints despite fluid buildup. His hands could not be uncurled and his skin was very fragile. We said that we didn't care - do everything that they can possibly do, take photographs, just do it. I was feeling an unbearable kind of yearning for him, mixed with intense grief, and physical repulsion and horror, mixed with fear that maybe we wouldn't be allowed to see him. DH was wanting very much to see him too - he was deeply affected by witnessing this whole process; previously, he had warned me that maybe he shouldn't be present because of blood and needle aversions, etc. But when it came to the actual time, the thought of him not being there was unthinkable. We were both shaken and needing our son.
So then they brought him in, inside a special cot that has a cooling compartment underneath. It was just the saddest most pitiful fucking sight I have ever seen. It is true that the top layer of his skin was peeling away and that beneath that white layer of skin tissue his body was a disturbing red/purple colour. But pretty much right away, we didn't even see that. He was a perfectly formed, tiny baby. He was our son.
He was and is the most beautiful and amazing creature we have ever laid eyes on.
I held him briefly; he was wrapped in a sanitary guard because of the skin issue, and then a crocheted blanket. And a tiny, matching crocheted cap on his head. I am crying right now remembering it because he was just so amazing. I couldn't hold him for long because it was physically painful for me. My body wanted to nurse him, and this was causing me pain and confusion because he was dead. So we put him back in his cot and I stayed close. I just stared at him in wonder and pride and love and sadness, and rested my finger lightly against his crochet wrap to rock him very, very gently. Just enough to move him a little, and pretend he could feel his mother's touch; but not enough so that his tiny little head would roll on his limp neck and remind me that he was dead.
We called the grandparents and said that as it turned out, the kids would not be able to say goodbye to John Allan after all. We just said that the doctors needed to take him to do tests - technically true, since we have requested an autopsy. DH and I have agreed that our baby's physical appearance is not something that needs to be shared with anyone other than ourselves, and would be a distraction and/or detract from honouring his memory. I am just sharing it here, in case this may help prepare a woman who is facing a similar situation.
We had a consult with a social worker who specializes in grief counselling for the hospital and she gave us some colouring books and story books to help our children process what has happened. I will be attending a grief counselling group for parents who have experienced late term and child loss. We have decided to cremate our son, and will need to call a funeral home to arrange for that -- the hospital advised that most funeral homes waive the fees for baby cremations and only charge out-of-pocket expenses for govt registration fee and the cost of a container or urn. The autopsy itself will only take a couple of days (the report will come in 2 stages -- initial findings in a couple of months, and the full pathology report will take between a couple of months and a year, depending on the complexity of the situation -- the hospital has also called to advise that I need to do some additional tests to assist with the autopsy).
A nurse discretely explained that although medical advice was to remain in the hospital for 24 hours after delivery, that "this is a special situation, and we don't chain patients to the bed" after some standard postpartum checks have been made to confirm no complications. (My impression was that the 24 recovery period recommended for vaginal births is more important for women whose babies were full-term size, but also to help the new parents learn to care for their newborn.) We decided that we intended to discharge ourselves immediately, and advised them accordingly -- they allowed us to stay in the birthing room for several hours after he was born rather than moving us to a bereavement room (with baby) or recovery room located in the gynecological ward, separate from the women who have delivered living babies.
The postpartum checks were clear. The epidural wore off, albeit unevenly -- my right leg stayed immobilized for an extra hour. My vaginal bleeding was a moderate flow -- bleeding at the rate of soaking a maxi-pad in approximately an hour. I was able to urinate, and there was no pain. We retrieved our memento box -- a teddy bear donated by a couple who has also experienced a baby loss, with the name of their son on a tag; footprints; hospital bracelet for baby; certificate to honour the life of our son, CD with photographs, tiny booties which he was never able to wear (they will be also be forwarding by mail a plaster cast of his footprints, and the crocheted blanket wrap and matching cap), and hobbled on out to our vehicle. Before leaving the hospital room, DH tidied up the hospital bed and noticed that the damn nursing call button had never even been plugged in.
24 hours after leaving the hospital we had to re-attend at an emergency dept close to our home. I don't know if it was proper triage protocol or if it was compassion, but the triage nurse put me in to see a doctor immediately; this is pretty much unheard of in Canadian health care. The epidural did not fully wear off of my right leg (I have a patch of numbness that is the size of two hands with fingers spread out), and I received a diagnosis of bruised or irritated nerve from the epidural. I have back pain that is partly due to labour and uncomfortable positioning through the night (which couldn't be felt and adjusted due to the epidural), and partly due to the actual insertion of the epidural. I have had blurred vision and chronic headache, which is attributed to fatigue and trauma.
It is now 48 hours after John Allan was born, and the numbness/headache/vision issues are still here. Vaginal bleeding is greatly reduced and I am feeling somewhat restored. It is a slap in the face that my milk has now begun to come in. DH came in to the bathroom this morning where I was standing naked in front of the mirror looking at my now-engorged breasts and just sobbing. I am supposed to avoid stimulating my breasts and may need to express my milk in the shower for some relief; hopefully my milk will go away in 2 weeks. Knowing that the milk that was meant to feed my sweet son will just be thrown away is a special kind of pain.
DH and I have cried together so much these last 4 days (I have only seen him cry once before, at his father's death), and I feel this incredible fierce devotion and love for DH. I feel so much sadness that he has to share this experience with me, and relief at the same time. He is the only person in the world that understands how amazing John Allan was/is, and what this feels like.
This was a surprise pregnancy for us. We wanted children, but I didn't feel that biological drive and yearning for pregnancy that most women seem to have. We were also aware that there are thousands of children in foster care through no fault of their own, who just need a chance. So we started the process of adopting maybe 2.5 years ago -- and then just before our perfect match came along, we found out we had conceived. We'd only had sex 3 times that entire year, so it really was a shock followed by grinning references to Grade 7 health class maxims for pretty much all of first trimester.
Now, everything is a lot more confusing. My body is wanting my baby so intensely that it is shocking. We have been talking about trying again; I think that realistically we will need to wait until we recover. The idea of a "replacement" baby is awful, and yet there is this profound emptiness in my belly and yearning in my breasts.
I wouldn't wish for any other woman to experience this, ever. But it was been awe-inspiring and beautiful as well as awful. Having met our son, we will never be the same.
Today is New Year's Day and DH and I have promised each other that 2016 is a new year and a fresh start. I know that this is a type of loss that unfolds over time, as we pass those milestones that should-have-been. But at least we know, really truly know, that our son is forever a part of our family, and we will go forward keeping him close in our hearts.
I know nothing I say will comfort you but I want you to know you, your DH, your adopted children and of course baby John Allan are in my thoughts and prayers. You are very brave. I'm glad you and your husband have each other to rely on for support and comfort. I'm so sorry for your loss. Take care of yourself, I hope that in time you will heal.
Your words brought me to tears. I am so sorry for your loss and that you and your family have to go through something so unfair. Nothing can be said to help make it right, but know that you all are in my thoughts. I'm glad that you have some beautiful momentos to remember your son by and that you were able to say goodbye in the best way possible
I have been checking in, hoping for an update from you to see how the labor went, and more importantly, how you are doing. Not a lot brings me to tears, but your story from the 1st post has haunted me. You are in so many people's thoughts and prayers- I hope that can be of some comfort to you and your family. Thank you for sharing John Allan's birth story. You have so eloquently put into words what many of us cannot even fathom. I am so sorry you are experiencing this pain, and can only pray that in time, you are able to find some peace.
I'm so sorry for what you're going through right now. I lost my 2 month old son in November of last year and your post reminded me of how intense and confusing the grief process is in the beginning. I still have moments of intense grief but it's not all the time anymore. You're on the beginning of a journey and you'll find your own way. It's extremely difficult but it won't always be so hard all the time.
No matter what anyone says you'll probably feel guilty or have a million "what-it's?" ; it takes time to process through that. It might be easier to accept after talking to some doctors/getting some answers.
As for if/when to try to conceive, know that there is no wrong answer. It's a very personal decision and you'll figure it out. The "replacement child" issue comes about if a couple is seeking to replace their lost child. "subsequent child" is the term used for a baby that comes after the one that was lost, and is considered a distinctly different person. So if you decide to have another baby, even rather quickly, it doesn't necessarily mean that child will be a replacement. As long as you're working through your grief in a healthy manner and you're not expecting another baby to take your sons place, it's not a bad thing. And if you decide you want to take more time to focus on healing and processing without having a pregnancy/newborn in the mix, that's fine too.
For me, seeing a counselor both with DH and by myself, going through EMDR processing for trauma, talking with supportive friends, anti-depressants, and reading have been huge helps. Some of the books I recommend are: Empty Cradle, Broken Heart, Choosing to See, I Will Carry You, A Grace Disguised, and a Grief Observed. Some books have dealt with infant loss, some child loss, and some grief in general.
I could say a lot more but I don't want to overwhelm you. Nothing I can say will take the pain away...I just want to give you encouragement and hope that you won't be in this pit of despair forever, even though it feels like you will. Many hugs to you.
again, I'm so sorry you & your family are going through this. i haven't been through anything like this, so i cant really give any advice. i wish there was something i (or any of us, really) could say that would take the pain away
i do want to thank you for sharing your son's birth story (which i cried almost all the way through). that must have been incredibly difficult. you are one strong woman, & i am inspired by how you & DH are handling this. i wish nothing but the best for you & your family in 2016, & all the years ahead.
Thank you for sharing John Allan's birth story. You are such a brave, compassionate person to share such a horrible experience in hopes that it provides some light during another woman's/family's darkest hours.
May you find some solace in the quiet moments to come. You and your family are in my thoughts.
Thank you for sharing your story. I'm so happy that you got to spend time with your son and that you and your DH are able to be loved by one another so well. Whatever you decide in the future as to trying for more children or not, they would be lucky to join a family so loving and well bonded as yours.
I'm so very sorry for your loss. You have written so beautifully about the birth of John Allan - thank you for sharing your precious story. I pray that 2016 brings peace and healing for you and your family.
I have been reading this with tears in my eyes. I cannot begin to imagine the pain you must've went through and the courage it took to write John Allan's story. You and your beautiful family are in my thoughts.
I have no idea what to say, but I want to thank you for sharing your story. It was beautifully written and honest, and must have been unimaginably hard to write.Nobody deserves to go through what you have. Never blame yourself. God bless you and your family, and I hope your pain heals as quickly as possible. I will be thinking of you and your son often.
You, your husband, and your children , all three of them, are in my prayers. I'm so sorry for your tremendous loss. Thank you for being brave enough to share your story. I'm sure it will help other women to hear your words if they have a similar experience.
I'm so sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing your story here. Like pp said before: please, don't blame yourself. Take time to heal and take care of yourself.
You are an amazing, strong woman. Thank you for sharing John Allan's birth story. I am so incredibly sorry for your loss, I can't fathom the pain you and your husband are experiencing. There simply are no words. Praying for you.
I am so sorry for your loss and my heart aches for you and your family. Your story was beautifully written and brought me to tears. I admire how much detail you wrote for not only yourself but for other strangers who down the road, may need to learn from your strength with their own tragedy. You have such a beautiful soul and I wish you peace and comfort.
Thank you for taking the time to share your story, I think it must have been very difficult to do. John Allan will now live in my memory, and I'm wishing you, and your family all the love in the world.
I can't tell you how comforting it is to read these messages of condolences. Most of all the promises to remember John Allan.
I was worried that posting such a sad/troubling story to a group of women expecting healthy babies might be unkind or unwelcome. But you all have shown me so much grace.
Like the other posters above your story made me cry. You are very brave thank you for sharing your story. I pray you and your family receive comfort and relief from the pain and grief. Your precious son will never be forgotten and I know your story will someday help others. I will continue to keep you and your beautiful son in my thoughts and wish the best for you and your family
Thankyou for posting your birth story, I cried the whole way through. your son, other children and of course you and your DH are in my thoughts and prayers. I also pray that your story can help other mothers who may go through a similar situation. May the lord (or whoever else you may believe in) be with you and help you through your grief, god bless xx
Thank you so much for sharing your story. I am truly heartbroken and so sorry for your loss. I truly hope that you will find peace and that you can remember your little boy as part of your family.
I have a few friends who have had late term losses. One friend lost her first two babies late, and continued on to have 2 healthy children. In their family they have four children and the younger kids say they have two big brothers in heaven. To me that is beautiful. Their momentos, including photos and baptismal certificates are displayed in a private part of their home, so only close friends see them, but still so they are a part of their family.
You, your family and John Allan will be in my prayers.
I was just released from the hospital a few days ago after having quite the scare... I was actually in the hospital while all of this happened to you.
I felt so sorry for myself, but I read all of this & this really put things into perspective for me. I am SO sorry to hear about your sweet baby. I know nothing that can be said will ever take the pain away, but please know that I will never forget about John Allan. I hope & pray that the road to healing will be full of compassion, love & understanding for you & your family.
So many babies face horrible fates to unloving parents. John Allan was so lucky to be born to people like you.
@mamacastro thank you. I remember I was so relieved when you wrote me so quickly after we had found out. I was in such shock and your messages have been comforting.
@EmilyXLC so glad that you were released from the hospital and are continuing with your pregnancy. Thanks for your thoughts.
I won't be checking this thread anymore, as I focus on grieving, then on moving on, and maybe even trying to conceive again - am moving to the TTCAL and related boards. It feels soppy and dramatic to keep saying thank you so much, but really: thank you, friends. I have never felt so raw and vulnerable in my entire life, and am so grateful for the gentle and loving responses. Wishing you all healthy and happy pregnancies with beautiful babies.
I started this thread 3 months ago. I kept thinking that I should write it all down in case it might help some other woman, and so that I never forget.
Since then, this birth story did help another woman who was facing the unthinkable. What are the chances of that? I thought it would be a year or more. This world is a mystery.
We also got some answers about what happened to our son, which I posted in the Late Term and Child Loss board. Essentially, my anatomy scan did not see what was there to be seen; it turns out that John Allan had Trisomy 18 and there was no way he could have lived outside of my body. I won't record the details from the autopsy, but he lived and died in the worst possible way. I have filed a regulatory complaint against the radiologist who performed my anatomy scan, and will see that process through to the end. No woman will have to experience what I did, or at least not with that doctor. She will be given the choice I did not have -- to give her child mercy and release well before he can feel pain.
I went through a veritable fever of wanting to conceive again, and then not, and then changing my mind again.
I have settled on not feeling brave enough to try it all over again. I just cannot sign up for 9 months of apprehension. There is no greater intimacy than that of a mother and her child, and that intimacy means vulnerability. I choose no.
I don't know why I needed to update this. Some sort of closure in a world that doesn't give real closure, I guess
Stillbirth is very rare. But one of the book that has helped me through this, which was recommended to me on this thread ("Empty Cradle, Broken Heart"), calls stillbirth a "conspiracy of silence". It won't be covered in your birth training training class, and it is only briefly mentioned (if at all) in pregnancy books.
I am one of the 'lucky" ones, in that I now know why my son died. Many women are not given answers, either because medical knowledge is not advanced enough, or because they weren't given the information they needed to ask for answers (such as knowing they have the right to request an autopsy). I doubt this little post will change that, but if you have read this far, then I hope that you remember this last bit. Because it really is important --really important-- to the small number of women that will be affected by stillbirth.
Re: Induction at 33 weeks; extreme trigger warning **UPDATE - BIRTH STORY**
I'd like to share his birth story on this thread this morning. I don't want to put it in my BMB or on existing birth story threads, as no one needs that. By putting it on third trimester, there is a chance that in a year or 2 from now, if some poor woman is facing induction at this stage and she searches for it, it is here for her to find and read. On the night that we found out he had passed, I found the loss board impossible to search through / read because it did not have the information I was hoping to find. I'll update the thread title and trigger warning for that hypothetical person.
I also need to write it down for myself because he was real. And because I am so very afraid of forgetting even a single moment of what DH calls the most beautiful and terrible thing that we have ever had the privilege to be a part of.
It was a smooth pregnancy overall, with no issues other than a tiny uterine bleed at 11 weeks, and a few brain cysts that showed up on his anatomy scan (called choroid plexus cysts, which just means that his brain hadn't yet developed in a few spots at the time of the scan).
I was working 2 jobs and we had a busy home life. At the beginning of third tri, I was supposed to get a gestational diabetes screen, which I skipped. I had come down with a cold, and had none of the risk factors except advanced maternal age (37 years old). I recovered from that cold quite well.I felt him kicking every day, although he'd never been especially active.
Then, 7 days before Christmas, I came down with a second cold. This one felt different, though I can't describe it. I felt greasy and feverish. I called in sick for both jobs and treated the fever with Tylenol Extra Strength (cracking them in half, and taking one half tablet every couple of hours). The Tylenol brought the fever down, but I don't think I ever felt completely fever-free. Not sure if that is an accurate memory as I am struggling with self-blame and clouded with grief. I did not see the doctor, and will never forgive myself for that.
Last Saturday/Sunday, the baby dropped and I noticed he was not kicking. I had read online that it can be difficult to feel kicks right after the baby drops -- the changed position and increased size of the baby means that he can't really wind up. So I mentioned it to DH and we decided to wait a bit.
On Monday, DH asked me about it and I said that he hadn't kicked. We decided to go in. We stopped at 7-Eleven and bought a Dr. Pepper. I drank some on the way, and no kicks. At assessment, we got in right away, but there was the definite message that this would be a routine check. The ultrasound tech could not find the heartbeat with the sound machine. It just sounded like water. She left and a resident and a nurse came back with an ultrasound machine. They told us that he was not alive. I made some awful sounds at first. Then I asked if maybe there was still time to do something to save him, that maybe there was a mistake, and I asked what diagnostic indicia they were relying on. Then they told us that he had passed some time ago. The cord was not pulsing, his heart was visible but not beating, his fists were clenched, there was pleural effusion.
They gave us some time to process, and when the nurse returned she gave us information about our options. This information ended up being incorrect; I think because it is rare to lose a baby at such a late stage of pregnancy and even rarer that my body had not gone into labour in response. She told us that we could start induction and then come back when I was in labour, or we could go home that night and return in the morning to start induction. We opted to proceed with induction and then go home to wait for labour. At that time, I was panicked and feeling like I just wanted to get him out of me. All I could think was that there was a dead baby inside of me and that this was profoundly wrong. These feelings changed very much in the next 36 hours.
We were admitted to labour & delivery right away. The OB eventually came by and explained that no, if we were to start induction, we could not go home and return when in labour. This is because with fetal loss, the drugs that they prefer for induction are different - they induce aggressively and manage pain aggressively when the baby's health is not in issue. The priority is to speed delivery for the grieving mother. So we opted to wait for induction until the morning. We went home to sleep a bit, pack our bags, and cuddle with the dogs. We have 2 children by adoption and they were visiting with grandparents this week, so that was not an issue. I texted a friend I had lost touch with, who I knew had experienced a late loss at 19w, and who coincidentally had delivered at the same hospital. She was so generous - she called me at 1am and we spoke until 3am. She told me what I could expect after delivery - the questions that would be asked and the decisions that needed to be made, both short term and going forward. It was a tremendously painful conversation for her, which opened up some very deep wounds for her. She was so generous and I will always be grateful. At the same time, I was getting messages on this thread urging me to meet him and say goodbye. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Through the night I had back-to-back Braxton Hicks contractions, which were painless.
We packed our bags and here is what I would recommend - pack music! We set up an iPad and let Songza handle the rest. We played music continually until we had gotten through delivery -- even when we were both sleeping. Even when on the epidural, I wouldn't have wanted to wake during the night to listen to silence. My friend also recommended to pack LOTS of excellent-quality Kleenex. We packed a few lunch bags - sandwiches and fruit and veggies & dip. Also toiletries, bath towel, slippers, phone chargers, eye drops, sleep mask, change of clothes in maternity size for me, sweater, and our own pillow.
We re-attended directly at labour and delivery at 1pm. They had told us to come in between 10am and 11am, but it was a rough night and we knew it wouldn't make a difference. We skipped past assessment and registered directly at L&D. Some well-meaning people tried to redirect us back to assessment since I clearly was not in labour, but DH jumped in with the wording the OB had given us -- that we have had a demise and have been instructed NOT to go to assessment. I had a breakdown outside of L&D, because it seemed so final to walk through those doors. I just wasn't ready to have John Allan leave my body.
At L&D, they put us in a birthing room and we settled in. We waited maybe 1.5 hours for the OB. When she arrived, she explained that I would be given misoprostil (brand name Cytotec -sp?- which is also known as the abortion pill), administered vaginally in tablet form. This medication is not as gentle and slow as Cervidol (used for regular inductions), and would soften my cervix. It has the added benefit of potentially bringing on contractions, so that my body might take over from there. I had a fever and they gave me the maximum dose for Tylenol.
We then waited for a couple of hours. Side effects were supposed to be diarrhea and other things, but that was not a big issue. I had a few bowel movements but nothing terrible. I began having contractions but they weren't readily identifiable or separated from each other. Just sort of continuous spasms accompanied with moderate discomfort. At the 4 hour mark, a 4th year resident checked my cervix and found it was still closed. He was quite rough when he was checking me, and I became apprehensive about what was coming.
During this wait, we called the grandparents and advised that baby John had passed away and that DH and I and our 2 kids would have a chance to meet him and say goodbye to him as a family once he was born in the next day or 2. (Before making this call, we called the kids' therapist (they are only recently adopted) and confirmed that seeing baby John is real and saying goodbye to him in person would be preferable considering the particular loss/trauma background of our kids.)
I can't remember if I was given more misoprostil at that point, or if they just went straight to a Foley bulb insertion. This was performed by the fourth year resident and was extremely painful. The first bulb he inserted was matched with a catheter tube that was the wrong size for the bulb - when he began to pump in the water to expand the bulb, the bulb burst. He explained they had made a mechanical error and needed to try all over again. He went in without warning a second time and the pain was both extreme and startling. I screamed and tried to get away. I only let him near me again after he agreed to advise of what he was planning to do and when. I don't believe I would ever agree to deliver again at a teaching hospital as a result of my experience with this resident. I noticed that his movements were jerky and rough in general, and the nurses often requested that he speak more clearly in his instructions.
At this point, the nurses asked if I wanted an IV for pain medication or just a single injection to get me through. I opted for Fentanyl, which was wonderfully effective and also reduced my anxiety.
At the same time, the Tylenol they had given me had lowered my fever but not gotten rid of it. They began a course of IV antibiotics, which also proved to be ineffective at eliminating the fever but which I stayed on until delivery.
The second Foley bulb was properly placed and we waited for my cervix to expand to the requisite 3cm. They told me that it would just "pop out" when my cervix expanded and I would be the one who knew first. Instead, they ended up checking after a while and found that yes, it had fallen out of my now-dilated cervix but was just resting in my vagina.
During this wait for my cervix to expand (it took a couple of hours, I think), the nurses recommended that I try morphine on a manually-operated pump. However, the pump machine was new to the hospital as of this week and either due to a problem wit the machine or lack of experience in using it, the pump did not work. The controller indicated that only 3mg was delivered over a long period of time, and those 3mp were only delivered when the nurse would input an override code. Once the nurses found this out, we returned to Fentanyl, thank God. I had a nausea reaction to the small amount of morphine I did receive, and the Fentanyl was a much better medication match for me. While I was supposedly on the morphine, I was in considerable pain. DH was a saint in terms of distracting me during the less-painful moments -- he pulled out some adorable videos from years ago of when we first got our dogs, and other things like that. It was sheer genius. I even asked him later if he had preplanned that, but it just came to him. When the pain was at its peak, he just held my hand or we stared at each other.
Once the bulb had done its work, my contractions were not of the quality that indicated that my body was taking on a labour-type rhythm. We decided to proceed with an epidural and a simultaneous Pitocin drip via IV. The epidural was not painful to receive, although there was an unsettling crunching sound, and was completely effective. I was able to identify my contractions only if I concentrated. They attached a belt to my midsection to electronically monitor the duration and intensity of my contractions. They also inserted a urinary catheter, which was weird but painless. DH and I went to sleep - I had to force him to go to sleep, and had to keep repeating that I couldn't feel anything at all and it would be impossible for me to sleep knowing that he was perched over top of me sitting on that uncomfortable steel stool after the hours he had already sat on that damned thing. (There were more comfortable seats in the room, but the morphine drip machine was bulky and the right side of my bed was occupied by nursing paraphernalia and traffic.)
They told me that when I felt the urge to have a bowel movement, that I should call them, because that would mean that the baby was crowning.
In the early hours, maybe 4am, I felt the baby come down and then go back up. I pressed the call button but no one came. Since the feeling went away, I went back to sleep. I think the feeling happened a few times, and I pressed the call button a few more times. Then the feeling came back (it felt like a bowel movement, but in a weirdly sensation-less way, due to the epidural-enforced immobility) and it was urgent. I shouted DH awake and he took off for the nursing station at a dead run.
The nurse came in and checked and found that the baby was coming very fast. She pressed a special button and the room filled with 8 people in less than one minute. The OB was very compassionate. I was crying because I didn't want this to be happening. I wasn't ready to not be pregnant anymore. She indicated that she would be giving me his body to do skin-to-skin, but I told her that my preference was that the baby be washed and wrapped before being brought to me.
Bright overhead lights and a few pushes (by bearing down as if it was a bowel movement) and he was outside of me. No one really spoke very much, because it was just so fucking sad. A single push for the placenta and that was done too.
Within about 2 minutes after delivering him, my fever completely lifted. Nothing had worked to eliminate that fever, not even the IV antibiotics. I now suspect that he died of an infection, and that he was making me sick. Trying not to speculate too much, though, and to just wait for proper answers when they are available.
When the nurses saw my baby they got quiet and took him out of the room. Maybe half an hour passed, and DH and I were really wondering where he was and what was going on. We wanted to see him so badly. The nurse returned without John Allan, to help prepare us for seeing him. Since he had passed away a couple of days prior to delivery, his skin was macerated. This was very upsetting to me. I was unfamiliar with the word and thought that it meant that he was rotting. She gave us the option of not seeing him, but at this point we couldn't imagine not seeing him. She also advised that his skin was deep red / purple. She told us that the mementoes usually prepared by the hospital, footprints and handprints, were more difficult because of his condition, but that they were able to get some footprints despite fluid buildup. His hands could not be uncurled and his skin was very fragile. We said that we didn't care - do everything that they can possibly do, take photographs, just do it. I was feeling an unbearable kind of yearning for him, mixed with intense grief, and physical repulsion and horror, mixed with fear that maybe we wouldn't be allowed to see him. DH was wanting very much to see him too - he was deeply affected by witnessing this whole process; previously, he had warned me that maybe he shouldn't be present because of blood and needle aversions, etc. But when it came to the actual time, the thought of him not being there was unthinkable. We were both shaken and needing our son.
So then they brought him in, inside a special cot that has a cooling compartment underneath. It was just the saddest most pitiful fucking sight I have ever seen. It is true that the top layer of his skin was peeling away and that beneath that white layer of skin tissue his body was a disturbing red/purple colour. But pretty much right away, we didn't even see that. He was a perfectly formed, tiny baby. He was our son.
He was and is the most beautiful and amazing creature we have ever laid eyes on.
I held him briefly; he was wrapped in a sanitary guard because of the skin issue, and then a crocheted blanket. And a tiny, matching crocheted cap on his head. I am crying right now remembering it because he was just so amazing. I couldn't hold him for long because it was physically painful for me. My body wanted to nurse him, and this was causing me pain and confusion because he was dead. So we put him back in his cot and I stayed close. I just stared at him in wonder and pride and love and sadness, and rested my finger lightly against his crochet wrap to rock him very, very gently. Just enough to move him a little, and pretend he could feel his mother's touch; but not enough so that his tiny little head would roll on his limp neck and remind me that he was dead.
We called the grandparents and said that as it turned out, the kids would not be able to say goodbye to John Allan after all. We just said that the doctors needed to take him to do tests - technically true, since we have requested an autopsy. DH and I have agreed that our baby's physical appearance is not something that needs to be shared with anyone other than ourselves, and would be a distraction and/or detract from honouring his memory. I am just sharing it here, in case this may help prepare a woman who is facing a similar situation.
We had a consult with a social worker who specializes in grief counselling for the hospital and she gave us some colouring books and story books to help our children process what has happened. I will be attending a grief counselling group for parents who have experienced late term and child loss. We have decided to cremate our son, and will need to call a funeral home to arrange for that -- the hospital advised that most funeral homes waive the fees for baby cremations and only charge out-of-pocket expenses for govt registration fee and the cost of a container or urn. The autopsy itself will only take a couple of days (the report will come in 2 stages -- initial findings in a couple of months, and the full pathology report will take between a couple of months and a year, depending on the complexity of the situation -- the hospital has also called to advise that I need to do some additional tests to assist with the autopsy).
A nurse discretely explained that although medical advice was to remain in the hospital for 24 hours after delivery, that "this is a special situation, and we don't chain patients to the bed" after some standard postpartum checks have been made to confirm no complications. (My impression was that the 24 recovery period recommended for vaginal births is more important for women whose babies were full-term size, but also to help the new parents learn to care for their newborn.) We decided that we intended to discharge ourselves immediately, and advised them accordingly -- they allowed us to stay in the birthing room for several hours after he was born rather than moving us to a bereavement room (with baby) or recovery room located in the gynecological ward, separate from the women who have delivered living babies.
The postpartum checks were clear. The epidural wore off, albeit unevenly -- my right leg stayed immobilized for an extra hour. My vaginal bleeding was a moderate flow -- bleeding at the rate of soaking a maxi-pad in approximately an hour. I was able to urinate, and there was no pain. We retrieved our memento box -- a teddy bear donated by a couple who has also experienced a baby loss, with the name of their son on a tag; footprints; hospital bracelet for baby; certificate to honour the life of our son, CD with photographs, tiny booties which he was never able to wear (they will be also be forwarding by mail a plaster cast of his footprints, and the crocheted blanket wrap and matching cap), and hobbled on out to our vehicle. Before leaving the hospital room, DH tidied up the hospital bed and noticed that the damn nursing call button had never even been plugged in.
24 hours after leaving the hospital we had to re-attend at an emergency dept close to our home. I don't know if it was proper triage protocol or if it was compassion, but the triage nurse put me in to see a doctor immediately; this is pretty much unheard of in Canadian health care. The epidural did not fully wear off of my right leg (I have a patch of numbness that is the size of two hands with fingers spread out), and I received a diagnosis of bruised or irritated nerve from the epidural. I have back pain that is partly due to labour and uncomfortable positioning through the night (which couldn't be felt and adjusted due to the epidural), and partly due to the actual insertion of the epidural. I have had blurred vision and chronic headache, which is attributed to fatigue and trauma.
It is now 48 hours after John Allan was born, and the numbness/headache/vision issues are still here. Vaginal bleeding is greatly reduced and I am feeling somewhat restored. It is a slap in the face that my milk has now begun to come in. DH came in to the bathroom this morning where I was standing naked in front of the mirror looking at my now-engorged breasts and just sobbing. I am supposed to avoid stimulating my breasts and may need to express my milk in the shower for some relief; hopefully my milk will go away in 2 weeks. Knowing that the milk that was meant to feed my sweet son will just be thrown away is a special kind of pain.
DH and I have cried together so much these last 4 days (I have only seen him cry once before, at his father's death), and I feel this incredible fierce devotion and love for DH. I feel so much sadness that he has to share this experience with me, and relief at the same time. He is the only person in the world that understands how amazing John Allan was/is, and what this feels like.
This was a surprise pregnancy for us. We wanted children, but I didn't feel that biological drive and yearning for pregnancy that most women seem to have. We were also aware that there are thousands of children in foster care through no fault of their own, who just need a chance. So we started the process of adopting maybe 2.5 years ago -- and then just before our perfect match came along, we found out we had conceived. We'd only had sex 3 times that entire year, so it really was a shock followed by grinning references to Grade 7 health class maxims for pretty much all of first trimester.
Now, everything is a lot more confusing. My body is wanting my baby so intensely that it is shocking. We have been talking about trying again; I think that realistically we will need to wait until we recover. The idea of a "replacement" baby is awful, and yet there is this profound emptiness in my belly and yearning in my breasts.
I wouldn't wish for any other woman to experience this, ever. But it was been awe-inspiring and beautiful as well as awful. Having met our son, we will never be the same.
Today is New Year's Day and DH and I have promised each other that 2016 is a new year and a fresh start. I know that this is a type of loss that unfolds over time, as we pass those milestones that should-have-been. But at least we know, really truly know, that our son is forever a part of our family, and we will go forward keeping him close in our hearts.
If you made it this far, thank you for listening.
I know nothing I say will comfort you but I want you to know you, your DH, your adopted children and of course baby John Allan are in my thoughts and prayers. You are very brave. I'm glad you and your husband have each other to rely on for support and comfort. I'm so sorry for your loss. Take care of yourself, I hope that in time you will heal.
Married: Oct 20, 2013
BFP 1: Aug 31, 2015
EDD 1: May 12, 2016
DD1 Emma born May 12, 2016
An Honest Account of New Motherhood (with Postpartum Anxiety, Depression, and OCD)
BFP 2: October 07, 2019
EDD 2: June 20, 2020
You're on the beginning of a journey and you'll find your own way. It's extremely difficult but it won't always be so hard all the time.
No matter what anyone says you'll probably feel guilty or have a million "what-it's?" ; it takes time to process through that. It might be easier to accept after talking to some doctors/getting some answers.
As for if/when to try to conceive, know that there is no wrong answer. It's a very personal decision and you'll figure it out.
The "replacement child" issue comes about if a couple is seeking to replace their lost child. "subsequent child" is the term used for a baby that comes after the one that was lost, and is considered a distinctly different person. So if you decide to have another baby, even rather quickly, it doesn't necessarily mean that child will be a replacement. As long as you're working through your grief in a healthy manner and you're not expecting another baby to take your sons place, it's not a bad thing.
And if you decide you want to take more time to focus on healing and processing without having a pregnancy/newborn in the mix, that's fine too.
For me, seeing a counselor both with DH and by myself, going through EMDR processing for trauma, talking with supportive friends, anti-depressants, and reading have been huge helps. Some of the books I recommend are: Empty Cradle, Broken Heart, Choosing to See, I Will Carry You, A Grace Disguised, and a Grief Observed. Some books have dealt with infant loss, some child loss, and some grief in general.
I could say a lot more but I don't want to overwhelm you. Nothing I can say will take the pain away...I just want to give you encouragement and hope that you won't be in this pit of despair forever, even though it feels like you will.
Many hugs to you.
ETA: added a book to the list
i do want to thank you for sharing your son's birth story (which i cried almost all the way through). that must have been incredibly difficult. you are one strong woman, & i am inspired by how you & DH are handling this. i wish nothing but the best for you & your family in 2016, & all the years ahead.
i dont think I'll ever forget your story.
May you find some solace in the quiet moments to come. You and your family are in my thoughts.
I pray that 2016 brings peace and healing for you and your family.
You are an amazing, strong woman. Thank you for sharing John Allan's birth story. I am so incredibly sorry for your loss, I can't fathom the pain you and your husband are experiencing. There simply are no words. Praying for you.
Your story was beautifully written and brought me to tears. I admire how much detail you wrote for not only yourself but for other strangers who down the road, may need to learn from your strength with their own tragedy.
You have such a beautiful soul and I wish you peace and comfort.
You and your family are in my thoughts and prayers.
I was worried that posting such a sad/troubling story to a group of women expecting healthy babies might be unkind or unwelcome. But you all have shown me so much grace.
Thank you.
I have a few friends who have had late term losses. One friend lost her first two babies late, and continued on to have 2 healthy children. In their family they have four children and the younger kids say they have two big brothers in heaven. To me that is beautiful. Their momentos, including photos and baptismal certificates are displayed in a private part of their home, so only close friends see them, but still so they are a part of their family.
You, your family and John Allan will be in my prayers.
DD - January 2016
I felt so sorry for myself, but I read all of this & this really put things into perspective for me. I am SO sorry to hear about your sweet baby. I know nothing that can be said will ever take the pain away, but please know that I will never forget about John Allan. I hope & pray that the road to healing will be full of compassion, love & understanding for you & your family.
So many babies face horrible fates to unloving parents. John Allan was so lucky to be born to people like you.
Please never stop seeing the beauty in life.
@clairemwalker and @nickicb7 thank you
@EmilyXLC so glad that you were released from the hospital and are continuing with your pregnancy. Thanks for your thoughts.
I won't be checking this thread anymore, as I focus on grieving, then on moving on, and maybe even trying to conceive again - am moving to the TTCAL and related boards. It feels soppy and dramatic to keep saying thank you so much, but really: thank you, friends. I have never felt so raw and vulnerable in my entire life, and am so grateful for the gentle and loving responses. Wishing you all healthy and happy pregnancies with beautiful babies.
I started this thread 3 months ago. I kept thinking that I should write it all down in case it might help some other woman, and so that I never forget.
Since then, this birth story did help another woman who was facing the unthinkable. What are the chances of that? I thought it would be a year or more. This world is a mystery.
We also got some answers about what happened to our son, which I posted in the Late Term and Child Loss board. Essentially, my anatomy scan did not see what was there to be seen; it turns out that John Allan had Trisomy 18 and there was no way he could have lived outside of my body. I won't record the details from the autopsy, but he lived and died in the worst possible way. I have filed a regulatory complaint against the radiologist who performed my anatomy scan, and will see that process through to the end. No woman will have to experience what I did, or at least not with that doctor. She will be given the choice I did not have -- to give her child mercy and release well before he can feel pain.
I went through a veritable fever of wanting to conceive again, and then not, and then changing my mind again.
I have settled on not feeling brave enough to try it all over again. I just cannot sign up for 9 months of apprehension. There is no greater intimacy than that of a mother and her child, and that intimacy means vulnerability. I choose no.
I don't know why I needed to update this. Some sort of closure in a world that doesn't give real closure, I guess
Stillbirth is very rare. But one of the book that has helped me through this, which was recommended to me on this thread ("Empty Cradle, Broken Heart"), calls stillbirth a "conspiracy of silence". It won't be covered in your birth training training class, and it is only briefly mentioned (if at all) in pregnancy books.
I am one of the 'lucky" ones, in that I now know why my son died. Many women are not given answers, either because medical knowledge is not advanced enough, or because they weren't given the information they needed to ask for answers (such as knowing they have the right to request an autopsy). I doubt this little post will change that, but if you have read this far, then I hope that you remember this last bit. Because it really is important --really important-- to the small number of women that will be affected by stillbirth.