My Empty Arms

Whilst most women that go into hospital to have their baby leave with a bundle of joy, there are parents out there like myself and Ian that don't. Instead they leave with a memory box. These memory boxes are often donated by charities; ours in particular came from 4Louis. The 4Louis charity was founded in 2009 by the family of a little boy who was stillborn at 38 weeks. They work across the country supporting people who have been affected by the death of their baby or child.  On the outside of the box, the words "Sweet Dreams" are written, and inside there are items that inspire bereaved parents to gather keepsakes of their baby. In the early hours of Saturday 26th May 2018, our lovely midwife Lucy carefully took hand and footprints from our beautiful baby girl, Tilly. This was the start of the memory box that I will now treasure forever.  Two identical teddy bears, one of which we left with Tilly the day we said goodbye and one that we brought home were also part of th...

I admit that before Tilly was born I had never heard of maternity bereavement suites. I guess I had never had reason to and to be honest I wish I still didn't. Ignorance was bliss. After Tilly was born, I experienced 2 bereavement suites; The Halycon Suite at the RVI in Newcastle and due to some complications I also experienced the Willow Suite at the RLI in Lancaster. The following blog post is therefore drawn from my experiences at these two. A bereavement suite is a room, usually on or close by to the delivery suite/labour ward. It is a room where women either give birth to their babies or where they go, as a family, after their babies have been delivered elsewhere. As the name suggests, the mums and dads that stay in these suites are the parents of babies that have so sadly, passed away. They are wonderful rooms, designed with such compassion and care. They are often sound proofed or far enough away from other rooms so that you can't hear women in labour or even more ...

That evening after my MRI scan, I felt totally exhausted. Ian and I sat in the day room watching Coronation Street but I just wanted my bed. A discomfort in my abdomen that I had been aware of all day had started to worsen. I waddled back down to my room but by now I could hardly bear to sit down. The pain was worsening by the second. Ian helped me onto the bed and went to find a midwife. I'm not sure exactly what he said to her, maybe there wasn't enough urgency in his voice. All I know is that she didn't come quick enough. I remember seeing her sauntering down the corridor chatting away to a student midwife as I writhed around the bed in pain, my bump now beginning to feel like it was on fire. I had never felt pain like it. Things began to happen very quickly after this and my memory of it all starts to become a bit patchy. So forgive me if this post may seem a little disjointed. Maybe the patchiness is because of the drugs they started to plough into me or maybe it...

The next 72 hours passed and I hadn't gone into labour. She was hanging on in there. Everybody began to relax. They now said that the chances of going into labour were getting less and less. I was told stories about ladies that had managed to get to over 30 weeks, some even full term. The day after I was admitted I was told that I would be an inpatient for the forseeable, basically until my baby was born. It's a strange feeling; wishing to stay in hospital for as long as possible, but I knew that the longer I was there, the more chance my baby had of surviving. So I pretty much made myself at home; I was transferred into a side room and came and went from the ward and hospital as I pleased. Ian and I would venture out for lunch or to the park if I felt up to it and we started to get our hopes up that our baby might actually stay put for at least another 4 weeks. Looking back I guess this was a bit naive but what did we have if we didn't have hope? The following Friday, a ...

The following posts are a little delayed because I had no idea how daunting it would be to write them. I admit now that I may have taken for granted the other baby loss bloggers out there who write their stories with such eloquence, not realising actually how exhausting revisiting the most traumatic experience of your life is. I've turned my laptop on and opened the blog so many times over the last few days in an attempt to start the next part of Tilly's story but then I just end up closing the lid, putting on another episode of Orange is the New Black and try to let my brain escape for an hour. But really, I guess there is no escape. The evening of Friday 18th May, I arrived on ward 34 at the Royal Victoria Infirmary in Newcastle. I was put in a bay with a couple of other women, both of whom were about 10 weeks further on in their pregnancy than I was. Throughout the night I was seen by numerous different midwives and doctors; the first Dr that came to see me was a senior re...

Friday the 18th May came and I was now exactly 24 weeks pregnant. I'd had my scan that morning at around 9:00 and again, everything was stable. I felt so proud of her, so proud to be the mummy of this strong little human. We text our families the good news and they replied with relieved messages. Every week that passed was another hurdle that we had all overcome. Ian and I had started to live a little again, we had begun to relax. We arrived home from the scan and Ian headed out on his bike for the first time in months. Within half an hour of arriving home I noticed that I was leaking pink fluid. I phoned the community midwives and after a bit of going back and forth, I got a phone call from the delivery suite at my local hospital asking me to attend. I phoned Ian and told him what had happened and he drove me to the hospital. We joked saying the baby didn't want him to be getting on that bike. I began to think this was all a bit of an overreaction, it was just a little bit of ...