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 registrar. He reiterated to me what I already knew, there was no chance of my baby surviving if I was to go into labour now. He told me that it was more than likely I would begin to labour within the next 48-72 hours and if this did happen, my baby would not be monitored during labour as this would be futile and would not change the outcome. He said that the focus was on me, not my baby and I was started on antibiotics to help stave off any infection now that my waters had gone.
Later on into the night two neonatal Drs arrived to see me. Their arrival was a bit of a surprise considering the last Dr's opinion. The more senior one of the two sat down next to me and told me that he had read my notes. He said he wanted to make sure I understood what the last Dr had said. He then said to me "but what if your baby does survive?". After being told by some very senior fetal medicine Drs that this wasn't a possibility, I looked at him confused. He said that the current plan wasn't even giving my baby a chance, so he asked me "what do you want us to do if your baby is born and she is alive?". I said "I want you to try and save her". Of course I wanted them to save her! I hadn't even known that this was a possibility until now. It's an overwhelming place to be, when you realise that the Drs you are in the care of aren't singing off the same hymn sheet. I was therefore started on intramuscular steroid injections to help my baby's lungs develop in case she did decide to grace us with her presence over the next week.
I couldn't sleep, I laid there waiting for something to happen to me, absolutely paranoid by the slightest twinge. I laid there listening to the heart rate of the baby whose mum was in the next cubicle to me. She had started with pain so they had put the monitor round her belly; it dawned on me this is what my baby wouldn't get. There would be no monitoring. There would be nobody pushing that emergency buzzer if my baby showed signs of distress. I heard the Drs consenting her for a c-section and within half an hour she was whisked away. I always assumed that her baby was born and that they are all now living happily ever after. Only now, after speaking to so many women who have lost their babies, have I realised that this unfortunately isn't always the case.
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 registrar. He reiterated to me what I already knew, there was no chance of my baby surviving if I was to go into labour now. He told me that it was more than likely I would begin to labour within the next 48-72 hours and if this did happen, my baby would not be monitored during labour as this would be futile and would not change the outcome. He said that the focus was on me, not my baby and I was started on antibiotics to help stave off any infection now that my waters had gone.
Later on into the night two neonatal Drs arrived to see me. Their arrival was a bit of a surprise considering the last Dr's opinion. The more senior one of the two sat down next to me and told me that he had read my notes. He said he wanted to make sure I understood what the last Dr had said. He then said to me "but what if your baby does survive?". After being told by some very senior fetal medicine Drs that this wasn't a possibility, I looked at him confused. He said that the current plan wasn't even giving my baby a chance, so he asked me "what do you want us to do if your baby is born and she is alive?". I said "I want you to try and save her". Of course I wanted them to save her! I hadn't even known that this was a possibility until now. It's an overwhelming place to be, when you realise that the Drs you are in the care of aren't singing off the same hymn sheet. I was therefore started on intramuscular steroid injections to help my baby's lungs develop in case she did decide to grace us with her presence over the next week.
I couldn't sleep, I laid there waiting for something to happen to me, absolutely paranoid by the slightest twinge. I laid there listening to the heart rate of the baby whose mum was in the next cubicle to me. She had started with pain so they had put the monitor round her belly; it dawned on me this is what my baby wouldn't get. There would be no monitoring. There would be nobody pushing that emergency buzzer if my baby showed signs of distress. I heard the Drs consenting her for a c-section and within half an hour she was whisked away. I always assumed that her baby was born and that they are all now living happily ever after. Only now, after speaking to so many women who have lost their babies, have I realised that this unfortunately isn't always the case.
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