Читать книгу Miles Apart - Annabel Bower - Страница 9

The final appointment brought no joy. The swelling of the brain was still extreme, the blood clot had not moved and there was absolutely no change in our baby’s situation. Doctors are not allowed to tell you what to do, but in the kindest, simplest way, we were told there was absolutely no hope for our child. There were three doctors in the room with us reviewing the final scan, which in itself spoke volumes in a busy public hospital unit. The two female specialists who took me in for the final scan were so beautifully empathetic that I could not stop crying as they analysed the baby’s brain and discussed the outcome. It was clear to us from everything said that there had been no change and was no likelihood of one occurring.

From this point forward, everything was a hellish blur. Paperwork was signed, bookings were made. I had to sign a piece of paper that would result in the loss of this precious baby. I suppose the best thing I can liken it to is a parent having to switch off their child’s life-support machine. A task you never, ever imagine you will have to do; a task so dreadful and confronting that it beggars belief. In our case, I was the life-support machine and there was no tangible switch. In its place, there was a pill to swallow that would cause my placenta to stop working and induce labour. I still don’t know how I physically swallowed that pill. I didn’t want to barely scratches the surface of the torment within me. All I wanted was this beautiful baby, who I already loved so dearly, to stay with us.

In order to cope, I tried to rationalise it. I was so emotionally invested in my imagined future as a mother of four that I kept thinking it was all just a horrible nightmare. Josh was far more pragmatic. He knew we had no option, but as he admitted, it’s much easier to take a practical approach if you’re not the one who can still feel the baby kicking and moving inside you. I couldn’t comprehend how the baby could be so safe inside me, yet have no chance of surviving once born. The stark contrast between what I could feel physically and what I was trying to wrap my brain around emotionally was sending me mad. I was also exhausted. I hadn’t been sleeping and the emotional toll of the last few weeks had caught up with me.

Now that the final ‘decision’ (this will always be said in quotation marks, as to me this step was not a real choice or decision) had been made, I wanted to get the next stage over with. I was traumatised by the sight and feel of my pregnant belly. I toyed with the idea of asking a close friend to take some photos for me, but in the end, I didn’t. I felt too self-conscious. Now I wish I had, but not going ahead with that influenced many other decisions in the coming days. I didn’t want any more regrets. I was acutely aware of how limited our time would be with our baby and didn’t want to miss another opportunity to create memories, especially due to decisions made because of my own awkwardness. I didn’t want this to happen, I didn’t ask for it, and couldn’t control it or stop it. The only thing I could control was how I chose to handle it.

The day after the final MFM appointment was Josh’s birthday, 28 December. We had stumbled through a month usually overflowing with celebrations and happiness, navigating my birthday, Christmas, and now had Josh’s birthday, with New Year’s Eve still ahead. These dates were meaningless to us this year. I did wonder how December would ever be a happy month for us again, as it had always been. How could we ever be happy during the month in which our baby died? But I am now confident that we will come to see it as a month to celebrate and remember Miles in. It feels nice that he’s a December baby, like Josh and me.

We decided to go out for sushi (something I’d fastidiously avoided for the previous six months) and I needed to collect some things for the labour ward. It was incomprehensibly sad, buying maternity pads and other things for the labour ward, when I knew I’d be delivering a stillborn baby. I’d been through this ritual before: packing a hospital bag for me and my expected baby felt familiar. I’d always taken great care with this process and decided it would be no different for this baby. He or she was just as special and deserved the same care as my other children. And whether I liked it or not, I was about to be put into labour. I needed these items.

I was desperate to find a toy for the baby, a little talisman I could keep to remind me of him or her. Nothing seemed right: I couldn’t find anything delicate or special enough. I searched and searched, and just before giving up, I found the sweetest little honey-coloured bear. When we got home, I rang the genetics counsellor at the Women’s and Children’s Hospital. I needed to know the gender of my baby before delivery and knew it would have been recorded from the amniocentesis. I think I would have been devastated regardless of the answer, as we were equally excited about having another boy or another girl. A sister for Bonnie would have been lovely – and what a combo two boys and two girls would be! A baby boy would have been equally wonderful: Ted was desperate for another brother, Bonnie was quite a tomboy, and we were already quite a boy-oriented household.

When I learned it was a boy, my heart broke just that little bit more. I don’t know why exactly. I think in my mind, a boy was a mini version of Josh, and that was the one thing (biologically) we had not experienced together. In my gut, I had felt like I was having a boy from very early on in the pregnancy. The thought that I had known this by instinct made me feel genuinely connected to this child. I’d had also felt that something was not quite right from the start – and it turned out I was correct on both fronts. Maternal instinct is a truly strong force, and should never be ignored or dismissed.

I went through the older boys’ baby things: the special pieces I’d put aside as keepsakes. I knew none of the clothes would fit, so I picked out three of my favourite baby blankets. My absolute favourite was a wrap with navy blue stars, which both boys were wrapped in after they were delivered. I have near-identical pictures of the boys wrapped in blue stars in hospital, and wanted the same for my third son. I also wanted to name our little boy before he was delivered. I was scared that if we left it until after he was born, we would waste the short, precious time we’d have with him in hospital trying to decide on a name. (We didn’t have a good track record in this department: it took three days to name Bonnie, who was very nearly a Daisy). It was at this point that I realised Josh and I were approaching the situation very differently.

He had been shocked to learn that the baby would be delivered by induced labour. He had assumed that the baby would be delivered in ‘a procedure’, done under general anesthetic or by caesarean. He had no idea we would be given the opportunity to hold and cuddle our baby: a notion which repulsed and horrified him. I felt the exact opposite. I wanted to hold our baby, love him, have pictures taken and treat him just like my other children. I had carried him within me and it felt unnatural to do anything other than nurture him after he was born.

I brought up names and the only thing Josh wanted was for the baby’s initials to match his late father’s initials: M.J.B. Josh was happy to call him M.J., but for me that seemed like a shortcut, like we weren’t bothering to give him a proper name, as he wasn’t going to come home with us. Instead, I said I’d find a name to fit with the initials. I love to talk things over and over, but Josh doesn’t. I texted him a list of suggested names (some which weren’t M’s or J’s, but names I hoped he might go with anyway). He replied with the only two M/J names on the list: Marcus and Jack. These names didn’t mean anything to me, but I was determined to go in with a basic list to work with. I swapped the Jack for Joshua, as that is Josh’s full name, and stuck with Marcus.

I didn’t want to name our little boy something I would frequently hear in playgrounds or at school. The thought of hearing his name called out seemed too cruel. I have a cousin named Mark so was unsure of Marcus, I wanted a name that was unique but also very ‘us’. Naming a baby who is not going to live is not easy. I would happily have named him any of the names we’d started talking about together before we knew we’d lose him, but none of them were M names and given it was Josh’s only request, I wanted to fulfil it.