By Jane Bond, mother of Logan

The heart is bleeding, a gaping hole resides My baby was born in a shadow, never to see the light The heft of my sorrow is beyond comprehension It’s a feeling beyond divine

The love I have for him never to be mentioned I carry it alone through time The life he brought to me none will acknowledge.
Still in my heart it lies

Whilst his life was short surrounds can’t obscure him Though the memory left is mine His force is a part of my life’s journey Never to be denied.

So with heart felt emotion and loves true devotion.
I dedicate this rhyme.

Odd Comments

Written by Kate Henderson, mother of Lorraine

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThe undertaker stands in front of me.

He motions for my unspoilt precious baby girl. But why? Why should I have to give away my only child?

I stare down at my little girl. Her perfectly shaped rosy lips. Her cute button nose. Her closed peaceful eyes. She has a sweet familiar smell — a radiant warmth.  Like the morning sun streaming through the window. With her in my arms — we feel natural — meant to be.

How can our brief time together be at an end? I need more time!

The undertaker puts out his arms to gesture for my baby and I hold my daughter even tighter. The nurse is silent. My husband is silent. The hospital is silent.

With my last thread of strength — my arms give my golden child to the solemn undertaker.

I hear the screams of a hopeless woman. Piercing screams. Screams that echo life is over.

I wonder who she is? What could cause her such pain? I’d hate to be her. I don’t think I’d survive that pain.

So how is that woman me? I don’t understand! It doesn’t make any sense.

The undertaker puts my silent daughter in his carry bag and he darts out of the room.

A tidal wave smashes me. The hard sterile floor stops me from being washed away. My body is gently laid to rest on the bed.

Why can’t I be in the undertaker’s bag?

My body had one task in life. Safely deliver my child into this unsafe world. Failure.

My body failed. I failed. I am a failure.

I leave the hospital and I experience three days of black cold wet winter in the middle of summer. The thunder is deafening. The people that find me in the storm are those that hug me.

On occasions, I hear family and friends say ‘There’s nothing I can say to make it better but if you need me — I’m here.’ ‘You’re such a beautiful person — this shouldn’t happen to you.’ ‘I don’t know how you survive this but I’m here.’ Otherwise, the general chat is drowned out by the storm.

Day 3. My swollen red eyes open. I whisper ‘My daughter’s funeral.’

I vanish as my baby girl is lowered out of my reach for an eternity. Why can’t I jump in her grave and die next to her? We would be together forever — tucked in by the same soil.

Suicide at a funeral, is that allowed?

Useless God — ­he did this. My 32 years of Catholic following… all propaganda. Religion is such a joke. Sins don’t exist. Others do what they want and still get the lucky ticket.

But me… I’m locked in a cell. Stuck here until someone somewhere decides I have done enough time! Sentenced with my hubby as a fellow inmate. My poor broken hubby. Abandoning him when he is already hopeless would be an act of brutality.

As I’m shovelling dirt onto my daughter’s tiny pink coffin, I think ‘Fuck you God. Fuck You.’

‘You can’t dodge this with the usual God has a plan crap. You have so many horrid ugly humans running free in this world and yet you entitle them with a pulse and a breath.’

Death of a child should be forbidden! Our daughter is innocent! We’re innocent! Why not target those that drink, smoke or take drugs when they are pregnant? What about those who leave their baby in a dumpster? Why not take the unwanted babies and give them to the couples that desperately want them? The current system is unreasonable and deliberately cruel.

From the distance ‘You should go to the wake Kate — even if you only have one drink.’

So I’m at the wake. The bar props me up so I resemble a strong woman which makes others feel more at ease. Yet I’m ashamed as others laugh and joke.  I’m able to drink alcohol when I should still be pregnant. I focus on the bottom of the glass to give me some purpose.

I tell myself I’m not a bad parent.

Or am I? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never know. I wasn’t given the opportunity to find out. Maybe I never will.

My brother-in-law appears next to me. ‘You know, you’ll just have to move on.’

I hear him but I don’t understand. I take a large gulp of my vodka, nod my head and continue walking in my limbo land of winter, dark clouds and silence.

Over the next couple of months, the cold comments start to flood. Each comment makes me weaker — Like angry termites eating my foundations.

‘Maybe you did something wrong.’

‘So there was nothing wrong with you… At least you’ll be able to have more children.’

‘It’s probably for the best — if your daughter had lived she might have had learning difficulties… it’s natural selection.’

‘I had a miscarriage and I was upset at the time but it was the best thing as I didn’t stay with the father.’

‘Life is so much easier for you — as you don’t have children.’

‘Oh, well, you wouldn’t know… as you haven’t had any children yet.’

‘Get over it. Move on.’

‘Get over it — be good to the living.’

Get over it. Get over it. Get over it.

My response to these frosty, thoughtless comments depends on my strength at the time.

When I’m broken, I simply stare at them. In my head I say ‘You are seriously fucked up.’ But my body is motionless — out of order.

If I am just coping I manage to say ‘I don’t agree with you and I doubt you would say that if you were me.’

But if I feel strong enough to fight for my daughter’s honour I say ‘I have a daughter named Lorraine. She is buried next to her grandmother. Lorraine will always be a part of my life and no future child will ever replace her. I will never get over her death.’

All I want in life is my daughter alive. I don’t care if she has one eye, one arm and one leg — just alive.

I religiously followed the book for a healthy pregnancy. My little girl arrived without a pulse and there was no explanation. So please, don’t try to justify her death with your selfish clichés. They aren’t helpful. If you don’t know what to say — just hug me.

It may be easier for you to forget my silent daughter but I dream about her when I’m awake. My much loved baby girl should be running around my legs. I should be able to hear her yell ‘Mum.’ Her Father should be wrapped around her little finger. Others should be able to see that we’re a family. The endless kisses, hugs and tears.

But all we have are the tears.

In simple terms. Our daughter deserves better. We deserve better. Yet she is dead and we live as this feeble form of a human.

So as the song says ‘Wake me up when it’s all over. When I’m wiser and I’m older…’

Baby Alice

By Wendy Day, mother of Alice


My doctor was away when I went to the final check-up and his partner picked up that there was something wrong with the baby.  I had instinctively known that and during the pregnancy had tried to prepare myself to look after a handicapped child.  He explained that my baby had anencephaly, a condition that affects the formation of the baby’s brain and the skull bones that surround the head.  He went on to explain that my baby couldn’t survive the birth and in a way that was a kind of relief compared with what I had been steeling myself for.  It didn’t make the birth any easier though because I had the illogical feeling that I was murdering my baby – while she was inside me she was alive but as soon as she was born she would die.  Baby Alice was stillborn on 4th of April, 1967, and they never let me see her; the only memory I have of baby Alice was the back view of the nurse as she whisked her out of sight behind the screen.

I returned home and tried to resume my normal life but within a day or two I developed an unbearable headache and had to return to the hospital.  I was too ill to go to the funeral but I looked out the hospital window and saw the hearse with her little white coffin pass by and broke down completely.  Having failed so miserably to breastfeed my other babies, I suddenly had the greatest difficulty drying up my painful breasts; the emotional pain lasted even longer – even today I feel a sadness when I think of losing her.

I’m glad that parents get time to mourn their babies now, nothing replaces the child but it can’t be as gut-wrenching as it was back in the 60s when they discharged you from hospital and you were just supposed to get on with your life as if it hadn’t happened.  I was at least fortunate in that, living in a country town at the time, I was able to have my baby buried in a marked grave – something that wouldn’t have been allowed in Perth.  We had a scaled down grave made and a heart-shaped headstone with  ‘Alice  Stillborn’  and the date on it.  My mother died on a visit from England and she is buried in the same cemetery but I’ve never been able to go back so I make do with photos of the graves.

Born Sleeping


Shared with generous permission of Laura Sheehan @ thewholemummy.com

I held you in my arms, I kissed your soft, pink lips, I nuzzled your cheeks, your nose, your tiny perfect ears. I breathed in every inch of you. So hard, to let you go.

. . .Beau, born sleeping the 19/06/14.

We’d just celebrated our Hurricane’s first birthday, a typical sweltering hot first week of January in Australia. Summer in Oz is always a time for swimming, the beach, flip flops, hats, sun tans, ice cream, friends, family and always safe, sunshine fun. Three months earlier, we had taken the nonchalant approach to not actively trying for another baby but at the same time not taking or making any preventative measures to falling pregnant. The old “we’ll just see what happens” approach. Low and behold I was a day late, nothing, normally, to be excited over but a part of me just knew, call it what you will, a mother’s knowing, women’s intuition, whatever it may be but I knew he was there. My baby, my son.

I think most women know, whether we acknowledge it or not, something inside us sparks, connects and we know deep, down within that we are carrying a special cargo, a perfect, beating little force, entwined with our being, well before the conscious thought to check the calendar or buy a test.

With this subtle feeling that, just maybe, we were pregnant, even only a day late, I checked. There it was, that blurry miracle, the hazy, soft, positive, blue line. We were having another baby. Instantly, that surge of overwhelming, engulfing feeling, immediate joy and soaring happiness, gratitude, thanks, humbleness, worry and apprehension, and floating in amongst it there was a faint fragility that landed, buried and was pushed aside, taken over by all encompassing, all embodying love.

Excited to say the least, the Big Man and I were over the moon, the gap between the baby and the Hurricane somewhat daunting and smaller than what we had anticipated but we embraced and welcomed the idea of a bigger, noisier and ever more chaotic family.

Having nearly lost the Hurricane to Meningococcal B Meningitis, having lived it, having survived it together as a couple, as a family, we had in many ways developed a naive confidence in our way of thinking, a belief that we had been through our tough time, climbed our hurdle, overcome our challenge. Maybe it wasn’t naive to think that way, but, more so, isn’t also normal? Normal to be excited for this new life, another baby, to have that blissful happiness? It’s what parents hold on to, no matter the journey so far. In truth I don’t believe we could ever be prepared for what was to come.

With the news of our new baby came the even more life changing news for our family, we would be uprooting and leaving Australia, leaving our home, and moving to the South of France for the opportunity and adventure of a lifetime for our little family, and one final rugby contract for the Big Man. It scared me, that’s the truth. I don’t like change at the best of times and leaving my family, my friends and everything I love about home, especially with the little one on the way, rocked the foundation beneath my feet. Outside of that fear though was a burning desire to soar, to navigate, to experience, to be a part of a culture, a community entirely new. It fascinated me and I wanted to give our Hurricane and our little one to come, the most fruitful opportunity to explore everything the world has to offer.

The contract in France wouldn’t start immediately though and as luck would have it the Big Man was offered a short term contract in the UK. With the news of a new baby, the Hurricane already leaving destruction and chaos in his wake, we decided, as a family, that it would be better for the Big Man to go on without us for the UK leg of our journey while we carried on back in Aus for six months, giving us enough time to pack up and prepare for the next step. In the blink of an eye and a flurry of tears, the Big Man was gone.

There is an intimacy and a connection between a mother and her baby, from the moment of conception there is a bond unlike any other. It is a knowing, an understanding and a deep, natural sense of unspoken unity and relationship. For the Hurricane and, later, our Little Ray of Sunshine, there was a spark within me, a vibrancy, spirited life and active eagerness that is reflected in the children they are today. For my Beau, he was different, he connected with me wholly with an early awareness for one another. He was a quieter, softer soul and I felt it from the beginning, the image I held for him was that of a gentle, little old man, content and happiest nestled and cradled within me. This kindred kinship, however, projected something different for me that I had not experienced with my pregnancy with my Hurricane and later, inexplicably not with our Little Ray of Sunshine. There was an unfounded uncertainty, a feeling of worry and fragility. This sense of concern was so strongly embedded in me that at three different stages in the pregnancy I felt the need to have his heartbeat checked, twice in Australia and once in the UK while visiting family before our last leg to France.

My pregnancy for Beau was, by all accounts, as normal as it can be, second time around, constantly chasing a toddling toddler. On my own the fatigue was a constant battle, pulling on reserves when at times I felt I had nothing else to give, but I was lucky, my support network from family and friends was enormous and the cavalry, when called, was ready and willing to be there for our little family in any way they could. It was a special time, in fact, for my mum, my sister, my mother in law and my wonderful sister in law, she at the time was also pregnant six weeks ahead of us! These women, who in the absence of the Big Man became an integral part of my journey with Beau, stepping into the role, in many ways, as my surrogate husband, my confidant, my support and those living in Perth happily coming along to all the important moments, appointments and scans for our little man. It was at my 20 week scan, with my surrogate husbands, my mum and my sister, in tow, that we hit our first little bump in the road.

There he was, my big, roly poly baby, a white outline in a sea of black, rocking and rolling on the big screen. The sonographer gleefully guided me, explaining, identifying every perfect toe, leg, nose, ears, eyes, fingers, legs, tummy, bottom, everything that as parents, in those magical scan moments, absorb, there they are, your baby, your child. A pause, a hesitation, yet still positive, she asked if we could wait just a little longer for the senior sonographer to check and confirm the scan. My breath catches. Waiting in the hospital cafeteria worry is covered, masked and suppressed by small talk, food and tea. Being scanned once more, the senior sonographer, equally upbeat, examines and explains that they had noticed our baby possibly had a minor condition known as kidney reflux, a surprisingly common condition where by one of the valves in the kidney don’t close properly and urine refluxes back into the kidney. It was adamantly expressed not to be concerned, fear clearly written all over my face, that all it meant was that after birth our baby may need to be put on a course of antibiotics or worst case scenario have a small corrective surgery. Exhale, it was all going to be ok. Reassured and armed with a multitude of information, we hadn’t intended to find out the sex but and with many apologies from the sonographer, an invasive examination of the kidneys made it difficult not to see, and we were delighted and overjoyed to learn we were having a boy, another son and a little brother for the Hurricane.

A little hiccup, a tiny trip and stumble, but really nothing to warrant concern we carried on and before we knew it the time had come to say ‘see you soon’ to Australia and a big ‘bienvenue‘ to France. Through incredibly difficult goodbyes, difficult doesn’t begin to describe it, but through heartfelt, hormonal tears, bags packed, life packed, a bulging now 7 months pregnant belly in front of me and an excited little Hurricane hanging from my hand, we were off. Stretches of sea and an almost new world awaiting us, our new adventure was unfolding before us. First with the generous help of Nan, my mum, in a flurry and a hurry we visited family in the UK before the long awaited reunion with my Big Man.

Time can be a funny concept, as it skips by, days blur and mesh into weeks, you can often find the passing seamless. It is only in that moment of reconciliation that the enormity of distance sharpens into reality and the weight of having been apart fully press upon you. Watching the Hurricane, now eighteen months old, having only taken his first steps when he left, to now run, in full recognition, excitement and love into the arms of his dad, crumbling around him, was beautiful beyond compare. Physically you could not mistake the time between us, carrying large and heavily, the pride of the belly of his waddling swollen wife, was met with a long coming relief, we were home, together as a family, reunited again.

Arriving in France I guess you could say I was somewhat perplexed, my impression of France, as we tend to stereotype most countries, was that of a provincial, Parisian type, quaint and artisanal. Anyone who has lived in the South of France will know that ‘le Sud‘ is structurally, culturally and personably different, a community unto its own. It’s hot, stiflingly hot, the people are all gloriously dark and tanned with a thick twangy southern French accent and the arid, Mediterranean landscape is bafflingly breathtaking. It completely throws your expectations but there is something very special and unique about the South of France. The Big Man, having been here for some time now organizing life for us here in France, revelled in the opportunity to play tour guide and to show us all what our new home, Narbonne, had to offer. Proudly he whisked us off to see the sites, magical days at Carcassonne Castle, blissfully lazy afternoons swimming in the Mediterranean Sea and our favourite, breakfast and grocery shopping at the local indoor market, Les Halles, where he confidently practised and used his French to introduce us to all the local butchers, ‘fruitiers’, restaurateurs he had come to know and in an inviting, welcoming familiarity, these new faces later became our close friends. Everything was going smoothly. It was a wonderfully fulfilling time of reconnection and new connection.

Once the eagerness and excitement of our arrival settled and toward the end of our first week here, practicalities of establishing our new life here came into play and little things that made a home a home were beginning to need attention, so on the Friday we made plans to make the most dreaded of trips to IKEA. I say this with tongue and cheek but we as a family, as I think many families do, brace ourselves for a day at IKEA! Arguments are always almost a certainty, the misplacing of a child a possibility, and the buying of unnecessary quirky kitchen utensils a guarantee. We came, we saw, we conquered (just barely) and on the long drive home, IKEA being in the next major city, Montpellier, an hour from our little village, the Hurricane, exhausted, now sleeping slumped in the back seat, amongst a sea of efficiently packed Swedish boxes, I sat tired and contented with my arms wrapped around my belly feeling the gentle stirrings of my Beau rolling and rocking within me. In the whirlwind of arriving I really hadn’t found time to sit and just be with my baby, all mothers will know what I mean, those quiet, silent moments when it’s just the two of you, the noise of the rest of the world softens for just a short time and you are bound, completely in touch with this remarkable little being, it’s just you and your baby. He stirred so much for that drive and for most of the night, lively, vibrant, almost innocently playful, playing with his mummy, as though he was smiling, happy. That time, in truth was the last time I definitively and with strength felt him move.

With no major plans for our Saturday we made our way to the beach for more time as a family, the Big Man would be starting intense pre-season training soon so we wanted to make the most of the summer and our time together. Caught up in the fun of the day, it wasn’t really until we made our way home, the Hurricane now wiped out and ready for an afternoon nap and me finally with my feet up on the couch, cup of tea in hand, taking a moment in the quiet, that I made the conscious time to sit and feel my little one wriggle. Silence. Not a slight shift in position making himself comfortable or a fluttering, twitching kick. Silence. I thought to myself he must just be sleeping, it had been a big active day of external rocking and rolling the peaceful quiet is just as relaxing, restful for him. Initially having no movement, alarm bells soft, muffled they didn’t ring, he was always quiet my gentle little soul. I had become accustomed to the slower pace he lived by compared to the constant whirlwind of his big brother.

Hours passed and I began to become more aware that I still had not felt any strong purposeful movements, no solid kick or shifting shoulders, no tucking elbow against my ribs or rushing, pedalling feet. Still subduing my worry I made deliberate attempts to get him wriggling, a big cold glass of water, the rush of the chilled freshness always encouraged a flutter, nothing, a jiggle and tickle of my tummy, normally prompted a mischievous ‘stop it’ kick, nothing. Drawing myself a nice, warm bath, this will do it, he loved the water, the lovely, stretching slow movements of a calm, contented baby, nothing. He was quiet. He was still.

Going to bed that night my body ached with the creeping, crawling angst of fear, of worry, of bitter yearning, “please just let me know you are ok”. That numbing, gnawing feeling and knowing that something just isn’t right. I think every woman at some point in their pregnancy has moments of need, a need from your little one to give you a reassuring nudge from within and that time, that consuming waiting, tingles and pulls, weighs down upon you, heavy, solid, suffocating. You can’t breathe, you can’t think, every sense armed and poised, waiting. I close my eyes, restlessly I fall asleep, sure that I will feel something, anything, ‘you’re over-thinking, he’s a quiet little soul, you’ve felt this way before, you’ve checked him, not once, but three times before and every time he’s been fine’.

Sunday, slowly I inch my way, sliding along the mattress as elegantly as all heavily pregnant women shuffle out of bed. As I stand I feel a slow, gentle roll forward from within, it didn’t feel right, limp, lifeless, not an exertion or a rocking shift. I put it out of mind, perhaps out of denial, perhaps based on hope but I made the effort to feel the movement as a reassurance, a mantra, he was ok. Deep down, in the depths of it all, I knew he wasn’t but the rational, fearful mind can and does strongly take over your knowing, motherly, intuition. Being a Sunday in France everything is closed, the bustle of the village is changed to a slow paced promenade of rest. Even with the rising panic we began to feel helpless not knowing who to contact or where to go with our concern. Morbidly I remember a raggedly, overwhelmed and emotionally strained conversation with my beautiful friend, my kindred mother, back home in Aus, worried and concerned she instructed me without a hesitation to just go to a doctor, even now I can see my text…I know that even if I went now, if I haven’t felt him moving, he’s already gone.

Monday morning, still riddled with uncertainty, the faint lifeless rolling confusing and clouding my reasoning, we decided to seek help and put my fears to rest. I just needed to hear his heartbeat. Meeting with the team’s coach that day, a fellow Australian, he contacted the team’s doctor who immediately made an appointment for us with an obstetrician at the local hospital. Quickly, hurriedly, we made our way to l’hopital de Narbonne. Once there we were confronted by a wall of language barrier, and a complicated system we didn’t understand, different to what we knew back home. Tensions rising, using limited, broken French we fumbled and mumbled as best we could, sent in every different direction, following flustered pointed gestures, trying desperately to read, to understand, foreign words and signage. Finally, late, at the peak of panicked frustration we found the correct department. Sitting in the waiting room, slowly calming, regaining control, we sat, together but in many ways alone, annoyed with each other for reasons really unknown to the other, a mix of emotions for a difficult situation made all the more complex with barriers we weren’t at all prepared for. I don’t think you fully appreciate or comprehend the ability to communicate until it’s taken from you.

Madame ‘SH’ ‘I’ ‘UNN’ (Sheehan), was that us? Are they calling us? Yes that must be for us…the poor nurse struggling to pronounce our name, a complexity of sounds rarely seen together in the French tongue; gathering a tired, bored Hurricane who, with a patience I hadn’t seen in him before, had been carted and carried from pillar to post with two parents immensely absorbed in the chaos, we made our way to the doctor’s office. Waiting to greet us was a genuinely warm, caring, gentle man, softly spoken with a comforting smile. No English but the concern was understood. Cautiously guiding me to the examination chair, he carefully prepared me for a sonogram. Holding the Hurricane in his arms I could see the eagerness on the Big Mans face, the realization struck me, this would be the first scan, the first time he would be seeing our baby, an undeniable excitement for all parents and I could see him fascinated peering at the screen. Slowly becoming clearer, there he was, our boy, our beautiful baby boy, the outline of his head, his face, his arms, his legs, his hands and feet, his big round belly, my eyes scanning quickly resting on his chest, the white light, the blinking flash of light, gone, no flicker, just still. Everything slowed around me, looking at my husband I could still see hopeful joy on his face, still just happy to finally see his boy, intrigued, with our Hurricane wriggling and wrestling in his arms, I feel a hand, soft, somber, delicate, take mine, looking, the doctors eyes, sad, meet mine and tapping on his chest I hear him say the words ‘non le coeur’ …no heartbeat.

Screaming in utter disbelief I hear my husband’s voice cracking ‘No!’ crumbling, folding to his knees, the Hurricane, frightened by the emotion wrapping himself around me, I rock, back and forth, tears breaking, fallen, heaving, broken, my husband, now arms around me, crying, sobbing, words spoken, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you knew, I should have listened, I’m sorry”. I will never forget that ‘No’ from his lips, the sound it made, the heartbroken gasp before he spoke, it split me, struck me to depths I’ll never be able to reach or remove it from. I can still see the doctor slowly moving around us, making arrangements and we, held together as one, our small family, together, cried, hearts splintering, together in each other’s pain.

Control now taken from us we were moved, nurses, eyes full of solace, condolence, an empathetic, unknown language spoken to us, gently guided us to the delivery wing where we were lead and left, alone in our grief, in a private room where I would stay for the coming days waiting to deliver our son. Perhaps now in a state of shock, I lay against the bed, fragile and quiet, soft tears still rolling down my cheeks. The Hurricane, for once calm, almost knowingly, playing contently alone with his cars on the floor. Picking up the phone I call home, the click of connection, my mum’s happy voice at the end of the line and in one howling breath I cry “he’s gone”. Raw and openly grieving now I fumble the phone to my husband unable to speak, unable to think, incapable of putting into words the pain, the loss. Months later my mum would remind me of the significance of what I’d said, consumed by the agony of the moment I hadn’t realized, but as she reminded me I hadn’t said ‘we’ve lost him’ but rather, in some knowing way, I’d said ‘he’s gone’ perhaps as I’d worried, I’d checked him repeatedly, I’d had a sense of fragility, in some small way a part of me knew he was always going. I’ll never know.

Operating almost robotically, the Big Man continued to call our family and friends back home, the same disbelief, the same hysteria muffled at the end of the line and each time I watched him break, hurting with every touch of the distance between the love and support we had, so far from us right now. It is remarkable how people, some almost strangers to us, can rally together, giving their help, their support, giving themselves in a time of need. Friends we had only just met swooping in and quite literally taking our Brody, our Hurricane, without question or hesitation, knowing that all we had was each other. I don’t think we can ever truly express the grateful thanks we will always have for them for making a hopeless situation just that little bit easier.

Doctors coming and going, some trying as best they can to explain timelines and procedures in broken English, others unable to, forced to speak simplified French to blank staring faces. Having delivered the Hurricane by c-section it was intended that Beau would be delivered the same way, but as it was expressed to us, perhaps frankly and unintentionally harsh, that here in France, they won’t scar the uterus for a baby that won’t be born living, I would be delivering him naturally. Dumbfounded my thoughts raced, I don’t know how to deliver a baby naturally, I didn’t with the Hurricane, I’ve never even been to a birthing class! From a darker more fearful, frightened place it struck me, how am I going to have the strength to push through the pain when I have nothing to push for? When I know my baby will never cry?

I am numb, the stale scratch of the white cotton sheets of my hospital bed grate across my skin. Alone in the quiet, in the dark of my room, the Big Man gone now for the night checking on our Hurricane, packing and preparing for a stay we hadn’t expected, unable to stay with me, I lay, cradling my swollen, lifeless belly, hand nestled against it, still connected to the physicality but disconnected from the life, the life and the soul you feel within you, it was gone. Here alone over the coming days is where my inner self, shattered, wandered darkly, lost in a sea of raw, brutal emotion. It is here that I want to be honest, from a place of truthful openness of feeling during this cold time of waiting. It may be confronting but to understand the depths of my grief, the feelings that etched within me, it needs to be.

I am a coffin. My body that once carried hopeful life, now carries helpless death. I move and I feel the lifeless, heavy body of my son clunk and tumble forward within me. It feels cripplingly different to the wonderful rolls and kicks of life. It is morbidly silent, still, unnatural. It eats away at you, knowing that all you have left is their body. You will never feel anything but the weight of them again. For two days I waited, I sat, holding, carrying, knowing that my child was dead and he was still inside me. Anger, heartbreak, pity, despair an unimaginable loathing and grief. It was here that subconsciously I built a wall around me, a disconnecting, unfeeling wall, as the reality of what I’d become was too great to bare. I wanted to be released from this tomb, released from the physical confines, to just be released so I could hold him, I could feel him in my arms and look upon him, to just hold my son, my baby, to tell him I’m sorry I couldn’t hold on, to tell him I loved him and I’m sorry that for reasons I will never understand, physically, we are apart. To no longer carry him, to cradle him as I’m meant to. To let go. To say goodbye.

The night before delivery I was given two small white pills, these tiny fragments, in one moment, in one action would start the process of inducing labour, the final step. Such a surreal and numbing feeling, it was all such a physical concept to me by this stage, emotionally I had nothing left to give, not anger, nor sadness, no angst or apprehension, I had become programmed and technical, knowing I had to be strong, not just for the pain but knowing I couldn’t let myself concave completely, not yet, I had to get through tomorrow, I had to support the physical as I knew the emotional would break every inch of me once I took this final step in our journey, connected physically, together.

Morning, with my husband by my side, he was so quiet, changed, almost stripped bare, standing on unstable ground, robbed of a strength I had become so used to seeing in him through his work, here now he was weakened, withered, beaten, completely broken. Again, two more pills and our last time of waiting. After speaking with our great friend and Doctor back home, because it was too difficult at this point to try to understand any explanation in French, we knew that because we had been induced, once the contractions started, it would all happen relatively quickly.

Laying there together in a combined silence, my hand still gently stroking my swollen belly I felt the rippling, creeping tensions of my first contraction. So subtle at first, gradually becoming more intense. Moving slowly with my midwives, these women, these two remarkable women, filled with an understanding and a beautiful empathy for me, for us, even if they couldn’t express it in words, I honestly don’t believe I could have got through the delivery without them. Moving slowly with these two pillars of strength, we were transferred to the delivery room, hand in hand with my husband.

As the contractions became heavier, deeper, pulsating intensely through my body the anaesthetist arrived. In a situation such as ours all I expected was warmth, but here, in the height of pain and emotion was the only time I encountered someone cold. In a very detached, matter of fact way, she told me ‘c’est la vie’ quite brutally, ‘that’s life’. It washed over me like a bee sting, insurmountable compared to the pain of birth and the pain of grief I was already experiencing. Agreeing to an epidural, I was hurriedly crumpled forward bracing for the needle. In it went, the piercing sting of steel, she had missed, yet rather than remove the needle and try again she began to dig around, working and moving it in the space of my spine. Grabbing one hand each I could see the worried looks of my midwives, my husband, grey, in tears, was hurried out the room for fear of vomiting. I clenched my teeth, breathe. Satisfied she had succeeded, she was gone, as quickly and with an air of inconvenience as when she came.

As the pain continued to grow reflecting the vibrations of each reverberating contraction it became apparent to my midwives, to my husband and infinitely to me that my epidural hadn’t worked but the window of opportunity for drugs had now closed. Reflecting on it all now, in many ways, I’m glad it hadn’t worked, the pain in some primal, baser way helped me to connect to the whole experience. I was present to the pain, I could attach myself to it and attach the pain of my grief, the pain of my loss, my wretched bitterness and desperation, was attached, transformed and carried on the physical agony. The brief moments of calm between contractions I wallowed in it, exhausted, what only is a minute can stretch and feel like hours of long sleep. Here I rested with Beau, here we were together in white noise, together, lovingly holding each other’s hand, taking each gentle step forward together, as one.

Push, it was here, that surging, uncontrollable pressure, the fight over, that last ounce of strength pulled upon, pressure building again. Push, push, push…

I scream, I scream from pain, I scream from grief, I scream from anger, anguish a bitter, desperate why,? Why my boy, my baby boy, our son, our child, why? That moment of painful release and I let go, I let him go and physically for the final moment we are no longer locked as one. Our connected bodily journey over, and for a brief moment I am quiet, empty, hanging weightless in the air of it.

Over the haze I can hear my husband’s cracking, broken voice filter in ‘he’s here, he’s here’. Placed in my arms is the small, fragile and achingly lifeless body of my son. Beautifully and with love the midwives, these foreign speaking Angels had wrapped him and maternally placed a beanie on his head. I want to say I was there. I long to say I was present in it all but the truth, the sad lonely truth of it all is that I wasn’t, I had disconnected myself from it all. Whether as a protective mechanism or a primal, intimate knowledge, I couldn’t absorb the moment. I held him, I breathed him in, I kissed his head, his cheeks his lips, I felt the weight of him against my chest and his cradled curve in my arms, but I knew he was gone, that perfect soul I had been connected to, he had left me, I had lost him and he was gone.

Despite my disconnection, when it came time to let him go, to let go of the final piece of him, my son, I ached. To let him leave my arms meant that last tangible touch would be gone forever. That physical distance between us becoming deeper and further as they carried him away. I can still now feel the weight of him, the density of his body upon me, I don’t believe a mother ever forgets how their children feel from the first moment they are placed in their arms. It is comforting with that knowledge that I can, at anytime, go back to that moment and to let myself connect, to allow myself to be present and to give myself just one more minute, one more moment with him in my arms.

Together, wrapped in the arms of my husband and the midwives, we wept, openly and together in an understood sadness and grief. I grieved, he and I together as one grieved in the most honestly raw, vulnerable and connected grief.

Laying back down upon my bed, exhausted, fragmented, shattered, it is difficult to describe the utterly broken splintering of yourself, the pulling of the physical and emotional crushing of exhaustion, I close my eyes. Bring myself to feel it, I cradle my now soft, empty belly and I weep, no screaming, no anger, just the billowing and flowing of gentle tears for my sadness, for my loss and for the aching distance I now feel between he and I, between Beau, my son. It is incredible the capacity a heart has and can take, to have in it all at once all encompassing love and longing despair. I was no longer in pain but I ached, I ached to have him next to me, to hear the soft, subtle rise and fall of the chest of peacefully sleeping newborn, the little grunting night noises they make, the twitching and the shifting as they dream, the hungry or I just need you rising cry, but there was nothing, just silence and I ached and I wept, alone in the silence, for the newborn noises, for the noises of my baby.

As I woke, for the first time in days, the sun shone brightly through the window. Unbelievably we had storms and rain for days but here today the sun broke through. Excitedly I was met but my beautiful Hurricane, suddenly so much older than I had ever seen him. They say that you never truly see your child for the age they are until you have a younger following them, and I found that to be true. The last time I saw him he was my baby and now before me was this vibrant, full of life toddler. Sadness still etched across my husband’s face I carefully dressed in the clothes I had worn while I still carried our baby boy. Face dropping he almost pitifully gasped, “your tummy – it’s just gone”. The physical changes and reality in many ways solidifying the days just past and again the weight of it grew heavier on both our shoulders. My Hurricane in one hand and my husband by my side, arm protectively wrapped around my waist, we began to make our way home, together as our little family, still fragile, shaken and with a long road ahead but I just wanted to be home, with my boys, together.

We were changed, weaker, weary and in many ways scarred, but in the same breath we were stronger, closer, not just as a couple but as a family. We were together. We had each other. For now, with the journey ahead, all we needed was the love and new found strength between us as we prepared to take, together, each day, just one step at a time…

For our Beau, born sleeping 19/06/2014, our child, our son, our perfect, beautiful baby boy, I love you, the pain I felt in losing you will never compare to love I feel and the love I carry for you. This was your story, it is not finished, every day you write a new chapter with me and not a day goes by that I don’t miss you, think of you, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a tear. I love you but as I cannot hold your hand as we walk this life together, I will, forever carry your beautiful soul in my heart.

A Father’s Perspective


Matt Casey, 8 March 2016

Twelve months ago I wrote the words that follow:

‘Tomorrow I say goodbye to my daughter, my little Angel. She was born in the arms of God on the 11th March 2015 at 7:55am. It is a day that I thought would never happen to my family and to be honest it should never happen to anyone.

It has been the hardest and most heart wrenching time in my life. The feeling that we have done something wrong, the feeling that I will never have a child of my own with my genes. I was so looking forward to being a Daddy. I am lucky to be dad to my stepchildren, although they are not just ‘step’children to me, but I also wanted to be ‘Daddy’. I wanted my little girl to run to the window when she heard the garage door open to see if I was home, I wanted her to rush to me as I walked in the door for a cuddle, I wanted her to climb up on the couch and fall asleep in my arms.’

Today, twelve months later, I sit in another hospital room – the same as the one I sat in when we lost our Angel. The difference is, today I sit here holding my beautiful rainbow baby daughter, Summer. I have had tears of joy but I also have had tears of sadness and altogether they make me feel blessed because I now can be a Daddy. I can see her waiting at the window when I arrive home from work. And all the things I wanted before can happen, and more.

Losing a child at birth doesn’t only affect mothers; it also leaves a lasting hole in a father’s heart as well. I had a conversation with another father in the parents lounge in the hospital this morning at about 3am while we were both giving our partners a chance to sleep without a crying baby.

This father asked me if Summer was my first child and at first I said yes, my first other than my stepson Max, but I corrected myself and said “no we actually lost a baby this time last year”.

To my surprise the father I was talking to had also lost a child at birth a few years back and now had been blessed with a rainbow baby. He said that he didn’t talk about the loss of his baby often and it made me realise that I don’t either. But the big question is why? Why as fathers don’t we talk about the loss of our babies, why is it something we keep to ourselves? Is it because we didn’t carry the baby inside us for months? Or is it because we didn’t have to physically birth our little Angel baby? Is it because there’s a perception that it only affects the mother and we don’t want to seem weak? All of that could be true and valid but I know first-hand that it does affect us as fathers, in many ways too, and that there should be nothing wrong in acknowledging that.

The moment I heard the words; “I am sorry there is no heart beat”, my heart sunk and I instantly felt empty. It affected me when I watched my wife go through what she went through to deliver Angel. I hurt that day twelve months ago and I still hurt today. These Angels are still a part of us and we have still lost a child. Fathers need to be supported as much as mothers, and need to know it is ok to talk about their Angel. Fathers could be supporting other fathers to help remove the stigma around Dads and stillbirth.

Make it your resolve to talk about it and not hide the fact you are a father of a stillborn.

My Stillborn Baby Still Counts as My Child

Sebastian-Smart-cropI am a mother to Sienna, Sebastian and Tennyson.

Today marks the second anniversary of the birth of our son Sebastian, who was stillborn at 38 weeks on April 6th, 2014.  Up until the point that we lost him, he was a healthy, lively little baby kicking around inside me.

For a while now, I have repeatedly been asked a very difficult and indeed painful question (often by friends who are only too aware of our tragic loss).

Are you going to have a 3rd child? 

From a stranger this question is more understandable, even if it is a touch intrusive. But from someone who knows me, I am staggered. Do they not count Sebastian as our baby because he died? Even though he was alive in me for 9 months, just like their own babies, who they were fortunate enough to hear cry when they were born?  I gave birth to our son too, naturally and yes, it was cruel, heartbreaking and utterly horrendous but we got to hold him just like they held their babies. The difference was that we had a funeral for ours 10 days later.

When answering this question, I will sometimes immediately correct the person and say, you mean our 4th baby?  And of course I get hit with a scrambled apology and the question is presented again in a different way.

But sometimes if I am caught off guard, I don’t correct the person, and I simply say that we would probably like another baby.  Then the guilt immediately hits me and stays with me all day and sometimes for many days. I feel then as if I allowed the dismissal of Sebastian’s existence.

There are many stages of grief. Two years on, they are all present for me.  There remains in my mind and body the disbelief, anguish, sadness and, especially when this unthinking question arises from friends, the guilt.

Sebastian will always be our son.  He will always be remembered, he will always be loved and he will always be sorely missed. Sebastian did exist and he is a very real presence in our family every single day.

I don’t want to sound bitter. I admit I am sometimes angry. But, I’m also thankful my friends’ babies were born healthy.  I’m thankful too that we got to see Sebastian and spend time with him before saying goodbye. I’m thankful for our firstborn daughter, who gave us strength to carry on.  I’m thankful for my husband who is the most incredible, strong and selfless man and I’m thankful for our second son, Tennyson, who arrived almost exactly a year to the day after we lost Sebastian.

This experience has also taught me to be gentle with my own words when I speak to any woman of a certain age, I do not make assumptions in inquiring about her fertility–now or past. When I see a woman without a child, I think: You don’t know her story.  She may not want a child.  She may have suffered countless losses.  She may be trying desperately for a baby to no avail but by asking the question, it may cut deeper than we know.

I just don’t want people to dismiss our first son.  I implore people not to be careless with their words.  If you must ask if we would like another child, why not ask exactly that:

Are you thinking of having another child? 

Any mother who suffers a stillbirth will have challenges in their everyday life that will make them ache for the child that isn’t with them. From simple things like filling out forms where you have to state how many children you have to seeing children the same age that your child would have been. I just urge you to recognize and respect that any child born to a mother counts. More often than not that baby was loved and longed for from the moment it was created.

Saying Goodbye to Addison Paul Grace

Addison-Paul-13-February-2015-300x300“There’s no fetal heart” the words that will forever be on repeat inside my head.

We had a routine scan on the Thursday morning, I’d woken at 4am realising I hadn’t felt much movement. I shook it off thinking don’t be silly go back to sleep, you’ve got a appointment in a few hrs and all will be ok. I couldn’t sleep, I went downstairs for a cold drink thinking maybe that’d wake her up I thought maybe I felt a little flutter but looking back that was just in my head. I called my mum to collect our 2yr old as I said I had a funny feeling. Not really knowing what that feeling was.

Our little boy was born at 33weeks due to being small, we had twice weekly scans with him to keep an eye on his growth and it was just a matter of time for him to come out. I had 3 lots of steroid injections with him, and was told on Xmas eve it was time to pull him out, born on the 27th December weighing 1.74kg he was a beautiful healthy little boy. So what I was expecting to hear at the routine scan was that it was time to take her out, however all our previous scans had shown no signs of anything like we had with our son, she was healthy and looking good for a 35plus delivery.

That morning we drove to see our sonogropher (who we’d gotten to know well after our first baby and then second time round, we felt like family walking into the waiting room each time.) the drive in was quiet, neither of us said a word. We walked into the room after waiting some time, I told her I wasn’t feeling much movement, she said lets take a look.

The minute the screen turned on in front of us we knew, something was different and then there it was she pulled away and put her hand on mine and said “I’m sorry, there’s no fetal heart” Ben grabs my hand and we both have tears streaming down our faces, I want to scream but I just clench up as our sonogropher has a look to see if she can see a cause. She says I’m sorry, and all I can say to her it’s ok, it’s ok. I look back and think what was ok in that moment? Really what was ok about it? Nothing, nothing was ok, my whole world just came crashing down in a second and all I could say was its ok!?

We then had to see our dr who gave us the options on what we needed to do next. I still had to deliver this baby somehow. We decided her birth would be just like her brothers a c section, I  couldn’t bring my self to experience a natural birth when the end wouldn’t be what it should be. (I knew having a c section would mean it would be over quicker) We got booked in for first thing the next morning, I remember walking out of the Drs office covering my belly with my cardigan I was hiding my baby, I wanted her out, I wanted it all over with but we had to go home and somehow I had to try and get some sleep but I lay awake asking why us? What did we do to deserve this? How did we become a statistic?

Morning came, (Friday 13th February) we walked into the hospital. My husband checked us in whilst another pregnant women was checking in too. I sat down in the waiting room, tears rolling down my face a nurse comes over with a box of tissues, she knew why I was there. I was the one who’d lost their baby. Soon enough it was time to go to theatre, the nursing staff took good care of me whilst Ben put on his scrubs. I remember how cold it was, soft music in the background and Ben by my side watching the moment his little girl came into the world. As she was coming out Ben said to me she’s got lots of hair and indeed she did, this is when normally you’d hear a little cry and I was praying so hard that she’d let out a little cry but nothing, just silence. The beautiful nurse wrapped her up in a blanket that I’d bought at 20weeks after finding out we were having a baby girl. It was at that moment i realised every little bit of my baby was real, she was real, A beautiful baby girl who I had so many hopes and wishes for, the baby girl I’d been growing inside of me for the last 7 months, she had arrived and was absolutely perfect but she couldn’t stay on earth with us.

This time was suppose to be different, this time I prayed I got to have my baby girl in my hospital room with me not down in special care nursery. Well I got to have her in my room, but it wasn’t how the dream went. We got back to our room,  baby girl in her crib it was a very surreal moment. We got some alone time and then our nurse came in to help us take photos, prints of her little hands and feet and we even got a lock of her beautiful dark curly hair. She told us how beautiful she was and how perfect, we cannot thank the nursing staff enough for being so wonderfully caring. We’ll forever think of them and be thankful of them for helping us through this storm as they became part of our healing.

That first night I cried and cried I knew we’d probably have to say goodbye to our baby girl the next day. My incredibly strong husband held me and wiped away my tears, We decided together that it was time. Mum, Dad and our little boy came to say their goodbyes too.

We then had a few more days in hospital which felt like we were living in this little bubble, a very safe bubble where the rest of the world just didn’t exist. It came time to leave the hospital, We walked out without our baby, Just like we did with our son only we knew he’d come home once he was big and strong. This time we were going home to plan a funeral.

Addison’s service was beautiful, we had family and friends travel to come say their goodbyes. I realised not only did we loose our baby girl but we lost a sister,granddaughter, niece, great granddaughter, great niece and a little friend. They too are grieving and to them I say thank you, thank you for being there, for giving our girl the beautiful send off she deserved.

Some time has now passed and there are still days that hurt just as much as the day we lost her. May she forever be our little angel up in the sky watching over us. She will be forever part of our family, her birthday will be celebrated just the way it should be every year and she will be forever loved.

For whatever reason this happened to us, we have hope, with out hope we have nothing right? Hope for research, hope to reduce the statistics and finally hope for our future.

Hunter James Cullen’s Story


My angel baby: Hunter James Cullen, 06/8/13

I have two children: one living, the other an angel baby. My living child, Siena Jane, is three. She is my firstborn. She is my love, and all my hopes and dreams for both of my children now rest on her. She is what I call my calm before the storm.

‘The storm’ is Hunter, my second child, my angel baby. He would be almost two now. He was the storm, right from the word go. The pregnancy was a surprise, that’s for sure, but we welcomed the idea of a baby, regardless of whether he was planned or not.

The whole pregnancy was painful – Hunter’s movements were so rough that I would sit in pain, conscious of my own movements so as not to make him to move around more.

Then, the biggest storm of all: I lost him. His precious little heart stopped beating, no movement. I felt the life drain out of me. Inside me was an emptiness that I would never be able to fill. The light dimmed and left a raging hole, a place so dark that it scares me just to think about it. The storm had begun.

On August 5, 2013, I awoke to a normal day, just like any other. It was a Monday. I had Siena, my then 1.5-year-old, at home; my husband Matt was still in bed, as we were heading off to the doctor to get some checks done on my pregnancy. I was 34 weeks and was getting excited to meet our little boy, already named Hunter.

After some time, I realised that I hadn’t felt any movements from Hunter. I decided to drag myself up off the lounge and make an ice cold cup of water (they say cold will get the baby moving every time). After minutes of drinking my water, there was nothing. Still.

Panic was setting in, but I was trying to rationalise why he wouldn’t be kicking yet. I decided I’d try a cup of coffee instead. Still nothing.

I sat down and began to let the reality sink in. Shortly after, Matt came downstairs to see me in a bit of a panicked state. He tried extremely hard to keep calm, but also hurried me up so that we could get to the doctors and get it checked out properly.

By the time we arrived at the doctor I was frantic. I explained that Hunter wasn’t making movements this morning, and that I was terribly worried. The doctor tried to stay as calm as possible, but the anxiety in the room built. He moved the Doppler over my big belly and struggled to hear anything. Then maybe there was something. Maybe, a slight chance there was a heartbeat – but he explained that he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t my own heartbeat.

He said we needed to go to hospital, to hurry in and they will be waiting. The car trip there was frightening and quiet. Matt and I were frozen. The only thing he remembers is the song that was playing on the radio: My Resolution.

My memory of that morning from there is a blur. All the minutes and hours after seem like a chain of events that I can’t bring myself to remember quite right. So here are the pieces that I remember.

We arrived at the hospital and I was lead into a stale room where I’m hooked up to machines. The next thing I recall is the doctor explaining to me that there is no heartbeat. Hunter has passed away through some time in the night, encompassed in my warm body, listening to my heart beat. I didn’t even know.

We had no way of knowing what to expect, the midwives and doctors explained to us what was to happen moving forward, and it seemed so cold. I asked if they could give me a caesarean and get him out, see if there was any hope. They said it wasn’t ideal; that for me to heal, to grieve properly, that a natural delivery was the best option. This was what I would have done if he were still alive, so we decided to do the same what we would have done if he were to be born alive.

We were told to go home, to try and rest. To grieve in privacy. The next day would be the day we would meet our angel baby: Tuesday 6th August would be Hunter’s birthday. Not the day he went to be with the angels, as he was already there.

We barely slept, and I wondered for hours, ‘how did this happen, why my boy? How did we get here?’

Arriving at the hospital was morbid. There’s no other word for it. Matt and I had no idea what to expect. I felt so awful, and unforgivingly guilty; a mother’s grief and guilt, all wrapped into a horrid bundle of messiness.

We walked through the halls into a very quiet delivery suite. I had no idea of what was to come, how being induced worked. I can tell you that the beginning of this whole delivery wasn’t great. However, a few hours in, we were blessed by a staff change over, and the most amazing midwives that I could ever meet. One who was younger than I, but somehow so much older, the other so encouraging and willing to help and be with us emotionally as much as she could. These women deliver babies every day, and have the joy of listening to those little babies crying and gasping for their first breath. This day it would be silent.

Hours later, we greeted our little angel baby. He was perfect. He was still, but he was perfect, so I got to see my angel baby’s face, touch his lips, feel his body on mine, and hold his little fingers in my hand.

Matt chose to play My Resolution at Hunter’s funeral; I chose to play Time After Time. Both songs belong to my angel baby now.

I live with this every day. My heartbreak is not as raw today as it was yesterday, and yesterday it was not as raw as the day before that. Still, every day, my heart has a hole where my baby angel’s memories are. I cry a lot. I visit the cemetery often. I talk to Siena about her baby brother. We celebrate his short lived life in my womb.

Most days I’m good. Some days I am not. Sometimes people forget that I have a son. Sometimes they remember. The days when a stranger asks whether I’ll have more children break me down. I want to say I have one more, I want to tell them my story. But if I do, will they be apologetic, sympathetic or feel guilty for asking. All responses that I know make me cringe as much as they do for asking.

It is now more than two years on. I will continue to raise awareness of stillbirths, and help The Stillbirth Foundation to create interest and generate much needed funding so that research can be conducted into why stillbirths occur. I will fight for us and all the other families who have lost a baby or who will lose a baby unjustly. I will fight to find solutions to this problem, so other families don’t have to suffer this pain and heartbreak. I will be strong. I will do this in my son’s name, because I never want anyone to hurt as much as we have.

Every year 2190 babies are stillborn in Australia. That’s 6 Australian families who experience the devastation of stillbirth every day. Hundreds of parents have added their support to show that #iamthatstatistic. Will you join them? See iamthatstatistic.org.au.

In loving memory of Maurice Stanley Cummings

Maurice-Cummings1-300x300THE DAY OUR BABY DIED…..

Nervous and anxious, I sat in the waiting room gripping my husband’s hand. This last week I hadn’t been feeling well. I had developed lower back and pelvic pain and just couldn’t get comfortable. I’d been having Braxton hicks which had progressively become stronger and I just didn’t feel right. At my last appointment only two days earlier, my Obstetrician had diagnosed me with having an ‘irritable uterus’ which explained my discomfort and mimicked labor symptoms. Yet sitting here I didn’t feel confident and just shy of 6 months pregnant, was not feeling reassured.

I have one of the best Private Obstetricians so I took comfort knowing I was in the best hands. He called me in and gave me a complete examination. There were no signs of labor. My cervix was completely closed, heart rate normal, nothing to cause concern at all.

That night I gave birth to our son…..

My contractions began at midday but I had no idea they were the real deal! I couldn’t be in labour, it wasn’t the right time and my diagnosis of irritable uterus explained these ‘mock’ contractions. However, hours later, once they really intensified and I was on the floor in agony, my husband called the hospital.

We were told to come straight in. As soon as I got in the car the reality sank in. We were having our baby. This was my second labour so I was no longer naive to what we were facing.

I remember looking at the clock on the dash between contractions and it were as if time had stood still. The numbers blurred and I remember waves of heat flooding through my body. We were about 10 minutes from the hospital when an all too familiar urge to push came over me. I desperately wanted to hold on, to make it to hospital, to not do this this by ourselves. And then, completely beyond my control, our son was born in the car. My husband pulled over and followed instruction from the 000 operator. My waters never broke as our baby was still inside the amniotic sac (1:80,000 births). My husband had to break through the membrane to get our baby out, to give him a chance at life. It was the most tragic and heartbreaking moment I have ever experienced, watching my husband desperately try to revive our son whom only minutes earlier I could feel kicking inside. Once the ambulance arrived, the paramedics worked on him for a while but he was just too little to survive. He was placed on my chest for that very first cuddle. With my heart in agony and despair, tears streamed down my face as I took in all that I could of our gorgeous baby boy. Desperately hoping for him to take a breath. Hoping for a miracle, desperate to wake from this nightmare. But it did not.

Our lives instantly changed forever.


Laying in the hospital bed, my husband and I were in complete shock, silence and denial. It would take weeks before this new ‘normal’ would sink in. We had cried all through the night and my face ached, my eyes were stinging and my cheeks tight from the dried tears. The sun had come up and the world had continued to go on! We would now have to contact our family and friends to announce the birth and death of our baby boy Maurice. For the rest of that day I remained cool, calm and collected. Putting on a brace front, trying to survive, pretending to be okay. The visitors came and went in shifts but I don’t remember anything anyone said or did. Nothing could sink in. I was far from okay.


Coming home, this was going to be the second hardest thing to do. We would have to face reality and explain to our 3 year old daughter that her baby brother had died and there was no longer a baby in mummy’s tummy. This has since taught me the resilience that children have. Life is black or white and you’re either right or wrong. Our daughter was amazing at her understanding and acceptance of the news we had told her. Her compassion was incredible, she knew we were devastated and would bathe us with love and cuddles. I have learnt so much about my daughter and have a much deeper respect for her at such a young age. She is an independent , caring and loving child with thoughts and feelings of her own and all to often I believe as parents it is easy to brush off or dismiss them because they are only ‘little’. Our daughter is very intuitive and is so in tune with the people and life around her. To this day she often mentions her brother and tells us he is playing with the fairies in our garden. We love that she doesn’t need to hide her thoughts and can be so open. It won’t be until she is a grown woman herself that she will truly understand the enormity of what our family experienced.


A funeral, there would have to be a funeral so this is where I started. That first week consisted of planning, researching, songs, poems and writing a letter to my little boy. It was a surreal blur, I was living in a bubble. It hadn’t sunk in, the grief was too raw to accept. I distracted myself with planning Maurice’s memorial, I threw myself into it 24/7 because if I stopped for too long, I knew I would fall apart. Human instinct of survival kicked in and so that’s how I got though that first week.


My husband was amazing, literally out of this world amazing! He was my biggest support, my rock. He was so unbelievably strong for our little family. He held it together and he got us through the nightmare we were living. I was trying to be strong too, only a few people really unveiled my true self, I put on a thick skin and tried to go on with life. But it caught up with me and I wasn’t coping. I would let my guard down in the security of having a shower. No one would see me cry, I could get it all out, protect my daughter from this mess of a mother and try to move forward. I found it somewhat therapeutic knowing the water would wash away my tears, and give me just enough strength to put on my ‘coping’ mask.


It was around week 3 when I became aware of my fear to leave the house, to go to the supermarket, to go for coffee. The anxiety levels peaked at the thought of being outside of my comfort zone. The breaking point was the one that really cut me up and was the trigger to getting help. It was my daughters first day of pre-school. I pulled up out the front and couldn’t get out of the car, fighting back tears, I turned the ignition back on and began to reverse out of the park. My daughter asked where we were going and when I said home she burst into tears. I couldn’t do that to her, the entire Christmas holidays she had been looking forward to this day! So somehow I found strength, I have no idea where it came from but I did and I took her to that first session. Sadly, it would be the only time I took her, I just couldn’t cope in any environment. I couldn’t bring myself to attend our mothers group catch ups or take my daughter to dance class. The guilt I suffered thinking I had let my daughter down was immensely painful and I hated having to rely on friends to do these mundane tasks for me. Why couldn’t I just snap out of it, get on with life. Why was I still trying to catch my breath in this bubble I was living in.


Admitting you need help is one of the hardest things to do! I believed I was a strong person and should be fine to cope on my own, or so I thought!

I had known of two other families that had tragically given birth to their babies born sleeping. These mothers whom are beautiful women, whom love unconditionally and did everything deemed ‘correct’ in their pregnancies and yet still unjustly never got to see their baby girls take a breath. I guess you try to justify ‘why’, but you cannot. It is cruel and random and there is no rhyme nor reason to why or whom it happens to. Stillbirth is unbiased, unforgiving and now I find myself a statistic.

I knew that in order to move forward and be the mother and wife my family deserved, that I would have to seek help.

The best thing I did was see a psychologist. We worked through everything I was feeling and doing, my grief, the physical pain, the emotional pain, even topics that I didn’t realise were related became an important part of our sessions for me to accept this reality. Quite possibly the most important lesson learned was that I cared too much about how others responded to our tragedy. This was their issue and not mine. If they were uncomfortable talking about our baby or experience then that was their problem and I shouldn’t be made to feel as though I have to conform to their opinions.

We never expected anyone to fully understand what we had just gone through but a little empathy rather than formed views or opinions on how we should cope or what we should/shouldn’t do, feel or say were certainly not helpful, supportive nor welcome and we learned to brush them off.

What we found most touching is that experiencing such a traumatic event certainly builds relationships. We were and still are incredibly fortunate to have such a wonderfully strong support network and were surrounded by love. We gained closer friendships, formed new friendships but also sadly drifted from others when true colours were shown which I guess is the reality of life.


I suffered post traumatic stress. Delivering and losing our baby in such a traumatic way was incredibly hard to deal with. I still often think about it and I can only describe it as a scene from a movie. For as long as six months after, I would have panic attacks when confronted with anything associated with an ambulance. If driving , I would be forced to pull over as my grief consumed me. I would get flashbacks and immediately be taken back to that night.

Had I not have received the proper help and guidance I wonder if this would still affect me? I’m not completely desensitised to Ambulances, that all to familiar night is remembered but it doesn’t stop me in my tracks, I can take a deep breath and continue on my way.


Recurring frequent nightmares were taking their toll. One night I would be re living the birth and the next night I would wake up to cries of a newborn, I would feel the ‘let down’ in my breasts and for a split second I would believe that the reality was all a horrid nightmare and that our baby was just in the other room. It was a cruel cruel mind game that my sub conscience would trick me with.

I was incredibly depressed, every time I looked in the mirror I saw disappointment. A body that failed me, that gave up on its pregnancy at 6 months, why couldn’t it have just waited an extra few weeks. Was that really too much to ask? Instead my reflection mocked me. What was once a beautiful round tight baby bump was a dishevelled sagging flap of skin that looked so foreign being attached to my body. It was spongy and disgusted me to look at. How different I had felt following the birth of our daughter. Looking in the mirror then, I was proud of how ‘flat’ my belly was , even though it was exactly the same as it is now. I knew it would soon disappear and return to its pre pregnant state but right now I wanted to cover up and hide.

Then there were my breasts, only weeks earlier they had been full, perky, preparing to soon be a milk production service. Now they ached, sporadic bursts of pain would shoot through them, stopping me in my tracks. I had been given a tablet to stop the milk yet the colostrum still came and my hormones were fighting a losing battle. Now my boobs just hung there, lifeless, two sizes smaller and with no purpose. Sagging and empty, depressing.

The sight of blood haunted me and still does. My mind immediately flashes back. I remember looking at the car seat as the ambulance officer pulled me out of the car, it was a bloodied watery mess and for the next three weeks I continued to bleed. I was having to wear maternity pads and remember feeling so heartbroken as to how unfair and cruel this world is

Again I have my psychologist to thank as she explained theories as to why this was all happening and strategised ways to overcome what was bringing me down.

In the 18months since Maurice died, a few phobias and nightmares have reared their ugly heads, triggered unsuspectingly by different events in our life. I have accepted that this will most likely be the case for the rest of my life. It’s not necessarily a bad thing as it is a very important part of our life story and I don’t want to forget or pretend it didn’t happen.

Yes it gets easier and the days aren’t as tough. But my baby is never coming back and that pain and grief will never soften. I remember that dreadful heartbreaking day all too perfectly. Every detail, every smell, every sound. It will never leave me. Such terror will always hold its place in my heart. And I don’t want to forget as that day was the day our beautiful baby boy was born. The day we held him in our arms for the first and only time. When I breathed him in and loved him unconditionally. Taking in all his perfectness. His face, his cheek bones, his jaw line, lips, ears, arms, fingers, legs and toes. He was beautiful and that can never be taken away from me.

Every now and then I find a piece of my shattered heart in the most peculiar place and hope to one day piece it back together a little bit at a time. I long for the day that I think of my darling baby Maurice and find myself with a smile that replaces what was once a tear.


It was going to be negative, I couldn’t have fallen pregnant six weeks after our sons death. I thought back to the only night it could have been possible, we had been to a friends wedding and for the first time since our sons death we had allowed ourselves an enjoyable night out, my mind wandered back…. surely my body wouldn’t have been ready. Did I want to be pregnant? Yes…No…..I didn’t know. I was scared, terrified, I, we couldn’t go through this pain again. It would be too hard. Yes we wanted more children but not if it meant losing another. Maybe our daughter was enough. Yes, she is perfect. We didn’t need more children, but she deserved siblings. It would be cruel to take that away from her. We couldn’t be that selfish. We both wanted children, not a child. If I were pregnant then it was meant to be…… My thoughts agitating me, I looked at my phone, 5 minutes had passed. I picked up the stick……two lines. Two very strong bright pink lines. My goodness!! We are pregnant again!

I knew we would have a long road ahead of us. After Maurice had died and autopsy results came back, my obstetrician concluded that I had an incompetent cervix. I was now categorised ‘high risk’. I would need to have a cervical stitch and would have to be incredibly careful, light duties and bed rest. 12 weeks was not our safety net, we had to make it to 14. I was petrified and convinced I would miscarry. This was pregnancy number 6. We had our beautiful 2 year old daughter, our son who died too prematurely and 3 miscarriages. The odds were not in our favour.

I yearned to be excited, I wanted nothing more than to be a naive mother who falls pregnant and not once considers the possibility her baby might die. I wanted to announce to the world we were pregnant again. But the thought terrified me. What if I jinx us by telling people. I had always believed in karma and that in being a good person would reflect positively on your life. Stillbirth was one of those things that happen to other people. I now realise how absurd that was.

Those first 12 weeks were the longest of my life. Every twinge, ache, pop, bloated feeling, I was convinced was the sign of miscarriage. Every time I went to the toilet I would examine for blood. This had to be too good to be true. Surely I couldn’t have a smooth sailing pregnancy straight away. I always miscarried, thats just how it was. I was so sick. It felt great to feel so horrible. I had proper symptoms, I was gagging, tired, faint, my breasts sore and achy. It was best ‘worst’ I had ever felt! 12 weeks came and clicked over and I was still pregnant. I had considered that the baby had stopped growing and that the scan would show the baby had died. I’m not a morbid person but having lost babies, I had to be prepared for worst case scenario. We had our scan and everything was as it should be.

It was an incredibly tough pregnancy, mentally, physically and emotionally. I required psychological sessions and spent many weeks on bed rest. They were the longest 8 months of my life. To be honest, I’m not sure I could go through it all again but I am so unbelievably grateful that we fell pregnant so soon. Had it have been an active decision to ‘try’ then I’m not sure I would have ever been ready. I cannot help but to think that somehow this was the path we were meant to follow.


At 37 weeks we welcomed another beautiful baby boy. Another son whom would not be here if his brother had survived. All we can do is believe that this new little man has great purpose and is meant to be born into our little family. Proving this theory to us as he was delivered via emergency c-section, not wanting to wait another minute! My first words to my husband in that moment were ‘He is breathing…..!’.

18months on and our third baby has certainly helped our family’s healing process but the heartache still seems so raw and not a day has passed where Maurice has not been in our thoughts! Losing him has taught us so much and shaped us into who we are today. We now love and live our lives differently to honour the fact that he cannot. We hold our children closer and breathe them in, never taking them for granted and are dedicated to being the best parents we can by always putting family first and being selfless to their needs. I’m sure Maurice is watching over and protecting his big sister and little brother always!


As told by Cara Cummings, Maurice’s mum.


To donate to the Stillbirth Foundation Australia and help fund much needed research, please visit: http://www.stillbirthfoundation.org.au/donate/

Remembering Layla Emerald


Layla Emerald.  We decided on her name while on our baby moon in Vanuatu.  She was a part of our family long before her birth.

Born Still Five Days Past Due

Tragically, and still so hard to fathom, Layla was born still five days past her due date in July 2011.  Her little heart just stopped beating, and she stopped moving in my belly.  I knew something was really wrong, and despite trying everything to rouse her, the doctors confirmed the worst.  That afternoon is like a horrible, cruel nightmare that still creeps back into my mind on my “sad days”.  How do you even begin the process that the little life you’ve been lovingly nurturing for more than nine months is gone?  But yet still inside you?  I still had a big, round pregnant belly.  But we would not hear her cry at birth; we would never see her open her eyes, and we wouldn’t have the chance to strap her into her capsule and take her home from the hospital.  And a funeral for a baby is just about the most harrowing and distressing thing someone can endure. How to begin to process such an awful occurrence is still beyond me.  I’m truly not sure how I did it.

Sheer Perfection

Layla was exquisite.  She was perfect.  Too perfect for earth, in fact.   Her baby sister, who we have the privilege of parenting in a real-life sense, continues to offer us beautiful insight into what Layla might have looked like as a baby, a toddler, a pre-schooler.   But, the wondering is something that I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

The Fog of Desperate Sadness

I honestly felt that there was no possible way I could heal from Layla’s loss.  No way I could live without her in my arms.  I was certain I’d never smile or laugh again, and that the fog of desperate sadness that I lived under for months and months was my forever.   I shuddered at the thought of ever being pregnant again – because no-one could promise me it wouldn’t happen again.  And I couldn’t have survived it a second time.  Of this I was sure.

Four Years On

And yet, here I am four years on – standing, smiling, and living a truly wonderful life with my two living, breathing rainbows.  Layla’s baby siblings brought light back into my world.  Their very being is a constant reminder of what we lost when Layla died – but there’s always beauty amongst the sadness.   I am stronger than I ever thought possible, and my broken heart has begun to heal.  It is a work in progress – but I’m proud of how far I have come.  My loss is a part of who I am, but I am not defined by it.  My life is not what I thought it would be – not how I had planned it out in my head.  But this is my reality, and I am embracing it.  Layla will forever be a part of me, and we will always speak her name.  Her legacy endures through the way we will always strive to help others who follow in our path.

To Donate:

To donate to the Stillbirth Foundation Australia and help fund much needed research, please visit: http://www.stillbirthfoundation.org.au/donate/