Along comes the 30-week scan, like many busy parents I was home dealing with our toddler who was home from day care sick, so my wife attended alone. Normally this would be the case anyway with both of us juggling work. The scan was early in the afternoon, she called around 2pm saying Kate (the Obstetrician) was concerned and she was going for further scans at the hospital and to meet her at home for a 4pm scan with the sonographer. I asked, “was Kate worried?” She said “yes!”. This was Wednesday.

At 4:53pm the sonographer said, “Oh I need to call Kate, looks like he has a Vein of Galen, they will want to refer you to Melbourne to keep a closer eye on you. This is something that I have not seen only read about, its rare.” After a few frantic phone calls, we knew we would be referred urgently to high care in Melbourne, so not to worry, right? But then the waiting begins as it is now late Wednesday night, then Thursday and into Friday and heading into the weekend. Monday, we call the hospital and secure an appointment early Tuesday morning, more scans and more waiting…

The worst is confirmed; it’s the Vein of Galen and very pronounced, with enlargement of the heart and kidneys. Not to worry, we have done our ‘google’ research, albeit limited as this condition is rare. Unfortunately, over the course of 78 hours and about 14 different doctors all avenues for quality of life are fruitless. While choices are given, we make the difficult decision to terminate the pregnancy (we choose to use the term stillborn or plaintive stillborn due to the prognoses given).

In any parent’s journey, there are ups and downs. A common one people hear is ‘a parent should never have to bury their child’, this is 100% true, making the palliative care decision for your child through stillbirth is possible even worse. Without having lived through the first part of this statement, the waiting game begins again as it goes to the ethics committee.

Once approved by ethics, there are two procedures, firstly the procedure to palliative care for the child – essentially euthanise the child while in the womb. I have blacked most of this out from the day of the procedure, but I remember how quick it was. Also remember looking through tear sodden eyes at my wife who had suffered through horrendous morning sickness, now to go through this. Then again, the waiting.

For two days, Sarah had to wait. After the palliative care procedure, she was given injections to proceed with the birth. In the waiting room before this palliative care procedure, she could still feel him moving, the night before we could still feel him kicking, but we waited.

Then the day of birth, or induction. Don’t get me wrong; the doctors and midwives were fantastic through this, but there was that underlying knowledge of what was to come. I am not sure if this is because we already have a child. We knew the difference but there were no heart monitors, while the dilation was recorded there was no ‘urgency’ when getting close. There was the comment that ‘Andrew will soon be joining us’, but we all knew what that meant.

On Thursday morning, the 28/8/25 Andrew Olavi arrived at 32 weeks. Sarah and I could not believe that 10 days earlier everything was ‘normal’; we were considered low risk, and everything was fine. Me, the prepper, had just started to say to pack hospital bags and move the nursery around. But here we are, and so we begin the next phase of waiting.

After the delivery there was a state of flux. Andrew was placed on Sarah; I was still in a state of stay or go but decided to stay. We stayed like this for close to an hour, he looked like he would cry at any moment, so we waited – the noise in the room was nil, everyone had left. I am sure they told us, but this did not register.

In a sense, we were lucky. Through family friends we had heard of a volunteer organisation called ‘Heartfelt’ who would come and take photos of our beautiful child. As we knew the outcome, we were able to plan with immediate family, but this made the day feel surreal as well, so we waited. While we do not regret the photos in the slightest, more importantly it was the moment for our parents to meet Andrew, it was a very surreal time.

During this time, we were guided by two midwives who specialise in stillbirth. This started during the palliative care procedure at the start of the week. Without a doubt these women are angels with the softest footprints to guide families through this difficult time. They allowed us to do whatever we needed to do during this time, but we remained on the birthing suite during this time, and the noise from other rooms and the jubilation of families visiting was difficult to be around, entering the room with a butterfly on the door (a discrete notification to all hospital staff of the situation) marked a twinge each time I pushed it open.

Then comes the decision. Everything that is spoken to you before in the lead up to this now becomes real… The funeral, a memorial, nothing? How do you navigate any of these? 10 days ago, everything was fine, now we must plan for life without Andrew. Now comes the physical and mental recovery along with a toddler that cannot comprehend much of this. How could he?

So again, we wait, but now it is for healing; for healing for ourselves and others. We have been overwhelmed with the generosity of family and friends during this difficult time, but we wait.

Words cannot describe the waiting, or indeed this whole event, the best we can come up with is ‘it’s just s&*%!’. It’s now been several months since Andrew was born. There is some joy in our lives again but indescribable moments of pain and flashbacks. In the coming weeks we will have genetics and discharge appointments with Western Health. From a medical perspective this is unlikely to happen again, but a new form of waiting is beginning, but it’s still just s&^%!

Thank you to Kris for sharing beloved Andrew’s story.