Creative Calm Connected: Hannah

For my husband and I, the journey to complete our family has been long and emotional. We are so blessed to have two beautiful children, one son and one daughter. We also have three other babies that we carry in our hearts with us.

Our first heartbreaking miscarriage happened in our first pregnancy. After having gone through several rounds of IVF to become pregnant, we innocently thought that we would be taking a baby home with us. But, the universe had an important lesson in store for us. One sleepy rainy Sunday afternoon, I had a miscarriage and our hearts broke.

More IVF (one day I might share with you what that is like, but not today), and we were cautiously excited to be pregnant again. This time our dreams were realised and our gorgeous son was born. Immediately we fell in love and felt a little more complete. We were made to be this boy’s parents. He has bought so much love and laughter to our world and taught (and continues to teach) us important lessons about ourselves and life.

We couldn’t believe our luck when almost 2 years later we found out we were pregnant again. This time though, a different kind of miracle. We hadn’t needed IVF for this one. It was just meant to be. Everything was going great, I was well apart from the debilitating nausea, but believed it was all ok. After all, the hard part for us was getting pregnant. We had a scan at about 8 weeks and saw our baby’s heart beating away on the screen. Then, on another cloudy day in July 2012, we went for our 12 week check-up and scans.

I remember being a bit cold in the room where we were having our ultrasound. Our son was with us and we were all so excited to be able to see the baby in Mummy’s tummy. The person doing the scan was talking to us throughout; pointing out this and that, behaving like it was all ok. She spent a bit of time doing measurements and calculations and I thought it was all so fine, I was enjoying seeing the baby wriggle and squirm, and loving seeing our son trying to grasp that what was on the screen was also in Mummy and would soon be his baby brother or sister.

She stepped out of the room and took forever to come back.

She started talking about something that might need looking at by our Doctor. A diaphragmatic hernia. The baby had a hole in her diaphragm and her intestines were protruding into the cavity where her heart and lungs were developing.

While she was talking, I was thinking that this isn’t great, but we can get help and it will all be ok. I never thought that it was as serious as it was. It didn’t really sink in for me then. Some days now I wish that I could go back to that place of innocent nativity. I had no idea what was in store or the utter, gut wrenching heartbreak that was to come.

It turns out that the kind lady had called our obstetrician and explained what she had seen, and had arranged for us to go in for a meeting that afternoon. We had to see her colleague, as our Doctor was away that day, and he was so caring and sensitive as he explained a bit more about what had shown up on the scan. We needed further testing to be done so that we could see the extent of the hernia and if there were any other problems. Issues like this often come up when there are other chromosomal abnormalities, and the doctors encouraged us to find out what it was that we were facing.

I will never forget the kindness of several medical practitioners that we came across during that next week. Dr Meiri, and her assistant Tegan who did the CVS to get the DNA data that would tell us more. So sensitive and caring, I felt wrapped in their love. I couldn’t watch the screen, even though by now my head was telling me this could be the last time I got to see my precious little baby. The support staff at my obstetrician’s office and my Doctor. They were all so quiet and respectful. Fitting us in when there were no available appointments, taking us to quiet rooms so we didn’t have to sit staring at other pregnant women.

And then, those words.

“Not compatible with life”.

Our baby girl had an extra copy of a chromosome. This, coupled with her serious hernia (our Dr had never seen one this severe, or picked up so early), meant that she never stood a chance of life outside my womb. We had a choice to make. One that no parents should ever have to make. One that we didn’t want to make. One that broke every fibre of my being. It still haunts me and will continue to for the rest of my life. There is so much guilt, confusion, despair, grief and desperate loneliness that comes with a decision like that. It is always there, sometimes just off in the background, sometimes in the front of your mind. It is just part of our story now, a part we need to accept.

On 1 August 2012, our baby girl Hannah went to heaven. Four years. Four years have passed since that terrible day. It feels like yesterday, but also so long ago. I will never forget the kindness of the hospital staff. They let my husband stay with me so I wouldn’t be alone while I had to wait for surgery to begin. When he did have to leave the room, the anaesthetist Dr Danny, held my hand and kept talking to me so that I wouldn’t feel alone or afraid. I am forever grateful to every one of those staff, but Dr Danny holds a special place in my heart. When I woke up, a familiar face was there to comfort me, a lovely nurse, who I recognised from my course at university. So much compassion and care on one of the two darkest days of my life.

In the four years since Hannah died we have had to learn how to deal with her loss. My husband and I grieve her differently. I need to remember her, to say her name, to think about what she might’ve been doing now if she was still here with us. I need my two living children to know her name (and that of her brother Daniel who we also lost in our next pregnancy), and I don’t want people to forget that she existed.

The hard thing about it is that generally, our society as a whole doesn’t do grief very well. Particularly grief of an unborn child. People are very uncomfortable talking about it, don’t want to upset you, and because there was no baby for them to have cuddled and spoilt, it quickly fades from their memory. But it never fades from mine. You see, I saw her, I felt her, I knew her already. She had two arms, two legs, ten fingers and ten toes. She had a little heart that beat fast and hard. She had a nose, two eyes and a little hand that appeared to wave to us on the screen. In her short time with us, Hannah made my heart grow and quickly filled that extra space.

I have one friend who is really the only person in the world who is comfortable talking with me openly and honestly about Hannah and Daniel. She is not afraid to sit with me while I cry, or to say their names. She remembers the anniversaries of each (the day they died, and their due date – what should have been their birthdays). She always makes sure that I’m not alone on those days. She made me a beautiful blanket for each baby, and those blankets are so precious to me. I snuggle up with them on the really hard days, and am so grateful to have them because they are the only physical thing of my two babies that I have. She manages to turn the loneliest, saddest 4 days of the year each year into days that are slightly less lonely. I am forever grateful to you, my soul sister, for your love of me, and each of my 5 babies.

Last night I had to work, which was difficult, but a good distraction. Pilates is magic for me. Once I start a workout or teaching a class, I am consumed, there is nothing else in the moment except that class. I was grateful for the reprieve.

When I got home, my husband lit a candle for Hannah and we left it on while we talked and I had a late dinner. It warmed my heart to hear that he had lit one at dinner with my two children, because he wanted our son (our daughter is too little to understand yet) to know what the day was and to remember Hannah in heaven. This was significant to me because I need to (at least on those 4 days each year) include Hannah and Daniel in our family. That little gesture made such a difference to me. Made me feel less alone.