Another day of lost hope

Today was Hope's due date, 12 months ago. It is also Simon's mum's birthday, and this was supposed to be such a special time in our lives. August is full of birthdays for us and it felt nice our little girl was going to share this month with so many who love her.

I know for many who lose babies, the due date is something to get through after you come home without them. For me, this was not the case, as I had already sailed past my due date and in to "overdue" territory when I lost Hope.

At the time, it was all quite amusing. Everyone had been joking the entire pregnancy how ironic it would be if Hope was born late, because anyone who knows me knows I have never been late to anything in my entire life. That's not how I roll. I'm hardly ever on time, either. I'm early. To everything.

Oh, so wasn't it going to be a scream if my baby was born late. Well ha, ha, ha, joke is on me I guess. Another one of the many ironies to come from all of this that feels like a huge knife twisting in my broken heart.

The 14th was the last "normal" day of my pregnancy. I went to bed that night, realising unless something happened really, really fast, Hope was not going to be born on her due date, she was going to be late and she wouldn't share a birthday with Nanna. I wasn't too fussed, as long as I got to meet her soon!

But at 1am the next morning, I awoke with contractions. They started out reasonably mild, but by 3am, I knew all about it and I could no longer sleep as when one hit, it stopped me dead in my tracks. I woke Simon, and he spent the next few hours rubbing my back and checking his watch. I got up really early, took a long warm shower, then rang the hospital.

Later that day we went to hospital and were sent home, and I spent the next two days at home, scared and confused wondering why the hospital kept telling me to stay home and what on earth my body and my baby were doing. Everything had gone so well, now it felt like everything was falling apart. Sometimes I really feel like I gave up. There is so much guilt and shame. I do feel like a giant failure this happened to me. That I let this happen to Hope, my baby. My sweet little firstborn.

Hope should have been born on the 16th or 17th. Either one of those days, I firmly believe she would have been born alive. Possibly starting to get a bit sick from the infection on the 17th, but I believe she would have been ok. My girl was big and strong, and I know she would have fought it off and I know eventually she would have come home with us. There is no point anyone trying to tell me any different, because this is what I believe. This is what I know.

They left her in me too long. Time killed my baby.

Hope silently slipped away inside my labouring body four days past her due date on Monday 18 August. At what time I'm not exactly sure, I just knew when she'd stopped moving some time that morning, something was horribly wrong. The fact I could no longer hear her strong heartbeat with Simon's stethoscope, left no doubt in my mind. While Simon remained cautiously optimistic, the drive to hospital was pure torture, as I knew what was ahead. But I so did not want to believe it. That was not how our story was supposed to turn out.

The moments that followed in the hospital are without a doubt, the most horrific of my life. Too traumatic for words. And only those who have seen their dead child on an ultrasound screen could ever possibly understand what it feels like.

I feel so damaged by what happened those days. I was in so much pain. I spent so much time labouring - longer than any other mother I know, and I carried her for longer than many of the other mothers I know. Each time I read another birth story that starts with one contraction then ends in a screaming baby anywhere between six to 20 or so hours later, I die inside all over again. Why couldn't that have been me?

I felt my first contraction at 1am on Friday 15 August, and continued to have them right up until she was born dead, at 4.35pm on Tuesday 19 August, albeit with the help of an epidural in those final few hours. It is all so horribly cruel and wrong.

I never knew what to expect from labour and birth, but I sure as hell never imagined this. Not in my wildest dreams. It is filthy and dirty and makes me feel so sick, I could spend the rest of my life with my head over a toilet if I let myself.

Why didn't I go back? Why didn't I trust my instincts more? Why couldn't we convince those midwives, as Simon and I BOTH spoke to them on the phone, as sometimes I was too distressed and in too much pain to talk, that we really wanted to come back? Why didn't we just go? Why didn't we just go?

Sometimes I think re-living these couple of days will be worse than the day of her birth on the 19th. That day, despite the obvious horrors was still one of much peace and calmness. It was over, yes, with the most catastrophic of endings, but we got to see her and hold her and tell her how much we loved her. There was a lot of beauty on that day, despite the world being so afraid of babies dying. Despite people wanting to bury their heads in the sand and pretend it doesn't happen. I still got to give birth to my daughter and after a long nine months, we finally got to meet her.

So today I am sad. Maybe a bit sadder than I was yesterday and maybe sadder than I will be tomorrow. I know her due date wasn't exactly unfulfilled, as I did still get to carry her safe inside that day, and I know how lucky I am to be able to carry so easily to term, but it still feels like a day of lost hope. I am still thinking about what could have and what should have been. Just like I do most days.

I'm remembering you every day this week baby girl. Every final moment we shared together, so completely and so vividly. I love you. I miss you. And I'm sorry.