It has taken me a very long time to work up the courage to write this post. It's the next in the story of Lily's birth and it still makes my tear up even now. Even more so, now that I'm staring down the barrel of doing it all over again.
So, one deep breath and here we go.
After the honeymoon, my doctor diagnosed me with a short cervix, which does not equal incompetent cervix, but can. So every fortnight from 18+6 weeks, I went to see Maternal Fetal Medicine at the Mater, to check to make sure, though short, my cervix was doing just fine. At 20+6, everything was fine. At 22+6, the bottom fell out of my world. Scratch that. It felt like the entire world had laid itself on me in the manner of a wrecking ball embracing a building.
At 22+6 weeks, my cervix had been found to have shortened by about a centimetre, which meant I was suffering from an incompetent cervix. Having just eaten lunch, I was not eligible to be operated on right then as the plan was to put me to sleep and I would have to wait until the next morning. By this stage, I'd been rushed into Dr Cattanach from MFM, but they had assured me my cervix was closed, and that I didn't need to panic.
Dr Cattanach looked a bit worried and was very upset that I'd eaten so recently. It was then he chose to hit me with the full gravity of the situation. If my baby arrived that night, or anytime in the next week, she would die. Although around 20% of 23 weekers survive, they are often severely disabled and most hospitals opt to keep 23 weekers born breathing comfortable until they pass away rather than working on them. Most are still born.
I was very, very scared. But all through my admission and until Bob left that night, I kept my chin up. Inside I was screaming. Bob left because he had to work the next day and wouldn't be allowed in for the operation anyway. He assured me I could call him at anytime during the night, and I agreed I would if I needed him.
Oddly, I went to sleep quite early. And then I woke up. I can't remember the time now, perhaps 11 o'clock. And fear gripped me. This horrible, intense, overwhelming fear. It hurt my insides and made my head vibrate. It was the most terrible thing I have ever experienced. And then thoughts like no one should ever think filled my head. Sad, scared, lonely thoughts. I was so worried about being given full anaesthetic the next day and desperately wanted to ask for an epidural.
Who would demand my daughter be given oxygen if she was born breathing and fighting? Who would wrap her up and put her hat on? Who would hold her and kiss her? Who would rock her gently to a never waking sleep? Who would take photos of my sleeping angel? Would I be brave enough to hold her and love her if I woke up after she was gone? Would she be cold or would they keep her warm for me? Would I let the nurses take her when it was time? How on earth would I EVER be brave enough to put her in the ground?
I wanted to ring Bob and BEG him to come the next day. He needed to be there for his daughter. I was sure of it. But I didn't. I wasn't sure he'd understand how very important this was.
And these thoughts brought morning to me. And when they wheeled me to the operating theatre, I was too scared to say or do anything or even move. I wanted to beg Dr Cattanach to ask the anaesthesiologist to give me an epidural, but I wasn't brave enough.
But in the end, I didn't need to be. I was too far along to be knocked out. And the anaesthesiologist was the most beautiful lady I have ever met. She and a nurse held my hand and stroked my hair while I cried and cried.
But everything went okay. Even though I had no cervix to speak of by the time Dr Cattanach started the stitch, everything had gone much better than expected. There are so many complications from a stitch. It can make you go into labour, it can give you infection, they can accidentally break the membranes. All of these would have been a death sentence for Lily. But none of them did. But Dr Cattanach, with years of high risk experience wouldn't give me false hope.
He reminded me to do a long list of everything right, he wouldn't give me steroids until 24 weeks and each day from 23 weeks to 24 weeks, he would walk in and ask me about contractions and bleeding and say very little else. But I was doing just fine. On the surface.
After 2 years of tragedy after tragedy, I have learned I am very good at being okay on the surface. Inside is a different story.
I spent every night from 11pm to 1am watching the clock, counting the minutes until the precious next day, and then a little extra, just to make sure. I peed like clockwork at midnight every night, checking for bleeding
The days I spent planning her funeral. This sounds so horrible now, but it's the truth. There would be so many flowers in pink and white the chapel would be unrecognisable. There would be stuffed toys everywhere. I would dress her myself in something beautiful. There would be a slide show of all her beautiful ultrasound images and the photos we took at her birth. The coffin would be white and open so I could kiss her goodbye. When we said goodbye they would play "Baby Mine" sung by Bette Midler. She would be buried with other children around her so she could play.
There was a crucifix on the wall and I would beg Jesus every day to care for my child in a way I was obviously unable to. I would implore my poppy to watch over her.
And they must have, because we made it to 24 weeks. Dr Cattanach shook my hand that day. But 24 weeks is only 50% chance of survival with high chance of disability.
I HATED seeing midwives after their three days off, or the weekend doctor, or the physio because they would always be surprised I was still there. I remember my first weekend doctor looked at my chart and said "You're not planning to give birth this weekend are you?"
But 24 weeks was easier than 23 weeks and I only did my midnight ritual at the 24/ 25 week turn over, although my day time thoughts still strayed down the darkest paths.
Two of my friends had just had beautiful babies, one an amazing little girl, and I was jealous, and angry at myself and sad to look at their photos, unsure I'd ever have ones like that myself. But I never let on, at least, I don't think I did. I definitely didn't look at any pregnancy shots as I wasn't even showing a little bit yet and didn't think I ever would and this was what I had been looking forward to most.
And 25 weeks became 26 weeks. And hope lit a little flame in my chest. I was allowed places in a wheelchair and to craft once a week, had another scan and decided I wanted NICU tour.
The NICU tour was so awful. They showed me a little 26 weaker and she looked so raw. So uncooked and red and not really human at all. There were parents down there admitting their new 24 weaker and I felt so sad for them.
When 26 weeks became 27 Dr Cattanach said I could go home at 28 weeks as long as I promised to be very good. I wanted to dance.
I was so lonely in the hospital. Even though I had visitors every day, and Bob stayed often, I felt like I was going it alone, like no one really knew what I was experiencing. Even Bob didn't really seem to understand the full gravity of what I was going through. And even as hope really started to build, I still worried and thought dark things.
At 28 weeks I got to go home. And the rest of the story is for another post.
But I didn't escaped unscathed from this because my little girl was born beautiful. I am still insanely jealous of pregnant ladies, especially ones with big, beautiful tummies. It is hard for me not to warn people of all the things that can go wrong. I want to rush up to people and tell them to get a cervical length scan. DEMAND IT. I feel annoyed at people that are flippant about bed rest, like it's a choice, or may not work, or they know better than their doctor.
I feel failed as a mother. Failed at being pregnant and it makes me mad. I can't really understand,
"Why me?" And being pregnant again feels less like a second chance to have a lovely little full term baby (which, if I'm honest with myself is one of the reasons we went so soon, instead of waiting the planned 12 months), it feels more like I'm endangering another little life by making them premature. I HAD wanted three children, but I can't do this again. This all consuming worry. This checking the toilet paper, this sick feeling at every twinge, this fear.
But right now, there aren't too many dark days, and I am grateful to have left such a dark time in my life behind me and hope that this pregnancy is happy and healthy and brings me a closure I haven't yet found.
