Our Story

I wanted to share something with you all. For the most part of 2018, Liam and I shared the ‘showreel’ moments of our lives – a fairy tale engagement, a hen weekend in Paris, a pregnancy announcement and a beautiful baby shower. What we haven’t yet shared is the raw and real news that has changed our lives and turned our world upside down. Two months ago, on the 24th November 2018, our baby girl Paloma died, she was stillborn at 41 weeks + 2 days old. It’s hard to summarise in short what happened and when we try, it doesn’t quite do it justice. This is our story ~ Daria

When Liam and I met in 2014, the dream to have more children soon became a real possibility. After 4 years of being together, we decided it was the ‘right time’. Things couldn’t have been better when I surprised Liam with breakfast in bed and a positive pregnancy test! We looked at the two lines and literally cried with happiness. This really was our time and we thought it was going to be the BEST year. Our first pregnancy scan was at just 5 weeks and it was wonderful to see our little ‘Lennie’ on the screen. We named her Lennie as she was about the size of a lentil and the name just stuck!

We waited until the 12 week ‘safe’ point to share our news with most people. We genuinely thought nothing could possibly go wrong, or ever could imagine the worst happening, why would we? ‘Stillborn’ wasn’t even in our vocabulary and we hadn’t really heard about it, especially not in any antenatal classes. As far as we knew, this was a textbook pregnancy.

At  16 weeks, we found out that we were having a little girl and she would be due on the 15th November. As a family, we settled on the name Paloma quite early on. We googled the meaning and found out it meant ‘dove, a symbol of peace’, little did we know the significance of her name at that time. Nor did we have any idea that we would be releasing doves at her funeral months later. Then again, there are lots of things we couldn’t plan or prepare for.

✔ Newborn clothes ✔ Pram ✔ Crib ✔ Feeding Chair ✘ Moses basket for her burial ✘ Letters to go in her coffin ✘ Burial site ✘  Flowers for the service

The remaining months of pregnancy sailed by. When the due date finally arrived, our little girl was not ready to meet us quite yet. Every day after that, we hoped today would be ‘the day’ and my anxiety grew as the days passed. A little over a week past our baby’s due date, I finally felt the twinges of what I knew was the early signs of my labour. That evening I remember us laying on the couch in the front room, Lillie and Liam feeling my belly moving and it was the last time as a family that we felt our baby Paloma.

The next morning early labour pains had progressed to full contractions. We all got up early and Liam and Lillie soon sprung into action. I took a long bath and text my midwife the good news, inviting her over to my house to examine me as I was having a home water birth. I had started to time each contraction using my app, marking each one as ‘mild’ or ‘moderate’ level of intensity.

We were as ready we could be. Days earlier Liam had inflated the birthing pool in the front room and we had re-watched videos from a positive birthing course to psyche ourselves up for this day. Our girls had even decorated the room with candles and hung positive affirmation cards ‘you’ve got this!’ and ‘breath in calm, breathe out tension’, which was really sweet. My labour playlist was playing in the background, Lillie was excitedly baking a carrot cake for the birthday of her new baby sister. We were all on such a high. Liam recorded a video of that morning, but we’ve struggled to watch it back, knowing the innocence of our happiness and how things would forever be different.

A few hours later, the midwife arrived at our house and I laid down to be examined. As with all my antenatal appointments previously, it was the doppler machine that was used to detect the heartbeat, so I was well versed on the sound I was expecting. A sound I had heard a countless number of times before.

I waited for the ‘wobble wobble wobble’ sound, but all I could hear was a deafening silence – a loud white noise.

There was no heartbeat.

I knew something was wrong the second the midwife started moving the doppler over random areas of my belly, looking for any trace of a heartbeat. Liam was listening from the kitchen nearby, but he too had been waiting for that familiar sound and knew something didn’t feel right. I felt my own heart racing. Liam came into the room, we all knew something was wrong.

‘I’m not going to look longer as I don’t want to panic you… but I need you to go to the hospital now’ ~ Midwife

I got up from the bed, gave my midwife a hug and we ran to the car.

Liam, Lillie and I cried all the way to the hospital and I prayed out loud, begging for there to be hope. On the motorway, Liam was driving as fast as he could breaking every speed limit, but we hit traffic and the journey felt painstakingly long. I shook my belly vigorously side to side, trying to wake her up, trying to force a kick or a movement. Finally, we pulled into the hospital, Liam dumped the car by the entrance as Lillie and I ran up to the maternity reception.

I got to the reception, I was hysterically screaming and crying and begging for help but hardly stringing any words together ‘my baby’ and ‘she’s died’. We were quickly ushered into a side room waiting for a doctor to come. We cried and hugged as a family, there was still a small chance we would be told ‘don’t be silly! Of course there’s a heartbeat and everything is fine!’ – this could all be a huge mistake. The door opened and the doctor arrived, rolling the scanning machine behind her. She plugged the machine in and put jelly over my belly, there was no time for introductions and no time for small talk. I stared at the ceiling and could hear the doctor breathing deeply, she moved the scanner from one side of my belly to the next. She stopped and turned her body towards me, I sat up to level my eyes with hers.

‘I’m sorry, there is no flow into or out of the heart’ ~ Doctor

The finality of these words was hard to hear. That was it, our baby was dead, and it was over.

Full stop.

There was no second chance or hope to save her.

We were so unprepared for this moment.

What happened next, I would not wish on anyone, it is a mother’s worst nightmare. I had to contemplate delivering my baby naturally and in the state of mind I was in, believe me, this felt nothing more than a cruel punishment. The doctors were adamant this was the best way and involved the least risk, but of course, I felt like the world was out to get me. I wanted a caesarean and cried to different doctors about why I couldn’t have it. One doctor told me that a caesarean for a stillbirth is very different and there was a higher risk of haemorrhaging and clotting. She told me that a patient had once insisted on one and died on her operating table. My contractions had stopped whilst this was all going on, but by 6pm they restarted with a vengeance and by 7pm I was transferred to a labour room.

My best friend arrived to drop off my clothes and see me. It was her birthday and I didn’t expect her to stay at all, but truth be told, I needed her strength as I was scared and broken. Being able to hold her in one hand and Liam in the other, really got me through each pain.

A few hours later I was fully dilated, I knew my baby was coming and I was close to the next stage of labour. The contractions were relentless and strong, I had barely any rest bite between the pain and tears before the next contraction started. Up until this point I had waited for pain relief, I desperately wanted an epidural but was told it was too late. I felt like this was another cruel twist, I NEEDED pain relief and felt denied it. I couldn’t understand the issue. There was no longer any risk to the baby so why couldn’t I have something to sedate me? After hours of pleading, more blood tests and a drawn out bureaucratic process, I finally got some morphine. It didn’t completely block the pain but it certainly helped me push through the ordeal. I remember closing my eyes and wanting this to be over as quickly as possible, I needed to focus and do the best job I could.

I found the strength I never knew I had in me and soon enough it was the final push, I knew my baby would be born. I didn’t look, my eyes were closed, but I thought I heard laughter. For a split moment I believed she could still be alive. But when I turned to look at my midwife and my baby, there was a still silence in the room and no cry or movement, my baby was completely motionless.

At 9:32pm, Paloma entered the world. She never took a breath and we would never see her eyes. The laughter I thought I had heard wasn’t a laugh at all, it was her father’s cry. I was handed my baby and I held her, she felt warm and looked as though she was sleeping. I felt hopeless and heartbroken. There was absolutely nothing wrong with her, she was the perfect baby. She looked asleep and peaceful, it was hard to believe she wouldn’t wake up. We examined her beautiful face and features and held her tiny hands.

We remained in the room and I felt a numbness, only a matter of hours ago we were having a healthy living baby. My health deteriorated after the birth, I haemorrhaged and continued to pass heavy clots. My uterus didn’t quite function as it would have with a normal delivery. An emergency buzzer went off and I felt the presence of doctors and nurses rushing around me to stabilise my bleeding. Looking up at Liam’s face, I was so scared, he was my rock.

In the early hours of the morning, I was resting and woke to hear the midwives filling up a bubble bath for my baby. The midwives delicately asked me if I would like to bathe her. It was a confusing idea, I never imagined this is something I would be doing and I felt an overwhelming love and kindness from the midwives. They would talk to Paloma as though she could hear us. They commented on how beautiful she was, whilst I gently sponged her body and bonded with my baby. They took hand and footprints and a locket of her hair. We had arrived without a baby bag or an outfit for our Paloma, but this was no matter as they managed to find her a beautiful mint knitted grow and bonnet which was donated to the hospital. The way the midwife rolled up her sleeves, with such care and attention, I felt utterly crushed and distraught. Our baby looked beautiful, we kept her in this outfit as we stayed in the hospital a further two nights.

Later in the morning, we invited family and close friends to visit us in the hospital and meet our baby. We had been transferred to a bereavement room which was set up much like a bedroom with a comfortable double bed. We laid next to our baby and talked to her, we rocked her and told her about all of the dreams and visions we had with her in our lives. We cried for hours, we would give anything up to bring her back. How on earth could we even consider life without Paloma, it really was unfathomable.

It really helped to see my family, and in particular, seeing my mum cry for Paloma and feel and touch her. I wanted to show her to everyone, ‘look she’s real’, she was here and she is still my daughter. I wanted everyone who met her to share our pain and feelings about our baby. When you lose a child you lose an entire lifetime of hopes and dreams. In those few days, we were at least able to kiss our baby and say ‘we love you so much Paloma’ and tell her how much she meant to us. We will spend our lifetime thinking about those moments.

 

In the weeks after her death, we should have been just dealing with our grief, but things hadn’t been that simple. My health took a few bad turns and I was admitted back into the hospital on multiple occasions, with continued bleeding and post-birth complications. It really felt like a nightmare that would never end. Nearly two weeks after Paloma died, I was admitted again and this time couldn’t stand unsupported without passing out. My blood levels were dangerously low and I had multiple blood transfusions. At one point I thought they would never stop the bleeding, ‘why me?’, ‘do things happen for a reason?’. These were feelings of intense pain, guilt and torment and I felt like we had suffered enough.

Driving home the first time after she died, was simply awful. Turning the key and walking back into our empty home with empty arms was devastating. Our lives had spiralled and we were merely ‘surviving’, because the first 4 weeks after she died felt like one continuous day. My best friend rallied around us, cooking us meals and taking care of the washing, all of which made the days bearable. Our midwives visited us on most days, they really helped us to talk about what had happened.

In the immediate hospital aftermath, we were also facing decisions that needed to be made for our baby’s funeral. We were in no fit state, yet there was an urgency to get this done. I didn’t want a cremation as I felt terrible about the idea of burning her little body, so it had to be a burial. In between hospital visits, we would drive between burial sites. I hadn’t realised it at the time but this was also the first death within my family I had been a part of and I was not sure what to expect. We wanted Paloma’s place to be somewhere that we could go to that didn’t feel clinical and morbid. We decided on a woodland burial place. Somewhere she was surrounded by nature and a place we would want to spend time in, sitting and speaking with her.

It’s only now that the reality of what has happened is sinking in. We have gone around in circles thinking about the ‘what ifs’ and ‘should have beens’ and are still battling with this. We opted for a full post mortem but accepted the reality we may never really know ‘why’. From day one we have had support from close friends and family. But I need to also acknowledge that grief is very personal and people respond in different ways. Some people withdraw not knowing what to say, whilst others reach out with overwhelming kindness. I found that it is comforting to hear ‘I’m thinking of you’ even when there are no real words to say.

As the weeks go by, some things are getting easier and some harder. Leaving the house is particularly difficult. It’s hard to see the world still turning when you are standing still. There are endless social media streams of pregnancies and baby announcements, which can be damaging when this sort of trauma has happened. To be completely frank, I feel intense jealousy one minute and complete hysteria the next. Some days I don’t want to face leaving my room or drawing the curtains. There are also the unsuspecting visits to the dentist or local shop where you are asked ‘so what did you end up having?’, which is gut-wrenching.

Seeing newborn babies is currently my biggest fear and in all honesty, quite traumatising. My first failed attempt to venture outside of the house was to collect some photographs of Paloma from a local shop. We walked directly into the path of a mother showing colleagues her newborn baby. I froze and sobbed into Liam’s chest and we left to go home. Learning to integrate what has happened to us and our daily lives is quite hard. Liam has returned to work and I am currently on maternity leave and we are taking on each day as it comes, which can be an emotional yoyo.

‘You are so strong’ are words I hear a lot, but I often feel like I can hide behind a mask. Simple questions like ‘how are you?’ no longer have simple answers. There’s ‘the me’ that I want people to see and ‘the me’ when no one else is looking.

As a family, our outlook on life has changed since this experience, we are grappling with the harsh reality that nothing is certain and life can be ripped away from you in a moment. For an 11-year-old especially, this can be tougher still. Fortunately, Liam has been the glue holding us together. He is fiercely protective and incredibly caring, putting our needs ahead of his own. I feel really lucky and thank God for him.

There are lots of unresolved things we have to deal with; the upcoming post mortem, an independent investigation into our antenatal care, not least our grief. We have also built up strong views on certain issues, which we plan to raise awareness of over the coming years. There’s more that can be done to reduce the number of stillbirths and to change misconceptions about this topic. We will not accept that we are just a statistic. Stillbirth is not simply ‘one of those things’ or something that ‘happens for a reason’.

We have shared every aspect of our lives such as our engagement and pregnancy announcement, so it feels only right that we share our story about Paloma and the tragedy of her death. This may not be the stereotypically ‘happy go lucky’ social media post, but it is an important one. We want to be honest about life and not just edit out the bad stuff, something we admit we may have been guilty of in the past.

Paloma is our first baby together, so it is important for us to talk about her. We hope that one day our personal experience of grief and baby loss may help someone else to not feel alone.