This is the second part of our lockdown baby story. You can find the first half here. This contains graphic descriptions of baby loss.
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We pick up our story after an hour or so has passed. I've given updates to our respective parents, and am sitting in our hospital room in silence, nervously waiting. Finally my wife is returned to the ward, drowsy from the anaesthetic and she sleeps a while whilst I again report to the parents that she's safe and sound.
Our midwife returned to us a while later, and gave us an update that the surgery went well, and the placenta was removed successfully. For now, it's time to rest.
Once my wife wakes properly, we are joined by the midwife again, and we discuss the fate of our little girl. Throughout each pregnancy, we have given nicknames to all our little ones, this one we called "Tarzan", as she always seemed to be swinging around inside my wife's tummy, and our son was a massive fan of the Disney movie at the time. Little did we know just how much of a Tarzan our little one was.
Our little girl, it transpires, had passed away about two weeks prior to our emergency scan, with the twinges in my wife's tummy not being kicks, but a muscular issue which we find out later. Our little girl was born with a true knot in the umbilical cord, and also with the cord tied twice around her body and neck. Our midwife has said that she's not seen such a situation in all her years, and we feel so incredibly unlucky. Everything seemed to be going so well compared to previous pregnancies, and now we can't help but think that our little girl didn't want to join us in this world. It is now late in the day, and we try to process this information whilst we try to get some sleep.
Anyone who has ever been in hospital overnight will know that it is impossible to get a good night's sleep, and this is certainly true in our case. My wife is woken every couple of hours for medication, observations, and toilet trips, as any remaining tissue is passed through the system. This all leads to more tears, and much tiredness.
The next day, we manage to have some breakfast. Our local hospital serves the very best toast, the bread they use is divine, and we eat well. We are given the option of meeting both the hospital chaplain and also our little baby girl. After a while, we decided to do both.
The hospital chaplain is a lovely man, full of compassion and is deeply affected by our loss. He has given us a little cross made from the wood of an olive tree from Jerusalem. I myself am not a religious person, but my wife is and she has found great solice in this small but powerful gesture.
The hospital chaplain and midwives bring our little baby girl in to us, and it is the most heart wrenching and harrowing sight to see. She is such a tiny baby, with hands smaller than my little finger nail, and wearing a tiny knitted hat. The fact that someone has gone to effort of knitting such small items for just this scenario is truly humbling, and we send our thanks to whomever undertakes this act of kindness.
Throughout our marriage, we have always said that we love the name Phoebe for a girl, and when asked what name we have chosen I begin to offer this name, and very quickly get shot down by my wife, who offers the name Olivia. I realise at this moment, that despite the heartbreak of four miscarriages, my wife still has hope in her heart that we will be blessed with a happy and healthy baby girl one day.
October 14th 2020
We fast forward a couple of weeks, and for the second time we are stood outside the local crematorium, nervously awaiting the arrival of Olivia. In 2017 when we attended the cremation of Ava, my wife and I attended alone, not feeling that we could share this moment, but today we are joined by our parents for moral support.
As our parents head inside, my wife and I are met by the beautifully made, pink wooden coffin, measuring no larger than a shoebox. We follow the pallbearers arm in arm and as we cross the threshold and our parents get their first glimpse of the tiny coffin, we hear their grief filled cries.
The chaplain prepared a beautiful eulogy for us, including some words taken from Captain Corelli's Mandolin, describing how our roots have grown together and we are now one tree, made from the intertwined roots of two trees. This gives us strength. Strength to endure and to survive whatever harsh winds might blow at us.
This strength is ever present in our relationship, we have remained strong thorough the most turbulent of times, and we are able to find humour when there should be none.
