Fragments of motherhood

Trigger warning: This article is about losing a child in pregnancy or infancy. It can be triggering for those who experienced child or baby loss.

One

Awakening to an unfamiliar warmth between her legs, she was abruptly thrust into a world of bewildering sensations. The pain, akin to the cruellest of stomach upsets, gripped her abdomen. Was it time already? Aware that her waters should not resemble the hue of cherries, panic set in. Ambulance sirens, hospital corridors, and the blur of medical procedures—ultrasounds, pathological CTGs—engulfed her. People bustled around, lights blindingly bright, seeking consent, administering anaesthesia, and whisking her baby away to the neonatal resuscitation room.

Nausea churned within her, and her entire body quivered from the effects of the anaesthetic. But no solace came from anyone's lips. Anxious, she glanced at the door, hoping to catch sight of a small bundle, her baby, making its way towards her. Yet, he never arrived. Days passed before they placed her fragile son on her chest. His skin was an ashen shade of grey, and his lips, were dark as ripe blueberries. But his feet, his toes, were perfect. She counted them, etching each crease on his tiny foot into her memory.

Two

The agony of childbirth persisted, even though her baby emerged with translucent skin and a head no larger than a tennis ball. A mere 860 grams.

"Congratulations," a young doctor offered, for birth is deemed a joyous occasion.

Their hands, scrubbed immaculately, reached into a plastic incubator. Condensation veiled the delicate features of her son. Tubes snaked into his mouth, and his nose, while a small cannula adorned his hand like a ten-pence coin. Screens displayed vibrant lines, and machines persistently alarming every two minutes. She brought in 2 ml of breast milk, setting an alarm on her phone to express from her weary breasts every three hours.

Two weeks later, a phone call shattered the silence. "Please come in as soon as possible," they urged. The time had come to cradle him outside the incubator. Ten fingers, ten toes—his skin so soft, adorned with delicate hairs even on his arms.

She buried her face in the nape of his neck, yearning to etch that scent into her memory forever. As she escorted him to the hospital morgue, she found herself unable to leave. He would grow so cold, and she couldn't bear the thought.

Even now, a sense of loss lingers—a void that subsequent children, birthed and raised, cannot fill. It is a love that never had a chance to blossom, a future she still mourns.

He will never crave her breast milk.

Three

Throughout her life, she had always slept on her back. Never on her side or stomach. That morning, however, she awoke on her back, preparing coffee and porridge, filling the room with melodies from a Spotify playlist.

She embarked on a shopping trip, succumbing to the irresistible allure of purchasing onesies for Sophie—a name chosen in the early days of her pregnancy. Upon returning, she savored her lunch and settled in for a brief nap.

The sound of the key turning in the lock roused her, but she feigned slumber, awaiting her husband's gentle kiss upon her forehead. "Get up, darling. I've made you some tea."

They shared dinner, indulged in a TV series, and she sought solace in a bath—the one place where she felt truly at ease. The warm water had always set Sophie in motion, eliciting wondrous movements. But not this time. Could she be sleeping? Stepping out of the bath, she gulped down a sip of cold water, then spent an hour scrolling through Instagram.

Stillness prevailed.

She dialled the hospital. Thirty-seven weeks along, and she had not felt her baby move for the past twelve hours. The request came swiftly—come in for a CTG.

Intently, she studied the doctor's countenance, yearning for a smile, a dilation of the pupils that might signal something positive.

"I'm sorry," came the words. Warm tears streamed down her face, accompanied by sobs she could not suppress. From that moment on, it was all anguish—a labour induced, contractions relentlessly crushing her uterus, an epidural piercing her spine. Moments of silence and anticipation are unforgiving.

Yet, she remained curious about what her child's face would have looked like. A nose like a mushroom, eyes wide, akin to her husband's. A body radiating warmth, and softness unparalleled. Her baby shower was only a week away—never to be, replaced instead by a funeral. People faltered, unsure of what to say. Fearful of uttering her name, they wished to shield her from further pain. Observing her every reaction, she felt like a caged animal on display. Stop watching me.

And so, she slumbered, still on her back, amidst the ache.

Four

After her third miscarriage, the anticipation of two lines on a pregnancy test ceased to hold joy.

She waited until the twelfth-week scan. No heartbeat—a void within the amniotic sac, silence echoing in its wake. She knew this already, but adapting to it remained elusive. The warm, sticky sensation between her thighs during their vacation in Tuscany—a cruel reminder. No, she couldn't fathom it. Again? Damn it.

"Relax," Ola and Janek chilled out, conceiving effortlessly the following month!

"Are you trying? Thinking about having a baby?" The questions kept coming, each one bearing the same weight. They stung, akin to needles pricking her skin, penetrating four centimetres deep, twisting mercilessly to the right, intensifying the pain.

Am I a mother? Do four lost pregnancies deem me worthy of tulips on Mother's Day? I'll receive them anyway, though deep down, I know I'm undeserving. I sleep through the night and possess firm breasts untouched by the marks of a tiger's claws. No telltale signs grace my belly.

Two blue stripes, a heartbeat resonating on the ultrasound, a slight bump beneath my navel—seventeen weeks along. I permit myself to feel joy. But then, the twenty-week scan—VSD, a sizable ventricular septal defect. Amniocentesis, trisomy 13, delivery at twenty-one weeks. Morphine and gas imbued her with an otherworldly sensation. Yet, can anything surpass the strangeness of giving birth to one's dead, ailing baby? Can one be simultaneously dead and sick?

She cannot fathom it, so she begins to laugh—laughter that won't cease. Her baby arrives, devoid of eyebrows, and a cleft upper lip. Should she love him? Should joy or sorrow fill her heart? Is she truly a mother now? Has she experienced the miracle of life, of motherhood? Should gratitude permeate her being? For what?

On another Mother's Day, she toils as a nurse in the neonatal unit. During a night shift, her voice spills forth uncontrollably, an unstoppable stream of words. "I gave birth to a stillborn baby at twenty-one weeks' gestation. I am a mother too."

"Of course, you are," they reply. Her motherhood may be solitary, but it is irrefutable.

Five

"First child?" the GP inquires at the six-week postnatal check-up. "Yes, I mean no. The first one I'll bring home. Amelia died two days after birth."

Silence ensues. "I'm sorry," the GP finally utters.

"Me too," she thinks, though refrains from vocalizing her response. Perhaps next time, they will consider the phrasing of their questions before exacerbating her pain.

"Honey, why are you awake?" her husband asks.

"I'm feeding her for the fourth time tonight. My stitches ache. I've changed my pajamas again, drenched in sweat after giving birth. My breasts throb. Can you take her? Please, take her."

She embarks on a walk, interrupted by an elderly woman who extends her congratulations.

"First child?" the woman inquires.

"Yes," she lies.

"It's a joy, isn't it?"

"Oh yes," she lies again.

***

Many forms of motherhood remain unspoken, hidden in the shadows. Mothers who have endured multiple miscarriages before finally giving birth. Mothers who have delivered sleeping babies. Mothers who have been thrust into motherhood before they were ready. Mothers who have lost, only to give birth again. Mothers who have bid farewell to their babies, burying them within the same month. And mothers who will never be.

Gentleness in conversation cannot erase their pain, but listening can begin the process of healing. How many times have you had the opportunity to speak your child's name? We often take it for granted, so natural it becomes. A mother who has lost a child has had so few chances to utter their name.

That child will forever remain a part of their story, indelibly etched in their thoughts and maternal identity.

Motherhood after loss remains arduous, devoid of unmitigated joy. Anxiety, fatigue, and fear constricting one's throat. The guilt lingers—did I do something that altered my fate?

There is no neat conclusion to this narrative, only a reminder that there may be women among us who have endured far more than we can fathom. It is worth treading cautiously, selecting our words with care. If unsure, say, "I'm sorry, what was your baby's name?" We may not comprehend the weight of that simple act.

I have ceased inquiring whether it is their first child.