Anniversary

Today is the 44th anniversary of the birth of my first son – a day which should be celebrated, but which is often overlooked and forgotten about. This son was born at 24 weeks and six days, then considered a miscarriage, rather than a still birth as it would today.

The loss was devastating to me. I have just Googled and found that less than 0.5% of pregnancies end in fetal demise after 20 weeks. I was one of these. No cause was found.

I had married in June 1980 wanting lots of kids. I was extremely excited to find I was pregnant in July, with the baby due the following April. I was working as a practice nurse at a rural doctor’s surgery at the time. There were lots of us pregnant, with one of his patients even due on the same day as me. It was great sharing experiences with the other women as I took and recorded their ante natal observations. Births were carried out by doctors in those days and also the ante natal care.

The doctor I worked for had decided to take an overseas trip that summer and had left me in charge to deal with clients with the smaller problems that ended up at his surgery. He gave the notes of his pregnant patients to a fellow doctor in the nearest town.

Four days after Christmas I started feeling unwell. I thought it was just diarrhea that was causing my pains, until my waters broke in the toilet. I realised the seriousness of this and phoned the doctor designated to look after the pregnant patients. I visited his surgery, a 25-minute drive away and sent word to my husband who was shearing in the back blocks. We didn’t have cell phones in those days and tracking someone down could be tricky. I think I phoned the contractor.

The doctor didn’t have my notes. Obviously, my doctor had not thought it necessary, as I wasn’t due for a further four months. He suggested I travel a further seventy minutes to the major hospital. I waited for my husband and together we drove up. I had enough experience as a nurse to realise things weren’t looking good. In those days, very few babies survived a birth at 25 weeks…but some did.

Here was where the problems began. Without doctor’s notes, the staff at this hospital estimated I was only 18 weeks gestation. I tried to tell them, ‘’look I am 24 weeks and six days,” but they stuck with their narrative. I was very slim, had wide hips and without the amniotic fluid, the baby appeared small in my pelvis. The correct procedure for a 24-week miscarriage would have been to give me a caesarean section. Instead, I was left to deliver naturally, my protestations of being 24 weeks, falling on deaf ears. Of course, the baby was born dead. I was not even given him to hold. Instead, he was whisked away, with me only seeing his face briefly.

As one can imagine, I was overcome with grief, but to add insult to the situation, I was placed in a ward with women who had just delivered their own beautiful babies. I met one of these in the lift, she was happy and singing away. I had to listen to crying babies all night, and answer questions about mine. ‘’What did you have?’’ It would have been kinder to have put me in an ante natal ward. It was very hard.

I went home the next day and back to work to `hold the fort’ the day after that.

It was very sad as one by one the pregnant women came to the surgery. Some of them didn’t know and would excitedly say, ‘’not long now’’, as the time approached. I didn’t have the heart to tell these ones and I didn’t want to take the joy away from the ones who did know. That was hard too. And it was hard as each one of these women had their babies, especially the one who was due on the same day as me, and when the brought them into the surgery.

I conceived again and two years later I had another son. I could never take a pregnancy for granted after losing that first one. It wasn’t until they were safely, alive in my arms, that I would allow myself the joy of celebrating. As it was, the second one was a little precarious. The doctor, I had moved by this stage, was concerned about my high blood pressure and the lack of foetal growth. He induced me a couple of weeks early, a fortunate thing. The placenta was diseased – he showed it to me. I am not sure it would have supported my baby a further two weeks. I was very thankful to him for doing that.

And so that is the story of my first born. If it happened today, he would have probably been given a burial and he would sit with Daniel, remembered as each birthday comes around. A miscarriage was something to be pushed down, ignored. I am sure a miscarriage at any stage would be devasting but to have one so late in the peace was terrible.

Today I am remembering him and sharing my story. Unfolding some of the trauma that has lain within for too long.

I have seen images of he and Daniel together. They have found each other which is nice.