I decided to write a blog in the run-up to the event - one of my friends, Cayley, did this recently whilst training for the London marathon and I enjoyed reading her blogs so much, I thought I'd do the same. Unfortunately I forgot that Cayley did an English degree, has a strong love of (good-quality) literature and now teaches English to others. So all in all, possibly better qualified to write a blog that people actually want to read ... oh well, you've started reading so you might as well stick with me, right?!
Not really knowing where to start, I decided the best place was by telling my story of Ava, of how I got involved with Sands and why I'm doing this challenge to raise money for Sands. So here goes ...
Nick and I lost our gorgeous little girl, Ava, more than 7 years ago now (time passes so fast), when she was stillborn at 39 weeks. Unsurprising, losing Ava is the hardest thing that I have ever been through. It takes so long to start feeling like yourself again and, even then, it is a different version of yourself.
Like most first time mums, I had a blissfully naive pregnancy. I had no nervousness at any of my check-ups, or any thought that anything could go wrong. Until my 39 week midwife check-up. I went alone, like I had to all of my check-ups because why would I need anyone else there? When the midwife couldn't find a heartbeat, but assured me it was probably just her old equipment, I was a bit nervous but not that worried - bad things don't happen to you right? They happen to other people. I hadn't felt the baby move that morning but she was always much more of a night owl, so I wasn't worried. The midwife sent me straight to Epsom hospital just in case and, when I said I'd walk over, suggested I should get a taxi instead. I thought she was overdoing it. I phoned Nick on the way over but told him not to bother coming home as I'd be back from hospital in no time and it would all be fine. I imagined telling my mum later about the 'scare' (once I knew it was okay so she wouldn't worry). When I arrived at the hospital, I was surprised when they rushed me straight through to be checked. Naively I still thought they were all worrying about nothing. It was only when the sonographer left to find the consultant that I finalised realised something was wrong.
They returned together to tell me that there was no heartbeat. I couldn't really comprehend what that meant at the time. I had to ask whether that meant that my baby had died (it sounds so stupid now - what else could it possibly have meant?) And when the sonographer said yes, my immediate reaction was to think how awful that must be for her to have to give people that kind of news. It seems so ridiculous now but I guess that was my mind trying to avoid the inevitable.
I didn't know how to react. I was by myself and all I wanted was a cuddle from Nick or my mum and to ignore the news. For it all to be a horrible, horrible dream. I called Nick but he was still at work in town, well over an hour's journey away. I called my mum and asked her and asked her to come and pick me up from the hospital - that the baby had died. How do you deliver that kind of news? Its such a hard thing to say. It makes it feel so real. Nick's dad was running a clinic in the hospital so cancelled the rest of his appointments and came down to look after me. Then my parents arrived. Then Nick. We took a walk together in the car park, just for some air ... neither of us had a clue what to say. What is there to say when you've spent 9 months thinking about your baby, starting a family, the massive change in lifestyle, only to have it suddenly yanked out from under your feet?
The midwife told me I'd still need to deliver the baby (obvious when you think about it, but somehow not obvious at the time). They asked if we wanted to go home and wait for me to go into labour naturally, or be induced. I couldn't see any point in delaying the inevitable - why would I want to go home with my baby already dead in my tummy? So they took me upstairs to the labour ward to induce me. I walked into the labour ward to the sound of other women in labour and the cries of healthy newborns.
Before they could induce me however, they wanted to do another scan. Although I knew they were just getting more information, I couldn't help the little voice that said "but maybe they've got it wrong". I made them check for a heartbeat again and, when they confirmed that there was still nothing, my heart broke all over again.
Back up on the ward, they gave me the first set of drugs to induce the labour. My sisters came to see me and bring me some magazines for attempted distraction. Induction took a while to work - we stayed overnight on the ward after they set up an extra bed for Nick. After more induction drugs the next morning, labour finally started in earnest. It was the hardest of my four labours as she was back to back and, when the pain started getting bad, I asked for an epidural straight away - I just couldn't see the point of going through so much pain when I knew I wouldn't be getting my baby to take home at the end of it.
We had an amazing midwife, Helen, who had had bereavement care training. She talked us through what to expect when Ava was born. She was quiet but caring. She went into the hallway when she needed a cry (Nick found her on one trip along the ward) so as not to burden us with her grief as well. She talked us through the post-mortem consent form and answered all our questions. She made us feel like she had all the time in the world for us.
That evening at about 10pm, our firstborn child came into the world. No crying, no movement, just deafening silence. Somehow, despite all the checks, a little bit of me was still hoping that they'd all got it wrong and she would be born alive. Once she arrived, I couldn't avoid the truth anymore - our baby was dead and she was never going to be coming back. Helen dressed our little girl and brought her back in a moses basket so that we could have her next to us that night, with a memory box supplied by Sands with photos of her for us, hand and footprints, and a lock of her hair. The memory box also had two teddies - one for us to take home with us and a replica to stay with Ava. We phoned our families and asked them to come and meet her ... I suspect that seems strange to other people, when she was already gone. But we wanted her to be a part of our wider families in the same way that she would always be a part of our's, and that meant they needed to meet her in person. Lizzie brought a cuddly elephant that she'd already bought for Ava (which stays on our bed to this day), and picked her up to give her a cuddle. It meant so much to us. We asked for the hospital chaplain to come and bless Ava - she was never going to have the baptism we had assumed she would in due course, but we wanted her to be acknowledged by the church. A wonderful, kind, calm lady, she came to see us in the early hours of the morning and said a prayer for our little angel with us. Then we were alone with her for the night - I lay with one hand on her tummy for hours - I hardly slept that night, not wanting to miss a moment with our daughter.
In the morning though, we had to leave her. I had one last cuddle with her whilst Nick went to sort out the car (stowing the baby seat in the boot so I wouldn't have to look at it). Then it was time to go. Leaving my daughter alone in a cold, sterile hospital room and walking out of a labour ward with no car seat and no baby was, by such a very long way, the hardest thing I have ever done. I felt like I was abandoning her. I even asked a midwife to stay with her so she wouldn't be alone (I think she though I was a bit nuts, to be honest, from the expression on her face). Then we left, carefully detouring round the antenatal clinic on the way out.
Helen put us in contact with the local Sands group and, over the next year in particular, they gave me amazing support, particularly by putting me in contact with other parents going through the same thing. My friends and family were incredible but being able to talk to others who had gone through the same thing really helped me through the hardest times. They reassured me that I wasn't going crazy when I had melt-downs at work or struggled with seeing my friends deliver healthy children. They reassured me that it would get easier and that I wouldn't feel this bereft for ever.
Since then I have learnt so much more about what Sands do, eventually becoming a trustee of what is a truly amazing charity. They not only support bereaved parents, through the local groups, but also provide free of charge, RCOG certified bereavement care training for medical professionals, to help them provide the right support to couples delivering a baby who may already have died; free of charge memory boxes for hospitals to give to bereaved parents; fund special bereavement delivery suites so you don't have to deliver your baby in a sterile cold hospital room where you can hear the cries of healthy newborns; cold cots so that parents can spend just a little longer with their baby before they have to say goodbye forever; memorial gardens so that families have somewhere peaceful and beautiful to remember their children. The list goes on and on. Sands also, critically for me, work to reduce the rate of stillbirth and neonatal death in the UK.
I don't think that I, or anyone else could have done anything to prevent Ava's death. However, so many parents lose their babies because of reasons that were preventable - reduced foetal growth which was not picked up, mothers with reduced movements who didn't realise it was a warning sign or weren't listened to by medical staff; infections that could have been prevented. There are so many reasons.
Losing our daughter broke my heart. At one point, I remember crumpling to the floor with such a pain in my chest, because it just hurt so very much. I want to stop other parents having to go through that. And Sands can help do that. So when I saw a Sands post on Facebook about places to do RideLondon 100 for Sands, I decided to go for it. What could possibly go wrong (please don't answer that question)?!
