Ava's Birth Story

A stillbirth in clinical terms is a birth where a baby is not born alive after 20 weeks gestation. I have really struggled with this at times over the past 4 months. Ava is classed as a miscarriage because she was born before 20 weeks. It doesn't matter if a woman is 19.5 weeks, when they deliver a baby before 20 weeks it is still classed as a miscarriage. 

I have had a miscarriage - one that was classed medically as an early miscarriage because it was in the first trimester and I can say honestly that a second trimester miscarriage is different. I can't compare a miscarriage and birth of a baby (and this is in no way taking away from the devastation that occurs with a miscarriage, I know the pain of not being able to meet my first little one). However, I and many mothers who have birthed their tiny babies consider their babies to be stillborn. I have discussed this with both medical and psychologists and have been told that I and other mothers have the right to call our babies stillborn because that is what they were - they were born still. So I try and not listen to the medical jargon that goes around. It hurts that because Ava was not more than 20 weeks, she is not legally recognised to ever have existed, on some medical documents she is known as "baby of Erin" and I have some doctors who ever refer to her with her name in letters to other health professionals which is nice to see. 

So, for those of you who want to know what a stillbirth is like, a birth where you know your baby has already died or will die at some point during the deliver or very soon after birth I will tell you our story. It was a silent birth, yet on the inside of my heart, from the depths of my soul, in the midst of the quiet, there was a deep and loud mother roar that cried out for my daughter and the life that should have been.

Some thoughts: 

Firstly it is silent. Secondly it feels surreal - like it is not really happening at the time. It is heartbreaking. It is soul shattering. It is gut wrenching. It is emotional but at the same time a detachment is there. A feeling of shock lingers in the air. I'm not going to have many memories of Ava, but her birth story will be an important memory no matter how hard it will be. The memory of her birth will stay with me, just like the time I felt her move while I was doing the laundry, the ultrasounds that we have on video and the pictures taken of her while growing and developing inside of me.

I have had two inductions with my other children and there is constantly noise in the background. There were monitors attached to me, there were machines measuring contractions and heart rates. There was me screaming for an epidural! There was excitement as my husband and I discussed names for the last time before we would meet our baby. 

With Ava there was no monitoring, as there would be no heartbeat for us to hear. So the room is silent. No excited plans being made, except for talking to the social worker about whether our children should meet their sister or not, if we want a memorial service or not, autopsy or not, cremation or burial, professional photography and other difficult decisions you don't ever think you will have to make. Without saying a word, we know that as hard as this is, this will be a moment that will bring us closer together. It reminds me of the vows we said to each other almost 10 years earlier.

The door to the room is closed and only the appropriate hospital staff enter. There is a butterfly that is put on the door - this is a symbol that a bereaved family is in the room. No one is to enter, including cleaners and food staff because the last thing you need is someone asking you excitedly if you had a girl or a boy. 

Ava Grace - Birth Story 

The staff assigned for Ava's birth are some of the most compassionate people I have ever met. They pass the tissues as I cry hysterically about how unfair this all is. They listen as I let out a gut wrenching roar from deep within about not even eating a piece of deli meat or seafood this pregnancy. They hold my hand and agree with me that this is the worst situation you can be in. They run and grab me vomit bags time and time again and agree that it shouldn't have been that I have also had to go through hyperemesis gravidarum for the entire pregnancy, yet don't get to hold a screaming baby in the end. They hold my hand as they give me needles and other medications to help with the relentless nausea which is a combination of extreme fear, panic, sadness, shock, morning sickness and morphine. They bring my husband meals which he cannot eat but is grateful for the gesture. They tell me I can do this, that I am strong, that I will get to meet my daughter soon. They say her name, her beautiful name over and over again. They come running when I push my button in sheer panic when my waters break, screaming for them to call my obstetrician. They calm me with soothing words and again affirm that I can do this, that i will meet my precious daughter soon. They listen through my sobs about the plans we had for our daughter and our family that was supposed to have 5 people in it in just a few months. They check me calmly as I begin to enter the final stage of labour knowing that the end of the birthing process is near. They whisper to my husband to quickly go and tell the staff on the desk to call my obstetrician to come NOW, the babies birth is imminent! They hold my tiny daughter for what feels like hours in a way so that she isn't born before I am ready and not before 'the best obstetrician in the whole wide world' arrives. As we are waiting, she describes my daughters "dainty" features. The doctor arrives and calmly delivers my third child, just as he has delivered her older sister and brother in the previous few years. Her birth is silent, the room is silent. There are no tears, there are no cheers. He describes in detail what she looks like asking gently if we want to see her. My husband and I look at each other with a glance, both knowing the answer in that second - YES, please we want to see her, we want to hold her and never let her go. We want to cuddle her, and love on her and kiss her. I am handed her, all 15.5cm and 105grams to hold after a 2.5 hour labour. 

Im exhausted, emotionally and physically, but I'm smiling, I'm actually grinning ear to ear as any proud mother would be doing for their full term, healthy baby that has just been born. I am in such awe about what a perfectly formed little girl we have created. I am so happy to meet her and hold her. At the same moment that my heart is being shattered into a million pieces, my heart is also full. My husband reaches out to touch her. I see the deep pain but also so much love for our third child. The widwife and obstetrician have tears in their eyes and comment how beautiful she is. She really is beautiful. Ava died because of fatal birth defects. We have heard the term 'incompatible with life' said many times before and after her birth, but those words (which I hate) don't take away ANYTHING from her beauty. They don't take anything away from the fact that she always had a place in our family. That she was supposed to be born. How amazing, that at 15.3 weeks gestation she has 10 tiny fingers and toes. She has her sisters chin, she has her daddy's toes, she has her brothers fingers, she has my knees. Her knuckles are all there and her fingernails are formed. Two tiny ears, two tiny eyes and a perfect little mouth. Just a tiny baby. Our baby. AVA GRACE JOHNSON. Monday 16th March 2015. 

Born still, but still born. 

Psalm 139:13-16 (NIV)

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mothers womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.