Why didn't my baby cry?
A heavily pregnant Julie, with her partner
Wednesday 28th May 2008
For the past nine months I'd dreamed about this moment so many times. I'd imagined holding my newborn baby in my arms, hearing him cry for the first time, to let me know he'd arrived. Now, that moment had come. It was 6.28pm, and after 12 long hours of labour, I'd just given birth to our 6lb 1oz son, Teddy.
My fiancé, Patrick Rogers, 41, gripped my hand, and I held my breath, waiting to hear the sound of our son's first cry. But there was nothing. A wave of panic swept over me. This wasn't right. Where was that cry I'd dreamed about all these months? Before I even had the chance to see him, the doctors whisked Teddy away, and I lay there, numb from the pain, and bleary from the gas and air.
Ten minutes later, the midwife came back, with a tiny bundle in her arms.
'I'm so sorry,' she whispered, as she handed me my son, wrapped in a white blanket. 'There was nothing we could do.'
I looked down at Teddy's face. His eyes were squeezed shut as if he was sleeping, and he looked just perfect. Except he wasn't. He was dead.Stillborn, they said, although there would be an inquest. I don't know how long I held him for, tears streaming down my face.
'I love you,' I whispered, giving him a kiss. 'Please wake up.'
He didn't, of course. Without saying anything, Patrick gently took Teddy from me and came back 20 minutes later, after dressing him in a tiny white Babygro.
'I took some photos of him, too,' he gulped. 'So we'll remember how beautiful he was.'
Remember? I didn't want to remember. I wanted to have him here, now..
It had taken us 14 months of trying to fall pregnant in the first place, and now, on 2 July 2006, a week past my due date, I was lying in the delivery room at Whipps Cross University Hospital, in East London. With my dead baby. Back at home, the purple rocking crib was ready, with the purple cuddly elephant propped neatly at the end, and stacks of white Babygros piled in the wardrobe. But there was no baby to use them now.
For the next three hours, we cuddled and talked to Teddy. I cut a lock
of his hair as a keepsake and then, I gave him one last kiss goodbye, before the midwife took him away. That night passed like a bad dream. Only when I opened my eyes the next morning, the panic hit me again.
And even though, on the inside, I felt like I was dying, my body was well enough for me to go home.
There, I could hardly bring myself to live, let alone speak. Even the pile of condolence cards on the doormat each morning couldn't rouse me
from the pit of despair. I felt totally empty.
'I just want to die,' I sobbed to Patrick, as I buried my head in the pillow for the umpteenth day running. 'What's the point in living?'
'Teddy would want you to carry on,' he pleaded. 'You have to be strong.'
He was right, but it wasn't easy.
The inquest result came back as 'unexplained death'. All anyone knew for certain was that my baby had been stillborn, and that was that. Two weeks later, on 21 July 2006, at Enfield Crematorium, I carried Teddy's white coffin to his grave. I brought you into this world, I thought numbly. And I'll carry you out. I was still trapped in a numb bubble, when, three weeks later, Patrick had an idea.
'We should try for another baby,' he said.
Another baby? It was too soon to even think about that. Wouldn't it be an
insult to Teddy's memory? But that night, as Patrick and I made love for the first time since his death, I wondered if he was right. And six weeks later, my period was late. I couldn't be. Could I? I did a test. Positive!
Hands shaking, I called Patrick at work.
'I'm pregnant,' I gulped, my chest heaving with sobs.
'I'm so pleased,' he whispered.
But before I dared get excited, there was someone else I had to tell.
I headed straight to Teddy's grave.
'I'm pregnant,' I whispered, sitting next to the patch of newly-dug dirt. 'But no one will ever replace you.'
It was as though the dark cloud of doom was finally starting to lift.
But it didn't mean I was happy. In fact, I was a nervous wreck. To make matters worse, my relationship with Patrick buckled under the strain, and two weeks later, we split up. Alone, I called my mum, Gen, 60.
'I don't know if I can go through this alone,' I sobbed.
'Don't worry,' she reassured me. 'I'll be with you all the way.'
And she was.
During every appointment and scan, she was holding my hand.
And she was there on 21 June 2007, when I gave birth to little Lily by Caesarean section. As the doctor lifted my little girl up, I had a horrible sense of déj" vu.
'She's not crying,' I wailed.
My heart pounded. Please God, not again.
'Please cry for Mummy,' I begged
But then, a piercing scream filled the room.
'She's alive,' I gasped, as the doctor laid her on my chest.
Looking down at her strawberry-blonde hair and big, blue eyes
I couldn't hold back the tears.
'You were very lucky,' the doctor said. 'Lily had the cord wrapped round her neck. Seems someone was looking out for her.'
Her big brother, I thought. Back at home, five days later, I held Lily in my arms and showed her the picture of Teddy.
'That's your big brother,' I said.
A year on, the picture of Teddy is still propped up on the coffee table, and I always talk to Lily about him. The pain of losing him will never go away, but thanks to Lily, life's good again. I'm a mum.
Sands is a charity that supports anyone affected by the death of
a baby. For more information, visit www.uk-sands.org