Guest Post by Emily Osborne
It’s another sleepless night. My body is heavy and tired but I always fight the urge to close my eyes for fear of the nightmares. Waking up to the realisation I have to face it again, live it again, and paint on that brave face again.
It has been almost two years since I lost my baby girl born at 22 weeks, due to severe conditions that left her incompatible with life. Just over 12 months since I lost my rainbow baby girl also born at 22 weeks, due to a infection in my uterus which caused me to go into early labour and deliver our healthy little girl too soon.
Our Amelia Faith and Everly Rose forever a part of me.
It’s impossible to talk about, and difficult to write the words to describe the pain. The loneliness, the anger, the hurt, the why’s, the fear, the constant crushing pain in my chest. How do I explain it all? How can I possibly tell you what it’s like to be told your baby will not survive this. Not once, but twice. Not years and years apart, but within months apart.
How do I tell you the immense pain of what it’s like to give birth to your babies knowing the room will be silent when they arrive, even though I can hear screaming babies in the next room. How do I put into words the time I had to wait for my doctor to keep checking if my baby’s heart was still beating as I held her in my arms, and finally with a shake of his head he confirmed what I already knew was coming.
It is impossible. The first time was so utterly soul destroying I didn’t know if I would be strong enough to walk another day. To leave that hospital without my baby girl was the hardest thing of all. Knowing she was alone in a hospital freezer somewhere and I couldn’t protect her or keep her warm. Can you imagine me, as I slowly took the journey down the maternity ward corridor fighting to breathe through the tears, my hand firmly clasped on my now empty womb. Willing for my legs to walk out of that hospital. Never, ever did I imagine I would have to live this again, especially so soon.
When I started having concerns with our Rainbow baby, they told me over and over there was nothing to worry about. It wasn’t until it was too late that they found the cause and now were telling me again, there was nothing they could do to save her. I have never screamed such a primal painful scream before. I begged them to save her and I didn’t care if my life was a concern.
The most scary thing of all was, I knew what I was going to endure, and I wasn’t able to face that again. I wanted my baby to stay inside me until she was able to be saved, I fought every doctor and midwife until in the end my body failed me again and she was coming. The physical and emotional pain was torture, but somehow I had to do it all over again, and give birth to another perfect baby girl.
I had to will myself to leave my baby and that hospital all over again. It was a bad nightmare, it was cruel, it was unfair. My husband wheeled me out of the hospital. I physically and mentally couldn’t walk. With empty arms we took that exact same journey out of the maternity ward. As we reached the front of the hospital there stood a heavily pregnant lady smoking. My heart sank, my husband’s face was full of fury. Life was impossible to live.
Living was the only option for me. I have two beautiful children at home who were waiting for me. Devastated they lost another baby sister, and yet so young and capable of so much compassion, love and respect. They would come lay by my side in bed where I remained for weeks at a time. They would stroke my hair and face and tell me they loved me. Their beautiful little souls and faces brought me back to life a little piece at a time. Without my amazing husband and children, I don’t think I would have survived this, I don’t think I would be here writing this.
They were my lifelines, they showed me I could love and laugh again.
The immense pain never goes away, it slightly shifts and comes in waves, but it’s all still so raw for me that I really need to push myself every day. I know I can’t do anything to change my past, or bring my girls back, but I can live for them, remember them and honour them. This is my life, my truth. I’m 32 years old, married to my best friend and we have four beautiful babies, two in our arms and two in our hearts.
Sands supports anyone affected by the death of a baby.
Our 24 hour support line is open 13000 72637