lizybee
Joined: Fri Feb 13, 2009 2:38 pm Posts: 5
|
hi,
my names liz adn i lost my little girl 5 years ago. i have 2 beautiful children now but still miss her terribly. here's her story
Life after Death.
At 35, the reality of my continued ‘singleton’ status was starting to encroach upon on my happy go lucky attitude to life and, obviously, my chances of having a family. The lottery that is this life can, however, take the most unexpected of turns and by 36 I was happily married but tragically also, a grieving mother.
When my husband and I decided to get married a mere 4 months after our first meeting, it seemed that my boat had truly come in! Andrew really was everything I had hardly dared to hope for. He had had a similar childhood to me, and hence had the same outlook and approach to life. He was uncommonly kind and considerate with confidence enough to be the person he wanted to be. He had led an interesting life and was obviously not someone to sit back, but rather grab life by the horns and get the most out of each day. I admired and adored him and had no doubts that we could make a life partnership work happily. He had been living in Amsterdam for the past 10 years and, before moving back to New Zealand for good, needed to go back and tie up loose ends. The prospect of 2 months apart was more than either of us was willing to cope with. We knew that 10 years down the line, a 2 month break would probably come as a welcome reprieve, but being at that ‘oh, so in love stage’ it seemed ruthless tearing ourselves apart. We therefore decided I would go back with him and we’d turn it into a 6 month break in Europe ending with a family Christmas in England. Having spent the better part of my adult life bunny hopping from one country to another, I was happy to add The Netherlands to the list.
We got married in Amsterdam, surrounded by loving friends and family. I had never been a great fan of the institution of marriage, but was converted for no better reason than the merriment of that wonderful day. The only sadness was my father’s absence. He died of cancer when I was 19 and has been intensely missed ever since; no more so than on family occasions such as his daughters’ weddings. My younger brother John, resembling my father in both character and looks, made a fitting substitute, helping to relieve the sadness of Dad’s obvious absence. We hadn’t planned a big white wedding of the fairytale variety, but were rather organising an easygoing affair in an even more easygoing manner. It was as we’d hoped, an amazingly happy and stress free day for everyone and, most importantly, for us. My resounding memory is the moment on entering the ceremony room at the Town Hall where our friends and family were standing and cheering us into the room. The love was positively bouncing off the walls. Our 5 month pregnancy was openly celebrated by all and added bountifully to the joyous occasion. It wasn’t exactly planned, but once upon us, was rejoiced.
I suffered badly from nausea right up to 2 weeks before the wedding, so had not been in a position to make the most of my time in Europe as I had intended. By Christmas, however, I was loving being pregnant and very proud of my now expanding belly. We said sad farewells to friends and family in Europe and took flight for New Zealand via Bali, for a week’s belated honeymoon, and 10 days in Brisbane with good friends of Andrew’s. We arrived back in New Zealand 28 weeks pregnant, homeless and jobless. Being gloriously in love however, nothing was insurmountable and we felt able to take on the world. We had originally thought of settling back in Auckland for a couple of years, but after tentative research, discovered we could rent a bach on the beach further north for the same amount as a dingy flat in Auckland. There was no decision to be made, it was summer and the beach beckoned. Having sold his property in Amsterdam, Andrew had some capital with which we planned to buy land around Whangerei. We decided to use some of those funds to live cheaply for a few months and spend the summer enjoying each other, and the new baby once born. We calculated we had both worked hard up to that point in our lives and felt this special time to be worth appreciating. We were lent an old banger by Andrew’s parents and so happily packed our few belongings into the car and set out to make a new home for ourselves at Sandy Bay. We had rented a converted barn 100 metres from the beach. The sun was shining, we’d found a lovely midwife and felt very much that the ‘happy ever after’ was indeed ours.
The day after my 32nd week of pregnancy, while out admiring a truly stunning sunset, my waters tentatively broke. It seemed impossible at the time that this could be ‘it’. We initially thought the midwife would tell us everything was fine and to carry on as normal. Towards the end of the phone call however, with me standing over a bucket, the reality started to sink in. Once the initial panic began to subside, excitement took over. We were going to meet our first born child, and soon by the look of things! Both my nephew and younger brother had been born 6 weeks premature, so I thought I knew what to expect; a longer than usual spell in hospital, but hopefully no more than 2/3 weeks. Poor Andrew, never having been around babies, naively thought we’d be taking it straight home after the birth. Little did we know however, when nervously but excitedly setting out for the hospital that night, what tumultuous and painful times lay ahead.
Little Asia Hazel was born at 4am on the 25th of February, weighing in at a tiny 1575 grams. Every effort had been made to stall her arrival so more could be done to prepare her for the struggles that lay ahead. For whatever reason however, the wheels of nature could not be stopped and, following an 8 hour labour, she flew, quite literally, into the world. She was whisked off to the neo-natal intensive care unit (NICU) and plugged into a whole range of instruments to monitor her condition. As any parent of a “premie” baby will know, the first few days are extremely anxious. Everything is new and confusing and the strain of not being able to cuddle or hardly touch your new baby, intense. Watching her delicate little body being pricked, jabbed and generally invaded, albeit by the gentlest of hands, became our daily torture. We were told Asia was progressing well but that a 6-8 week stay in hospital was more than likely. On day 6 a heart problem was detected and by day 8, Asia was in the air on her way to Auckland Hospital. Consultations with paediatric cardiologists followed, and it was confirmed that Asia’s problems would require surgery. It quickly became apparent that our dreams of taking our baby home for a ‘love in’ at Sandy Bay were shattered. We reluctantly gave up the barn and moved into a room in the nurses’ accommodation building, 2 minutes walk from where Asia was being cared for.
Andrew and I, barely keeping our heads above water, felt the roller coaster ride was spiralling entirely out of control. Things had moved so fast and our lives, so recently blissfully calm and happy, were now ruled by fear and anxiety over our little girl’s vital signs. If Asia had had a good day, then so had we. Any change for the worse, however, left us struggling to stay afloat. Our lives revolved around her. We set our watches for those precious moments when we could ‘top and tail’ her and share kangaroo hugs. We woke every 3-4 hours during the night to continue the milking routine; a loud machine rather than my warm, cuddly daughter rudely tugging my nipples for milk. She was too little to be operated on immediately so everything became dependant upon her gaining weight. Being born so early, and with a heart condition, meant the effort of merely existing was a crippling struggle for her tiny body. At one month old, her weight had increased by a meagre 330 grams and her condition was deteriorating. It was decided that she would go for surgery the following week. This meant a move to another hospital both for Asia and for us. Nevertheless, we felt relieved that something was finally happening. And, as traumatic as it was going to be for Asia, hopefully she would soon be on the road to recovery and then finally home with us, safe in our arms, free from pain and encircled by the love we were so desperate to give her.
As Andrew answered the call that woke us up at 5 that morning, my heart was already in my mouth. We were told that Asia had had a ‘collapse’ and not fully understanding what this meant, made our way frantically to her in the NICU. She was wide awake and alert and as I looked into her dark little eyes I felt immediately relieved. An hour earlier her heart rate had suddenly dropped dramatically and she had been put onto a ventilator. The doctors were not sure what was happening, but were looking at various possible complications. We sat by her side, holding her tiny hand and watched and listened in bewilderment as nurses and doctors buzzed around her. After a few hours she seemed to stabilise, so Andrew and I decided to go for some coffee. We felt much calmer but, for some reason, tentatively broached the subject of what we would do if we lost her. I know that at that time neither of us believed for one moment that this was truly possible, but I suppose the shock of the morning’s events were forcing us to acknowledge her fragility. While making our way back into her room, I passed one of the doctors coming out and knew from the look in his eyes that something was not right. Asia had essentially fallen into a coma. Her eyes were rolled back and dull, essentially lifeless. She was no longer in there. I feel desperate now I had not been with her for her last moments of awareness. Hope lives eternal however, and I couldn’t believe it was over. Her heart rate had dropped and the buzzing around her had increased to a frenzy of activity. Every effort was being made to save her. After a while we were asked into a private room and gently told there was very little hope. I can’t recall much of what was going on in my mind at that time, but I do remember asking my father to get ready as she was coming to him. I had not been thinking of him at all and am, on reflextion, amazed at how my mind went straight to him with that request. I’m not a religious or spiritual person so I don’t know whether this came from my own need for comfort or whether my dad really was there with me. Asia’s body carried on the struggle for another hour before her heart rate started to drop irretrievably and she was taken off all the machines and placed in my arms. The room emptied and curtains were drawn around us as we sat together with our baby girl as she drifted off. I wish now I had spoken or sang gently to her in those last moments but the shock was mind numbing and so we just sat sobbing inconsolably. Life felt a very brutal place to be.
Like ghosts from another world we were gently walked down the corridor in a huddle of concern to a private family room. I had enviously watched parents leaving this room, as it was the last stop before home after what, for some, had been many months of hospital life. The grim irony was not lost on me that morning as we settled ourselves in for our last 24 hours with Asia. It was the first time ever that we had been alone with our little girl, but now her eyes were shut forever and our fledgling family in tatters. Tears and despair flowed unhindered as our few friends and the only family around, Andrew’s sister, came to comfort us. Desperate phone calls between my Mum in Malawi and my sister and brother in England offered intermittent comfort, but their absence was cruelly felt. The distance in geography I had put between us added to my despair.
That night, with Asia lying between us, we talked about what we would do next and how we would get over this terrible loss in our lives. We decided to go away for a while, to visit my mum in Africa, and to then see how we felt. We had no home to speak of, no base to fall back on or family of friends to submerge ourselves into. This gave us the freedom to do whatever we wanted, but it also left us feeling rather isolated. As Andrew drifted in and out of sleep, I was left with my own thoughts. I knew that my despair was going to get a lot worse before it got better. I was feeling intensely afraid of the future and of how I would cope with life without my first born baby and all that we should have shared. I knew I wanted to get better and to carry on living and to be happy. I also knew that Andrew and I would try again for a family. Above all, I was keenly aware that it was going to be an excruciatingly painful road, and I knew that I had to work hard to get over Asia leaving me. I stared at my daughter lying there as though safely sleeping next to her daddy and my heart bled. How could this have happened? It was to become a recurrent theme over the following weeks and months. I drifted in and out of sleep, waking to look and touch Asia for what I knew to be the last few times. She was due to be picked up at 6am. She was being sent to Wellington for an autopsy so the desperate questions as to why she had so suddenly died could be answered. We had everything ready to leave, both feeling the need to get away from the hospital as quickly as possible once she’d been taken from us. The knock on the door came spot on 6 and I was forced, my heart breaking, to hand my baby over.
We drove south that day, not sure where we were going. We had 2 days before we were due to pick Asia up for cremation. We had decided to plant a tree over Asia’s ashes and placenta on the land we had been gifted by Andrew’s parents. I desperately needed to feel some form of life come from what was left of my little girl. Something tangible I could touch and watch grow. A place I could sit and be with her. I couldn’t face being left with nothing. Unbeknown to us, my mother had already left Malawi for New Zealand. Unable to bear not being with me at such a time, she had started a marathon journey, via London arriving some 3 days later. Poor mum, after so many hours flying, seeing my brother and sister amid such sad emotion briefly at Heathrow, to finally meeting her granddaughter for the first and last time the day of her cremation. We arrived early at the crematorium and sat together on a bench in the garden cradling Asia and talking about the last few weeks. Andrew was amazing, quietly taking care of all the arrangements, anticipating my needs and providing me with constant love and support. Again the time came to hand Asia over. This time would be the last, however, and I would never see or touch her again. The truth of that realisation tore deep into my very being. We had a box that she was to be cremated in, but I couldn’t bear to put her into it. It seemed wrong somehow but was, I suppose, necessary. As the woman started to walk away with my baby, I desperately reached out asking for one last look. How was I supposed to give her up? 32 days after her birth, 23 days before her due date and my little ray of light was gone. Had nature been kinder to us, she should still have been safe and warm inside my womb.
The following weeks I remember through a haze of tears, an absolute physical longing for my baby and a depth of despair I never thought imaginable. My brother flew over from England and the four of us took off for the South Island. I suppose we were seeking escape of some sort, but unfortunately that kind of reality cannot simply be left behind by kilometres. Having part of my family with me was, however, of enormous comfort and I was thankful for their presence. A flurry of love and support came in the form of emails from nearly everyone I knew around the globe. I missed my friends intensely and longed to have them all round me, gently wrapping me in their tender care. I was often tempted to jump on a plane and visit those special women whose company I so desperately needed. I knew however, that 2 minutes’ distance from Andrew, and I would fall apart completely. Once our families had gone and we were left with only each other, a kind of hibernation started that would last several months. Frequent trips to the liquor store were a regular source of relief that helped to dull the pain. Gradually however, plans for the future started to take shape as we slowly moved out of the darkest of times and into the light that is life.
Asia will always be with us and will always be missed and her absence mourned. That is a weight we will bear for the rest of our lives. Time is the only true healer however, and the gift of a worthy life in this beautiful land of New Zealand, not something to be buried in sorrow. Asia was born and I was her mother. My pain will always be deeper and so it must inevitably become something I bear alone. The world, as it should, moves on with greater ease. I will however strive to live as good, full and happy a life as I can, for her as well as for myself and those I love.
|