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personal memories
By Jacqueline
Crompton Ottaway A miscarriage is usually a sad experience for most people, although everyone's time and circumstances are different. In my case, I already had two children, a boy aged five and a girl aged nearly three. I had decided that I would like a third child, but when I discussed the idea with my husband he wasn't keen as he had just started his own business working from home and he felt that we were in a vulnerable position financially. However, when he saw how much I wanted to have another child, he agreed that we could try. At the time, I had a part-time job which we were relying upon to provide enough money to feed all of us. After about three weeks, I could see how strained he felt at the possibility of feeding and clothing another child without the extra support from my part-time work. I agreed to put the idea of a third child on hold until we were more financially secure and he was established in his business. At this stage, I planned to start taking the contraceptive pill after my next period. Typically, at the end of that month, we were stunned to discover that I was already pregnant. The first three months of the pregnancy proved to be quite stressful. I was under a lot of pressure at work because I was relieving for a full-time position doing ten hours per week. Consequently the work there was piling up. At home, many friends needed me to mind their kids, look after their pets while they went on holiday while I also had to give extra support and help to my husband and his business partner in their new venture. I remember my father saying to me, "You'll have to slow down or you could lose this baby. " Although I realised that he was worried about me because my mother had experienced a number of early miscarriages before I was conceived, I just laughed and said, "Don't worry about me. I'll be all right, Dad. " During those three months I felt more strained than I had with my other pregnancies. and I also noticed that whenever I pegged out the washing I felt a slight "pulling " sensation in my womb. At the time, I thought that this was because the baby was my third child, but later on I realised that this feeling probably indicated that the placenta was not attached as firmly as it should have been. The May holidays arrived and I juggled my working commitments with the children's needs. A friend asked me to call in for a cup of tea on my way home from work and while I was there I went to the toilet. It was a shock to discover that a mucus plug had come away and that I had slight bleeding. I rang my husband, who worked at the same place I did, and he said that he'd meet me at home straightaway. We arrived home at about the same time and rang the doctor's surgery. The nurse advised complete bed-rest. At this stage, I did not have much bleeding, but I did have some backache. I lay on the bed in the spare room upstairs and thought how desperately I wanted to keep this child. Already in three months, the baby had become part of my life and the children, especially my daughter, were looking forward to its arrival. I put all my energies into concentrating on positive thoughts for this new life that lay encircled within me, trying to hold on to her (for some reason, I was convinced that this child was a girl) and keep her in my world. Later that afternoon a mid-wife and a doctor came to visit. The doctor was more positive about my chances of holding on to the baby, but the mid-wife whispered to me that my increasing backache was not a good sign. She also added, with a sympathetic smile that she, too had undergone a miscarriage recently. Through the afternoon and evening the bleeding and backache slowly worsened. Luckily, my Dad had come up to stay with us in case I had to go to hospital. By about eleven o'clock that night my husband and I decided that we should go to National Women's Hospital. We both realised that it looked as though I was going to lose the baby. When we arrived there, a doctor confirmed my fears and told me, in a kind and gentle way, that a miscarriage was now inevitable. They gave us a room on our own and my husband sat beside me. We talked about lots of things, of the good times we'd had with our families and our two children. Although it was a sad time, it was also a poignant time as we expressed our gratitude for the other two pregnancies that had turned out so positively. By about three in the morning, the bleeding was much worse and I began to feel dizzy. My husband cranked up the bed to try and make me feel less light-headed. This helped a bit, but I decided that this was only a short term solution and he'd better call a nurse. When the nurse arrived, she got the doctor who made an immediate decision to give me a D&C operation to clean out the womb. I was terrified when I went into the operating theatre. I had never had an anaesthetic before and was unsure how I would react to it. The anaesthetist recognised my fear and took great trouble to reassure me. I will never forget how kind he was because to him, this would have been a minor, routine operation. But to me, it was a traumatic experience! The worst part came when I awoke from the operation the next morning. I felt numb with grief. The starkness of my loss overwhelmed me and I could not think of anything that could console me. If I'd had the strength, I felt as though I could have walked over to the window and jumped out. Of course, my rational mind told me how silly I was being, but at this point I no longer felt rational. Probably the only thing that helped me keep my sanity was the look of love on the children's face when they rushed into the ward with their father waving home-made cards that they had laboured over that morning. Afterwards, I often wondered how women who had no children coped with their loss of miscarriage. When I arrived home, everyone rushed around after me and was really kind. My husband was shattered by the experience and he wanted me to rest and get completely well again. Friends arrived with cakes, cards, flowers and pot plants. I sat by the fire for three days reading poetry books and entertaining friends and relatives. I realised that I hadn't sat down and browsed through poetry books for about three years. Strangely, I found the poems and the comfort I gained from everyone's support was really therapeutic. I was disappointed after about four days when my husband said that I seemed strong now and suggested that I could return to normal duties. Physically, I was perfectly well and outwardly everything continued as usual, but emotionally, I was still scarred. For six months my hormones were out of kilter and my yearning for another child and my grief for the child that I had lost continued in changing forms for another four years. It was only really when I became pregnant, partly by accident, four years later that my grief and loss became reconciled. I lost my baby in the autumn. In the spring of the same year, I looked out the window of the spare room at the almond tree that was in blossom. Beneath the tree I could see my children dancing and singing with the small girls next door. I thought how the tree was now full of life and promise, whereas I was barren. I felt the contrast so strongly that I wrote a poem about my child "unborn, unnamed and unsung ". Strangely enough, the almond tree was removed to make way for the building extensions we did when I had my last child, four years after the miscarriage. I have always meant to replace the almond tree with another. Perhaps it is a yet unresolved and undefined grief that has stopped me. Jennys story
People often comment on the age gap between my two children. Simon is eight. Zoe is 3 months old. "You left it a long time " they may say. In the years before Zoe came along people would ask if I was going to have more kids. "Did you only want one?" I have been asked. Sometimes it has been hard to reply to these people. The story behind our quest to have a second child is a long one, thankfully with a happy ending. Zoe's birth was a dream come true, and in retrospect, it is amazing to us that Simon came along so easily. Simon was born in 1991. I had an easy pregnancy. I maintained good health and continued working right up to just before he was due with no problems. His birth was a bit traumatic - the cord prolapsed (became trapped between his head and my cervix). Simon was delivered by emergency Caesarean nearly three weeks early. I had great faith in those looking after me and the baby and I never presumed anything could go wrong. Sure enough despite the scary start Simon was a good weight and very healthy. It was not until some time later I realised that his life had been at considerable risk by the prolapsed cord. I have however always remained grateful that I had that innocent first pregnancy with him. What was to happen to us over the next few years would remove all trace of the innocent presumption of first time parents that nothing could possibly go wrong. We wanted to have another baby when Simon was about three. As my pregnancy with Simon had happened so easily we presumed everything would go according to plan. We started trying in July 1993 and I had a positive pregnancy test in October. However I miscarried very early. I was philosophical - many women I knew had suffered miscarriages and had gone on to have babies. In May 1994 I had another positive test - but immediately things did not seem to be going well. I had sporadic bleeding and some pain. After some blood tests and a scan an ectopic pregnancy was diagnosed and I was rushed off for laparoscopic surgery and a D and C. This miscarriage was a bit more shocking and certainly more painful and difficult to recover from. We still felt very confident that everything would come right, and sure enough, by August I was pregnant again. This time everything seemed to go OK. My doctor was confident and so was I. I felt the baby move early on and got big very quickly. Simon came with us for the scan - we had decided to find out what sex the baby was. Simon wanted a little brother, and we discovered that was exactly what he was getting. We were all very excited. Simon nicknamed the baby "Pum pum". I continued to get big and tired. When I was about 31 weeks pregnant we travelled to Hastings to see my husband's grandmother who was dying of cancer. It was a very hot weekend and the baby did not seem to be moving much. I was a bit worried about him but when we got back to Auckland I went to the doctor and all seemed to be fine. However by the next weekend I was worried again. There were hardly any movements and I felt (but did not want to believe) something was very wrong. The next day I went to my doctor first thing in the morning. She could not find a heartbeat and sent me to the hospital to go on a monitor. They could not find a heartbeat either. Finally I went to have a scan - by then Peter had arrived from work in response to a panicked call from me. The scan confirmed our worst nightmare. "There is nothing going on in there - no heartbeat" were the words the doctor used. Our baby had died. The next few days were terrible. I was admitted to hospital and they attempted to induce the birth, carefully due to the fact I had had a previous Caesarean. However my body was reluctant to go into labour. Eventually after nearly 4 days with very little progress we made the decision to have a Caesarean section. We needed to get our family back together. Simon was with his auntie and family and was missing us. Peter's grandmother in Hastings was getting much worse and other family members needed to be with her, and I was physically and mentally exhausted. Once the decision was made things happened very quickly. Our second son was finally born at 5.30pm on 10 February 1995, silently. We named him Kieran. We held him and kept him with us all the next night. Peter's grandmother died a few days later. She was a wonderful woman and I always say that somewhere she is holding her ninth great-grandchild and looking after him for us. When Peter's parents got back from her funeral we had a little funeral for Kieran. Simon cried and cuddled me for so long. I felt (and still do feel) so lucky to have him, and so sad that he did not have the brother he wanted. He helped fill the emptiness I felt and gave me a focus during that difficult time. After Kieran died we waited for a while before trying again. There was no reason that could be found for Kieran's death, which in some ways was frustrating, but on the other hand at least no serious problem had been identified that could recur in a subsequent pregnancy. We felt sure that we would have another baby, but the thought of being pregnant was very frightening. It seemed a lot to risk - we knew we could not bear the pain of losing another baby. I joined my local SANDS (Stillbirth and Newborn Death Support) Group and met parents who had similar, yet unique, stories of grief and loss of a baby. This support was invaluable, especially in the difficult months after Kieran's death when many people around me seemed to have forgotten my baby, or seemed to think I would have "got over it" by now. Within a couple of years I started to help run this group and became involved in SANDS nationally for a time. In the meantime my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer, and given only months to live. I really wanted to her to see her next grandchild, and was pleased to be pregnant again in February 1996, a year after we had lost little Kieran. I was seeing a specialist and having regular scans. Everything went wrong at 10 weeks - suddenly no heartbeat. I still felt so pregnant - it was so unfair. More surgery followed, and tests revealed that this time a chromosome disorder had caused the miscarriage. Further tests showed that there was no genetic problems with me or Peter. We resolved to continue - after all we had had one baby already, we knew we could do it. The rest of the year was spent taking care of Mum - she was in and out of hospital and the hospice. Despite her illness it was a valuable year for both of us - we talked about all sorts of things and got closer than we had since I was a child. Before she died, in November 1996, I assured her we would have another child. We talked a little bit about adoption. I am an only child and my mother would have always liked to have had more children. She could understand my feelings better than many other women. Simon also started school that year. I was working part-time so I could be around before and after school. I watched the other parents with their children - everyone seemed to have more than one. I was envious even though I felt I should be happy with just one - after all I was a member of the "mummy" club, wasn't I? Many people would give anything to have just one child. I well appreciated that as I had friends struggling with fertility problems - it made my quest for another baby seem somewhat selfish in comparison. A couple of months after Mum died I found out I was pregnant again, but I miscarried straight away. I was pregnant again, for the seventh time, a couple of months later. My specialist suggested HCG (pregnancy hormone) injections to help sustain the pregnancy. However after about a week of treatment I miscarried again. The next suggestion was that I attend the Recurrent Miscarriage Clinic at National Womens' Hospital. I went on a waiting list to be seen and in July 1997 I visited them for the first time. The clinic is run by lovely supportive people and they have a very high success rate with the women who go through the clinic - about 80% go on to have babies. They have strict rules they advise you to abide by (as much as you can). These basically involve avoiding all kinds of stress - that means no work, no driving, no weddings, funerals, large family gatherings, no sex, no hot baths, no housework - the list goes on. While these things in themselves do not cause miscarriage, most of the women who go through the clinic do seem to have fragile pregnancies - therefore the main bit of advice is "go home and put your feet up and grow a baby". I had a lot of tests but initially they could not find anything in particular wrong with me. While this was frustrating it also put me in a category of "likely to succeed" as I did not appear to have any serious problem. In November 1997 I became pregnant again. I was very optimistic - after all I was under the care of the clinic and I was sure that with their help I could succeed. I told my boss that I had to be off work for the next few weeks. The family was told - we were going to need lots of support. I was having regular blood tests to monitor the HCG levels - the level of pregnancy hormone should rise steadily in the first few weeks of pregnancy. If it fails to do so you can tell that the pregnancy is going to fail. Waiting for the blood test results was always very stressful. In the sixth week of the pregnancy I phoned for my test results only to hear that the HCG level had failed to rise enough. Although I had no bleeding or pain, this pregnancy was going to fail. Despite the fact the miscarriage was very early, I found it very hard to deal with - I had been so determined it would work this time. I remember taking Simon to his Numberworks class that day and sitting in the car outside crying with frustration. What more could I do? Everyone who had been told about my pregnancy had to be told about yet another miscarriage. I returned to work feeling slightly foolish. However the clinic staff were very encouraging. Many woman had more miscarriages under their care - it was not time to give up yet. Another test was arranged - an endometrial biopsy. This was to ascertain if the lining of my womb was sufficiently thick at the critical time of my cycle for the fertilised egg to implant and start to grow. This test was done by inserting a very thin tube through the cervix into the womb and removing a tiny section of the endometrium. It was slightly uncomfortable but bearable. The result indicated that I did have an endometrial insufficiency which was likely to be the cause of the early miscarriages I had suffered. The treatment would be HCG injections and progesterone suppositories once I next became pregnant. These can help to sustain the pregnancy. It was a relief to find there was a reason for at least some of the miscarriages, but I knew I faced more intervention if I was to become pregnant again - which I did immediately, to my surprise. I embarked on a course of HCG and progesterone and had blood tests every three days. Bleeding started early on but this often happens with recurrent miscarriers, and the blood tests results were OK - although not rising quite as steeply as they should. After a couple of uncertain weeks (which felt more like months) I started to have bad pain. Having already had an ectopic pregnancy there was some risk to me of another one so it was off to hospital at midnight on a Saturday. After several hours I was admitted and sent to a ward. The next morning I was scanned and an ectopic pregnancy was confirmed. I was given an injection of a drug called methotrexate which is starting to be used as an alternative to surgery in cases of ectopic pregnancy. It basically dissolves the pregnancy cells from the fallopian tubes. It seemed like a good bet to me as I really did not want yet more surgery under general anaesthetic. However after nine days the pain was back and worse. I took myself back to hospital on a Monday morning. They were very busy and I eventually had a scan at 2pm, which confirmed that the pregnancy was still developing in my fallopian tube, which fortunately had not yet ruptured. I was trundled off in a wheelchair and the surgery I had so hoped to avoid was arranged for that evening. The next day the doctors were pleased to inform me the fallopian tube had been saved and I should be able to get pregnant again. They could do some tests on me in a few weeks to confirm this. I was almost disappointed to hear this - I was at the stage I wanted all the responsibility taken away from me. I wanted to hear that I could no longer get pregnant, or that I should not get pregnant. I would then grieve for my lost fertility and just get on with life. I tallied up the number of months I had been pregnant in recent years - it was a total of over two years with nine separate pregnancies. On top of that I had spent many more months trying to get pregnant. My surgery tally was two Caesareans, two laparoscopies, three D and Cs'. I had had five general anaesthetics in less than seven years. I had endured countless blood tests, HCG injections, scans and other tests. I had one living child and I should count my blessings and stop putting myself and my family through all this. I knew Peter felt it was time to stop. He was more than happy with Simon and felt so helpless when things went wrong. I talked to the doctor in charge of the Recurrent Miscarriage Clinic. She was very sympathetic. She explained that what had just happened to me was regarded as a serious incident. While they would continue to treat me as long as I wanted to keep trying, she had to advise me that with my history there was little they could do from a medical point of view. Too many different things had gone wrong with my pregnancies. Looking at the whole picture I was unlikely to succeed. However the decision was still mine. I must emphasise that all through our years of trying to have another child we did not let our lives be consumed by the process. We have a great son and supportive family and many friends. Although we often talk about Kieran and he will always have a place in our family, I always thought it would be a further tragedy to let Kieran's death and my miscarriages impact too much on Simon's childhood. I did not want him to have memories of a sad and desperate mother. Over the years we had great holidays, enjoyed Simon's milestones - the three of us became a tight little unit and had a lot of fun together. We almost came to believe that adding another person, a baby, to the family, would disrupt the life we had made for ourselves....yet still we all still held a little hope that one day it might happen. Simon never stopped talking about "when we have another baby" and was always suggesting names for the imagined family member. I explained to him that it may not happen, that we are not very good at making babies. After the last ectopic pregnancy Simon (then nearly seven) wanted to know what was wrong with me, as I had been hospitalised twice in a fortnight. He was really sad - he cried and told me to keep trying because he wants a brother or sister so much. I know we are very lucky to have him (as people keep telling us) but what some do not realise is that he was affected too - he grieves for the baby brother he never got play with and he never gave up hope that he would be a big brother one day. The other option we had explored earlier that year was adoption. Although I knew very few children are adopted in New Zealand these days we thought we should find out what was involved. We filled out all the forms and went through the preliminary steps. We met with a CYPFS social worker and attended a day long seminar. I even wrote a profile about our family - this is the information that is given to birth parents to help them decide who they want to adopt their baby. At this stage we stalled the process before attending the next required seminar as I had received notification of my first appointment with the Recurrent Miscarriage Clinic. Peter was ambivalent about adoption in any case. I left it as something we could come back to at some stage. When we attended the first seminar I was so impressed by all the potential adoptive parents who were there - it seemed to me they would all be excellent parents. I can only hope some of them have succeeded in adopting a child or children, or perhaps even having one of their own. After the ectopic pregnancy our babymaking plans went on hold. I considered having a tubal ligation. On the other hand I felt I had got pregnant too soon after the endometrial biopsy and that I should give it one more shot - maybe the tenth time lucky if I did everything right. Peter and I talked about it but he was reluctant and I did not need too much convincing that we should give it a rest. We took ourselves off to Fiji and had a fantastic family holiday. Towards the end of the year we arranged a holiday in the Bay of Islands and looked forward to Christmas with the family and a summer of barbeques with friends and boogie-boarding with Simon. We booked an overseas trip to visit family members in the US and UK. Life seemed sweet. Then a week before Christmas I found out I was pregnant. It had long ago got to the stage that being pregnant was no cause for celebration. Past history showed that was not the important bit. Surviving the next few weeks and then subsequent months was the real test. However this time I had conflicting feelings. First, the pregnancy felt different from recent ones. I felt as if my hormones were in overdrive - very sick, tired and overwhelmingly pregnant. I thought this was a good sign. However I could not ignore my past history. I knew I should phone the Recurrent Miscarriage Clinic and get myself along to see them. I waited a few days, not even telling Peter my news. The timing was so bad. I did not want to spoil Christmas and (foolishly) I was sure that telling him would do precisely that. I did a lot of thinking. I realised that I could not face the stress of repeated blood tests, the constant scrutiny and concern of medical staff, family, friends and workmates. If I could not have a baby on my terms I did not want to go through with this. After Christmas I finally told Peter my news. He hugged me tight and asked why I had not told him sooner. I explained how I was feeling and we agreed I would go and see the specialist obstetrician we had seen previously. The decision not to return to the clinic was a big one for me. However I had decided that for me giving up work and making huge changes to our lives would be more stressful to me than not doing these things. Also telling everyone at this early stage was something I wanted to avoid. I had taken on board a lot of what I had found out at the clinic, but I adapted it to suit my needs. I explained a lot of this to our specialist. My first scan showed all was as it should be, and a second one two weeks later showed a heartbeat. It was suggested I take a low dose of aspirin to improve blood flow between me and the foetus and this I did. We had a pleasant holiday up north except I could hardly face food, especially come dinner time. Barbeques were out the question as the smell turned my stomach. I did not mind. When I reached twelve weeks we told family members, we cancelled our travel plans, and I told my boss but not the rest of my workmates. Simon greeted the news with tempered enthusiasm - it was still a big "if" for all of us. He talked about his future as a brother always adding the comment "if this baby does not die". I felt sorry that this was his reality, but it was also this way for us. We could not just relax and take the arrival of the baby for granted. For a long time being pregnant was just a state I was in, it did not necessarily mean a live baby to have and keep. I told other workmates when it became hard to conceal the obvious. I dressed in slimming trousers and loose tops - no tent-like dresses this time. I could not face too many people noticing and commenting on my bulge. Such small-talk seemed to presume that all would go well and I did not want to discuss how many children I had or past history. As time went on I got better at coping with the comments and questions - people mean well and of course want everything to turn out for the best. Most people I knew would assure me all would be fine this time - but how did they know that? My SANDs friends who had been through subsequent pregnancies understood the stress of worrying about something going wrong. They knew there were no guarantees. I had extra appointments with the specialist throughout the pregnancy. At all the early appointments I had scans, and most of the later ones. This I found very reassuring - seeing the baby's heart beating was a beautiful sight. However I decided against any other tests - at 34 I was not yet very high risk and I did not want amniocentesis because of the increased risk of miscarriage. Also the thought of finding out something was wrong with the baby and having to make a difficult decision was beyond me. It seemed like having the baby was an enormous leap of faith in itself - I would just have to hope for the best. Week after week the pregnancy progressed. Time seemed to crawl by. I remained very healthy - no bleeding, no pain, good weight gain, blood pressure normal, good movements from the baby. I finished work when I was 7 months pregnant. I felt as if I was doing the right thing being at home resting but time dragged even more. I would spend hours lying around willing the baby to move and would worry when she went to sleep and I felt no movements for a while. Eventually I allowed myself to buy some baby clothes and get a few things ready. For so long it had felt like tempting fate to do so, but I was beginning to believe we really would have this baby. On 4 August, when I was 37 and a half weeks pregnant, I went for my routine appointment. I had been feeling very anxious as I thought the baby had moved down a bit. Having already had two caesareans, I also had to have this baby by casearean and this was booked for 12 August. I was anxious not to go into labour as I did not want the cord to prolapse as it had with Simon. This was probably unlikely but I managed to worry about every little thing. I did not trust my body to keep this baby safe. I expressed my fears to the doctor and he said he would see if we could bring the delivery forward. I went home to await a phone call. When his assistant rang me at about 2.30 that afternoon her first comment was "I hope you have packed your bag - he will do you tonight". I was booked in for seven that evening. I felt an enormous sense of relief as well as a massive attack of nerves. It was really happening - this time tomorrow I would have a baby to hold. We arrived at the hospital at 5.30pm as instructed after leaving one very excited boy with his grandparents. I was shown to a room in delivery suite and a midwife prepared me for surgery. However at that stage we found out that the operating theatres were very busy with acute cases. We were hopeful that the baby would be delivered that night, but it was a case of wait and see. We took my bags upstairs to the ward and spent the next few hours sitting around - it felt like being in labour without the pain. Finally at 10pm we were told that a theatre was free at 10.30. I was rushed off and made ready. Lying in that operating theatre was incredibly nervewracking. The memories of the last sad time I had undergone this procedure came flooding back. Little Zoe Margaret Attwood was born at 10.47pm. She emerged yelling loudly - what a beautiful sound. She weighed 3160 grams (6 pounds 14 oz) and was 49 cm long. She was pronounced in perfect health and given to her proud dad to cuddle. What a feeling! She was very like her brother Simon - perfect little round head, beautiful big eyes, a rosebud mouth. Peter could not stop smiling and neither could our specialist. Simon had a similar reaction when met his sister for the first time the next morning. He declared it to be the best day of his life. We spent three nights in hospital and most of the time I felt very calm and greatly relieved. Although it had been 8 years since I last had a new baby to care for I found all the skills coming back. I was much less emotional than I had expected. It was not until we were coming home in the car with Zoe, Simon and I all sitting together in the back, that the tears started. I wept with happiness - this was a moment I had longed for. Taking a healthy beautiful baby home from the hospital was something that had been denied to us four years previously and it and it made it extra special this time round. I could not believe that our dreams had come true. At the time of writing this Zoe is three months old. She has fitted into our family like she was always supposed to be here. Simon adores her. He does not understand why she is seems so much more beautiful than any other babies he sees. "It is because she is our baby" I tell him. It feels so good to say this "...our baby". She gives meaning to everything we went through over the past six years. I do not know why all went right this time but in retrospect I had an excellent pregnancy in physical terms. Mentally it was probably about the most stressful thing I will ever do. I so believed that I would have another baby. The fact that several different things had gone wrong with my previous pregnancies made me difficult to treat. What was needed was careful management of the pregnancy and a large measure of good luck. It was truly a case of "tenth time lucky". We had several names we had shortlisted for our baby girl. Finding it hard to decide we consulted Simon. He chose Zoe as his sister's name and could not have chosen more appropriately. The name "Zoe" means"life". Grief is a solitary journey. No one but you knows how great the hurt is. No one but you can know the gaping hole left in your life when someone you know has died. And no one but you can mourn the silence that was once filled with laughter and song. It is the nature of love and of death to touch every person in a totally unique way. Comfort comes from knowing that people have made the same journey. And solace comes from understanding how others have learned to sing again. by Helen Steiner Rice The past 18 months have brought the greatest grief, the greatest joy and a career highlight for actress Robyn. Joyful is the best word to describe Robyn Malcolm's pregnancy. Not only does the 38-year old actress look wonderful and feel great, she's profoundly happy to be six months into a healthy pregnancy. Like many women, Robyn hasn't found her journey to motherhood to be the easy one she expected. There has been sadness and shock along the way and she has learned some tough lessons about life. When asked how she feels she laughs, "I feel like a lamb to the slaughter. I mean, there are all those wonderful feelings associated with pregnancy - it's a miracle, isn't it? But I also feel a sense of a massive change about to happen and it's daunting. I feel strange in a magnificent way, if that makes sense. There's this little being growing inside my body and it's weird! But there's also an extraordinary comfort and loveliness to that feeling. I'll wake at 3am, Allan will be asleep and I'll feel the baby moving and have this spooky and wonderful sense of not being alone". When Robyn and her husband Allan Clark married three years ago they knew they wanted to have a family together. But their relationship was quite young and they thought it was important to spend time with each other first. "You know how teenagers believe they're immortal? I think I believed my fertility was immortal too," says Robyn. "I'd got so used to scheduling everything else in my life that I thought I could schedule pregnancy as well. So we cruised along and then, about two years after we got married, we decided to start trying. I thought I'd be pregnant the next month and of course, surprise surprise, it doesn't happen like that". As the months passed and there was still no sign of a baby, Robyn couldn't help wondering if she had left it too late. So, when a pregnancy test finally turned out to be positive she and Allan were thrilled to bits. "We were so excited we told everybody immediately and threw ourselves into planning for the future". There were other things happening in Robyn's life too, of course. The former Shortland Street star was still busy acting. She'd also applied to do something that had been a long-held dream - to go to London to study the performance of Shakespeare at the famous Globe Theatre. "Every year the Globe runs what they call their International Artistic Residency. Through the National Globe Centers around the world, they select a small group of mid-career actors to come and take part in a month-long workshop at their theatre. This year The Shakespeare Globe Centre New Zealand selected myself and Wellington actor/director Jonathon Hendry to receive the scholarship and represent New Zealand." Everything happened at once on 11 December last year. "That morning I got a call to say I'd been accepted to be one of the International Residents of the Globe in 2003," Robyn explains, remembering how elated she felt at the news. "I rang Alan and we started talking about how we'd have a wee baby by then and we'd all have to go over as a family. Then, that afternoon, I miscarried". Robyn couldn't help blaming herself. "It was like my two worlds had collided," she explains. "I thought, 'There's terrible meaning in this. How could I be a mother and do this course? Was I bad to want it all? Was I greedy?' Such irrational feelings, I know, but nevertheless, acute at the time". Nothing in life had prepared her for the way she would grieve over her lost baby. "I'd always thought that miscarriage was one of those difficult hurdles that you get over," she admits. "But it was nothing like that. It was deep, deep pain. It was a death. And I got really scared. I was waking in the night just sobbing, wondering what was wrong with me. Then I talked to other women and they would say, 'That's it, that's miscarriage. That's what it feels like'." Talking proved to be the most healing thing of all for Robyn. She was lucky enough to be surrounded by an amazing collection of women - mother, sisters, friends, who were all able to offer such invaluable support to her and Allan. "Some of them had been through the same thing and I didn't even know it - that's how secretive people can be about miscarriage. But the minute I'd tell them, their eyes would fill up with tears and I'd realize they knew what I was talking about. I began to understand the mystery and guilt that seems to surround this part of a women's life," continues Robyn. "As well as the support, there were other people who found it difficult to understand the grief, often saying things like, 'Oh well, it wasn't meant to be. You can try again, just have a cry and get back on that horse.' I guess because, in a way, it's an unseen grief and difficult to relate to. And then of course came the question from one well-meaning person, 'How can you feel this and still justify what you did six years ago?'". What Robyn did six years ago was choose to terminate an unplanned pregnancy. That question was difficult to answer. "My decision six years ago wasn't made lightly," she says. "I had to go right down the track of what would happen if I had that baby before I could make what was the healthy choice for me. I found it a deeply traumatic experience and it involved an enormous amount of grief. It's interesting territory isn't it? I'm pro-choice and I'd challenge anyone who might say that women choose to end pregnancies without a great deal of difficulty and pain. And yet, now, I'm not sure I could go through that process again myself. It's a paradox, as I'm starting to understand much of life is. Last December I began blaming myself for the miscarriage," she continues. "I'm clear about it now but then I started to wonder if I was being punished for having that termination. This guilt, I understand, is terribly common for women - we blame ourselves any way we can. Perhaps that explains the secrecy surrounding the issue. We feel guilty that our bodies can't seem to carry a baby." For the next six months Robyn was overwhelmed with trying to cope with her loss. She felt completely directionless - unsure of where she was going in any aspect of her life. She still had the residency at the Globe Theatre to look forward to but had lost most of its excitement for her. But then, in September of this year Robyn's two worlds collided yet again - this time in the most wonderful way. "I was standing onstage in the Globe Theatre, in front of 700 people doing excerpts from Hamlet, and I was four months pregnant," smiles Robyn who, seven months after her miscarriage, had fallen pregnant again. "It was a marvelous moment. It was about two elements in my life meeting briefly in a perfect way. When our child gets older I'll be able to show her or him the photos and say, 'This was your first theatrical experience on the South Bank of London in Shakespeare's Globe.' It might not mean a toss to anybody else, including the child," she laughs, 'but it meant an awful lot to me." Robyn had an unforgettable time studying in what she describes as the most magical theatre she's ever been in. She learned a great deal and says it's completely changed her attitude to live performance. "Despite the fact that it is a replica of a theatre built in 1599 and the actors often work in traditional dress with traditional practices, it has a feeling of being an enormously contemporary space. You can't tell me that 1500 people, 700 of them standing in the rain, for three-an-a-half hours watching an Elizabethan play, knowing they can leave whenever they like, is about anything other than a great theatrical experience." As amazing a time as she had at the Globe, Robyn was looking forward to returning to New Zealand and Allan, and the now relative safety of planning for a life of three. There are piles of well-thumbed books about birth and parenthood beside her and Allan's bed. "When I do something it tends to be 264 percent and this is no exception. I'm reading everything! And through this while journey of fertility, miscarriage, pregnancy and impending motherhood, I'm beginning to see how chaotic and powerful a part of life it is. To be given the opportunity to love and teach new life to negotiate its way around the world is a privilege but its also hugely demanding - from learning how to deal with a crying baby, to the issues of staying in the conventional workforce or not, to finding the ability to be more tolerant and flexible than you ever have before. My mum always says, ' The family is the factory where people are made' - and that's no mean responsibility! It does seem that mothers are still not given the kudos they truly deserve. I look at my own mother and those who surround me with an increasing respect." One of the most surprising things about this pregnancy for Robyn is how she feels about the changes to her body. "I've never been physically confident," she explains. "I had lots of food and body issues when I was at school and then they were exacerbated by working in the worryingly body-obsessed film and TV industry. Initially when I got pregnant I could feel myself getting that nervous feeling you have when you know you've had a winter where you've eaten too much. I remember consciously telling myself this was an entirely different scenario and that I was being ridiculous. Then something snapped and I feel more comfortable with my body than I ever have. I think it's because usually we are taught the shallow lesson, through the media, that our bodies are acceptable or not depending on how they look - such a lethal message. Now I feel my body is doing this unbelievable thing and because of that I'm really proud of it and I like it. It's such a great lesson." Robyn is feeling so good she even went and tried on bikinis the other day. "I never wear bikinis," she laughs. "You know that terrible experience - we've all had them - of being in those changing rooms, under the harsh lights, really close to the mirror - it's never very attractive. But I was trying on these bikinis and thinking, 'Hey I look good! I'm quite liking this. I might buy one and scare the locals for a couple of months.'"Robyn's had a reasonably quiet time since she returned from London. She's just started doing pregnancy yoga, which she highly recommends ("You feel like you could give birth to quintuples afterwards!") and is about to start filming a new TV series, Serial Killers. However, she's planning a far lighter schedule for next year to allow her to spend as much time as possible with the baby. "I guess the past 18 months have taught me not to wish away anything too fast. I'm truly grateful to be in the position I am now - a healthy pregnancy, a husband who will make one of the world's best fathers and the excitement of one of the greatest challenges life can offer just around the corner." Nicky Pellegrino This story was originally published on 10th November 2003 in the New Zealand Woman's Weekly and has been added to our website stories with the kind permission of Robyn Malcolm and editor Nicky Pellegrino. Dear Jackson, My little brother, what can I say? I can say, that I always, always wanted a brother or sister as long as I can remember. When I found out we were expecting you, I was so happy that I would finally have my wish. When I found out you were not well, I hoped you would still join us, because even if you were sick I would have loved you just as much, the way I loved my beautiful cousin Timothy. It saddens me that I won't get to meet you, or teach you all the things I had planned on teaching you. I wanted to teach you silly games and show you all the children's books I've been collecting over the years. I was hoping to teach you some Japanese and see if you would learn to sing with mum and I. Before I knew if you were a boy or a girl, I knew Rik would spoil you the way he's always spoilt me and I had to lecture him not to give you lollies while your baby teeth were growing. Whether you had been a boy or a girl, Rik would have had you on the sideline at Rugby and probably would have taught you how to make a pie sandwich. Your mother, well she would have shown you that you can do anything and be anyone and made you feel so beautiful that no matter what life dealt you, you'd still have your sense of self…well that's what she gave me. You know you have really great parents Jackson, parents who have struggled long and hard to become the loving couple who would have looked after you and given you every opportunity in life. I know that even though you are not with us now, you have changed us all and given us yet another reason to be close to one another. I believe that is your gift to us, so thank you little brother, I will treasure the thought of you always. Love your big sister Miri. If you would like to share your personal memory, please email us: support@miscarriagesupport.org.nz |
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| useful contacts in New Zealand | books pamphlets | personal memories | poems email: support@miscarriagesupport.org.nz | Online forum Supportline: (09) 378 4060 | Fax: (09) 360 4034 The medical information included on our website has been supplied for us by doctors. Please take any further medical enquiries to your own LMC or try; www.AskAnOb.com (unlimited personalised email answers also offered for $29.95 US) ©2006 Miscarriage Support Auckland Inc Terms of Use & Legal |
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