Stillbirth: #iamthatstatistic

Posted on 15 December, 2015

These are the words I hope you never have to read.

I hope you never seek comfort or counsel from these words as you try and make sense of a baby born still, or sleeping. To be guided on ways to comfort and support a family bereaved by stillbirth. Because what is there to say or do? Stillbirth violates the circle of life and is completely outside the realm of possibility in this day and age. Except that it isn’t.

My baby boy, Patrick, was stillborn on 29 October 2015. He was my first baby, much longed for and carefully nurtured for 41 weeks. I had a wonderful, uncomplicated pregnancy and started labouring naturally. The day before he was born, my midwife came to check on the progress of my labour and my baby. His heartbeat was strong and he was proclaimed a “perfectly happy baby”. Less than 24 hours later, my husband and I desperately clutched each other, sobbing, as we were told “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat”. Our story and our pain are palpably real but they are not unique.

In Australia, babies born without signs of life that weigh at least 400 grams, or who had a period of at least 20 weeks gestation are considered stillborn. In 2012, there were 2,255 stillborn babies in Australia; 52 of them were in the Australian Capital Territory. That’s 52 Canberra families who prepared nurseries, chose names and nurtured hopes and dreams for their babies, but who left hospital rooms with empty arms.

Grief is as individual as fingerprints. But six weeks after losing Patrick, here are some things that I can tell you with certainty about how to relate to families bereaved by stillbirth.

Use our baby’s name. Often.

We’re very proud of the name we’ve given our baby. Not just because it’s a legal requirement in the ACT to name and register a baby born after 20 weeks gestation. But because we gave careful thought to our baby’s name and it was imbued with the hopes and dreams we had for our child.

Don’t fear that speaking our baby’s name will remind us that our baby isn’t here. We completely understand this part, we get it. Using our baby’s name honours their memory and reminds us that they were here.

Remember that our babies were born

Our babies were birthed, just like the babies that went home with their families. Ask us about their birth, just as you would any other new parents. Ask us about the colour of their hair, their weight and who our babies looked like. Just so you know, our babies are often one of our favourite topics of conversation! (For the record, my Patrick had my lips and complexion and his father’s black hair and nose.)

We’re bonded to our babies in the same way that other new parents are. We marvelled at the miracle of pregnancy and birth and were gobsmacked by our baby’s beauty when we laid eyes on them. We felt the same overwhelming rush of love and the fierce protective instincts that other parents feel. The only difference is that we don’t take our precious babies home with us.

Don’t be afraid of us

Worse still, don’t avoid us. We understand that nobody knows what to say. That’s ok. We quickly grow adept at navigating difficult conversations. We have daily practice with the unsuspecting neighbour or colleague who excitedly asks about our new baby. We know that you find these conversations just as difficult as we do. That’s ok.

Pretending that we haven’t had a baby is gut-wrenching. It’s bad enough that our baby isn’t with us; not acknowledging them makes it worse for us. If you don’t know what to say to us, tell us. If you avoid us, we notice. Be brave and pick up the phone, send a text or a message, write us a card, or whisper your condolences as you brush past us in the street. Just don’t avoid us because you don’t know what to say.

Ask us about us. Ask if we need help.

We’re likely to be physically and emotionally battered. We’ve just experienced the best and worst day of our life when our baby was born. Ask about how we’re coping and be prepared for an honest answer on our ugliest days. Ask whether there is anything you can do to help us. If we say no, ask us again and again. If you don’t know what we need, ask us. Check in with a simple message and don’t take it personally if we don’t reply. You’ll never know the profound impact of kind thoughts or messages. Sometimes they’re all that get us through the darkest times.

Don’t forget the grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles and cousins.

It’s often said that it takes a village to raise a child. Our babies were eagerly anticipated by our villages. In particular, grandparents bear the pain of a double-edged sword. While they keenly feel their own children’s pain, they also suffer the loss of their grandchild. Siblings and cousins never know their most intimate playmates. Those special friends they would have shared a lifetime of laughs with and shouldered familial sorrow with. Aunts and uncles mourn the loss of a baby to teach, cuddle and spoil. Please check in with our families and look after them for us.

We don’t want anyone sinking under the weight of their own grief in order to be strong for the family. Acknowledge the special grief felt by a grandparent, sibling, aunt or uncle and cousin. Ask them about their loss, ask them what they need and let your presence be a comfort for our families. I can’t promise that any of this will be easy. In fact, I know that offering comfort and support to a family bereaved by stillbirth is hard, grubby work. But it’s worthwhile work.

Stillbirth is still considered taboo and families bereaved by stillbirth are largely invisible in our society. Since Patrick’s death, my family has learnt about stillborn babies of our families and friends whose names and stories we never knew. Had we known about these precious babies, we still wouldn’t have known what to say or how to provide comfort or support to their families.

This stops with me. I am a mother and will talk about Patrick and all the other stillborn babies to anyone who’ll listen. #iamthatstatistic