Aurora's Story

Aurora; Goddess of Dawn
Aurora's name in the sand, Coogie Beach; Sydney, Australia

Rewritten for Aurora's 5th anniversary - 7 September 2003

We were thrilled and frightened when we learned that we were pregnant for the second time. Our first child, Kae, had died in-utero at around 11 -12 weeks gestation and it had taken us 15 months to fall pregnant again. It may seem that 15 months is not such a very long time, but it was for us. It was excruciating to have month after month peeled back, empty, disappearing without a trace. Time seemed to effortlessly waste itself while we mourned.

When it is a family that two people want together, it can seem that nothing worthwhile happens without one. Things did happen - Kieron finished his Ph.D. and we moved to Sydney from Canberra where he started a position in the Economics Dept. at UNSW. I found us an apartment where I could work on my art and spent long hours in the garage drawing, painting, and fixing found objects. We made new friends.

But we missed our baby. Kae's anniversary arrived to find Kieron and I facing the day alone. We had fallen pregnant with Kae so easily. Adjoining our pain and longing for Kae was anger and betrayal that this ease had not been repeatable. What I remember most is how we watched everyone around us have babies. Families were created right before our very eyes. Two people became three, three became four. I was a dead tree among a garden of living ones.

Help was neither particularly forthcoming nor practical. It felt like we had broken down on a long stretch of deserted highway with an engine that couldn't turn over. And the few cars driving by weren't stopping to lend a hand. Occupant's roll down their window, calling out as they pass, "Just relax, be positive, it will happen." Or by the uninitiated, "Miscarriage? Everyone has one of those." Or, "Maybe you should adopt! People get pregnant all the time after they adopt." Hurtful things are said, things that jab and stab by people unaware, just driving by. They toss out platitudes, never witnessing the aftermath, never realizing that their minimizing words have watered the seeds of pain and anger, causing anguishing isolation, not relief. Grief and longing in relation to a child who dies long before you ever get to meet them is not understood by outsiders.

We decided that we couldn't go on like this and acquired a referral to the Fertility Clinic at the Royal Hospital for Women. While it was very scary to ask for help, it was also liberating. I started to feel less of a victim and more in control. I was 35 and feeling very old. The nurses at the clinic helped me to see that I wasn't as old as I felt. We started on the preliminary testing and started charting my BBT. I felt frustrated that no one had suggested this to me before. Why hadn't my GP told us about this? It is such an easy thing to explain. I felt that something useful could have been happening during all of this wasted time.

One month after charting, we became pregnant. The HPT revealed a pale companion line. Oh thank God. We called the Fertility Clinic and they had us come in for a blood test to confirm. We went off to the movies to take our mind off it and then called them from the lobby of the theatre afterwards. Yes, you are pregnant. Congratulations! Such lovely words to hear.

At 6.5 weeks, we had an early ultrasound to see how things were going. A heartbeat and fetal pole were observed, confirming that things were progressing positively. A due date of March 25th 1999 was given. We felt hopeful, thinking and telling ourselves that death just couldn't possibly happen again. By 10 weeks, I began looking at baby clothes and prams, trying to get an idea of what our expenses would be and trying to picture our baby in them. I put a big effort into keeping the house neat and clean, thinking that if I exhibited good mothering skills, it would somehow bring me even closer to actually becoming one. We passed the point in pregnancy at which we lost Kae without incident. It seemed we were on our way.

It was a Friday morning in my 12th week when I got my first signal that something was wrong. Spotting. Kieron was in New Zealand helping his dad who had just had quintuple by-pass surgery. I told myself, "Nothing to worry about, I'll just call Kieron to talk this through." I remained calm until I heard his voice over the phone, and then I just couldn't stop crying and gasping. He arranged to get on a flight that very day. I went up to Hospital to find help. There wasn't much to be found. Various people told me that a little spotting is normal, nothing could be done, and I should go home. I felt completely abandoned to my fears.

Over the weekend we saw my doctor. She did a urine test for pregnancy hormones for which I tested positive. But she wanted us to have an ultrasound on Monday, just to make sure. If the bleeding got worse, I was to go to the Emergency Department on Sunday. Sunday came and with it more spotting. Off to Emergency we went where we were told once again, that spotting was a normal occurrence. We sat and waited for 3 hours to be told this. We were then told that if we wanted to have an ultrasound, it would be a further 9-hour wait! They suggested that we go home. I was beginning to feel like an alarmist, or worse, an over-anxious silly female. We found all of this lack of support and concrete help very disorienting. No one seemed concerned about our baby. I began to question my sanity.

On Monday, even the ultrasound technician treated us with veiled disdain, as if I was some kind of hypochondriac without a legitimate concern. She intimated that we were wasting time and money with our silly, over-cautious concerns because as we knew so well by now, "a little spotting is normal." To this day, I don't know why she was so concerned about the money since we were paying for it ourselves. She globbed on a big blob of gel and began running the sensor over my belly, saying not a word. Silence is not a comfort during ultrasounds. After a time, she turned the screen around and said, "Well, I'm afraid I have some bad news, there doesn't appear to be a fetal pole and there is no heartbeat." Just like that. Gone. The rug pulled out.

Our worst fear confirmed, without apology, without regret for previous flippant behaviour. I felt stunned, angry and betrayed by everyone. How could they do this to us? This wasn't supposed to be anything to worry about, remember?

She mumbled a "Sorry" as she showed us out the back stairwell, presumably to spare us the lobby but I think really to spare them the sight of us. We stumbled out of that echoing darkness into the bright afternoon sun. Once outside, the weight of what was happening came crashing down and I just threw myself against the brick wall and broke down. I'm sure we were quite a spectacle for the passersby and the people in the little cafe, as we sobbed and held each other. We still had to make it to an appointment with our doctor, so she could go over the results and guide us through the next steps. I don't know how we got over to her office. Upon walking in the door, we were whisked away to a private corner, away from all the fresh faced mummies and their pretty little babies and children. It was so hard to be there, trying to digest our devastating news; news that meant we would, once again, not be joining this elite group of people called parents. News that meant a baby had died.

It was decided that a D&C would be our best course. So, our doctor wrote a letter of reference, called us a taxi and we staggered away.

That evening, I went in for the D&C - very scary, very awful. In my hospital room, I began to have incredible pains, which very quickly intensified. I couldn't believe it could be this bad. It just couldn't be real. But it was. I remember feeling like I was being wrenched in two. I was sweating and shivering all at once, writhing on the bed. I remember going to the floor. It seemed somehow that it would be better down there, cooler. Kieron said that for the 1 and 1/2 hours this lasted he thought I was going to die. Not once, did anyone look in on us or help. I wasn't allowed any pain medication because of the scheduled D&C. Then, I felt a pop, a tug and a gush. And the pain was gone, just like that. But there was no blood or remains from our baby like there had been with Kae. Kae's body was intact, although very tiny.

We cried together while waiting for the D&C. When the time came, I wanted to walk myself down, no wheelchair. On the way down in the lift, the nurse asked me if this was my first pregnancy. I said no and she replied, "Well, never mind then." I recoiled - never mind then? This was our child. I couldn't bring myself to tell her that the other one had died too. I couldn't fight, had no strength to defend our hearts, our rights to mourn.

Kieron left me at the door of the surgery, his pockets guarding my glasses and wedding ring. I was alone, waiting on the table when a different nurse came to tell me that my surgery was being delayed due to an emergency c-section. I wondered aloud, "How long will that be...." She very curtly retorted, "Well, a pregnant woman in distress is much more important at this point than your procedure!" I lay there, incredulous. I managed to stammer out, "I was just wondering how long it will take, not whether or not a pregnant woman is more important than me!" I was livid and wished I could see her well enough. Later she came back and looked at my chart, mumbling, "36......are you sure you want to do this?" A hard slap across the face would have been less shocking. Why did she say this? I didn't know what to do, to say. I couldn't believe it and so retreated into stunned muteness. I wish Kieron could have been with me.

When my turn came, she was the one on my right side. Her presence made me so angry that I started to cry. She dabbed at my eyes, "It'll be ok...." All I could think was, "Ick! Ick!" I didn't want her touching me but felt vulnerable to the events. If I complained would the procedure be botched? If I screamed at her would I seem like a lunatic?

When coming out of the anesthetic, I had a vivid dream. In it, I was sitting in a chair on an empty stage, applying dark brown blood from my baby to my lips, as if it were lipstick. Everyone kept telling me that the colour didn't suit me.

I stayed overnight, and in the morning went home with my miscarriage packet, a packet of information meant to help, but which feels like an absurd consolation prize. It is terrible to lose someone that was only seen by yourself and your husband on an ultrasound screen. Few people take you seriously when you say, "I miss them." But we do. There is a hierarchy of pain in the minds of some in comments like, "At least you didn't get to know them – it would be so much worse then." They don't seem to recognize that this is exactly what we wish, that we could have known them more. We just lost our baby who we never even got to meet.

We've decided she's a girl. We've named her Aurora. Since then, her name appears everywhere; on the side of ocean liners, to wine labels. The funniest has been seeing Aurora crepe paper at Kmart. We bought the blue colour. I'm going to go back for the red.

S.S.Aurora in Sydney Harbour, 2001