I have never experienced the death of a close family member. My grandfathers were old when they passed and one of my grandmothers passed when my father was a child. Of course along this thing we call life I have had deaths that have touched me; deaths of relatives, friends, college mates, colleagues etc. However, there is the death of one that is hardly talked about or is hard to categorize. It is the loss of an unborn baby, death of a premature baby, or a still birth. These deaths who many don’t categorize as having lost a child, I have experienced that loss. I have lost two sons.
I got married early, at twenty-four years, and I had my whole life planned. I was going to have two kids and a master’s degree by the time I was 30. You know the whole house, family and white picket fence dreams, but alas, God had other plans. I had my oldest child a year after my wedding and her conception, pregnancy and delivery were relatively normal, though I did have terrible morning sickness and lost her ‘twin’ early on in my pregnancy. However nothing could have prepared me for the rollercoaster journey ahead. For four years after having my daughter I suffered with infertility due to polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS) and was unable to conceive. In 2013 I was finally expecting and ecstatic. Babycenter.com was bookmarked on my phone and with every week I read on what size my baby was (a pea, an orange etc.) and what parts of his body were forming. I started picking out names and looking online for baby stuff, making wish lists, the whole nine yards. I was so sick during that pregnancy, constantly on IVs, unable to eat, throwing up all day to the point of only puking up bile and blood, but I was on a high. Then disaster struck.
One night, whilst watching The Great Gatsby with my husband and cousin, my water broke, I was five months pregnant. I think my cousin, who was in her twenties at the time, and had never had kids, was traumatized for life at the scene, me screaming and the chaos that ensued. I was rushed to the hospital and even after being totally confined to my hospital bed, and being pumped with steroids to help develop the baby’s lungs faster, I had to be induced a few days later. I delivered my baby, whiles holding my husband’s hand and with my father pacing outside the delivery room.
I remember arguing with the doctor on call before being induced, as everything felt rushed. I needed someone who understood my journey, my own doctor, as I believed he would have more empathy and patience, rather than someone who viewed me as just another patient during his rounds. I’m glad my husband and father helped me stand my ground during such a vulnerable moment, as I got my wish, and my doctor was called. I remember at a point I told him I was just done and for him to take me to the theater and do a C-section. Not because I couldn’t bear the pain physically, but because it was too hard emotionally, as I knew my baby wouldn’t survive. He refused, encouraging me and talking me through the delivery.
My son was beautiful, he was my most beautiful baby ever. Even at that premature he was fully formed and looked just like his father. He breathed for fifteen minutes or so and then he passed. He was still warm when I left him for the last time, wrapped in a blanket and laying on a stretcher in the delivery room. I was wheeled to the theater as my body refused to deliver the placenta naturally. I left my baby there, getting cold, as I was put to sleep. My husband had to go bury our child, and to this day I haven’t asked to see his grave. All I know is he was buried at Ascension Town cemetery. I woke up from anesthetic in my hospital bed with no baby.
Coming home, I just felt cold and numb. There were many visitors during those first few weeks, sympathizers, but it was a blur. The pain of my engorged breast after a few days was extra painful as it was a reminder that I didn’t have a baby to breastfeed. One phrase that people said, in a bid to sympathize, but which stuck with me and I hated was, “before d calabash broke, leh d water troway” (loosely meaning, it’s better the baby passed away than you the mother/carrier). It offered me no comfort, it made me angry even, as if my baby was insignificant. I wanted my baby, the baby I had carried, feeling his kicks, building a bond with. The only real comfort I had was that I already had my daughter. Explaining to a four year old that her baby brother had gone to heaven was complicated, as she was excited she was having a sibling and would often touch my growing tummy. Luckily she was away on holidays when the actual ‘event’ happened and she had a ‘basic understanding of death and heaven’ as she had lost a puppy before and her grandfather had passed before she was born.
I got pregnant again very quickly, within a few months of losing our baby. God was working overtime in compensating us for those years of infertility. Surprisingly I wasn’t anxious at all, I had so much faith that God would not forsake me twice. This pregnancy was my easiest, I didn’t have morning sickness and our doctor had taken necessary precautions putting in a cervical stitch to stop my cervix from opening prematurely. Even when my doctor explained some complications that arose during the procedure, I wasn’t worried at all. I had even just started a new job and was feeling very energetic. Just as a precaution we didn’t tell my daughter I was expecting this time. Then it happened. At six months pregnant, one afternoon in the office, my waters broke.
The chaos once again. The rush to the hospital, scans, steroid shots. In all this I was actually calm because in my mind I was like ‘God you nor go do me this again, e nor possible’. I even had the hospital put me in a different room from the last time, as I didn’t even want to risk jinxing anything. Looking back now, I don’t know if it was faith or denial. Few days later I went into active labour, and I had to have an emergency C-section, as I couldn’t deliver naturally. Another screaming match with the hospital staff, before my operation, as my husband had gone home to change and I wanted him there. I was wheeled into theater leaving my husband, father, brother and mother, at the theater door. At this point reality sank in, and once again my doctor was tasked with talking me through the procedure, whiles I was crying uncontrollably. After the baby was born, I only saw him for a spilt second before he was whisked away, taken to another hospital for neonatal care, my brother in the ambulance with the baby and the hospital staff, my other family members following closely behind.
For the two days my baby lived, I was unable to go to him, or hold him because of my C-section. My husband, mother-in-law and aunt took turns being with him at the hospital. Someone had taken a picture of him for me and he had a head full of hair. My husband deleted that picture from my phone when he passed, but I had earlier emailed it to myself, and occasionally I will look at it. It comforts me. My husband would spend nights at the hospital with me on a couch and I would spend my nights awake thinking of when I could leave and start taking care of my baby. I never allowed my thoughts to go to us losing him. Although, subconsciously I knew what was coming, as I had refused to name the baby even after his birth.
On the morning of June 30th 2014, my second son passed away. My baby passed away and I wasn’t there, I never held him or even saw him. I often wonder if he was in pain when he passed. I wonder if he was looking for his mama, that voice he would hear whiles in my tummy. I still remember the moment my father told me my baby had died. As soon as he started I knew what he was trying to say and I kept telling him ‘no Baaba’. I can still hear my screams, as if they were coming from someone else, because I felt like I had left my body.
This baby’s death was different. The two days he had survived had given me false hope, so it hit me harder. The C-section was hard on me physically, as I took longer to heal than if it had been a natural birth and the epidural caused me excruciating headaches for weeks after. I also had my daughter around, so I didn’t have the luxury of grieving endlessly, as I had to be ‘normal Mama’. I sank into a depression. I am normally a bubbly extrovert, but for weeks I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. Even taking a bath and getting dressed was a huge struggle for me, not to talk of going out. I would lay in bed crying till it was time for my daughter to come home from school. I made an effort for my husband as I knew he was grieving as well. He had buried two sons and wasn’t used to his wife being quiet. However, when he would fall asleep, I would go into the bathroom, run the shower and cry some more. Returning to work was hard, as every day I would have to explain to people who had seen me pregnant, but hadn’t heard, and would ask about the baby, that I had lost the baby. I would have to stand there feigning fake smiles, accepting their condolences when really I didn’t want to talk or think about it.
God did come through eventually, as he always does. Just when we had decided we were never having another child, along came my full-term, gigantic, energetic, strong, surprise rainbow baby, in the following year. His pregnancy was very stressful for me as I spent most of it worrying my waters would break prematurely. I counted the weeks and I refused to even buy any baby products, even in my final trimester.
I don’t want to imagine the pain a mother of an adult child, or a child that has lived for a while, goes through when they pass. Those days I lost my sons, that only lived for a short while, are forever etched in my mind. I cannot think of those day and not catch my breath or get teary eyed. Every year as the days approach, even without me remembering, I get restless and down, and then I remember why. I don’t feel I have gotten over my loss, and I don’t feel I ever will. I have never been able to visit where they are buried. Some people have advised I should as it may help with my continuing healing. I don’t know.
Unfortunately in this part of the world, we don’t have the resources or access to professional grief counselling. What was however profound to me when I lost my sons was how many of my family and friends have gone through the same thing. A friend losing twins prematurely, a cousin experiencing a stillbirth, another friend or family member having multiple premature births or miscarriages. Many of them silently, their struggles unknown to many. They would share their stories with me in a bid to comfort. Maybe this is one of the reasons I decided to share my story, as I hope if only for a moment, a mother going through this knows they aren’t alone and the pain, even though it never truly goes away, gets more bearable as time goes on. My experiences also strengthened my relationship with God, as I found prayer therapeutic, my time to vent, and talk about my pain and fears. Pain and grief is different for everyone, but whether that child lived for fifteen minutes or two days, the pain is real, and even today, years on, I am still grieving. It is a grief I carry even as I am thankful and happy.
Do you know of any counselling centre based in Sierra Leone , a counselor/psychotherapist or groups that support with grief counselling?
Have you had a loss like no other? What strategies have helped you so far? Don’t forget to leave a comment, link or share with someone in need of this message.
