Baby Lost Page 9

  Hannah Robert, Preston

  The newspaper published my letter, but edited it slightly, replacing ‘my little daughter while she was still in utero’ with ‘my unborn daughter’. Nine characters rather than forty-seven. I could see the logic, but I had deliberately avoided using the word ‘unborn’ for Z. ‘Unborn’ sounded like a horror movie, Return of the Undead. It was a looking-glass word—the opposite of ‘born’, but creepier. And it was incorrect. She had been born, just not while she was alive. She wasn’t un-anything. ‘Unborn’ sounded like a train cancellation, an almost-something, a hypothetical loss; as though you could just press the ‘rewind’ button and become magically unpregnant. I preferred ‘dead’ because it was solid, it had a weight like her two-and-a-half kilos in my arms. I knew the legal technicalities, but they were just that, about as relevant to my grief as the lot number of a land title was to the home where we lived.

  ‘Unborn’ was a grisly image on an anti-abortion protester’s poster; it was an intractably polarised moral debate; it was a word I could not reconcile with my beautiful, whole, soft-cheeked daughter. I knew what my views on that debate were. Even when I’d been pregnant and in wonder at the life within me, I knew the difficult decisions that came with this amazing potential could only properly be made by the person whose body contained it. That decision—to continue or to end a pregnancy—was both a medical one about your own body and a fundamental parenting one about the quality of life you could give your potential child. I wasn’t about to be forced to trade my basic beliefs about equality and autonomy for the right to grieve my child. That our loss could be churned into political capital by people who sought to impose their moral or religious views on women facing extraordinarily difficult decisions about their pregnancies made me feel sick.

  I’d started seeing a psychologist at the Royal Women’s Hospital, next door to the hospital where I’d spent those long days in emergency, ICU and the trauma ward. I mentioned to her that coming to the hospital for my appointments was upsetting. By this, I meant having to walk past the room where we’d held Z’s funeral, and the cafeteria where we’d sat afterwards. But she gave it a very different spin.

  ‘I know; it is hard. Did you know, there are more pregnancies terminated in this hospital than there are babies born? All those people aborting when you’ve just lost your child. I can imagine that is very hard.’

  I was too stunned to reply on the spot. It hadn’t occurred to me to begrudge others the ability to end a pregnancy for whatever reason they saw fit. I didn’t want their pregnancies or the babies that might have resulted—that was their business. I missed my baby. The value I placed on her was not that she could be categorised as a fetus of a particular gestation. She was not a generic fetus, she was our daughter, and it was our relationship with her specifically that I grieved. Had things gone differently, who knows what decisions we might have had to make, even though she was a desperately loved and wanted baby. That love and longing to hold her in our arms did not cancel out my concern for my own (and other women’s) bodily autonomy. I had started to connect online with other women grieving their babies. One had needed a second-trimester termination to prevent pre-eclampsia from taking her life; another had taken the decision to still her baby’s heart in utero in the third trimester after learning that he had a condition that made him ‘incompatible with life’. These were pregnancy decisions with no happy options, but they belonged unquestionably with the pregnant person, informed and supported but not dictated by medical advisers, partners and loved ones.

  •

  On a Thursday afternoon four weeks post-accident, a few days after I’d been released from hospital, we were sitting on the front porch behind the rose bushes when the postie came. This was as public as I could handle being at that time, with a thick row of thorny bushes between me and anyone I didn’t know. Rima collected the mail straight away. This was about the only time in our lives together we’d actually both been home on a weekday to see the postman. Among the mail was a post-pack with six CDs of images from the Royal Melbourne radiology department.

  We loaded up the first one (‘CT–Trauma series 1/3’) and were told it had 2166 images on it. We didn’t get past the first image. It showed my body, from my neck down to about my shins, with my arms held above my head.

  I remembered this being taken. It hurt so much to lie like that, and you could see the pain in the awkward, lopsided way I was lying to try not to put pressure on the sorest, most broken bits of my body. The time on the image was ‘20:26’. It was after I’d found out that Haloumi had died, but before they had operated to take her out and to repair my knee. And you could see her there, curled within me. To my un-medically trained eye, she looked for all the world like a beautiful, healthy living baby. My flesh and hers looked the same—how could mine be living and hers not?

  That Thursday night, I had so many dreams it was hard to believe they could all fit into one night. But, best and hardest of all, Z visited me in my dreams. I was on the CountryLink train to Newcastle and she lay on the tray table before me; as cold and still as when I’d last seen her. I was watching over her. I had to get her safely to her destination, but the sun coming through the window was warm and the lull of the train moving made my eyelids heavy. I realised with a shock that I’d fallen asleep and guilt shot through me for breaking my vigil. But as I awoke, her eyelids fluttered open, just as mine had. I embraced her and wept, You’re alive! Oh, my little love, my little one! This time, constant waves of baby expressions animated her face. She looked directly at me and I heard her say, in an adult voice, Are you okay? Before I could reassure her, I was waking up again, this time for real.

  11

  Sun salute with bedpan

  The hardest and the best bit for me about yoga is when you are doing something difficult, when it feels like your bones just cannot move the way you’re asking them to. It’s uncomfortable and your initial reaction is No—enough; I can’t do this. But then you notice the discomfort, acknowledge it, breathe in, and then, as you breathe out, move past it. You ask an open question of your body, and sometimes it responds in surprising ways. Things unfold, settle, stretch. And you realise that the thing you had thought was unimaginably difficult … well, you’ve already been doing it for thirty seconds. The answer was there all along, within you; you just needed to ask the right question, and to listen patiently for an answer. It doesn’t happen all the time, but when it does, it is good. It restores my faith, it reminds me that sometimes my body knows more than my mind.

  When I’d still been in the trauma ward, I had been desperate to move my creaky body, all gummed up with bruises. What I really wanted to do was yoga—some kind of yoga that was possible with my broken bones and wounds.

  I left a long, garbled phone message for a woman in the physiotherapy unit at Royal Prince Alfred Hospital, where I had attended a yoga session only a few weeks before we left Sydney. This wasn’t the usual yoga environment, with candles, pictures of lotus flowers or other hippy accoutrements. There was hospital carpet, a sensible colour scheme; it was institutional, rather than inspirational, décor. I hadn’t been to this class before and didn’t know anyone, so I shrank into myself a little. The room was packed with very pregnant women, all taking up more space than they were used to, and with no non-pregnant people to make room for them. So entrenched was I in solitary mode that it took me a moment to realise I did in fact know someone—an old friend—and that she was waving at me.

  ‘Hello, Renee!’

  ‘Hannah!’

  We hugged, making an awkward A shape over two big bellies. ‘When are you due?’ she asked.

  ‘February! How about you?’

  ‘January! And you know Karin is pregnant too? Due in December.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know. That is hilarious! Three in three months. Are they still in Paris?’

  ‘Yes, having a little French bébé! Um, we’d better …’ The instructor, an older woman with a loose grey bun, had come in and class was
about to start, so we found our places and smiled at one another in a ‘Let’s talk later’ way.

  •

  The RPA instructor didn’t get back to me, so it wasn’t until I’d been released from rehab that I ventured out to a yoga class. I’d spoken on the phone with the owner of the studio, as I needed to deal with someone who understood the backstory. Penny and my sister came with me, flanking me as I, with my crutches, worked my creaky way up the long staircase to the yoga studio.

  •

  Yoga was my answer to my official rehabilitation plan, which mostly involved taking Panadeine Forte and screaming into a pillow while the physio put his body weight into forcing my knee to bend. Afterwards, he would measure the new degree of flexion with a giant Perspex protractor as though I were a Year Nine maths project.

  ‘Why does it hurt this much?’ I asked him.

  ‘Your knee was healing straight for three weeks, so we need to break down a whole lot of scar tissue in the joint.’

  ‘And when you say “break down”, do you mean tear it? Because that’s what it feels like.’

  ‘I guess so. But it has to happen if you want your full range of motion again.’

  He was a nice enough bloke, but I hated him for his casualness, for the fact that he didn’t take my pain personally, and that he was more concerned with refining the details of the TAC paperwork than with my suffering.

  •

  Before the yoga class began, the teacher approached us, noticing that we were new.

  ‘Hi, I’m Jess,’ she smiled.

  I explained that I’d called in advance to say that my knee could only bend so far, that I was also recovering from a C-section, that our baby died. It is hard to remember that first conversation with Jess without the overlay of all my subsequent conversations with her, and all her gently worded yoga instructions. But I know that she contained her shock, that she didn’t do the ‘tragedy recoil’ that so many people unconsciously do. And after offering her condolences, she smiled—not to trivialise what I’d just told her, but as pure kindness; as a reassurance that she would watch out for me, that this was a good place to be, even if I came here broken.

  •

  At home, in our new bedroom, I laid out my yoga mat, and stood, feet hip-width apart. I flexed my toes, spread them as wide as I could and, from little toe to big, re-placed them on the mat. Breathe in, hands to heart; then, breathing out, I swung my right leg back behind me, making a broad-based triangle. No, nothing was really triangle-shaped. I was rusty and bruised, still regaining sovereignty over the remodelled territory of my body. My body facing to the side, I raised my arms to stretch out my hands to either horizon, and turned my head to face my left hand. I breathed in; and then, with the out-breath, I bent that once-broken knee as close to ninety degrees as I could, and focused my gaze along the middle finger of my left hand, like a magic laser beam. Warrior Two. Rima and my mum stood in the doorway and cheered. My gaze took a direct line, into space and into the path of a hurtling silver four-wheel drive. Bring it on, universe—if you want to mess with me, I will take you on.

  12

  The posthumous godfather

  Thursday, 21 January 2010

  Dear Joan,

  I hope this finds you and the rest of your family well. I’ve been thinking of you often since David’s funeral, but particularly in the last three and a half weeks. Three and a half weeks ago something awful happened—while I don’t want to distress you, I feel like I need to tell you because I have an odd request to make of you. If it is too much, please just let this letter go by the by and I promise never to pester you again, and apologise for pestering in the first place. But grief is a strange thing which can make you behave quite oddly, so I feel compelled to write on the off-chance that you don’t mind.

  Three and a half weeks ago I was involved in a serious car accident. I had been driving to my dad’s house with my partner Rima (who you met briefly at David’s funeral) and two of Rima’s daughters (my stepdaughters) in the car. I was 34 weeks pregnant—with a baby we had been planning and trying for for about four years via assisted conception.

  Four of us survived the crash, but our baby did not. We were sent to three different hospitals—all injured but thankfully with no serious brain or spinal injuries. We are still recovering now, and will be for some time. I am writing because in the days after our little daughter died, the thought which was driving me mad with grief was the thought of her being alone—crying and not understanding why we were not there to comfort her. No baby should be alone and uncared for.

  And then, after I thought my heart would burst with tears, a little comforting thought came to me. I thought, this is why parents give their children godparents—to care for their child when they are not able to. And that, wherever our baby is, we would need to find godparents in that place to hold her and to explain to her how much we love her and how badly we wished we could care for her ourselves, but that a terrible thing had happened—not her fault and not our fault—which had stranded us in different worlds.

  So we needed to think of godparents who were in the same place as our little girl. We first thought of Rima’s cousin, who was like a brother to Rima, and passed away very suddenly in April 2008. We also thought about a dear family friend of mine in the UK, who had died of breast cancer nearly two years ago, and who had been like a mother to me at several times in my life when I really needed her.

  And I thought of course of David. Because David really was more like a godparent than a mentor to me in his generosity with his time, energy and guidance. He shaped my teaching, my research and my writing more than I realised at the time, but was also incredibly supportive in his personal capacity.

  I imagine he might make a slightly gruff, but very loving and extremely knowledgeable and protective godfather for our daughter. We would be honoured if you felt able to give your consent as earthly guardian of David’s memory.

  I’m not sure what your beliefs are on what happens after death, so I sincerely hope this request is not an offensive one. Up until now I’d had the luxury of never having to think too hard about it. I’m still quite fuzzy about it but I realise I do believe that souls go somewhere, and that where that somewhere is really doesn’t have too much to do with what religion the person has followed during their life. I really hope that this is the case, because the three people we would like to have as Z’s godparents are each of different faiths—Ahmed Muslim, Rosie Christian and David Jewish. If this godparent arrangement ‘works’, at the very least she will be well educated in the religions of the book!

  My partner Rima has similar beliefs to mine, but within the framework of the faith she was raised within—Islam. It was very important to her that our child be Muslim (at least until she could make a decision for herself) so we have given her Muslim rites and an Arabic name.

  This is all a lot to take in. Please have a think about our request—if there is any more information you need to know please let me know. Or, if it is easier, you may wish to talk with Rosalind (who also came and spoke at David’s funeral).

  We are having a multi-faith memorial service for our little girl on Sunday, 7 February down at Somers on the Mornington Peninsula. We have included an invitation and you would be very welcome, but please don’t feel obliged to come. I realise interstate travel is expensive and disrupting. If you are happy for us to nominate David as a godparent, we will include something brief in the ceremony to this effect. We’re not sure how cryptic we will be about it—the whole concept (as you can see from this letter) takes a bit of explaining.

  If you could let us know either way before the 7th of February—either directly or via Rosalind—that would be much appreciated.

  With love and the fondest of memories of David,

  Hannah

  •

  Prior to our accident, my longest stay in hospital had been as a seven year old. I’d always complained of ‘tummy aches’, but the winter my baby sister was born, the tummy aches got worse, and
were eventually diagnosed as recurrent kidney infections. My mum realised that this wasn’t an ordinary tummy ache when I couldn’t leave the couch, squirming and weeping with the pain. Even the novelty of having a doctor come to our house was only a minor distraction from the dull but intense ache in my side. Once the kidney infection was diagnosed and being treated, I underwent an unpleasant test involving a catheter, an isotope and an X-ray machine, and it was revealed I had a congenital defect. The ureter on my right side was misplaced, and was allowing urine to flow back up to the kidney; hence the recurrent infections and damage to that part of the kidney. I was going to need an operation to correct the ureter and to remove the damaged part.

  At seven, I was delighted by this news. In primary-school currency, a broken arm or leg brought instant popularity; the thought of hospital and an Operation (just like the 1980s electric board game!) made my small mind explode with the possibilities. Indeed, when the Operation was delayed a week, I turned up to school, and everyone was making get-well-soon cards for me and hastily had to hide them away. I still have the photo of all those cards Blu-tacked around my hospital bed, with me grinning smugly in my new pyjamas in the middle of them all, clutching my Care Bear—another hospital trophy.

  It was in that hospital bed that I learned to read properly. Not to spell out letters or say the words; I’d learned how to do that at school. But to read—to breathe in a story, to weave your own dreams from its dangling threads, to leap wholeheartedly and without realising you’ve leapt into another person’s world. At the start of my week in hospital, my parents took turns reading to me; by the end of the week, I was reading to them.