When I told Flynn’s story to my own support group 11 years
ago, I focused on the months and even year leading up to Flynn’s death. I actually only allowed for 2 sentences at
the end of two pages to talk about Flynn. I was devastated by his loss but
at the time I was also struggling with the guilt, blame and anger that
fertility challenges and hospital politics contributed to our story. On the 11th anniversary of his
birth and death, my perspective is different, the loss is the same but my focus
and what I want to share today has changed.
Our first son, Rhys, was 2 years and 6 months old when we
found out we were pregnant on Boxing Day of 2001. The first four months of the pregnancy were
normal. We heard a heartbeat at 10 weeks
and the midwife had commented how early that was and how lucky we were. I felt the first taps at 14 weeks and by 16
weeks I was joking that our baby had a soccer ball in utero with him. I felt a deep bond with this baby; I talked
to him, dreamed with him and told him constantly how much he was awaited. In retrospect I was much more connected to him
than I had been during my first pregnancy, when I was just in awe of the whole
process.
At 17 weeks pregnant, we flew to Calgary for my best friend’s
wedding. I hate flying but I remained
extremely calm and tried to keep my stress at bay for the sake of my baby. The flight was fine. I was a groomswoman in the wedding and right
before the ceremony I started to spot and cramp. Some of the other bridesmaids were pregnant
too (3 to be exact) and they told me that it was probably nerves and that this
was not abnormal. I think I believed what I needed to, to get through that day.
The next day was spent in the Banff emergency clinic with a
non-stress machine locating the baby’s heartbeat and a doctor telling us how
lucky we were and that we had a “missed miscarriage.” He told us to have an ultrasound when we got
home.
We were barely landed when our midwife called
with an ultrasound appointment for the following day. We took Rhys with us to the
appointment and I remember the ultrasound technician telling him that he was
going to have a brother. The baby was
growing normally and there was no evidence of trouble. Our midwife called later that day to tell us
that everything looked fine but they were sending us to a specialized hospital
for a better diagnostic ultrasound just to be sure.
The next four weeks would take hours to describe. What I will write is that we spent days in
the hospital as my spotting turned to bleeding and “no evidence of trouble”
turned to placenta previa with a placenta abruption. My husband tried his best to juggle being a
dad to a 3 year old, housekeeper and employee and visit me in the hospital when
I was admitted for a week. We had 6
ultrasounds in total and at times we knew more than we wanted to know about
every blip and hiccup. However, the baby was progressing normally and seemed
unaffected by my body’s inability to carry him.
At 20 weeks gestation I was in the hospital with contractions,
hooked up to machines with nurses rubbing my back or holding my hand. The attending doctor came into the room and
told me that I needed to relax and everything would be fine, he said I was
being dramatic. I don’t think he had
even left the room when I began to cry uncontrollably. A very sympathetic nurse called my midwife to
come in and calm me down. My midwife sat
with me and let me know that things were not looking good. It was the first time that anyone had said
that to me in the three weeks prior and up until that moment I had believed I
was going to be fine. She told me that my blood count was extremely
low and that the continued bleeding meant the abruption was not healing. She suggested that we start to think about
what we wanted to do with the time we had left in this pregnancy and to make
tough decisions about the baby; she gave us the grave reality about his chances
for survival if he was born. My husband
came to the hospital that night and we sat down and thought about this little
boy’s name, what we would call him and we discussed what we would do if we were
faced with him arriving too early. We
came to the conclusion that we would not go to the specialized hospital, we
would not try to sustain life or resuscitate him if he arrived early. We made some of the toughest choices we will
ever have to make. When we thought we
would be picking out nursery colours, we were choosing whether to intervene
with our son’s quality of life.
I talked to Flynn daily; he kicked all the time which gave
me peace of mind that he was listening.
I begged him to stick with me, to stay put if he could because we so desperately
wanted him with us.
At 22 weeks, 5 days my water broke at home, and by the next
day, surrounded by my parents, my husband and his mother I went in to labour. The doctor on call offered to send us to the
neonatal hospital. She gave us the
statistics that Flynn would only have a 1% chance of surviving his birth at the
neonatal hospital and his chances of any quality of life were less still. If he were born in our local hospital he
would not live very long. I was in
transition at the time and my husband had to face the decision on his own. He decided we would go to the neonatal
hospital; he could not be responsible for not giving our son a chance.
The ambulance arrived, we were preparing to leave and I had
the urge to push. Everything became very
chaotic at this point, but moments later Flynn was born. He arrived at 9:35pm on May 3, 2002. He was 11 inches long and weighed 1 pound 6
ounces. The paediatrician let us know
that he had very little time and the nurses wrapped him in a quilt and brought
him to us. He looked just like his older
brother, with fuzzy white hair, a little button nose and a pouty lower
lip. His arms and legs were long for his
size and he kicked us a couple of times while we held him. Those tiny movements brought me comfort that
I cherish to this day. I watched his
chest rise and fall and held his tiny hand around my index finger. I heard the
nurses as they let us know how many beats per minute his tiny heart was
taking. My parents got to hold him and my
husband’s parents got to hold him. Flynn
was in his daddy’s arms when his little heart beat for the last time. He was so loved on that day and every day
since. Although I remember him every
day, it is on his birth day that I stop and cherish the time we had.
