Rosanna's Story
Up until Monday 18th September 2023, life in our little family had been pretty exciting. We were expecting our first child and were beginning to make plans to bring him or her home. We were well into our pregnancy now and all the nervousness of the first few months was over.
Looking back now, to think we were excited for our anomaly scan feels quite surreal… But we were. We were so excited to see our baby again and were even arguing about whether we should find out the gender or not. We had both been given the afternoon off work to go and , at the time, I just remember thinking how lucky we were to be able to leave work to do something so special together. Little did I know how grateful we would be to have been together to receive the news that we did.
In the room (with us still bickering about finding out the gender) the sonographer’s body language changed very quickly. She ran to get her senior and then the consultant. Within 5 minutes, we were being told that our baby was severely poorly with fluid in lots of its organs. The word ‘termination’ was suggested. I remember asking if I was dreaming and the consultant’s reply, ’No, I’m afraid this is real. I’m really sorry.’
Over the next few days, it felt like our lives were unravelling. We were sent to specialists to get a diagnosis for our baby’s condition , still hopeful that something could be done to save them. But we were given the devastating news that our baby’s airways hadn’t formed correctly , an extremely rare condition known as CHAOS syndrome. This meant that, from the moment our baby was born, he or she would suffocate. If our baby made it full term, then we would get seconds or minutes with them alive before he or she would die from oxygen starvation. Even with modern interventions, our baby was too poorly: there was nothing doctors could do.
And so, we had the most horrific decision to make. But, we decided that , if our baby was going to die, then we should be the ones to end his or her life. No matter how painful this would be for us and how guilty we would feel for taking our child’s right to life away, if it stopped our baby from ever having to suffer or feel pain then we had no other option. We would do this for them.
William was born sleeping on Monday 25th September 2023 at 3.36pm. Our first child, a son, whom we had loved from long before we met him. I couldn’t (and still can’t) comprehend how the little baby that had been wriggling around inside me a matter of days earlier was now with us. So perfectly formed. And yet so still. It will take me a long time to come to terms with that.
I can’t put into words how difficult the next couple of days were. It should be a happy time, with your baby crying and you, exhausted from labour but busy with learning how to care for them, ready to take them home. Yet, in this? Everything is so still and so sombre. The only time you have with your child is holding them in your arms… or , hours later, watching over them in a cold cot, talking to them or reading to them. It is very traumatic and very clinical. No matter how beautiful the ward is and how kind the staff are, it doesn‘t take away from the pain of those hours which are so, so special and yet so morbid… So beautiful and yet so graphic. No matter how valuable you know those moments are and how much know you need to treasure them, it doesn‘t take away the reality and trauma of being in a hospital ward with your child who has died.
And, since leaving the hospital, it is that trauma that has made it so hard to function in the ‘real’ world. It makes it so hard to be present, in the moment, when your head simply drags you back to the memories of your child. And the memories cut both ways: you want to be with them- to love your baby and remember … but you also feel like you’re going mad; the memories are so frightening at times, yet addictive in their terror.
It has taken me a long time to process all of this: what happened to me, my husband and our baby. It has taken a long time to come back to the ‘real world’ and to manage the memories so that I can feel the love in them, and not just the trauma. So much of those days in hospital terrifies me. So much of it hurts in ways I can’t even convey. And , if I hadn’t had Christine and the Winchester Pregnancy Crisis Centre to help me manage this trauma? I don’t know where I’d be right now.
I came across Winchester Pregnancy Crisis Centre after months of being pushed from pillar to post between my GP, Occupational Health and Bereavement services. Nobody knew how to help me or could give me the right kind of care for what I was experiencing. I was at my wit’s end, needing someone to talk to who could help me process the terrible choices I made; the tremendous guilt I felt and the memories of my child that frightened me so much more than I wished that they did. It was only through desperation, when I called a local SANDS team for help, that she was able to put me onto Winchester Pregnancy Crisis Centre and I finally got access to the counselling I needed and could begin to work through my memories. I meet with Christine fortnightly and I look forward (I realise that’s the wrong word) to these sessions as if I’m meeting a friend for a coffee. She is so kind and she just hears everything you’re saying , with no judgement. Through my chats with her, I’ve come to learn ways of controlling my trauma responses, and I can recognise my triggers so that I can manage the symptoms when they rear their ugly head. I owe so much to Christine and am so incredibly grateful for everything she has done for me.
And that’s why we are raising money for the Winchester Pregnancy Crisis Centre. Their love , kindness and support has helped me through the worst days and months of my life. I will be forever grateful for everything they have done , and continue to do , for me.