Stillbirth: a personal experience.

Abstract

When our first child was stillborn on 13 February 1983 our worst fears were realised. We had both witnessed obstetric and paediatric disasters in our clinical careers and had friends who had lost children through malignant disease and the sudden infant death syndrome, so there was no immediate feeling of, Why us ? We had even discussed how we would cope with a sick or malformed infant, and two nights before I went into hospital my husband dreamt that the baby would be stillborn. Having been brought up with a severely physically and mentally handicapped brother, I personally had no doubts that a dead child would be easier to accept than a brain damaged one, and when a scan confirmed that our baby had indeed died in utero the release of tension was so immense that I wanted to jump off the trolley and go home, only then realising that labour and childbirth were still to be endured. Like most mothers I could write a book about the rites of passage through antenatal clinic and labour ward but will confine myself to observing that I felt a real sense of achievement when my son was finally delivered, in spite of the macabre circumstances, and that I shall be eternally grateful for the miracle of epidural anaesthesia. I was fortunate in having read recent articles on the manage? ment of perinatal death1 2 and had the presence of mind to ask for a photograph of Alasdair. A Polaroid camera was willingly produced from the special care baby unit, but the picture was so blurred that my husband raced home to fetch his own cameras. These photographs and slides have since become a great source of comfort and have enabled our parents to see their lost grand? son. I was gently coaxed into holding him, and my initial revul? sion disappeared on seeing that he was not damaged or deformed. Time passed all too quickly, and allowing him to be taken away to the mortuary was the hardest thing that I have ever had to do. I was discharged home the following day, a merciful release after a night in a single room where the only sound was the crying of babies whom I could neither see nor comfort. Return? ing home without our own baby, dismantling the crib, and pack? ing away the tiny useless garments were all predictably heart rending tasks, but we were sustained by the overwhelming support of our friends. Numb with shock, we drifted into a bizarre holiday mood and for a fortnight lived on a diet of wine and chocolates provided by well wishers. I developed an irresistible urge to describe our ordeal in minute detail to anyone who would listen and have since dis? covered that this is a common reaction. As my husband returned to work my gloom deepened, the need to find an explanation for our misfortune increased, and I developed an intense desire to read everything ever written about the subject of stillbirth, becoming exasperated at the apparent dearth of such literature in my local library and bookshops. I have since accumulated an extensive collection of books, medical articles, and newspaper cuttings, which has satisfied this extraordinary craving, but I would have appreciated something from the hospital, perhaps the pamphlet The Loss Of Your Baby,3 which might have soothed me in those frantic early days.