It's March and this month marks the start of our "anniversary season". We've always agreed that there's no one date that we got together. From the time we met to the day we said that we were together and Michael met the kids took about 8 weeks. We've said that we'll always go out on the first Saturday night in May as that was our first dinner date and first kiss. I was so excited last year to think that we would have our baby by now. I was thinking ahead to the first weekend in May and thought that we'd have a special meal at home because I wouldn't want to leave such a young baby so we could go out. I hadn't thought before now of all the things that I had looked ahead to planning how old Kat would be when they happened.
Sienna's back at school today. I was really in need of some time and space by the end of last week. I seem to go along OK in my day-to-day life but then I don't cope too well when something out of the ordinary happens.

The due date's looming - only two days to go now, the final countdown. Throughout the pregnancy I had in mind that Kat would be born some time in February, so I'm lost in the thought that we would have been holding our little girl by now. We thought she was going to require specialist treatment at birth, probably for quite some time, so I keep picturing our baby sick with tubes going into her. While part of me will always wish she was here I wouldn't have wanted her to suffer. We would have done everything we could for our girl but ultimately I only ever wanted her to have a happy healthy life.
I've come across a couple of women online who lost babies around the same time Kat died. Every time I speak to other people who have gone through this I'm reminded again of how supportive and comforting it is to know that we are not alone. Someone told me when Kat died that I had joined a very special club. Everyone I know who has lost a baby has a very different story. We all respond differently to different situations, such as seeing babies or hearing about other people's pregnancies, and no one ever knows before experiencing it how they will react. Sometimes the reaction might be different from one day to the next. But we all have the common experience. We all just know. My friend who referred to it as a club said that she could sit and hold my hand and not say a single word but we would both just know. That's what it's like.
My reaction to other babies has been kind of interesting. That's not exactly the right word, but I can't think of another one. I've been fine with the babies of people I know. It's the ones I see in the street that tear at my heart. Most other people I know are the other way around. I couldn't say I'm my normal self around babies. I don't rush to pick them up as I usually would, but I can pick them up and have cuddles and it's OK. I cried seeing pictures of Michael's cousin's new baby last week, but that was an epic pregnancy and the baby's growth had slowed - just like Kat. Their daughter passed away days after birth a few years ago and I was convinced they were about to go through the same thing all over again. I can't begin to imagine how I would cope with this twice. I was so happy and relieved that their girl was born safe and well, but when I saw pictures of her the tears came tumbling down.

Back down a bit today. I've always had quite severe period pain, to the point where I have passed out or been unable to stand up straight. A midwife was surprised when I was having contractions the first time that I apparently wasn't in very much pain. She said other women would have been screaming by then. To me it was nowhere near as bad as period pain. Anyway, today I have period pain and on top of it feel sick in the stomach and have a bit of a temperature. I've had those last two symptoms for several days and we seriously thought I was pregnant. Having a period makes holding a baby seem so very far away. It's that unknown quantity - when? When will it happen? It's not a case of desperately wanting to be pregnant. We both want another baby but it's still so soon after Kat that we will simply welcome it if and when it happens. So, it's not about being desperate for a baby, it's just the frustration of wanting something and not knowing when it will happen. I've longed so many times to be holding my Kat in my arms and that has shifted to a longing to pick up and hold another baby. Our baby. I can't wait to share that experience with Michael again. It was so special.

We have all felt Kat's presence on occasion since she died. Butterflies, or specifically a butterfly on its own, always makes us think of her. The day after her funeral we came home to see a mass of the same butterflies that had massed around my feet the last weekend she was alive. That was pretty special but then one flew inside and as soon as I saw it I felt like it was connected to Kat. That butterfly stayed in our house overnight and we all just felt peaceful whenever we saw it. In the morning it flew right into Michael's hand. A few days later I was shopping for Rory's birthday and saw one of the same butterflies in the shopping centre. I realised it was there but didn't really give it too much thought until it flew into the newsagents and landed right under the word "kat" on a Kit Kat. We had always called Kat our little kitty Kat but Rory wanted to call her kit Kat. I stood looking at that butterfly until someone came in and stood in front of it, blocking my view. It flew around that person and right in front of me before fluttering away. Ever since whenever I see a butterfly on its own I say hello to Kat.
We have also had a couple of strange experiences. The morning after she was born, before we left the hospital, I hugged Michael and he smelled like a baby. Then on our way home from Newcastle I could smell milky baby vomit on my hands. For several weeks afterwards I would occasionally smell baby on Sienna when she cuddled me. It happened a few times, completely out of the blue each time. One of the strongest was the smell on the clothes I wore in hospital. I went in wearing a dress that I left on for most of the day. I changed into a big t-shirt a couple of hours before she was born. We could both smell baby on the t-shirt after it had been washed and ironed twice. And for about a month afterwards, every time I wore that dress I would smell milk. Only when I wore that dress.

Feeling the best I have in such a long time. I haven't missed a day exercising in a few weeks and I feel so much more energetic and able to cope. Writing clears my mind as well. Before now I would always dwell on things for who knows how long. Now, once it's out it's out and I'm left with the memories of what I thought and felt but I'm at peace.
Finally had a look at my uni stuff for the year and am actually feeling some excitement about study. Really looking forward to studying Ancient Greece. English lit scares me a little but I'm seeing it as a challenge and looking forward to accomplishing it.
One week today until the due date. I can only imagine that it will be a very emotional day.

It's three months today since I had Kat. It doesn't feel right to say "since she died" because we don't know exactly when her heart stopped and we found out the day before she was delivered that she had passed away. Somehow it also doesn't seem quite right to say "since she was born" either. The 20th November won't be either birthday or the anniversary of her death; it will simply be Kat's day. And I guess I'll always refer to the 20th as when we had her.
We've only marked the 20ths with quiet recognition to each other so far but I want to do something with the kids like a toast to Kat over dinner. It's only in the first year or so after a death that time is marked in terms of months and I don't particularly want to make it a monthly ritual but I feel like it's about time to do something as a family to memorialise her. We have a couple of special things we will always do together in memory of Kat. Every year it's our Christmas tradition for each family member to buy a new decoration for the tree. (I love the idea that over time our tree will be a representation of all the different stages of our lives) I didn't want to be buying a decoration for Kat every year but we bought a beautiful butterfly decoration that will go on the tree each year just underneath the star and that we will all know as Kat's butterfly. And each year on the 20th November we plan to buy a new rose plant and have a rose garden.

For the first time in a long time I'm feeling...OK. I wouldn't go so far as to say "happy" but I'm OK. I'm content.
I feel a bit like I'm straddling parallel universes. I have one foot on a world in which I'm still the same person. I still think and feel the same way, my ideals and beliefs are the same. I'm still me. But then I have the other foot on this other world in which I will never be the same again. Kat, as well as the experience of having and losing her, is nestled deep inside me and sits right beside my soul. I've always been an optimistic person. I always hope for the best. I see the best. I trust people. And yes I use the terms "optimistic" and "trusting". A pessimist would call me "naive" and "gullible". In fact, would and has. Pessimistic people can look down on me and my optimism all they like, but I will certainly never look up to them. There's a series of poems (poems? stories?) that Michael and his mum talk about called "Innocence and Experience". I haven't read them - although I will - but from what I've heard, this reminds me of the concept. I look back on the seven weeks between being alerted to concerns about Kat's growth and her death and it was Innocence. It seems so pitiful and useless now. The time since her death is Experience. Everything that happened before then seems like it happened under a veil. I feel like a different person now. But also not. After all, I'm still an optimist.
That sounds really confused and twisting around. That's what much of the last three months has been like. Every day has just been about functioning. Every day we have to remind ourselves of what we need to achieve that day and we put one foot in front of the other to get it done. It's only in the quiet moments in between that we can stop and feel and then there are so many different things to feel. Taking care of the kids takes up the majority of my time and effort. Right from the very start I have had to just keep on going because they still needed me. We had offers from lovely people to take them for a few days whenever we needed some time on our own and that was much appreciated. I even took my niece up on it once (my niece is awesome). Now though, there's no option. The kids are with us (where they belong) and that's that. I wouldn't for a second be without them, but I have at times resented the lack of time out. I have made an effort though to take a little time. I went for a beautiful massage a few weeks ago and go out walking or swimming on my own. The thing that's really lacking is time alone with my partner. But then, we've never had much of that. This is life as normal. Just every now and then I'd like a little break from normal. Normal has become very painful a lot of the time.

Sienna's getting pretty well smothered with chicken pox! She's such a drama queen about it, I think I'm going to have to buy her a crown! She's much sicker today than yesterday but still not wanting to have a sleep. Which is a pity because I could do with some more sleep myself. No point trying if Sienna's awake though.
Our internet's been slow the last several days so my uni stuff hasn't been loading, but it's back up properly again today. I need to get reading for English, but have to prioritise the reading list which I can't do without seeing the order of assignment. I must admit it does feel kind of nice to be getting back into study. Let's wait and see how long the enthusiasm lasts!
Some more thoughts on grief from the days after Kat died:
That there is no right and wrong to grieving. Everyone reacts differently and you will never know what your reaction will be until it happens. And it may be a different reaction each time. When Mum died I was very private about my grief and it only came out when I was alone. With Kat, in the first days I just cried no matter where I was and no matter if anyone was there or not. As days stretched to weeks I became more withdrawn, but the pain was getting locked up inside. I would feel overwhelmed by sadness and want to cry but no tears would come. It was only when I lay in Michael's arms that the tears came and I would sob out my grief. It was very strange for me to share that much pain and emotion with someone rather than keep it all inside.
After my baby died inside my body I needed to see that my body still worked. I wanted to feel healthy, to eat well and exercise. But mostly that need came out in, well, sex with Michael. Those first couple of weeks were the only time I ever found myself saying that I needed him. Even now I will tell him I want him, but I don't think in terms of needing him or anyone. He has always told me he needs me but I didn't ever want to feel like I needed anyone. I didn't want to be needed. I wanted to have a relationship with someone for no other reason than that we wanted each other. I didn't particularly like feeling that I needed someone but there it was. Looking back though I don't see it as a negative thing. He was the only other person in the world who was mourning Kat as their daughter. She was many other things - sister, granddaughter, niece, friend - but we were the only two people who had just lost a daughter.
I had a lot of questions that will never be answered. First and foremost - did my baby girl feel any pain? Did she know that her body had stopped? Was she struggling? Did she get squashed up and uncomfortable? It's the thing that tears at my heart, the question of whether my girl was in pain for 10 weeks while we were willing her to live. We had so much hope for her but we know now that she didn't stand a chance. It happened too early in the pregnancy for there to be any help for her.

I have Sienna home from school with chicken pox. The kids have an uncanny knack of getting sick in the week that uni starts back up! This is the third time (out of three years!) I've had at least one home for an extended time in the first week of uni and I think I've also had them home at the start of second semester before. Sigh. Such is the life of mums everywhere. It got me thinking (again) about how grateful I am, not even so much to be with Michael but just to be away from my old life. When I was 18 the thought of going away to uni FREAKED ME OUT. (For those who read my post a couple of days ago detailing the importance of dealing with trauma when it's happening, you will understand my fear.) I met my ex-husband when I was doing year 12 (at tafe) and initially was still talking about my plans for the following year. It had always been assumed that I would go off to uni right after school, for as long as I remember. When the time came to apply for uni though I panicked. Using the excuse that I didn't know what I wanted to do and didn't see the point in spending four years and thousands of my father's money to go to uni just for the sake of it, I got engaged at the age of 18 to someone I'd known for six months and told myself and everyone else that I'd go to uni when I knew what I REALLY WANTED to do. Quite besides my fear of public places and strangers paying any attention to me, I wanted a family more than anything. I wanted someone to always be with me and I wanted children. Even at that age, boyfriends were always potential husbands to me and I was someone who simply had to be a mother. When other girls at school were talking about never having children, or only having them "after doing absolutely everything I want to do first" (?!!!) I was saying I wanted four children and that I wanted the first at 23. Summing up - got married at 19, had a baby at 24 (who was born four years almost to the day after we started trying to get pregnant) and another baby at 25. When my daughter was about 18 months old (and I was realising that another baby wasn't going to happen) it started to occur to me that they would be at school in a few short years and I had nothing to go back to. I started to realise that I really should have done some tertiary study. At least a tafe course if not a uni degree. (It was another year or two before I started to realise that this was the very reason my mother had made me promise her that I would go to university - I always just thought it was because she thought I was so smart and should do something with it.) While I was just talking about studying when Sienna was a little older, I had their father's full support. As I said, I had always talked about studying "one day" - and he had always encouraged me. HOWEVER... when it went from me talking about uni to me coming home with uni forms to fill out he went from encouraging me to saying "well, if you can find a way to make it work with the kids, go for it". It all seemed too hard so I enrolled in a tafe course (that I really had to twist around in my mind to find any interest in). Three months after the course started he asked me to drop out. For the rest of the year. We could then send Sienna to school the following year. And if she really wasn't ready for school she could just repeat. All to avoid paying child care. I was pretty miserable in the marriage by that time and it was only a few weeks later that I left. In counselling when the subject of his lack of support came up he said that no, he didn't support me going out and studying, that he did just want me at home all the time for him and the kids. I left for uni eight months later. And you know what? I'm so proud my kids are seeing me work for something I want. They are the thing that pulls me up short of regretting that decision I made as a scared 18 year old; if I hadn't done it I wouldn't have had them. I've for quite a few years thought that if I'd gone to uni at 18 I would have met someone there and still married quite young and had kids - it was what I wanted more than anything. I still would have wanted to stay home with them. I've often thought that I would have had the same life with different faces. But I like the faces I've got.
I was unbelievably happy when I moved to start uni. I didn't actually need to move. My course that first year ended up being external so I could have stayed where I was. But I felt like I was just treading water there, waiting for my big move. My mind was made up so I did it. For the previous eight months I had revelled in all the things I had to do for myself. I had moved out of home the day after my 19th birthday and it was just under four months before the wedding. I'd never really lived independently. I loved mowing my own lawn! Buying a car was a thrill. But nothing compared to moving to a new town, finding a place to live and signing a lease all on my own. I was loving my independence and felt so content I wasn't sure if I wanted a man coming into our lives. I kind of liked the idea of meeting someone and I was ready for something fantastic. But each time I met someone (well, both times not each time) I'd question how much I wanted a relationship. Until I met Michael. As soon as I knew him I wanted it all. And I wanted it with him. I wanted the partnership, companionship and commitment of a long-term relationship. He blew me away! And yet we had our feet so firmly planted in reality. We took our time getting to know each other and it was two months before we said we were together and he met the kids. He had work, I had two children. Our relationship was built around domesticity and outside commitments. The things that relationships often don't survive. And still there was and is so much love and passion for each other. I feel like this is the life I was always meant to have. (Even down to the thought that if I'd gone to uni at 18 it would have been to the same one Michael was at and we had so many common interests we would have met back then.) Pretty much as soon as I ended my marriage I felt that my 20s had been all about bringing Rory and Sienna into the world, that they had been the entire reason for my marriage. Now I feel like this is the way it was always supposed to be.

God, we were excited to be having a baby together. Kat was (obviously) my third child, but Michael's first. He had always wanted children and, just like me, had even been picking out favourite names since primary school. His ex announced on the first night of their honeymoon that they were never having children. When he and I met he had accepted that, although it was still something he would absolutely love to do, he would never have a child. He never wanted me to feel that I had to have a baby "for him" and continually told me, up until I was actually pregnant, that I was more important to him than whether or not I had a baby.
In the midst of grief, I can still appreciate all the things that make my life wonderful. Our lives are moving on, as we knew they would. Only now, there is an enormous pain that was never there before. We will always miss you Kat.

Part two of the diary of my pregnancy and Kat's death - as written three weeks after she died. (gonna try to finish typing it all up today instead of today and tomorrow)

I was asked to bring in the other three ultrasounds - they'd been done at the private clinic on the doctor's referral and I was now beeing seen at the hospital through the antenatal clinic, so the radiologist there didn't have the earlier scans and reports to cross check what he was seeing at 18 weeks. After seeing the early scans he went straight up to maternity to consult with the obstetrician in charge of the unit. I was in the waiting room right outside where they were talking with the door open and heard them discussing the possibility of a chromosomal abnormality. I'd had a blood test at 15 weeks to determine my own likelihood of, for example, the baby having Down Syndrome and my result came back at one in twenty thousand, so they knew that it was only a tiny risk that the baby's size was due to something chromosomal. I was called in to see the doctor and referred to John Hunter hospital's Maternal Fetal Medicine unit for a more specialised ultrasound. He explained that the small size basically raised a flag, that they wanted to investigate further and that a specialist would be able to provide a more accurate service.

I didn't really know what to think afterwards. I sent Michael a text saying "I've been referred to Newcastle for another ultrasound", but then I left my phone at home while I went shopping with the kids. I knew Michael was in a meeting all afternoon and assumed I would speak to him when he got home. I got back from the shops to a frantic Michael, who had left the meeting early to be with me. I remember feeling numb. I knew that the doctor was concerned but I didn't know what was actually wrong. I thought that being stressed was the worst thing I could do for our baby and that I didn't know if there was anything to stress about - or if there was, I didn't know how bad it was. All I could do was wait and see what happened. I did some reading online - which proved to be more frustrating than anything when most hits on "small foetuses" were about foetal alcohol syndrome - but I did evenutally discover that in eighty per cent of cases where the only symptom was a symmetrically small baby, the cause was simply that the baby was a constitutionally small person. The other twenty per cent was comprised of malnutrition in the mother, disease and chromosomal abnormality. We confidently assured ourselves that statistics were on our side and started looking at 00000 sized clothes instead of 0000.

We left for Sydney for the long weekend the day after the ultrasound. On the second day in Sydney I noticed while I was in the shower that my tummy looked bigger than it had the day before. I don't remember ever noticing growth on a day-to-day basis in the other pregnancies. That same day, Kat was suddenly a lot more active than she had been before. We went to an Egyptian exhibit at the Australian Museum and she kicked and kicked and kicked. I loved every second of it and I loved that my baby was "responding" to me seeing Egyptian things. We saw a reference once to - I can't recall if it was a goddess or a person - someone called Ka and when I felt yet more movement as I looked at the name I said "it must be a girl - it's Kat". All in all, we were both convinced that weekend that the best case scenario from the ultrasound was in fact correct - that our baby had just had a growth spurt.

I was contacted by the local hospital to go back there for a follow up ultrasound at 22 weeks. A referral had been made to John Hunte and the doctor there wanted me to have another scan first to check on growth.

At the 22 week scan Kat's size had gone out to a full three weeks small for dates. I was quite depressed after that scan and very worried about our baby. We still didn't have any information and it was very frustrating to then be called back for another ultrasound before receiving any details from the last one. We didn't know at the time that at the 22 week scan there was also very little amniotic fluid and it had been difficult to get all the pictures they required. I hadn't had an overly full bladder before the scan and it was thought that may have been the reason for the difficulty in some of the imaging. It turned out that was the only reason I was called back in for that scan - to try again to get some pictures.

The news got worse at the next ultrasound. It was confirmed that Kat was now three weeks small for dates, there was too little amniotic fluid and there was some fluid around her heart and on her skin. I was asked if I'd been sick with a virus, to which I responded that I'd had whooping cough. But whooping cough is bacterial, not viral and so not a concern. The doctor told me that the symptoms being present all together indicated a major problem - but that he simply didn't know what that problem was. Everyone at the hospital - the doctor, radiologist and midwife - seemed to be preparing me for the worst, while also saying that these were all "soft symptoms" that just needed to be investigated. I was referred to John Hunter and got a call from them that day with an appointment for two days later.

At John Hunter the results that had been found at home were confirmed, except that no fluid was detected on her skin. That was good news as fluid in two or more places would mean a diagnosis of hydrops. I didn't know what that was but was told it was a major complication. The lack of amniotic fluid was a big concern because it acts as cushioning for the baby and is vital for lung development, which was the stage of growth Kat was at. And the slow down in growth was of course alarming. Again, doctors seemed to be preparing us for the worst while still saying that they simply didn't know for sure what the outcome was going to be. Even in hindsight I don't believe they expected her to die. I truly think they didn't know what to expect, but that they had a professional obligation to prepare us for the fact that our baby may not survive.

Everything they saw seemed to be pointing to a viral infection. There was a bright patch showing in her bowel, which is apparently indicative of one of two things - cystic fibrosis or a virus. I knew it couldn't be CF. The kids father has a nephew with it and so he and I were both tested for the gene. He was a carrier but I wasn't and my blood was then tested to two further levels to see if I carried anything that could mix with that gene to cause a problem, which there wasn't. We knew then that it seemed most likely that I'd had a virus. We agreed to an amniocentesis being performed to test for genetic disorders and viruses. I'd always sworn I'd never have an amnio because there was nothing I could find out from one that would be worth the risk of miscarriage. In this case though it was teh only way to get any more information and we very much wanted more information. I didn't experience any negative effects from the procedure, not even any cramping. I'd been told to take Panadol or Panadeine for teh pain and so was expecting it to be quite bad overnight, but there was no pain at all. I just felt a little fragile and wanted my feet up. I was also very sleepy and continued to be for a few days afterwards.

The next day we got a call from the hospital saying that the first round of genetic tests were clear, meaning that what is referred to as "the big three" were ruled out. I still don't know what the big three are, only that Down Syndrome is one of them. Another appointment was made for two weeks time - and we were having a girl! That was such a joyous moment. We would have been equally happy to have been told that it was a boy. The point was that we had been given some definite news when all we'd had until then was ifs and maybes. Our baby was our daughter and she was Kathryn Rose. We told our families and friends and started referring to her as Kat. I'm still so pleased that we had that time of her being "Kat" instead of "baby". She seemed more real. I remember saying to Michael that these few months of pregnancy might be all we ever get to give our daughter and so she would be celebrated and loved and she would have a name.

On our way back home we stopped in at Mum's grave. I've never had teh sense that Mum is "there" and I've always talked to her wherever I happen to be. However, her tree is very special to me. I always touch it when I go there and it was very special to take Rory and then Sienna there for the first time and place their hands on her tree. I stood next to it with Michael and said "Mum, our baby needs help. Please watch over her and help her". Two days later, on the Monday that Michael was back at work, the ladies from the Court gave him a crystal flower to give me. It was presented in a purple treasure chest-shaped box that was padded with wadding. I will never know why I pulled the wadding out as soon as I saw it, but I did and on the inside of the lid was a poem called "Grandma's Love". As soon as I saw it I was certain that Mum had heart me that day at her tree and this was a sign from her that she was looking after our baby. I remember her often saying that she was going to be called "Grandma" when she became a grandmother. She was so looking forward to grandchildren. Her first one, the beautiful Michelle, was born six months to the day after Mum died.

Another two weeks passed without anything of too much note happening. I didn't feel very much movement from Kat. Right throughout the pregnancy I had only felt very small movements and often only once or twice a day. The lack of amniotic fluid restricted her movement and combined with her small size, doctors weren't surprised when I said I didn't feel her move much. I had a clinic appointment on the Friday before the appointment in Newcastle. The heartbeat couldn't be detected on the machine they have for that purpose and so the midwife performed a quick ultrasound in one of the examination rooms. I saw her heart beating, I saw the shape of her head - still the same as it had been at 12 weeks - and the curve of her cheek. I saw her turn her face.

The weekend before our next appointment in John Hunter we went to see Michael's parents. The six of us went to see Jon English playing in the Warrumbungles. It was a brilliant night and just a wonderful weekend. It was a very special time and I will always treasure it. Michael's mum had bookmarked a pregancy website taht she and I very excitedly looked at together, commenting that if Kat stayed three weeks small it wasn't going to be a very big deal at full term and marvelling at the week-by-week pictures of a developing baby. The kids had an absolutely fantastic weekend. Rory was his normal self, but Sienna was shining. She spent most of the weekend playing with the dogs, which she just adored and she was giggling and smiling the most genuine smiles I had seen in over two years. It made my heart soar to see her so happy. At the concert - I can't explain it other than to say that we were a family. I remember walking with Michael and Sienna over to where Rory was playing and it just felt so right to see her holding his hand and for me to be pregnant. We were a family. As the sun was setting I remember seeing a mass of orange butterflies. Rory and I were both fascinated by them. When some of them fluttered around my feet, I don't know why but I felt like it was significant to Kat. I felt very peaceful.

The night we got home I finally got out the book we had bought for Kat in Newcastle - the T.S. Eliot poems of cats that the muscial Cats is based on. I lay in bed and read aloud to Kat and got the first kicks I'd felt all day. And there were so many of them! After a while I got the urge to watch the musical so I dug out my DVD copy and Michael and I watched it. That night I dreamed of the song "Memory" and I woke up with a momentary feeling of being consumed by sadness. In that moment I was sure that Kat had died - but I very quickly dismissed it. Over the next few days I didn't feel any kicks but I did have some sensation at least once a day that felt to me like a baby moving. I continued to feel that sensation daily after delivering her.

By the time we went back to Newcastle we had convinced ourselves that the situation may not be as dire as we had thought. I had by then put together the rash, sleeping and increased vomiting at 15 weeks and figured that Kat may have stopped growing altogether for three weeks and that we just happened to have an ultrasound at the tail end of that halt in growth. I assumed that she had then started growing again and would stay that three weeks or so small for dates. I knew that the amniotic fluid posed a threat and one that was unpredictable as to the outcome of the pregnancy. The fluid on her heart didn't really enter my mind. The amount was just on the outer limit of what doctors consider a "safe" level of fluid and on its own wouldn't have been a problem, but I still didn't see it as a big worry. We believed that our baby was going to require specialist treatment when she was born, and possibly for quite some time after that. I assumed that her lungs might have been adversely affected by the lack of amniotic fluid. The last one was one of the only ultrasounds - the other being at 18 weeks - that I went into honestly expecting to see our baby's heart beating and see her moving. At the others I'd gone in holding my breath until seeing her heart beat. The day of that appointment I got increasingly anxious as we waited for 2.30 to arrive. I was imagining what I considered to be "the worst". I imagined that there would be even less amniotic fluid than there had been last time or that she hadn't grown a full two weeks' worth. But I still fully expected to see her heart beating. As we sat in the waiting room I saw baby after baby being carried down to the paediatric clinic and I kept thinking "that will be us soon".

On our way down the corridor to the ultrasound the doctor told us that the rest of the genetic tests had come back in just that afternoon and that they were all clear. Viral tests hadn't come back yet.

The doctor started the ultrasound and I tried to see Kat's heart beating, but she didn't leave the image on the entirety of Kat's body for very long before zooming in on the head. Again, it was only a short time before she turned the image off altogether and turned to us and said "there's no amniotic fluid around your baby". I answered quite sharply "none at all?" and was told "no, none at all". She continued - "and I've seen then heart" (at which point I held my breath and clutched even tighter to Michael's hand) "and there is no heartbeat. I'm sorry to tell you this baby has passed away". I wrapped my arm around Michael's shoulders, let out a cry and then lay like that sobbing into his neck.

The doctor and a midwife were coming and going from the room but I only remember seeing the doctor twice more. The first time she told me that I had the choice of delivering the baby in Newcastle or driving back home and doing it in the hospital there. The thought of driving the seven hours back and presenting at hospital all the while knowing that my daughter lay dead inside me was abhorrent. I asked when I could deliver if I stayed in Newcastle. The second time I saw the doctor again was when she told me that I could deliver at John Hunter the following morning.

We were taken out of the ultrasound room by the midwife and a social worker was called to come and see us. The midwife went over the procedure with us, explaining the tablets I'd be given to induce labour and that it would likely take several hours. The tablets are administered vaginally and apparently are ulcer medication. Women were having miscarriages after taking this medication for their ulcers and now it's used to induce labour in situations like this. It's gentler on the uterus than the oxytocin that is given at full term and so unlikely to cause any damage that may then harm a future pregnancy. We were warned that Kat might have been dead for quite some time and so her skin might have started to peel and because of the lack of amniotic fluid her face might be squashed. We were told that when we saw her we might see all the problems she had and might understand a little better why she hadn't been able to survive. The midwife said that I could have self-administered pain relief, or if I wanted to, an epidural. I remember thinking that I didn't care about the pain. I knew I'd think differently once I was there and actually in pain, but beforehand I thought "giving birth to her is the last thing I'm doing for my daughter - I don't care if it hurts". I sat and stared at the curtain. It was white with bands of colour around the hem. I can't remember what colours they were. When someone spoke to me I looked up and vaguely in their direction then went back to staring. The social worker had her ID badge clipped to the waistband of her pants and she was smiling in the photo. We have called her "Smiley ---" ever since. We left the hospital, I called Dad and Michael called his parents. Then we drove back to Michael's aunt's place to spend the night there before going back to John Hunter the next morning.

We cried most of the night. I will never forget waking up through the night and reaching out to Michael as I let out a sob. I will never forget the way his arms felt wrapped around me as I clung to him and we both wept. One of the main things I recall from that afternoon and night is that my instinctive response to being told our baby had died was to turn to Michael. I'd always felt very close to him and very honest with him, but now it was on a new level. I can only describe the honesty, the closeness, the emotion between us as raw.

Throughout the night and then throughout the next day I thought a lot about funeral plans. Michael wasn't ready to talk about them yet. For him, getting through the birth was all he could focus on. But we did agree on a couple of details. I wanted her coffin to be covered in roses - I wanted a mass of rainbow roses. And I wanted The Beatles song "Golden Slumbers" played. It's a long-time favourite of Michael's and when we were on our way to Newcastle the first time I had said that hopefully one day it could be his lullaby to our baby. From then on it was "Kat's Lullaby".

I don't really know where to start in describing the next day. It's mostly clinical details. We went to the hospital in the morning and were led to the labour ward with me crying loudly all the way. I remember feeling sorry for the people in the waiting room. People are only at that unit because there's a complication of some kind in their pregnancy. There I was obviously distressed and I imagined that they were all imagining the worst for their own baby. Two young registrars came to see me to administer the first tablets. That was the only time I saw a doctor all day. I started to feel mild cramps that were coming and going like tiny contractions within about ten minutes. After about four hours I requested the self-administered pain relief, which made me drowsy and I ended up sleeping for almost two hours. Michael stayed right beside me the whole time. He read the only magazines that were in the room - 15 year old home decor ones - and kept pressing the button to deliver the pain killer while I slept. I woke up just before the second lot of tablets were due to go in. Again, I felt the effect within about ten minutes. The cramping got a lot worse and the pain killer got a lot less effective. For the next hour and a half I was moaning through the pain of each cramp - still more like cramps than contractions, but painful enough. Then, after one of the cramps I felt a lot of pressure in my groin and felt some fluid pass out. Suddenly, as I had been told would happen, I felt the urge to push. Michael pressed the call button for the midwife to come back in and we were down to business. She got her gloves on, told me to give a little push and just like that I felt Kathryn leave my body. She had still been lying cross-wise and even though I'd been told that at her size I'd deliver her easily regardless of her position in the uterus, I was surprised that she came out with one small push. It felt like what I remember of delivering the placenta after Rory and Sienna. I was given the needle to bring on the delivery of the placenta, which was more difficult to pass than Kathryn had been. It took two pushes. I was told that at 7 1/2 hours this was a very quick delivery. Women have been known to take two or three days to deliver.

Michael watched her birth. We were both crying and I asked him if he could see her. He didn't speak but nodded that he could. Kathryn was wrapped in a blanket and I was aked if I wanted to hold her, which I did, very much so. And so she was placed on my chest. She smelled like a newborn baby. The way Rory and Sienna smelled the nights they were born has been a favoured memory. I've always found that smell absolutely intoxicating. She weighed about a tenth of what Sienna did at birth, but as I felt her lying on my chest I didn't notice how little she weighed. She felt, looked and smelled just like a baby. Some kind of primal, animal force took over my body and I thew my head back and howled.

Through my tears I spoke to her. I told her that we wanted her so much and that we loved her. I told her that I loved her. I don't know how long I lay there with her on my chest, but I do remember asking Michael if he wanted to hold her. Together, we took her out of my arms and placed her into his and he sat down beside my bed with her. He had already been crying but as he sat with her, looking at her, I saw that primal force come over him as well. He repeatedly looked from Kathryn to me and his face was grief. I remember looking at his face and realising that the way his features were set was exactly what I could feel in my own face. There was no control over what our bodies and faces were doing. I remember him saying to me "this hurts so much" and looking at her and repeating that he loves her over and over again.

We spent two hours with Kathryn in the room with us. I only held her once more, for photos, but I couldn't take my eyes off her. She was weighed and we were told she was 300 grams. The same she had been two weeks earlier at the ultrasound. She hadn't grown at all in two weeks. She was 21 centimetres long and her head circumference was 16.5 centimetres. She was given a brief wash, laid out on a blanket for a photo, then wrapped back up and we held her for pictures. The things I remember most about her appearance are her head, mouth, hands and feet. Nothing prepared me for how small her head was. Maybe the size of an apple or orange. Her mouth was open and I could see her tongue and it was so - finished. Her tongue was perfect inside her gorgeous little bow-shaped mouth. I stared at it thinking that my nipple couldn't fit inside her mouth and at the same time imagining that tongue curled around it and her lips around my breast as I fed her. Her hands and feet looked big compared to the rest of her and they were the most detailed part of her body. Her knuckles had tiny wrinkles in them. I didn't see her nails, but Michael did and he was stunned by the perfection and fineness of those miniature finger nails. Her eyes were closed, but later one of them came open a little and we could see a dark eye behind the lid. We had said weeks earlier that our child would have to have brown eyes because we both do. It's strange to think that they probably would have turned blue before she was born and then gone brown again as she got older. Her ears were still flat against her head and her nose was still flat against her face. Her cheeks sloped down to her nose with the exact same shape as Michael's. He said she had my shaped eyes and we agreed she had my mouth. Her arms were curled down in front of her body and her upper arm was the same shape as Michael's, which in turn is the same shape as his paternal grandmother's. Even though they had their own distinctive shape, I remember her arms and legs looking floppy. It was hard to imagine there being complete bones inside them. We were offered hand and foot prints, which we very much wanted to have. Michael pressed her hands and feet down for the prints. That's when he saw her fingernails. I watched with a slight feeling of horror as it was done, especially the ones of her hands. Her hand being pulled down and her arm stretching up above it reminded me of those sticky rubber hands that stick to walls. I'd been scared to move her arms and legs in case I broke one.

After two hours she was taken out of our room. We could have had more time, but - and I can only speak for myself - I felt that there wasn't much point. We'd held her, touched her, kissed her, talked to her and we had our photos and prints. There was going to be photos taken for examination to help determine the cause of death and we were told that it could be done in the room with us but that most people choose not to witness it. Her body would be pulled and moved around to get the photos they needed. There would also be X-rays and an MRI and some blood taken from her. We had been offered an autopsy but ended up refusing. I initially thought I would want to have it done, but as the tests on offer were explained to me before she was born I changed my mind. The doctor had been talking about taking some of Kathryn's blood for testing and said that they would try to take it from the cord but that it was unlikely they'd be able to get any from there and so they would then take it from her heart with a needle through her chest. The thought of a needle going into her heart broke mine. I agreed to the blood test but refused an autopsy. Michael agreed with me then, but when she was born he was also adamant that no one was cutting her. She would remain intact.

Her skin wasn't peeling and her face wasn't squashed. We couldn't see anything that gave us an answer to why this happened. She was perfect.

For the duration of the time in hospital I stopped thinking of our daughter as Kat and only called her Kathryn. Even now, I always refer to her as Kat but as I write about the hospital, she is Kathryn.

We stayed in the hospital that night and left at about 9.00 the next morning, a Saturday. We had to go to the shops - I hadn't taken any pads with me and I only had one pair of undies - I left my other underwear at the hospital. I didn't want to even try to wash it. As we got to the shops I decided I wanted to buy a new dress for the funeral but I didn't want to go shopping at home. So we went shopping and I hated every second of it. I went to four shops before I found (a) something suitable and (b) something I liked. The longer I spent looking at clothes the more I wanted to run out screaming that my baby had just died. Again, I felt sorry for the people around me. There were two very nice women who served us in two different shops and we couldn't bring ourselves to talk to them. They tried so hard to be nice and we just stood there numb and almost dumb. I looked away and cried when one asked me if I had a special occasion coming up. By the time we got back to Michael's aunt's it was almost lunch time and after lunch I lay on the lounge with Michael and cried. We'd been crying on and off for two days by then, but this was different. It came to me that my baby was no longer in my body but she wasn't in my arms either. Again, he held me while I sobbed loudly. Once that came out I seemed to go into limbo. We had decided to wait until the following day before going home and all at once I felt like all I was doing was waiting. I desperately wanted to be with Rory and Sienna, who were with Dad. Every minute I sat around talking, eating, doing normal things, I felt abnormal. I couldn't feel. My emotions were suspended. I had quite long conversations with my sister and girlfriend in that state and I'm sure they both thought I was very weird and unemotional about the death of my daughter. Or at least that they were worried that I wasn't dealing with her death. Even so, I'm glad we spend that time there. Michael's parents had come and the five of us spent Saturday afternoon and night together. Michael and I went for a walk after dinner and ended up walking the length of the long jetty at Long Jetty. It was dark and the water was still. In the distance there was a fireworks display which we could see reflected in the water. It was so far away that there was about a five second delay between light and sound. We sat in the dark, talked a lot and held hands. It was a very special moment for us. It was only once we were on our way home that the suspended state left me. I needed a toilet stop and we went to McDonalds, thinking of the cleaner toilets there as compared to a park. I walked into Maccas and could hardly breathe when I saw so many people sitting there, eating, talking and laughing. I went to the toilet, rushed back to Michael, grabbed his hand and said "get me out of here". I sat in the car with tears rolling down my cheeks as we drove out of town. I turned to Michael and said "I feel better now. I can feel again".

We stopped again to visit Mum's grave. The weather that day was some of the strangest I have ever experienced. It was 40 degrees and the wind was incredibly strong. We stood in the cemetery and I had one arm around Michael and one around the tree and as I howled out my grief the wind rendered my voice almost silent. Once I was able to form words again I turned my attention to the tree and said "be with our baby girl, Mum. We can't be" and I stood and cried some more. After a moment I realised that the wind had died down. After another moment I turned to Michael and commented that the wind had gone. Almost as soon as I spoke the words, the wind came back again and remained.

I've received a couple of comments (from people I know) saying that I'm brave and they are proud of me for doing this. Firstly, thank you for the lovely comments. Secondly, I'm really surprised by that response. I honestly only started this because it's the kind of thing I wanted to sit in my lounge room and read but couldn't find (although I'm sure there are others out there) and to offer other people company on the terrible journey that is losing a baby. I was already keeping a personal diary and found that writing was cathartic. So this is for myself as well to keep writing about what I'm thinking and feeling. I expect that it won't always be all about Kat (and Michael!) - that's part of the grief process and I wanted to share that too. (I've been interested in hearing how people are years after losing their baby.) Lastly - this is extremely difficult for me to write about - I know how dangerous it can be to not deal with trauma at the time and I hope this might help me and (dare I be so bold as to hope?) someone else or several someones to deal with this particular trauma in whatever way they find appropriate. (Taking a deep breath)...the reason I know how dangerous it can be to hide from traumatic experiences... when Mum was sick I learned to deal with things by not dealing with them. I was 8 when she was first diagnosed with cancer and I was terrified. There was nothing anyone could do of course except see this thing happen to our beloved mother and wife. Mum was estranged from her family and didn't want them informed about it until after she died (she didn't want any bedside reunions). She also didn't want people in town gossiping about her health problems. All perfectly reasonable - but what I took from it between the ages of 8 and 12 was that I wasn't allowed to talk about it. At all. I got up each day and went to school where I was just a normal kid hanging out with my friends. It eventually turned into a mask. In year 9 I moved and (due to circumstances) lived for 14 months away from my family, just seeing Dad on weekends. I was desperately unhappy and, again, had absolutely no control over my situation. School and being a teenaged girl was again the mask I got up and put on each day. Rather typically I saw having a relationship as something that would make me happy and at 15 started a relationship with someone I had no feelings for (well actually, he left me feeling cold) just for the sake of being with someone. Within a week I knew I'd made a huge mistake but pride wouldn't let me admit to it and the inner workings of a messed up 15 year old girl still wanted a boyfriend. Besides, I'd already slept with him. I thought it was too late to back out. I remember after a few months being so very sad and thinking that love with a man just wasn't something I was meant to experience in my lifetime; that one day I'd have children and they would be my love. In order to continue in the relationship I had to continually ignore all the things he did that I didn't like and all the things that hurt me. Over the course of a few months I became so good at ignoring those things that I believed them to be true. He acted so superior to everyone because everyone else WAS inferior to him. If I was upset about his musings of cheating on me or him turning up hours late to my family function, then I was putting him on a guilt-trip and was cruel to do so. If he got up without a word and left me alone at a table full of people I didn't know I should have just "tagged along" behind him like a puppy dog. And when I was at home sick and in pain and spent four hours pushing him away and pulling back on my clothes that he was pulling off before finally feeling so beaten down and guilty that I said yes (and told him I'd changed my mind) I lay in bed and cried, not because I had just been the victim of emotional and sexual abuse but because I was such a terrible girlfriend for not wanting to have sex with him in the first place. When I was sick and in pain. Eventually, I had the sense to break up with him when, try as I might (and I tried desperately) I couldn't think of anything good about him other than that he was a talented pianist. By that time I'd developed somewhat of a fear of crowds. I couldn't bring myself to walk into crowded places. I'd been diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue and left school. Over the next little while the fear of crowds turned into a fear of anyone looking at me. (Strangely, or perhaps not, this was when I was doing a lot of theatre acting - but to me people weren't looking at ME they were looking at my character) I hated walking down the street and began trying to make myself as unattractive as possible so nobody would want to look at me. In the early days of that relationship, my boyfriend had told me that in the year we had known each other he thought I was so hot as to be out of his league (although over the course of the relationship he frequently agreed with me about how fat I was at 57kg and a small size 10) - I was determined that in addition to people generally not looking at me if I was with anyone it would be because he liked who I was, not what I looked like. By the time I'd been married a year I had put on almost 40kg. I rarely did anything with my hair. Stopped wearing make up. Never did my nails. And dressed very dowdily. (In another story, that behaviour was probably encouraged by my ex-husband) I didn't start to really deal with any of these issues until I was pregnant with my daughter (2nd pregnancy). Suddenly they were on my mind constantly and it was the first time I was able to coldly and clinically just go through what had happened. Before then every time I thought about it I either flew into a rage or sobbed uncontrollably. It took me two years but I eventually felt as though I had put the experiences behind me once and for all. I lost almost 20kg and started taking more care with my appearance again. Mostly I was happy. (It was also when my ex started noticeably turning away from me - if I didn't need him to keep me safe he didn't know what to do with me) I was very surprised and distressed when the panic about people looking at me and the distorted body image started again shortly after I ended my marriage and my ex attempted to force me to have sex with him one night. It was a very brief incident, not at all violent and he stopped quite quickly. Then proceeded to treat me as nothing. He told me later that if a relationship can't be absolutely everything that he wants it to be he walks away from it entirely. So after 12 years and two children I was nothing because I had stopped giving him everything. I went straight back to that hell I had worked so hard to get out of. Luckily for me, I had the presence of mind to realise that I needed help and went to counselling.
Wow, I never thought when I started this that I would end up telling that story. I just want people to know how important it is to deal with things properly and I want to give an understanding of why I know that.

The whole reason I started this blog was to put my story out there in the hope that someone somewhere might take comfort in it. I found it such a comfort to hear from people I know who have gone through the loss of a child, but when I went online looking for more I couldn't really find what I wanted. So, here's some of the diary I started for myself three weeks after Kat died. (I'm adding it in three parts over three days - not to be soap opera-ish about it, just that when I copied and pasted it to here the post wouldn't work so I'm having to type it all out and I don't have time to do it all as well as uni work and go for a swim before getting the kids from school)

It seemed like a miracle to me taht I was pregnant that very first month.

I had some very light bleeding, which I had done with both Rory and Sienna, at around the time my period was due. I also developed a very bad taste in my mouth at the same time. I suspected I may be pregnant, but I didn't even want to form the thought, let alone say it out loud. It seemed too impossible to hope that I was pregnant just like that. On Wednesday 24th June 2009 I did a pregnancy test and the result was indecisive. I could just barely make out a shadow where the positive line would go if it was there. After my shower I couldn't resist looking at the test again and it had turned to a definite positive. Bearing in mind that the instructions say to not look at it after about ten minutes because a negative result can change to positive in time, I wasn't sure if I was pregnant or not. I told Michael about it and said that I'd wait two days and do another one first thing in the morning. On the Thursday night, he had to go to a partner's meeting for work and so was getting into bed after I'd gone to sleep. I half woke up when he came in and he put his arms around me and whispered that he hoped "tomorrow said yes". Sure enough, it did.

I can't speak for Michael, other than to say that he certainly seemed very happy and excited. He said that a child was the one thing he had always wanted and never thought he would have. He told me he was very happy that I was the one he was sharing this with.

I just remember feeling very content. But also a little scared to say out loud that I was pregnant. I went ahead and announced the pregnancy anyway since it had always been my opinion that every pregnancy should be celebrated. I also never understood the reasoning of not announcing a pregnancy - among family and close friends at least - until the second trimester "just in case" of a miscarriage. I've always thought that the only thing worse than having to tell a whole heap of people that I'd just had a miscarriage would be to go through it and to have no one other than my partner and myself even know that the baby had ever existed. But this time, there was an alarm in the back of my mind every time I told someone I was pregnant. I kept telling myself that when I was pregnant with Rory I was obsessed with the idea that I was going to have a miscarriage and that the only thing that ever came of that obsession was that at the same time I was also consumed with guilt because I didn't want to surround my baby with negative thoughts. I also kept telling myself that I hoped I would never look back and say that I always knew something was wrong with this pregnancy.

I went off to the doctor to confirm the pregnancy and she referred me for an ultrasound to date it. She had the suspicion that I may have already been pregnant while still on the pill as pregnancy can be a reason for bleeding on the pill (which I had seen her about a month earlier). I knew I hadn't been pregnant a month earlier, and I told her as well, that after seeing her before I had immediately done two pregnancy tests and they were both negative. I also knew that had I been four or five weeks further along, it was unlikely that the first test would have been so very faintly positive. She referred the ultrasound anyway and I was very concerned that she decisively ordered the scan after feeling my tummy. What did she suspect?

The first ultrasound revealed that I was six weeks pregnant, due on 2nd March 2010 (about a week to ten days further along than I thought, but nowhere near the month or more that the doctor had suggested!) and that the baby was in a very low position. I was also told I had fibroids. The radiologist was appalling. He asked me twice about my positive pregnancy tests, saying "and you said the blood test was positive?" I was staring the whole time at the kidney shaped black blob on the screen that I'd seen twice before in early ultrasounds with Rory and Sienna and I knew full well to be the gestational sac. As the scan went on I was asked how old I was and whether I'd ever been told I had fibroids, which I hadn't. Throughout the scan there was silence apart from those questions. At the end, he told me that I had firboids, then pointed out the sac I'd been looking at all along and said that it looked like I had conceived but that the embryo had implanted very low and so he couldn't say whethe it was a viable pregnancy. I had to go back in three weeks - provided I was still pregnant. It was only later when I read teh ultrasound report that I found out I was carrying a single live embryo with a beating heart.

My doctor told me fibroids weren't necessarily a big concern and that babies often implanted quite low, which I had already read online. Particularly in multiple pregnancies one of the embryos will be low down. However, the doctor went on to say that the baby had plenty of room to grow until about 20 weeks. She didn't add anything to that. So I walked out thinking "what happens after 20 weeks?" My attitude was that as long as I was still pregnant all I could do was to continue as if I was having a baby some time in February or March. I couldn't go about the pregnancy as if I was definitely going to lose it. That would have driven me crazy.

Three weeks later I went in for another ultrasound and not only was I still pregnant - I no longer had fibroids! What had been diagnosed as a fibroid must have been an implantation bleed, basically a blood clot, because, as the radiologist put it, a fibroid wouldn't have disappeared. Also, the baby had moved up in the uterus so everything seemed very positive. As a matter of interest, I was given the same due date as at the first scan - the first time I'd ever had two ultrasounds give me the exact same dates.

Another three weeks later I was back at the doctor after having some light bleeding. All througout the pregnancy I'd had quite a bit of pain all over my belly and for two days before the bleeding started the pain had been bad enough to keep me awake. The day of teh bleeding I also had cramping, like period pain. If it had just been light spotting on its own I wouldn't have worried. I'd had that throughout the first trimester with Sienna and knew that alone it wasn't a big concern. But the pain worried me. So it was back to radiology yet again.

The ultrasound at 12 weeks was amazing! There was a baby inside me that looked like a baby and not a tiny white blob! She was moving her arms and legs, stretching her neck and even rolled over and mooned the camera. Michael was away for work that day and I was just so disappointed for him that he didn't get to see what I was seeing. I didn't want him to miss anything. I left that scan on an incredible high. Our baby was fine, there was no sign of any haemorrhaging, no reason for any bleeding or pain - no reason to think there was anything wrong at all. And my due date was still 2nd March. I could hardly believe that three ultrasounds had now given me the same dates.

Six weeks passed with all the normal pregnancy things happening - I was throwing up and very tired. I'd been nauseous constantly since the night before the definite positive test and had started vomiting at 8 1/2 weeks, but it was nowhere near as bad as what I'd had with both Rory and Sienna. With each of them I was sick every single day from the time it started (6 weeks with Rory, 8 weeks with Sienna) for at least 10 weeks before it eased off to every second day, then a couple of times a week and so on. I was more tired in this pregnancy than I remembered ever being with the others and was sleeping every day as well as going to bed early and going straight to sleep.

Throughout this time, I was very stressed at home with everything other than my relationship with Michael. The kids and I all had whooping cough. I was officially diagnosed with it at 10 weeks pregnant but I'd first had the "cold" at the start of the disease at about 5-6 weeks. Rory and Sienna both got it around the same time I did. The doctor knew I was pregnant and told me what I'd already read online - that whooping cough wasn't a major concern in pregnancy unless it was in the last month or so. And then it's because the mother is likely to infect the baby once it's born. The kids had been right proper snots since early March when they found out their father was moving to Canberra. They had been through such a difficult two years with our separation and my move to Armidale being obvious big events for them. They had seen their father begin a new relationship almost immediately after we separated, then I met Michael just three months after moving to Armidale (about a year after the separation). Their father had very erratic contact with them after I moved. His phone calls reduced to maybe one every two or three months and he cancelled a couple of visits - for work...or to go away for a weekend. His move to Canberra broke the kids. It was one thing too much for them to cope with. Until then I had always been able to keep them talking and bring them through the bad times. But they wouldn't talk to me anymore and their behaviour was at times disgusting. They weed on the floor - and played in it. Rory was having terrible tantrums that lasted days on end. He would be in a fit of rage, saying such things as that he wanted to slice our heads off. Sienna's attention seeking was extreme and she became mean with it, mostly towards Rory and Michael. She delighted in manipulating Rory so that he would get in trouble and she completely resented Michael doing anything other than play with her or give her cuddles (which I guess is very normal behaviour towards the step-parent in the primary residence). The only times they had been happy all year were when we moved in with Michael and when they found out I was pregnant. I'd been dreading their reactions to both of those events and was pleasantly surprised when they both reacted so positively (although Sienna's first response to the pregnancy was to burst into tears - it didn't take her long to come around though). I could only surmise that they were responding well to the four of us coming together more as a family. They were craving that stable home unit. Topping it all off, I was in the first year of my long-awaited degree. I'd made the decision to study part-time instead of full-time because I wanted to get a part-time job as well. In the end, I didn't find work and the kids turned back into a full-time job so I was pleased to only have a study load of two units a semester. I found out I was pregnant right after first semester exams. The pregnancy coincided with the units I was receiving Distinctions and High Distinctions in. So when, at 15 weeks, I crashed out and slept for three days I put it down to stress. I put it down to everything catching up with me at once. And maybe a touch of post-illness fatigue after the whooping cough. I said that I was pregnant and regularly throwing up throughout the day, had just had whooping cough and had two kids with whooping cough, I was dealing with the fallout of a choice made by the kids' father, Michael had just spent three weeks travelling for work right when I was the most sick and I was getting HDs at uni - of course I was tired. The fact that I'd started vomiting more at the same time didn't really register with me. I was a little concerned that the vomiting had suddenly gotten worse just when it had been petering off, but even so it still wasn't as bad as what I'd had with the other pregnancies and in both of them I'd still well and truly been throwing up daily at 15 weeks. The rash I broke out in at the same time was hardly a blip on my mind. It only lasted a couple of days - the first day it was barely noticeble red bumps that felt like pimples over the bottom half of my face, chest and the top half of my arms; the second day the bumps were white and pussy and the day after that they were gone. I thought I'd had a breakout of pimples and put it down to a pregnancy thing. I also had nosebleeds for the first time in my life, which I thought was from the strain of vomiting so much.

We very excitedly went off to the 18 week ultrasound expecting nothing other than to see our baby moving on the screen. We were both just happy that Michael was going to be at this one and that he would finally see some of the things I'd seen at 12 weeks. Initially that's what happened. There was our baby girl - although we couldn't tell at that point that she was a girl. She had her legs firmly closed and curled around with her feet coming back to cover up the vital bits and the cord in the way to boot. We had joked before that if we couldn't tell the sex at the ultrasoound then it must be a girl and was being modest. So we shared a smile when told that the sex couldn't be determined. She was moving quite a bit and doing such baby things as sucking on her fingers. It was the joyous experience we had been hoping for. Towards the end of the scan, the radiologist asked how certain I was of my dates. Due to the three early scans all giving the same date I knew precisely how far along I was. He told us that the baby was measuring about 16 weeks in size, when I was just over 18 weeks pregnant. The good news was that she was symmetrically small - if, for example, she had an 18-weeks sized head with a 16-weeks sized body it would have been a major concern and indicative of a serious genetic disorder. Further, we were told that after the first trimester babies grow at different rates and it was possible taht we just happened to be having the ultrasound right before a growth spurt.

Michael and I still weren't overly concerned at that point. My entire famiily if either bang on average height or less and Michael's family are all on the short side, so it made perfect sense to us that we were expecting a small baby. I just thought - cool, I'm the one giving birth to this baby, I don't mind at all if it's a bit small!

I'm feeling quite good today and I think regular exercise has a lot to do with it. I've been making a more conscious effort to exercise in the last couple of weeks and in the last couple of days I'm feeling much more energetic and well. As soon as Kat died I knew that I wanted to feel healthier before going into another pregnancy. I've been sick through three pregnancies now. Strangely, Kat's was the best physically for me out of three. Which meant I was only throwing up every second day instead of daily. I don't realistically expect to have a fantastic pregnancy with my track record but I wanted to at least start my next one feeling good and knowing I'd given my baby the best start I could. I want so much to get through just one pregnancy feeling at least OK.
I'm feeling so sorry for Michael at the moment. He has been physically just depleted for such a long time. The last year especially he's been exhausted all the time. The last two months of last year of course were just awful and at the moment he's empty. Every little sniffle hangs around for weeks and he just keeps on pushing. We're both eating fairly healthily - I want him to try and get some more exercise and also some acupuncture for his back. I know that I still feel as much pain for Kat as I did last week but I feel so much better able to go about my day to day life at the moment. I want to see him also feeling more like - if not at his best then at least not so beaten down. I hate seeing him down.
There's a photo of Michael and me on the side of this page. It's my new favourite pic. I took that photo the night we heard that the kids' new baby sister was born (their father's new daughter). It was 10 weeks to the day after Kat died and was a particularly rough night for me. I don't give a toss about their father having a baby with someone else, but the pain that night was two-fold. Firstly, the kids' new baby sister is such a harsh and obvious reminder of what we so recently lost. Secondly, for me there is the bitter memory of all the years I wanted another baby and he denied it to me. After we separated I knew very early on that having another baby was more of a possibility for me than it had been before...and I felt all warm and fuzzy about that. He meanwhile was still adamant that he would never have more children. Even after he was with his now-wife he was still saying he was never getting married again and definitely never having more kids. Two years later he's married with a baby and I'm feeling keenly the unfairness of it all. So, it had been a rough night. Michael was exhausted. We were just about to go to bed and I saw the camera on the coffee table. I picked it up to put it away then put my arms around Michael and snapped this photo. When we look at it we both only see two people who are happy. I think he looks happy and so incredibly content. He thinks I look happy and so much in love. It embodies the dynamic of our relationship. Kat's death was just the start of the tidal wave that hit us in the last two months of 2009. Two weeks later his business partner terminated their partnership and went overnight from a trusted and supportive friend to someone who treated him with animosity and contempt. Three weeks after that Michael's parents were injured in a car accident. The accident happened when we were on the second day of a holiday and we drove 12 1/2 hours to get back to them. (By that time we were in fight-or-flight mode. It was another month before I felt myself come down from that heightened sense of waiting for the next thing to jump out and grab us and then I went into gibbering mess mode.) With each thing that happened Michael and I turned to each other for love and support but also as team-mates. Each time we sat together and quietly discussed what we needed to do. Then we did it. Together. Each time the strength of our relationship was reinforced for us. If I had have been asked before Kat died I would have said that I couldn't possibly love Michael any more or feel any closer to him and that we have a very good relationship and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. Now I still know all those things are true but for the rest of my life I will know that when we are down we will be here for each other. And there will be so much love.

I'm feeling the most content and the least stressed than I have in a long time. Yesterday I went for a walk in the morning and took the kids to the beach after school. It was such a nice day and a huge lift for me. It feels nice. We went away for a beach weekend two weeks after Kat died. It was Rory's birthday and we still wanted and needed to do something special for him. That weekend was the first time I started to feel a seed of anything resembling happiness. The four of us had a great time being together and it was very warm and loving. I enjoyed it immensely, but I hated enjoying it. I hated feeling happiness when I was also missing Kat so dreadfully.

Yesterday was pretty rough, today not so much so far. I've noticed that a few times. I knew there would be good days and bad days. I understand grief pretty well and I kind of knew what to expect. That doesn't make it any easier to experience. Knowing something and feeling it are two different things. It's been 20 years now since Mum died and I know how special she still is to me. I remember the layers of mourning and grief I went through for years and years and that I still miss her, think about her and honour her memory. I know logically that it will be the same or similar with Kat but I still take a kind of comfort when people who have been through this years ago tell me that they still hold a special place for their lost baby. That family celebrations are always tinged with the sadness of missing someone. Michael's mum told me that she read or was told that when someone dies we who are still here have our memories of them and we cherish those memories. When a baby is stillborn the people left behind have to create an entire life on that baby's behalf to remember them by. When Kat was born we clung to the thought that we would always love her and always grieve for her. A part of me questioned it though - would another baby heal this pain? Would we remember having her more than we remembered her? I think about how much my mother still means to me 20 years after she died and I listen to other people who are 3, 7 and 8 years on from losing their babies and it's a comfort to realise that yes, Kat will always be special to us just as she is now. To some people this may seem morbid or depressing. To me it's grief. I don't see it as a negative. Death is part of life and it's something we will all be affected by in many different ways throughout our lives. I don't like the term "get over" when it comes to mourning a loved one. "Live with" is closer to how I feel about it. This immense pain is going to be a part of me for ever. It won't always be as sharp as it is right now and I don't suppose I will always feel it as constantly as I do now. But the memory will be with me for ever and so will Kat.
When Kat died Michael's cousin, whose daughter died three years ago, told us that the one piece of advice she would give was that people will say things that hurt because they don't understand and to remember that what they said is about them and not us. I didn't really understand it at the time - how could anyone say anything hurtful to people whose baby just died? It has happened though and mostly I've been able to let it pass. People remind us (mainly me) that we still have two children or that we can have another baby one day. They say it so kindly and it's so obviously coming from a good place that I can take the sentiment and ignore the words. The one I can't let go of though is the funeral director we used. There was only one funeral place in the town we were living in at the time (we moved recently) and I swear if there had have been any other option I would have walked out. Maybe it was worse because my expectations were high. Everyone we had dealt with at two hospitals had been so nice and I expected the same from a funeral place. The reality was far from nice. The man we saw started by going straight to taking our details, filling out forms. He didn't ask us any details about our baby or what we wanted. When he got to the part on the paperwork about the name of the deceased he looked right at us and said "did you name it?" I was heartbroken. I couldn't believe I was hearing my beautiful daughter referred to as "it". However, there was more to come. He asked us which minister we wanted and we both immediately said "no ministers". His reply was along the lines of "so you don't want anything said at all, just the coffin in the ground with no words". THAT was when I lost it. Me losing it was when he realised how badly he had stuffed up and he tried then to recover the situation, but never actually said the words "I'm sorry". He said that they don't know what people want in their funeral services and he has to be guided by us so when we say no minister he can only assume we don't want a service. BULLSHIT for one. For two - gee, maybe he could have started by ASKING us what we wanted. Once we had all the details sorted I walked out of there - if not exactly screaming then at least making no effort to lower my voice - saying "IT - he called our daughter IT" and that I could have punched him in the face and would have walked out if they weren't the only funeral place in town. I was in great wracking sobs all the way home. It was the most pain I had felt since the moment Kat was laid on my chest and some primal being took over my body and I threw my head back and howled. I will never forget Michael's mum holding me while I sat on our lounge crying "my DAUGHTER - my daughter was ripped out of my body and she has a NAME". Even so, I thought that would have been the end of our bad dealings with the funeral director. Nuh-uh, there's more. We eventually heard from them that they had a member of staff (who we had met briefly and seemed very nice) who would conduct the service for us. We tried to find someone elsewhere but were unable so we quite reluctantly went ahead with using one of their staff. Michael rang to say that we would be doing that and that he wanted to go over the sentiments that we wanted expressed. He was told that their guy was just reading the service, we actually had to write it and given the suggestion that there would be plenty of ideas for services online. Our families were with us and Michael didn't say anything, just went to the computer and started looking online. It took me a while to go and see what he was doing and he was heartbroken and very distressed. There he was reading funeral services for babies. Among the less pleasant were the funeral for a non-believer being conducted in a church that began with "he is not a believer so we are not here to celebrate his life but rather to offer comfort to his loved ones". And the funeral for a stillborn baby that began "our society is so wrong - it doesn't recognise the rights of unborn children, not even the right to life". Eventually we found a beautiful service on a Humanist site, personalised it and Michael typed it up to take to the funeral place. Where he was met by the man who would be conducting the service who was incredulous that Michael had been able to write a funeral service in his time of grief. He had spent the afternoon online and had put together several ideas to go over with Michael. I won't name the funeral director but he SHOULD NEVER BE ALLOWED NEAR PEOPLE WHO ARE GRIEVING. One last thing - when I went to pay the bill I saw a leaflet in their office titled "When a Baby Dies". It was basically an information leaflet for the funeral director and I'm not sure why they had it on display = among other things it contained such advice as the baby's name being very important to grieving parents. You think???

OK, some detail about what happened. Kathryn Rose was stillborn at 25 weeks of pregnancy. It seems that I contracted a virus when I was pregnant and it passed to Kat. Her poor little body couldn't cope with it and her growth slowed and then stopped. After about 10 weeks her heart stopped. The first we knew of a problem was at the 18 weeks ultrasound. As everyone always is, we were so excited to be seeing our baby at the ultrasound. The pregnancy had a bit of a bumpy start and I'd already had three ultrasounds by 12 weeks. That scan at 12 weeks was amazing! What had been this blurry white blob had turned into a baby! There had been waving, kicking, stretching and rolling over and most importantly of all our baby was fine. And Michael had missed it because of work. He made sure he could come to the 18 weeks one and we were just so looking forward to sharing the experience of seeing our baby. The first sign that there was a problem was that Kat was measuring about 16 weeks instead of 18. Because of the early scans we knew the dates were precise. From there we had three more ultrasounds in five weeks and the news got worse each time. There was very little amniotic fluid and there was fluid around Kat's heart. Her growth was slowing down. I had amniocentesis at 23 weeks - something I had always sworn I'd never do. I had always said that amnio couldn't tell me anything to make the extra risk of miscarriage worthwhile. When we were faced with it though, it seemed to be the only option. It was the only way to get any further information and she was being tested for viral infections as well as genetic disorders. The viral infection seemed the most likely problem. She had a bright bowel on the ultrasound and we were told that it indicated either a virus or cystic fibrosis. I'd been tested for the CF gene 12 years earlier and I had neither the carrier gene or anything that could mix with it to create a problem - so we knew it wasn't CF, which left a virus. Also, the placenta apparently had characteristic signs of a viral infection.
All the genetic tests came back clear. The full results came into the hospital while we were waiting for what would be our last appointment. The doctor told us while we were walking down the corridor into the ultrasound room that the genetic tests were all clear. She then put the ultrasound on...but turned it off again very quickly and told us that our baby's heart wasn't beating. She was gone.
More tests were done both on my blood and on Kat's after she was born but they all came back clear. No virus was detected but the tests were done eight and ten weeks after the virus would have been present.
It was only in hindsight that I even realised I'd been sick. The doctors kept asking me if I'd been sick and I kept telling them that I'd had whooping cough but nothing else. Whooping cough is bacterial though, not viral. I'd never realised the difference before. Looking back, at 15 weeks I had a rash. It was pimply bumps over my face, chest and arms one day. The next day they were white and pussy and the day after that they were gone. I thought I'd had a break out of pimples and put it down to pregnancy. At the same time I started throwing up more, just when it had been trailing off. I was a little concerned since I had just about been over the vomiting, but even so it was nowhere near as bad as what I'd experienced in my other two pregnancies so I wasn't really worried. I had a few nosebleeds that started either with the vomiting or in the shower under hot water. Again, a bit weird but not an alarm bell for me. Finally, I crashed out and slept for three days. I thought it was probably some post-illness fatigue and stress getting on top of me. The kids had been going through a very bad time following their father's move away and they weren't letting me in to help them. I was studying and getting all Ds and HDs. Michael had been travelling for work for three weeks right when the kids and I all had whooping cough so I'd been dealing with it mostly on my own. If I hadn't been pregnant and I broke out in a pimply rash, vomited until my nose bled and slept for three days I would have gone to a doctor. But all of it I put down to pregnancy and stress. It absolutely stuns me to think that I didn't even realise I was "sick" but I had something that killed my baby.
Strange as it may be I don't regret not seeing a doctor at the time. We have read as much as we can about viral illnesses in pregnancy and at 15 weeks it is extremely improbable that anything could have been done to treat and save our girl. I believe that if I'd seen a doctor at 15 weeks pregnant and had been diagnosed with a virus we most likely would have been advised to terminate the pregnancy. Given the choice between terminating at 15 weeks and losing her at 25 weeks I'd take the extra 10 weeks with her every time. We wouldn't have been without getting to hold our baby girl. We wouldn't be without her hand and footprints. Her birth certificate. A funeral. Since we had to lose her I wouldn't for a second not feel the pain of her death. We will never know for sure what the virus was - or with one hundred per cent certainty that there was a virus. There is very little doubt that there was one, but we can't put a name on it. To our minds though, our baby died from an illness. The fact that I was 25 weeks pregnant at the time, the fact that she had not yet drawn breath or felt the touch of our hands or fed from my breast doesn't change the fact that our daughter died from an illness. It's no different to us than if it had been one of my older children. We grieve for our daughter and we mourn for her the life she never got to live.

The slightest thing tips the balance from being OK to really not OK. Mostly I'm on a more or less even keel, just going about my day to day life and doing the things I need to do. But then the kids fight or I get a headache and I feel nothing but sadness. It's not the crushing sobbing pain of Kat's death, it's just sadness. I can still function and still go about my business but I'm so sad and I know it's from the memory of my baby being so recent. It hangs over me. When Rory was born I remember it being such a rollercoaster of emotion for the first couple of months. The highs were extremely high but the lows were extremely low. When Sienna was born I mostly felt like I was sleepwalking. There were no highs and lows, just putting one foot in front of the othe every day. This - grieving after the loss of a baby - is kind of a mixture of the two. Most of the time I feel flat - not in a negative way, just that mostly I'm just kind of neutrally going about my days. There are no big highs to feel, but the lows are extremely low.

Underneath my Heart

My daughter Kathryn Rose (Kat) was stillborn on 20 November 2009.

It's been 12 weeks now and I have moved on from the thick all-encompassing mourning that was the initial reaction to Kat's death...into a kind of vague day to day existance in which I feel love, pain, grief, sorrow, pride, contentment, frustration, boredom, anger, lust, sloth (the two best of the deadlies) - pretty much everything except sheer happiness. I can and do appreciate very deeply the people in my life. I love my family, I'm pleased to be in our new house, I enjoy seeing the kids happy and settled. I'm excited to be engaged and excited to think about having another baby. But I can't remember the last time I felt simply happy. I think I will again one day. It's not as though grief and sorrow are the only things I am capable of feeling. I've noticed the change in my thoughts and feelings in the past 12 weeks and I know that I can look forward now to things such as another baby, which I couldn't do a couple of months ago. Then it was either something for "one day" or a desperate desire to have Kat back inside my belly and healthy. So I don't think this blanket that stifles the ability to feel happiness will last for ever.

When Kat died I repeatedly reminded myself that we were far from the first people to ever go through this. I personally knew one other couple who had had a stillborn baby and I knew that it is if not exactly common, far from rare. Before we left the hospital we were given a "bear of hope". These are teddy bears that are given to people who have just lost a baby and they are donated by the parents of lost babies. Each bear comes with a tag bearing the name of the baby they have been donated in memory of. The idea is that the parents who have just been given this bear are now not walking out of the hospital with empty arms. Let me tell you that no amount of teddy bear takes away the emptiness of giving birth and not having a baby in your arms. But how I love that bear. I don't keep it on display, I don't hold it, I don't look at it. It has been put away in a box of Kat's things. But it came from another couple who'd lost their baby. It came with that baby's name. I will never know them but I know that once upon a time there was a little baby girl called Lily Grace and her parents loved her. They wanted her and they grieved her loss. She is remembered by them and by the people who know and love them. The world will never know her but I know her name. The world will never know my Kathryn but she is still my daughter and she is loved.

The hard evidence that the bear provided me with - the evidence that we were not alone in this horrible experience - was a tangible comfort to me. Yes, there were tears. I could neither look at nor talk about the bear without crying. Crying is not a bad thing though. I will never deny my daughter my tears for her. Even through the tears, the bear and the knowledge it brought of unseen company in this journey was a comfort. In the days after Kat's death I started to form the idea of writing about the experience in the hope of offering that same comfort to other people who seek it. As the days have turned to weeks and are now starting to turn to months I am realising that this is a topic that is not widely talked about. I never knew that before. I always assumed there was a whole community of grieving parents supporting each other and talking about their loss. Time after time though I'm reading references to this being a "taboo" subject. I've been keeping a diary for myself for the past two months but now I've been prompted by the word "taboo" to go public.

There are times I still want to just sit in a heap and cry. Sometimes I want to walk around with a sign saying "I had a baby". Sometimes it tears my heart out to think that people who walk past me on the street don't know my daughter existed. They never saw my pregnant belly and they don't see me with a baby. (Usually though I have the presence of mind to realise that noone walking past me on the street is paying all that much attention to me and spares as much thought about how many children I have as I do to the same question about them.) Basically, sometimes I want to let myself wallow in how very much it just sucks to have a baby die. I have two children, a home and a life to look after though. People tell me it's good to be busy and that I have to move on. I know that. I still want to sit and wallow sometimes.

Sometimes I take the time to stop and savour my family. I look at my daughter's face as she concentrates on tying her shoe laces - a new skill and one that is far from mastered but she is so proud to show us that she can do it herself. I put my arm out around my son when he comes to me for a hug and breathe in the fact that in that moment he wanted to cuddle his mum. I hold my partners hand and look at the kids walking beside us and say a silent "thank you" that I have this family. I've always taken the time to appreciate the people in my life while they are still here. Well, maybe not always, but certainly by the time I was a teenager. Mum died when I was 12 after a 4 year illness (cancer) and so I've known from an early age that the people I love are precious and can be taken away. I've been through divorce and now have a relationship that I can't really describe in terms other than "wonderful". In short - I always have appreciated my family and I have always made the effort to show the people I love that I love them while we are all still here. But losing Kat has shown me yet again how important that is.

I could keep on going but - as seems to be the story of my life - real life awaits. Time to get the kids from school.