Dominic's Story

I had a scan on the 13^th December 2001 at 17 weeks and to my complete shock and disbelief found out that my son Dominic had died.  I didn’t sleep at all that night.  I couldn’t take in the fact that my baby’s life had already ended before he was born.  I had seen him on the monitor lying motionless inside me, without a heartbeat, but doubts started to creep into my mind.  What if it was a mistake and he was still alive!  I was terrified because I didn’t really have any idea of what to expect in the morning.  I knew I had to go through labour, but I had no idea of how much time and pain would be involved and how I would cope knowing I was going through it without a healthy baby to love and cherish at the end.

On the morning of the 14^th I wanted to get to the hospital as early as possible.  I desperately needed to know what was going to happen to me.  One part of me didn’t want to believe what was going on and another part just wanted to get it over and done with, so that I could get on with my life.  It was like being in a bad dream, hoping I would wake up and find out that everything was ok really.  

We were explained the procedures and given the worst-case scenario.  The worst thought at the time was that it could take three days before I went into labour.  I didn’t know how I would cope with just sitting around, waiting for something to happen, still scared of what I had to go through and trying to come to terms with the idea that my baby had died.  I didn’t want to suffer anymore.  Nothing was making any sense, everything seemed so unfair, what had I done to deserve this?

After the doctor left, a midwife showed us around the suite of rooms we were in.  I couldn’t believe the effort that had gone into creating them.  It was like being transported out of the hospital environment completely, and such a relief to discover that maybe it wouldn’t be so unbearable if I did have to stay for three days or more.  It was like being in our own little world, where I didn’t have to think of anything outside of those rooms and I was so grateful that the worst thing I have ever had to go through in my life was made as comfortable as possible.  It made me feel less lonely to know that there are people who care.

As the hours passed, the back and stomach ache got worse.  Painkillers were always on offer, but I didn’t take any because I thought it was going to get a lot worse so I didn’t want to be dosed up too soon, and also I felt like I deserved to be in pain, that I should suffer for letting my baby die. 

I found that sitting on the toilet eased the pain as it got more intense.  Nothing was really expected to happen before midnight at the earliest and I hadn’t even started having contractions by tea time, so I thought we were in for a long night.  Halfway through my tea the pain was so intense that I went to the toilet again.  As I was sitting there I felt a lump, which I assumed was a blood clot.  It hit the water with a loud splash and when I looked down realisation dawned.  I could see the cord, I’d given birth down the toilet.  I just sat there for a moment, totally dumbstruck, completely numb with shock. 

I shouted at Mick to get somebody quickly and then I was hit with absolute horror that my baby was head first down the toilet, how would he be able to breathe!  I frantically pulled the cord until Dominic was in my hand and I was shaking like a leaf.  He was so much smaller than I was expecting, but I so wished that he would open his eyes and look at me.  I heard voices approaching.  As the midwife came into the room the placenta came out and took Dominic back down the toilet with it.  I had failed my baby so badly.  I couldn’t bring him into the world alive and I couldn’t even give him the dignity and respect he deserved when he was born. 

The midwife asked if we wanted to see the baby and we both said yes.  He had such tiny hands and feet, and you could even see the knuckles on the smallest little fingers and toes you can imagine.  He was much smaller than we were expecting.  One of the midwives suggested it was more likely that he had died at about twelve weeks.  I wanted to believe this in some ways because it seemed less painful to think I’d had a miscarriage, rather than lost my baby.  I couldn’t face the fact that my whole world had been turned upside down and taken all my plans, hopes and dreams with it.  I couldn’t even begin to appreciate how strong a bond and how much love I already had for my child. 

We were told that Dominic was too small to photograph and take hand and foot prints.  At the time I accepted this without question.  I didn’t want any reminders of what had happened.  I didn’t want to talk about anything.  I thought I could shut it all away so that I could get on with the rest of my life more easily. 

The hospital chaplain came to see us and we decided to have Dominic blessed.  Everyone thought I wasn’t too keen on the idea, but the truth is I knew it would make me cry.  I had, without realising gone into a numb, emotionless state to avoid handling reality and I wanted to stay there indefinitely.   We had Dominic at the service in a Moses basket.  I’m so glad we had the blessing because I don’t think I would be able to bear it, if we hadn’t let him know how much he is loved and wished him well, wherever he is now. 

Three months have gone by since Dominic passed away.  I have been through every emotion possible and I think I have learnt a lot.  I feel guilty for letting him down and not fulfilling my role of carrying him and bringing him safely into the world.  I feel so lonely at times, because nobody can really understand what I’m going through.  Sometimes I find myself touching my stomach when I talk about him, then I realise he isn’t there anymore and my heart breaks all over again. 

My emotions are all still all over the place.  At times I can think about what has happened without so much pain and I really start to think I am making progress, and at other times I get completely engulfed by an overwhelming wave of sadness.  It takes over my whole mind and body.  I can’t think of anything else and my heart really does feel like it’s being ripped out.  It’s so scary to have so little control.

I’ve discovered that you have to allow yourself to feel the pain and hurt.  Sometimes it seems so constant and unbearable that you can’t see any way through it, but you can’t pretend it doesn’t exist.  Your mind and body won’t let you and you just get so exhausted trying to push it away, because you don’t want to face the reality of what has happened.  It took me nearly two months to give Dominic his name because I thought I could move on more easily and cope better if he didn’t have his own identity.  We chose the name Dominic because it means ‘Belonging to God’, and I have to believe that he has gone to a better place to make the tiniest bit of sense of such a pointless waste of an innocent life. 

I’ve also learnt that sometimes you can’t get through things on your own and that it’s ok to ask for help.  I’ve found it so important to talk and I’m lucky to have a very good friend who will listen to me going over the same things time after time.  I honestly don’t think I would have made it through the last three months without counselling.  Without having someone to tell me that I’m not going mad, to reassure me that I will pull through and that my feelings are normal.  Being able to talk completely openly, without having to pretend I’m doing fine and knowing that someone cares enough to listen and try to help me through the pain has really helped.  I think on my own I would still be trying to lock all my feelings away and deny how much Dominic is part of my life.  

As the time passes the pain is getting less intense and less frequent.  I still spend a lot of time thinking about Dominic and how different things should be, but that’s ok because he will always be a part of my life and I don’t want to forget him.  One of my biggest regrets is that I don’t have a photo of him to remind me of exactly how he looked.  I’m so scared that as time goes by the images in my mind will fade and I will be left with an ache in my heart for a son who’s face I can hardly remember.  I wish with all my heart that someone had taken a picture of him, while it was possible.  Now I can never have his photograph as one of the few precious memories I have to cling to.