Holistic Baby Loss Support

‘She was beautiful. She would have had my hands, I can assure you that, however, I will never know what colour her eyes would have been or how high or low the tone of her voice would have sounded. She was stillborn—a word that I have learned to embrace. 

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As I held my precious silent second daughter in my arms, a terribly sad yet peaceful feeling surrounded my husband and I in that hospital room. There was singing and praying involved and we told her that we would love her forever. Nothing was easy, letting go is hard. I remember how my husband and I were bombarded with medical information about autopsies, funeral arrangements and other documents, yet there was so little emotional support and guidance available during those big decisions, as well as once we were back home. I felt broken. Hollow. I was in intense emotional pain. My chest felt heavy. Even sleeping was difficult, some nights I was invaded by recurring nightmares and other times I would wake up in the middle of the night with a racing mind going through each painful event over and over again.
I wondered if I could have done something differently or if there was something wrong with me that the doctors might not have detected. I also wondered if I would ever be able to carry to term another baby or if I would actually feel ready to conceive again and take the risk of experiencing yet another loss. I would go from angry, to feeling ashamed and then devastated. I was missing my dear baby deeply. What was I supposed to do with the space I had fostered in my heart for loving my darling Olive for the rest of my life?  

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There did not seem to be a specific health service for this type of loss, the few support organisations available felt impersonal or based mostly on talking, which I was not ready for. Also, there was no scope in society for this type of grief either, or at least it felt that way. Especially early in my pain, I remember how grief could catch me when least expected and triggers were almost everywhere, impacting my socialisation and making me feel lonely. I felt the need to retreat from some of my well-meaning family and friends, especially those who were expecting or had had babies recently. Grief can have the ability to leave you speechless and I needed space and time to find my new voice. Once I was ready to share my story, most people did not feel comfortable talking about my baby’s death and were under the impression that I should get over it easily (or faster) and just try again for another baby soon. Probably with good intentions, people (more often than not) would end up minimising my grief by comparing it to other stories of loss they knew, ignoring my pain and/or invalidating my emotions by trying to fix them or provide a silver lining, making me feel even more isolated. Little did they know that naming and talking about Olive was one of the only ways I had to acknowledge and honour her short yet precious life. As I started finding the right language for me to talk about my baby, words would help me shape my story the way I felt it and support me in accepting my loss and finding peace. 

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My belly area became a strong trigger of negative thoughts and strong emotions. I recall trying not to look at it for months, yet going to bed praying with my hands on my lower belly every night in a desperate attempt to feel whole again and somehow connect with my baby who had gone. My womb had carried death and I had lost faith in my body and its capacity to create a healthy baby. I needed to rewire my heart-womb connection but did not know where to start. And that is how my holistic and gentle journey towards wellness began. It was not an easy road—one full of tears, raw emotions, doubts and lots of fears and hopelessness towards the future. When your baby dies, it can feel like there is a part of you that dies with your baby, but I wondered what exactly needed to die? 

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I was lucky enough to be able to take the time I needed to go back to work, but grieving at home, with my Mum (who is my major support) living overseas, was not easy. I remember trying to find a delicate balance between being able to maintain an ongoing connection with my baby Olive (yet letting her go in peace), while being a present and caring mother to my eldest daughter, Clementine; as well as not disregarding the relationship with my husband, who was also grieving in his own way and time. My perspective on motherhood and family had changed, and my own maternal identity needed some rebuilding. It was an extremely hard job to master while grieving, let me tell you. Something I already knew as an Occupational Therapist, but that I have confirmed throughout my journey as a mother, is that healing involves patience, trust and self-love in monumental quantities, and that each personal experience is different. We are all healing in our right time. However, it is crucial to reach out for support when things become hard for us to handle. By combining Occupational Therapy practices and complementary modalities aligned to my personal values and interests, I rediscovered a path of self-worth, which empowered me deeply as I slowly moved towards wellness.

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I wish I could tell you that all my worries went away after having my third daughter Marigold in my arms (as so many people seemed to expect), but it did not happen quite that easily. First of all, a rainbow pregnancy can be the hardest 9 months—full of mixed emotions. Fear and uncertainty were holding hands with hope and joy. At times it felt like life and death were playing a game of cards in my mind. If anxiety is often raised during any pregnancy, then after a pregnancy loss it is most likely heightened big time even without the presence of an actual medical complication. Grief would creep back up every now and then, but this time around it was escorted by its mate guilt, because I should stay calm for my baby and I guess I should just have been happy to be pregnant again, right? I am not sure how many times I wondered “is she moving enough, should I call the doctor?”. I was blessed to meet the kindest and most generous obstetrician who offered me his knowledge and time, giving me great reassurance every single time I needed it. I was advised to inject Low-molecular-weight Heparin every day, so my belly and I had to become good friends again, and not under the best circumstances, but my womb was carrying life again and I was stronger and hopeful. 

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Incorporating complementary healing practices was essential for finding peace during those stormy times, especially in between medical appointments, while at work, and as I was approaching my third daughter’s birth. Making the time to connect daily with my womb, my heart and my baby using Reiki, womb wisdom, visualisations, affirmations, singing, crystals and practicing gratitude (among other things); all helped me restore my trust in the process and in my own capacity as a woman and even renew my faith in God, while keeping me grounded. Occupational therapy, which is by now part of my essence, helped me find the ritual in the routine. By finding personal meaning in my daily doing and adapting my activities and/or environment to enhance participation in my most significant roles as a mother, wife and therapist, I felt empowered.  

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However, Marigold was born with fluid in her lungs, so I was not able to have her with me and hold her as much as I would have loved to immediately after she was born and not even for the following few days after that. I remember reliving somehow the emptiness of the postpartum without a baby, and grief resurfaced once again. I was so happy to finally have Marigold with me, but there was a part of me that was not able to relax completely—a state of alarm was lingering. Also, I was still missing Olive and I was not sure where to fit in these not-so-happy feelings in my newborn-baby bubble and that would make me feel like I was betraying her somehow by making more space for joy. Once again, I had to find meaning and ritual in the everyday routine and be able to trust in the process to allow things to shift. My identity as a mother and my bond with my now three daughters was going to need some more reaccommodating.

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Both of my daughters, each of whom I hold in my arms today, are what we call ‘rainbow babies’, because they both came after a loss. Sometimes I wonder how different my journey as a mother would have been without experiencing loss. I wonder what would have happened if I had available a specific kind of support after my very first early miscarriage. I also wonder if my style of mothering would have been different. Most likely it would have been, but I will never know for certain because this is my story—the one that proudly makes me the mother and woman I am today. The only things I know for sure is how deeply appreciative and grateful I am of my daughter’s lives (and of life in general), how I love being Olive's mum as much as I love being Clementine and Marigold's mum, and how my heart has the capacity to heal and embrace joy and pain in a transformative way, which I never would have thought possible.  

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Throughout my journey of loss, I would love to have been able to count on a specific, personalised and integrative support service provided by someone who could empathise with my story and help me feel safe even about feeling unsafe. Therefore, I would love to share my passion for women’s mental health and well-being and be able to help and guide other women and families who have experienced baby loss, are pregnant with a rainbow baby and are in need of support, or are struggling in their motherhood journey. I can empathise, bring light into the darkness of heartache, trauma and grief, and/or hold a nurturing and hopeful space for them until they can do it for themselves’.