Still Born

By Sue and Ric Davies

Published in Kindred issue 25 as part of Death Through the Eyes of a Child Feature

8:04 am, Friday, 26 August 2005. Four days after his due-date and our darling son, Bryn, is stillborn. He is perfect in every way. The shock is sudden, massive, and overwhelming.

Tomorrow we will have to choose between a cremation or a burial. Today we will have to deal with layer-upon-layer of bureaucracy to have our baby come home, just for one night, and for us to be a family together before saying goodbye.

You may be feeling uncomfortable reading this article. After all, a baby dying is something we don’t generally talk about. Why on earth would we? But the painful truth is that some babies don’t make it and, terrible as it is, it is not unique or particularly rare. In fact the chances are that someone you already know has lost a baby, whether it be through miscarriage, stillbirth, or in early infancy. Chances are you also don’t know about it because it is rarely discussed.

The statistics on stillbirth make for sobering reading. According to the Stillbirth Foundation in Sydney, one in every one hundred babies born in Australia is stillborn or dies shortly after birth. In 2005 there were 1411 stillbirths in Australia. Our son was one of them. Using those statistics, at least three babies will be stillborn in Australia today, and tomorrow, and the day after.

When a child does die, it seems that society deals, or more accurately doesn’t deal, with death in strange ways. On losing Bryn, we were suddenly engulfed in a dark world of social awkwardness and uncomfortable, embarrassed silences. The reality is that many people don’t know how to, or maybe don’t want to, talk to someone who has lost a child. So the easiest thing is to simply turn away, maybe send some flowers and hope to God that the person is ‘better’ the next time we bump into them at the supermarket.

It is our hope that this article and our experiences will help break down some of the social stigma of losing a baby and reveal it for what it is, a tragic but not uncommon event, and one that we can all learn and ultimately benefit from.

‘I’m sorry’

Those two words, and it was as though the world had stopped turning. This can’t be happening, it just,… can’t be happening. Shock, disbelief, horror. Our entire world turned upside down in an instant. Confusion rained down all around us. All reference points are gone. What is happening?

And yet even in that darkest hour, there was such an underlying feeling of peace and love. Here we are with our baby, in the flesh, and we can hold him, and he is beautiful—the image of his sister. And just like any other parents, we are so happy to meet our new baby for the first time. It was a strange experience to be genuinely proud and utterly devastated at the same time. But that’s how it was, and how it continues to be.

That day was long and hard. It was an experience that no one should have to go through. At last we were able to bring him back home, where he belonged, and we spent the evening together cuddling Bryn and reading stories as a family. Our daughter, then nearly three years old, was wonderful with him, kissing him, holding his hand and saying ‘hello baby Bryn’. He stayed in our room that night, and by the morning we knew his spirit had gone. Any sleep we did get was from exhaustion.

We said goodbye in the morning. It was so calm, sitting with him, holding him. I remember that two kookaburras wouldn’t leave us alone that day, they were everywhere we went, but it didn’t seem particularly strange at the time.

Two days later at the funeral chapel was the last day we would see him. I can’t describe the feeling, it was just so calm and peaceful. I knew then that death is nothing to be afraid of, it really is so beautifully peaceful. We wrapped him up snug and placed him into the bassinet. We kissed him and told him we were sorry, so very sorry. And we thanked him, our son, our teacher. He was cremated the next day.

We cried and cried together. It was easy to cry and the crying felt good.

‘He didn’t make it’

Telling other people what had happened was difficult. Two days after losing Bryn, we took our daughter to her regular playgroup. It wouldn’t have been fair to disrupt her routine by keeping her home and, anyway, being with other children was so much better than being with us. I walked in first to a roomful of expectant smiles from all the mums. I shook my head and looked down; ‘we had a boy, he didn’t make it.’

Silence, a long stunned silence and then tears. I will never forget the look on their faces. It was the most terrible thing to have to tell people.

And so the news spread, whether first-hand or by word-of-mouth and those painful, awkward silences started to become a defining feature of our lives. A week after Bryn’s death it suddenly dawned on us that we were alone on this journey. We had flowers and cards and we appreciated them enormously but it was clear that there weren’t many people who wanted to talk, and I mean really talk, about Bryn and life and death. We felt completely the opposite and our sense of solitude was palpable. From our discussions with other people who have lost a child this sense of isolation sadly seems to be a very common experience. It would appear that someone who has lost a child is often to be avoided at all costs.

I think that most people were either embarrassed, shocked, or in denial. Sometimes it felt like it was our role to help other people come to terms with their own grief and help them feel better. I remember thinking ‘heck, if you’re upset, imagine how I feel.’ But we took on this role, and not begrudgingly, and hopefully we helped some people accept the loss.

It was the denial that hurt us the most, as if there were no baby. That really hurt. There was a baby, in the flesh, and he was held and loved and nurtured just like any other newborn. He was stillborn but he was still born, it’s not like he wasn’t. I can understand people might not have known what to say, but even to say ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say’ would have been so much better than the denial. To this day there are some people who have never spoken to us about Bryn.

A few people seemed to see beyond the tragedy. Our local homeopath, who miraculously managed to stop Sue’s milk supply coming in, greeted us with a smile and congratulations on the birth of Bryn and encouraged us not to focus on what we had lost but on what we had gained. It was such a welcome and heartfelt gesture. ‘Congratulations!’ was exactly what we needed to hear, because we had still brought a beautiful baby boy into the world.

Surprisingly we also met many people who had lost children too, some of whom are now dear friends. There was the mum at playgroup who lost a child at 22 weeks, the friend at work whose sister’s child was stillborn the year before, the lady in the shop who’d had three late miscarriages, the school friend whose older brother was stillborn, the friend from uni who lost a child at 25 weeks, the mum at school who lost a baby at 24 weeks, another mum from school whose baby was stillborn at 40 weeks, even a nemesis at work who had a stillbirth in the family.

It soon became apparent that our loss was by no means unique or particularly rare and that it affected a broad spectrum of society. It just seemed that society hadn’t developed an accepted set of rules and norms to apply in this situation. If you lose your parents, you are an orphan, and if you lose your spouse, you are a widow or widower. But the English language has no word for someone who has lost a child. It seems to be too difficult to conceptualise, yet alone put a label to, and so the loss of a child doesn’t get talked about.

Why on earth don’t we talk about death more openly? It is as common and natural as birth and if there is one thing that is certain in this life it is that we will die. It seemed very peculiar to us that part of the reality of our existence should be swept under the carpet like this.

Wake up

Those weeks after losing Bryn turned out to be intensely spiritual—an experience that was completely unexpected. All of the fuss and worry of modern living was stripped away, it simply didn’t matter, and there we stood in a seemingly timeless and infinite expanse of simply being. The sense of freedom, peace, and joy—yes, even joy—was extraordinary. And all kinds of strange and wonderful things started happening. Clocks stopped working at the same time, light bulbs would blow when we walked under them, birds would come and sit with us. Our daughter woke us every night to gently tell us about the friendly white lady standing by her bed ‘like a statue’. There were ecstatic feelings of no self, no concepts, no reference points whatsoever.

Wave after wave they came, and it soon dawned on us that there was much more to be realised from this. We started to look beyond the loss and realised that there was indeed much to be gained. Something, or someone, somewhere, seemed to be nudging us and nagging and saying ‘wake up, wake up’. It was connected to Bryn and somehow it was part of Bryn. All of this was incredibly reassuring to us. We accepted the loss of him and we gratefully accepted the gifts and insights he gave us.

A week after Bryn was born, we had a Powa ceremony for him at a Buddhist centre. It was such a comfort and relief. We were doing the best thing we could for him. We spoke with the nuns about death, rebirth, and karma and their blunt matter-of-fact-ness was so refreshing.

Do you know the Buddhist story of the mustard seed? It is such a powerful story. A grief-stricken woman goes to Buddha to ask him to return her dead son to her. He says he will if she can find a mustard seed from a house that hasn’t experienced a loss and, of course, she can’t find a single household that hasn’t suffered in this way. So she considers the fate of man, that death is common to all. And she thinks to herself, ‘How selfish am I in my grief?’ That really struck a chord with us. I’m not saying that it made us feel any better but it certainly allowed a new perspective to open up. I don’t think we will ever get over losing Bryn, but perhaps at that moment we started to begin to get used to it.

We had always understood that life is the seed of death. Now we were starting to wonder if death might also be the seed of life.

Happy birthday

8:04 am, Saturday, 26 August 2006. A year later and we buried Bryn’s placenta under a cherry blossom tree in full bloom by the back door. We shook the tree and blossoms rained down like pink snow whilst our daughter squealed in delight. We had kept his placenta frozen, knowing we would bury it in a special place at a special time, as we had with our daughter’s on her naming day. And today is the day—it feels right. This is Bryn’s time again and another milestone. Seeing the end of 2005 was surprisingly hard, and we had feared his birthday might be the same, but now that we’re here, it is quite lovely. That feeling of peace is back and frankly I hope today never ends. We have built up a small rockery garden for Bryn where we have placed a Japanese Mizuko Jizo statue engraved with his name. The word ‘mizu-ko’ literally translated means ‘water’ and ‘baby’ and is a description of those unborn beings who float in a watery world awaiting birth. The Mizuko Jizo is popularly known as the guardian of unborn, aborted, miscarried, and stillborn babies and the little statues get lovingly adorned with baby clothes and toys. Our daughter loves to bathe Bryn’s statue or dress him up with flowers and crystals and today is no different. ‘I miss Bryn,’ she said, ‘but we can still love him.’ ‘Oh yes, we sure can, sweetheart.’

Dealing with death

The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying by Sogyal Rinpoche is an amazingly beautiful book. Everyone should read it I think and preferably before encountering death. In the story of the mustard seed, which is detailed in the book, the Buddha said:

The life of mortals in this world is troubled and brief and combined with pain. For there is not any means by which those that have been born can avoid dying; after reaching old age there is death; of such a nature are living beings. As ripe fruits are early in danger of falling, so mortals when born are always in danger of death. As all earthen vessels made by the potter end in being broken, so is the life of mortals. Both young and adult, both those who are fools and those who are wise, all fall into the power of death; all are subject to death.

Of those who, overcome by death, depart from life, a father cannot save his son, nor kinsmen their relations. Mark I, while relatives are looking on and lamenting deeply, one-by-one mortals are carried off, like an ox that is led to the slaughter. So the world is afflicted with death and decay, therefore the wise do not grieve, knowing the terms of the world. In whatever manner people think a thing will come to pass, it is often different when it happens, and great is the disappointment; see, such are the terms of the world.

Not from weeping nor from grieving will anyone obtain peace of mind; on the contrary, his pain will be the greater and his body will suffer. He will make himself sick and pale, yet the dead are not saved by his lamentation. People pass away, and their fate after death will be according to their deeds. If a man live a hundred years, or even more, he will at last be separated from the company of his relatives, and leave the life of this world. He who seeks peace should draw out the arrow of lamentation, and complaint, and grief. He who has drawn out the arrow and has become composed will obtain peace of mind; he who has overcome all sorrow will become free from sorrow, and be blessed.

Thank you, Bryn

8:04 am, Sunday, 26 August 2007. It’s another year already! I feel really close to Bryn today and it is lovely. The last few weeks have been no fun. The tension rises as we approach Bryn’s birthday, but like last year, the day itself is calm and peaceful. At last we’re here, it’s pouring down outside and we have acrylic paint all over the kitchen. We have decided to paint some pictures for Bryn, nothing in particular, just whatever feels right.

Chaos reigns and now there is paint everywhere, all over our daughter, and even on the baby. Our third child is 9 months old already. The night she was conceived I had a powerful and vivid dream. In it my daughter was holding a baby and looking up at me smiling. ‘It’s my sister,’ she said, ‘and her eyes are open.’


Sue and Ric live in the Perth hills of Western Australia and are the proud parents of two beautiful girls here on earth and one beautiful boy in heaven.They will be travelling around Australia for a year shortly and would love to catch up with any of Kindred’s readers along the way. They can be contacted via email 


References
• Stillbirth Foundation, Inc: www.stillbirthfoundtion.org.au/objectives

• Australian Bureau of Statistics, 3303.0 Causes of Death, Australia 2005: www.abs.gov.au/AUSSTATS/abs@.nsf/DetailsPage/3303.02005?OpenDocument

• The Mustard Seed: www.sacred-texts.com/bud/btg/btg85.htm

• Japanese Buddhist Statuary: www.onmarkproductions.com/html/jizo1.shtml#mizuko