Saying goodbye to my baby

Catriona Jorgensen - 25 Jan 19

Sometimes this story feels like fiction or someone else’s story but then I feel the pain in my heart and know that this story is, and will always be part of me.

In May 2018 when I was 25 weeks pregnant my husband and I sat in a cardiologist’s office and listened while we were told that our daughter had a serious heart defect and that she would require heart surgery a few days after her birth. We were given reassurance about the procedure and we discussed a plan.

Aoibh arrived into the world on 10th September 2018. I knew before her birth that a large team of doctors and nurses would be waiting for her and that I would not be allowed to hold her. I watched anxiously as the team gathered around her, working quickly to give her all the help she needed.

The next few days were a blur to me. We were told that Aoibh was much sicker than anticipated but that doctors were doing all they could for her. I prayed hard that someone would tell us that she had turned a corner, but those words never came.

I will never forget the first moment I saw her in ICU, so small attached to so many machines keeping her alive. I didn’t know what to do, how to let her know I was there. I kissed her chest and for a brief moment she opened her eyes, that moment took my breath away.

I didn’t want to leave her that evening but I was told that Aoibh was stable and was reassured that we would be phoned if we were needed.

I remember feeling a little hopeful as I went to bed, Aoibh was stable, she was a fighter, she could get through this. A few hours later my husband’s phone rang and I knew instantly what that phone call meant. The nurse asked us to come to the ward as quickly as we could.

The doctor was wonderful, he gently told us that Aoibh’s body was struggling and that the likelihood of her passing away that night was high. We quickly arranged for her to be christened, and my parents arrived to be with us. I spent the next few hours looking at the screens which were monitoring Aoibh watching those vital numbers slowly go down. For a while the numbers then stabilised and we were encouraged to go and get some sleep. As before, a few hours into a restless sleep we got the call to return to the ward.

On the morning of the 12th September doctors gathered to tell us that Aoibh was not going to make it through the day. I could see the pain in the consultant’s eyes as she said those words. We phoned family and then spent the next few hours cuddling Aoibh, hoping that she somehow knew how much we loved her.

Pretty much exactly 48 hours after she was born, I held my beautiful daughter, said goodbye and cried silent tears as she quietly slipped away from us. In doing so she took a piece of me with her.

So many thoughts ran through my head in the following weeks, how could I get through this, how could I ever return to any sense of normality. I also found myself thinking about maybe having another baby in the future and with that thought came so much guilt that I could even consider such a thing.

In the weeks after Aoibh’s death I can remember searching the internet hoping to find something that would tell me I wasn’t alone. Thankfully I found charities such as Sands (Stillborn and Neonatal Death Charity). I had never heard of them before, maybe I had unconsciously blocked the information from my mind as I naively thought I would never need their service. I also searched social media and found so many inspirational people who showed me that life could go on, and helped give me the strength to share my daughter’s story with the world. Most importantly they reminded me that I am a mother now and that will never change.

I am still only a few steps down this path, but already I know some things for certain. I know that I will never be the same, that Aoibh will always be my missing piece. But I also know that the sun does shine again and it’s ok to smile on those days. Most importantly I want others to know that nothing makes my heart sing more than someone saying Aoibh’s name or asking about her. Her story is short, but it is precious and one that I would tell every day if I could.

Catriona Jorgensen

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