Choice Words Page 18

  Jennifer Hanratty

  Dedicated to our son Linus, born Liverpool, September 2018

  At our twelve-week scan, we were told that they suspected our baby had anencephaly. At fourteen weeks the diagnosis was confirmed. The termination itself we coped with; we knew it was the right choice for us, and the NHS staff were incredibly kind and understanding. But the weeks before our son was delivered were horrific. It took two more weeks to find a provider abroad, get an appointment, make childcare arrangements, and book travel. The journey was torture. I will never not feel the pain of being exiled and tortured by my country during the worst moments of my life.

  I documented our journey on Twitter (RatherBeHome @HomeRather https://twitter.com/HomeRather) so that people could understand the real impact of the law: not in an abstract way, but its real visceral human impact. I began from home, outside of Belfast, covered the trip to Liverpool and the procedure there, and ended with our return to Belfast, where we should have been all along.

  October, 18, 2018 [Thursday at home]

  9:58 a.m. Anencephaly is a neural tube defect. Anencephaly literally means “without a brain”. It is fatal. Incompatible with life,

  Basic biology lesson: When an egg and sperm fuse you get a zygote. That cell splits in two, they split into four and 8, 16, 32 and on and on till you get a ball of cells.

  Part of the ball of cells will become the placenta and amniotic sac, the other part becomes the fetus. The group of fetal cells starts off in a disk shape, that disk folds up to form a tube.

  The “top” bit of the tube seals up and becomes the skull and brain. The bottom bit seals up and becomes the spine. Any problems in this sealing process lead to a “neural tube defect.”

  It happens between the 23rd and 26th day of pregnancy. Most women won’t have missed a period yet so won’t even realize they are #pregnant. That’s why, if you are thinking of getting pregnant, you’d be wise to take #folicacid NOW @SHINEUKCharity.

  There are different types of neural tube defects, depending on where in the “tube” things went wrong. For our little one, the problem was at the top. This meant that the skull and brain would never form. No brain. #Brainless. Headless? Not quite but nearly #nearlyheadlessnick

  We were told that our baby had anencephaly at the twelve-week scan. It is fatal. No chance of survival. The #midwife said we were “lucky” because sometimes these defects can’t be seen until twenty weeks.

  Maybe it’s lucky to know the devastating news before you’ve really allowed yourself to believe that the #pregnancy was real. Maybe it’s lucky to have time to consider your options. Except if you live in Northern Ireland. #nowforNI @DianaJohnsonMP.

  If you live in Northern Ireland your choices are: 1. Stay #pregnant and endure the long slow torture of feeling your baby grow while you wait for them to die or 2. Become some other country’s problem. @ Alliance4Choice

  Follow our journey for #healthcare tomorrow. Flight leaves at 6:30 a.m. #belfast @NowForNI

  October 19, 2018 [Friday 5:30 a.m. Belfast City Airport]

  5:30 a.m. We just left a sobbing two-year-old. Her little face, tears streaming, staring out of her seat in the back of her Granny’s car nearly broke me before this torturous journey even started.

  This morning her sleepy begging was too much… “but I want to go, too, Mummy.” Big tears rolled down her tiny perfect little face. I told her I wished I could stay with her. I cried big stupid tears of my own and snuggled her close so she wouldn’t see #motherhood #ToddlerLife

  She’s still in her pajamas because it’s so early. We had to wake her up to come to the airport with us before going to her Granny’s for the weekend @BELFASTCITY_AIR

  5:52 a.m. We haven’t told toddler what’s happening. How do you explain to a two-year-old that the tiny baby swimming in mummy’s tummy is dying? #BabyLossAwarenessWeek @TFMRIRE

  How do you explain that our country would rather torture us and force us to leave her than allow our doctors to care for us as they want to, without fear of prosecution? @duponline I don’t know. @RCObsGyn @ MidwivesRCM

  I do know that none of the people responsible for maintaining NI’s barbaric laws were there this morning to dry her tears. And none of them care about us. #nowforNI

  Boarding @flybe #HealthcareNotAirfare #RepealThe8th @NowForNI

  7:42 a.m. I’m so fucking tired.

  My stomach hurts from holding it in. I want to hide because I’m afraid someone will notice and ask the usual questions… When are you due? Is it your first? Do you know what you’re having? I can’t handle that.

  9:05 a.m. The next salesperson who tries to strike up one of those faux friendly conversations “what brings you here today” “business or pleasure” is getting an honest fucking answer. I’m too tired to save other people’s feelings with plain lies about visiting friends.

  I leave himself to deal with the sales pitch at the car hire desk and go to the loo. The little hope that I’ll see blood in my knickers reminds me again why we’re here. As if I could forget. My baby has a fatal abnormality. A condition that is “incompatible with life.” #nowforNI

  If there was blood it would mean we could just go home now. If the baby’s heart stopped beating on its own we would be welcome at home. We’d be cared for as grief-stricken parents.

  9:54 a.m. We’ve arrived at the hospital. I don’t want to get out of the car. Getting out means that it’s real. That this is happening to me. To us. It’s not someone else’s story, it’s ours. It’s not just something that happened to @MrsEtoB years ago it’s happening now.

  10:18 a.m. We got lost looking for the clinic. Here now waiting. There are six other women here, one has a partner, one is with her mother, the rest are alone. There are a range of ages.

  10:22 a.m. I was worried that I’d feel angry or upset seeing women with presumably healthy pregnancies here. But I don’t. I feel sorry for them. I feel sorry for me. None of us want to be in this situation. We’re here because we need to be.

  I don’t know the circumstances of their lives. They don’t know mine. #trustwomen

  10:27 a.m. The nurse calls women one by one to take BP, height, weight. She struggles when she calls an Irish name. The young woman, here on her own, corrects the nurse and pronounces her name for her. It’s not a difficult one.

  Imagine being here, away from home, all alone, where people can’t even say your name. Thank fuck for #repeal #trustwomen @simon (health minister) @alliance4choice @nowforNI @tfmr

  10:31 a.m. One woman comes back to the waiting room really upset. She’s on her own. I want to comfort her but I hesitate. Everyone else pretends not to notice her, so eventually I feel compelled to do something. I get up and sit beside her. I offer her a hug. We chat a bit.

  She tells me she’s already got two young kids. She doesn’t look more than twenty years old. She tells me that she’d used hormonal contraception but it failed. She felt she had to justify herself, to a total stranger, in an abortion clinic. #noneofmybusiness #trustwomen

  I mention that I will have to stay for the weekend and she’s surprised to learn that abortion is illegal in Northern Ireland. I don’t tell her that it’s even illegal when the baby has no chance of surviving. I don’t want her to feel even worse about her own situation.

  10:45 a.m. I get called in to get my bloods taken. The nurse steps out to get something and suddenly I am bawling. I have spent so much time doing the admin to get us here that I haven’t allowed myself to be upset about losing my baby.

  11:03 a.m. We get called in to see the midwife I’ve already spoken to her on the phone and she gives us both a hug. She’s sorry. She understands how awful it is for us to be stuck here all weekend.

  Himself looks pale when she mentions that there is a risk of uterine rupture and hysterectomy. The risk is really, really small, but he looks terrified and it’s the first time I realize how much he has to lose, too, and how scared he is for me, for our family and for the future.

  11:48 a.m. The bereavement sp
ecialist midwife comes to see us. She talks through our options for the remains. The product of pregnancy. Our child.

  We could have brought “everything” home if we’d come by ferry but it was so expensive and would have meant leaving the toddler for longer. There was also the small horror of bringing our baby home in a plastic bag.

  I’ve heard stories of people having to buy bags of frozen peas on the way home so that their beloved child doesn’t decompose on the ferry. #horrorstory #gruesome

  We could arrange a cremation locally through funeral directors or the hospital but that would mean coming back here again to collect the ashes. #nevergoingback

  Or we could choose a “communal cremation” where our baby would be cremated with others and the ashes scattered in a remembrance garden and all the babies’ names would be read out during the service.

  We chose the latter. It felt right for us that our little person would be remembered with others. Or maybe we just couldn’t face any more admin, or having to make this journey again, before we allowed ourselves to grieve. #babylossawarenessweek @lullybytrust @shine

  13:03 p.m. Finally, all the necessary boxes have been ticked, bloods checked, and forms signed. I am given a pill. I have to swallow it in front of the midwife. I feel like grabbing it and running to the airport but I can’t.

  We have to hang about for thrity minutes and if nothing happens, we can go. Not go home of course, just go and wait. For forty-eight hours.

  While we are waiting we get some food in the hospital canteen. Next to us is a couple holding fertility brochures. Everyone has their struggles. #trustwomen

  14:08 p.m. We check in to the hotel. Thankfully we don’t have to wait for the room to be ready. I realize I’m holding in my stomach again, and I’m sweating in my big coat but I don’t want to take it off in case someone notices. This is bullshit. #RatherBeHome

  14:20 p.m. The hotel looks grand from the outside but it’s actually pretty shit. In fact, it’s so bad it’s actually funny. Himself and I joke about the fake marble. I’m thankful that we can still be ourselves in the midst of this shit. Even for a few minutes.

  14:35 p.m. Our plan, to spend the forty-eight-hour wait cocooned in the hotel, is out the window. It’s too depressing, the “free Wi–Fi” is free for twenty minutes and the TV doesn’t work. We’re starving, but there’s no room service, so we have to go out for food.

  We have to wander about this strange city, pretending everything is normal #RatherBeHome #nowforNI

  17:13 p.m. I could have a drink with dinner. I certainly feel like having a skinful. But it tastes awful because I’m still #pregnant. I can’t finish my pizza because I feel sick if I eat too much. Still pregnant. I’m not expecting a baby though.

  19:58 p.m. We decide to go to the cinema #blackklansman. We haven’t been out together like this since toddler was born. We hate leaving her. The film is excellent @spikelee. Suddenly and for no reason, a wave of despair and rage and grief hits me and I want out.

  I want to run away and hide so I can wail and sob and let all of this rip out of me. But I’m stuck here three hundred miles from my safe place. At least the cinema is dark so I can weep quietly.

  October 20, 2018 [Saturday morning]

  If we were #home this morning I’d be making pancakes and supervising toddler cracking the eggs. Instead I’m in a strange city, getting breakfast. It’s pretty nice tbf. The breakfast I mean. Being tortured by your own country is fucking horrendous. #nowforNI @duponline @BelfastLive

  HELP ME https://nowforni.uk/take-action/

  We were told that our baby had anencephaly at the twelve-week scan. No chance of survival. Himself said the news was like being hit with a sledgehammer. We decided immediately that ending the pregnancy was the least awful choice. #nowforNI

  But @duponline have created fear in the medical profession. They are threatened with murder charges and prison. So, even though our medical team wanted to help us, they couldn’t. Or wouldn’t #tfmr @RCObsGyn @bpas1968

  If you live in Northern Ireland your only “choice” is staying #pregnant and waiting for your baby to die. Dreading feeling kicks. Hiding from the world. Hiding from your own body, to protect yourself from the incomprehensible reality that your child will not survive. Or, become some other country’s problem. At least we don’t have to pay for treatment anymore. Just #travel @Alliance4Choice

  October 20, 2018 [Saturday evening]

  18:45 p.m. We’ve spent the day wandering around killing time. We took an open-top bus tour as if we’re here on purpose.

  Dinner was nice, Peruvian. We’re doing a good job of pretending we’re on a romantic weekend away. Until himself goes to the loo and I’m alone at the table. Suddenly I’m gasping and fighting to keep from sobbing and screaming.

  I stare at a mural on the wall and try to calm down. When toddler was born I used #hypnobirthing. I find myself using the relaxation techniques to get my emotions under control. I should be at home. I shouldn’t have to suffer so publicly. It’s inhumane. #nowforNI

  Toddler had lovely day today with her cousins. Back at Granny’s now. At bedtime she had a screaming meltdown. The novelty of Granny’s has worn off. She wants her Mummy and Daddy. She wants to go home. Same as us really.

  October 21, 2018 [Sunday]

  Today our baby will be born. We have to be at the hospital at 9 a.m. Thankfully we will have a private room off the main gyne ward. Breakfast is a banana and some watery instant porridge we bought yesterday (shitty hotel has no fridge). Bag packed in case I have to stay overnight.

  9:05 a.m. At the hospital now. Waiting. Really upset. I just want to be at home. With familiar faces and accents and skyline out the window.

  The nurse that showed us in said she’d get bedpans for the bathroom. That makes me really sad.

  Granny sent a video of toddler this morning. Her sweet voice says “hello, Mummy, hello Daddy.” Then she picks her nose, shows Granny and says “there’s another snot” and wipes it on her chair. She’s hilarious. I miss her snotty face.

  10:40 a.m. Still waiting.

  11:02 a.m. The doctor has just come in to place a canula, a thing that pokes into your vein and sits there just in case you need fluids (or presumably blood) urgently. He’s not the gentlest and it hurts.

  He says “Ireland really is so green. Must be why you people all like wearing green so much.” WTF? Is that some casual racism or just social awkwardness? Bit of #hibernophobia at the bedside, all part of the service. Lovely.

  11:16 a.m. The nurse comes in to “administer tablets.” This is code for place them up your doot. Vaginal “administration” reduces side effects apparently.

  The Wi–Fi in the hospital is much better than the shitty hotel so we decide to watch a movie on @netflix @MelissaMcCarthy and @IMKristenBell are hilarious. Bet they never thought their movie would help a woman cope with the shittiest day of her life. #thankyou

  12:30 p.m. We don’t have anything for baby. We’ve been too focused on just getting through this awful journey that we didn’t think. Should we have brought a blanket to wrap baby in and then bring home with us? The blanket. We won’t be bringing baby #home

  12:32 p.m. A hat. A hat to shield us from the defect that’s taken our baby away from us.

  12:48 p.m. Feeling a bit crampy now so take paracetamol and a good whack of codeine. Normally I avoid taking painkillers. Especially while #breastfeeding and #pregnant. But toddler is three hundred miles away and baby doesn’t have a brain so won’t be affected by the codeine #brutaltruth

  13:35 p.m. Mucus plug and waters just came out in a big rush of blood and fluid into the green bedpan in the toilet. Feeling light cramps but nothing too bad.

  I’m aware that I know what’s happening. I know what a mucus plug is and what that whooshy feeling of water escaping from a burst balloon is. Only because I’ve birthed a baby before. Not because I was actually told what to expect from this process in any detail.

  14:03 p.m. our baby was born.

  Th
e nurses talked about “passing the pregnancy.” That’s just what it was. It passed. No pain, just gently emerged. This tiny perfect body followed by the placenta and some blood and clots. Gently slid away into a green bed pan.

  When the baby emerged, I looked. Still attached by the cord with tiny arms and legs. I looked away. Himself came in. I didn’t move because I didn’t think he’d want to see and asked him to call the nurses. Then I sat, held his hand as he stood beside me, and waited for the placenta to emerge.

  The nurses came in, all ready for action, but I could feel that the placenta hadn’t come out yet. They saw that we were ok so gave us some privacy till we were ready. Slowly and softly we parted ways.

  The nurses take the bedpan away. They are gone for what seems like forever. Eventually they come back with a tiny blue knitted crib and we get to meet our baby. Our son.

  He is so small. Barely identifiable as a “he.” His skin is translucent, so we can see every vein and vessel. He is red. His fingers and toes are tiny and perfect. His mouth looks like his Daddy’s. He looks almost like he’s smiling. #Childofmine

  I’m fascinated by him. How he is perfect aside from one fatal defect. It is so extreme. His eyes bulge, he has no forehead, his skull stops just above his ears and then there is nothing. We name him. We hold him. We take pictures.

  I go to clean myself up and come back to find himself holding our boy and sobbing. I haven’t seen him cry like this since this nightmare began. I’m not even sure he did cry till just now. He had to be strong to get us through this journey that we shouldn’t have had to make.

  Eventually we feel ready to say goodbye. I rip a piece of my nightdress. I squeeze out some colostrum #liquid-gold, dot it on the cloth, and tuck it into his little crib. My only gift, a part of me to keep him company.

  The bereavement team have left a memory box for us. It has a little certificate to acknowledge his birth. A copy of “guess how much I love you” and a card with our baby’s tiny hand and footprints in ink.

  They tell us that we can go “home” when the bleeding settles and I feel well enough to go. But we aren’t going home are we?