Gemma's Story
I am mama of two kiddies, my son, Brooks and daughter, Vivienne. Before I fell pregnant with my son, I conceived a little boy who had severe genetic deformities. My husband and I were living in Los Angeles at the time and we went in for routine genetic testing. On the way to the appointment, we had an argument about something trivial, but I remember it vividly because the cloud of frustration I carried onto the ultrasound bed swiftly evaporated as I was catapulted into the stark reality that there was something terribly wrong with my baby.
The ultrasound technician took a long time taking measurements and eventually went to fetch the head doctor. I was blissfully unaware that I should be fearful, as we had just seen a tiny little foot kicking up in the greys and whites of the ultrasound monitor and heard the baby’s heartbeat. The doctor appeared and used three different probes on me. Finally, he spoke. ‘It looks like there may be some problems. Do you have a history of genetic abnormalities in either of your families?’.
I felt the breath lodge in my throat. My baby. What is wrong with my baby? The Dr. examines the monitor. The internal probe doesn’t hurt but feels cold and makes me catch my breath. Noah and I clutch onto each other’s hands so tightly my thumb is numb.
The Doctor struggles to look me in the eye.‘ There are some problems.’ He looks back at the monitor. ‘The baby’s liver and bowel are outside the body. It’s heart is exposed and it’s head is too small.’
We are sent to obstetrics in the next building. My options are to do nothing and wait for the baby’s heartbeat to inevitably stop, and deliver a still born in a few months time, or to have a Dilation and Curettage, an abortion, as soon as possible. They do not know what is wrong with my baby, just that this condition is fatal.
Five days. Five days until I can have the procedure. I am left alone with the swirling thoughts in my mind, unable to sleep, knowing I was making the choice to end my baby’s life.
9am. I am administered two pills of misoprostol. One to dissolve in each cheek. This is a drug to soften the cervix, I am told. The nurse tells me I likely won’t feel anything.
9:45am. It starts as mild cramps, but I know after a swift ten minutes that I do not feel good. I can taste reminisce of the dissolving pills in my mouth and I am suddenly desperate to go to the bathroom. I exit our room and the nurse catches a glance at me in passing. ‘Wow. Are you feeling ok? You’re looking very pale.’ I realised in addition to the strengthening cramps that were making me quite nauseas now, I’ve begun shaking too.
I collapsed on the surgery floor, vomiting, and a doctor stands over me ‘Well, this isn’t normal…’
They go ahead with the procedure right away due to my adverse reaction to the medication. I feel the sharp pinch of the lidocaine injection straight into my cervix and see the equipment they are about to use on me.
I hear the whizz of the machine as tears run down the sides of my face and pool in my ears, and the sucking sound of the vaccum as they sweep my baby from my womb.
Months go by and all I want is to be pregnant again. Each time I get my period I contort into a trembling puddle on the bathroom floor. Each time feels like another death. My husband doesn’t know how to help me. I count days in my cycle, tracking ovulation, and stick my legs up on the wall like a yoga master after we have sex.
My struggle was silent. It was an emptiness that had no bottom. No end. And no one knew… it’s not exactly dinner party conversation after all. But I knew. The second I fell pregnant with my little boy I became a Mum. I knew I was forever changed but I could not show my new identity. Every time I saw a pregnant woman, the hollow inside me expanded a little more. I was a Mum. I just didn’t have my baby.
Finally, I did fall pregnant again. But, I did not hear the concerto of a heavenly choir or feel a warm beam of light shine down on me from the skies above. And in this moment, I realized, being pregnant again was not going to be the remedy I had dreamed of, and I would not get to feel the naive, joyous euphoria I had felt the first time I peed on a stick and got a positive.
Instead, I was sucker punched off my feet with a cascade of anxiety, where every day had me trembling and unable to sleep. Morning sickness kicked in big time, again… so, despite people telling me this was a good sign, I knew in my heart that it didn’t mean anything as I had experienced terrible morning sickness the first time round. The first ultrasound at 6 weeks.
Thank God… there it was. A heartbeat. But again, I knew… this too did not guarantee a healthy foetus. The simple act of lying on the hospital bed, underwear discarded, legs spread, probe cold and searching my insides, brought back instant and irrational panic… like my body was remembering being at the mercy of grey and white blobs on the ultrasound monitor.
The second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth ultrasounds all ended the same way – with me in the toilet stall, uncontrollably weeping, my husband outside, yelling in, to make sure I was okay. My body refused to let go… each time I took my position on the hospital bed, the panic set in.
I announced publicly that I was having a baby around six months, when it was simply too hard to hide my changing body. But still, I was anxious. We passed all the non-invasive prenatal screening testing with flying colours, and still I was anxious. I couldn’t shake it. I didn’t shake it. Not until I was well and truly into my third trimester and felt more certain that the baby could survive if anything bad was to happen.
When Brooks was 4.5 years old, I welcomed baby Vivienne into the world. But before she came, I experienced a further two ‘missed miscarriages’, for which I had to have procedures. These two little babies were both male and both carried genetic abnormalities. I was back in Melbourne and happy to say, I was under full general anaesthetic for both and had a much, much more positive experience.
As each of these pregnancies failed, I questioned why? What is the lesson I’m meant to be learning here? Havn’t I already gone through this? What more do I have to learn? And I’m still not sure, FYI, so will keep you posted on the answers.
Vivienne was our final attempt. My body was fatigued and I only had one more go around left in me. And she was absolutely meant to be… my husband and I were on the brink of breaking up and it was around this time she announced herself as a positive line on the pregnancy test. The breakup is another story, but my Vivienne is fierce, determined, cheeky and oh so full of joy, and I couldn’t be happier she made the choice to have me as her mother.
This experience marks the beginning of Gemma’s understanding of the heartache that can ride alongside mother on the journey to and through motherhood.
With both professional knowledge and skills and lived experience of perinatal trauma, Gemma’s aspiration is to provide a safe space for women to voice the stories that weigh on their hearts, while promoting individual healing, engaging community and eliminating isolation.