Yolandé
Mom to Ivy Kathryn
June 1, 2017
South Africa
I had visited my cousin’s for the weekend. I came back on the Monday. The Tuesday I noticed she wasn’t moving and told my midwife that I hadn’t felt her or rather can’t remember when last I felt her. I had started before then to do a kicking chart and did it that night also, as my midwife instructed. I did everything. Drank juice, lied down on my left side. I rested. I moved, tried to feel her, talked to her. Deep down I knew something was wrong. I made an appointment with my general practitioner who I’ve come to trust although I planned on doing water birth with a midwife.
My partner did not go in with me. I later saw messages on his phone that he told his mother that he was so stressed for the doctor’s appointment but that he chose to not go in with me and should it not be good news, he wouldn’t know how to deal with it. It’s these little details one never forgets. The image of her in my womb, dead. Lifeless, my body had failed me. How she felt when she died. Did she feel? These thoughts haunt me, daily.
During my pregnancy, I was fairly stressed. The worry of another child, how we must prepare, how we must prepare our 16-month-old baby boy for his sister got to me and my relationship. Still, my partner stayed. I try to believe and accept that it wasn’t her time and that it is not my fault. Heaven needs her more.
I went into the doctor’s room. I started the consultation by asking the doctor for something for depression or something to calm my nerves and broke down, as I have always felt ashamed to ask for help, emotionally. As if this makes me a weaker person. He said [it was] no problem and then I mentioned that why I was actually there was because I couldn’t remember when I last felt her moving. It did not quite register that there was no heartbeat and that he was looking at my placenta and that there was a tear right there. I was waiting for him to tell me everything is fine, just take it easy and go home, start your anti-depressants. Ivy is fine.