Tomorrow is a month without our baby boy

Grief is tiring. It will be a month tomorrow that I gave birth to our baby boy who never drew breath outside my body. I cherish the months I carried him, I'm comforted by the peaceful labour I had while he still moved within me, and I know I'm blessed to have our other children.

But I grieve the loss of this child, this boy we all looked forward to welcoming into the world. My consolation is that the day before he was born, a month ago today, my husband took control of the boys and I spent the afternoon with our daughter. We lazed in the spare bedroom, cuddling in the double bed, rubbing my belly and talking to our baby. She rubbed lotion on my tummy and we giggled as we watched the baby's movements. We slept. It was peaceful and happy. I knew my labour was starting and I daydreamed about the birth to come and bringing this new son into the fold. For the first time ever we knew the gender of the child in my womb.

We had intended to name him Timothy for my father and had called him the Timbit for months, but just in case that ultrasound was wrong and baby was a girl we didn't tell my father. When baby died we named him for saints instead because my father has lost two wives and suffered such grief already. We named our angel with three strong names as we know he'd have been a triple threat to his big brothers. He had such lovely big hands, long fingers, and big feet. He was 54 centimetres long. I'd been so sick that he was my lightest baby at 3.54 kg, but I know with my milk supply he'd have quickly caught up.

But George Patrick Andrew, for some unknown reason, died within me hours into my labour. My contractions were still 20 minutes apart and I was 8 cm dilated when the midwife came. The shock of her words still makes me blanche and feel cold all over: "Karen, I can't get a heartbeat."

A stillbirth. A stillborn baby. The hardest work of my entire life was pushing out my lifeless babe. I hoped and prayed they were wrong and he would cry lustily like his siblings, but he was silent.

I am overwhelmed with the kindness of family, friends, and neighbours. The people at our parish rallied around us, wrapping us in love and prayerful support.

I find myself wondering all the what ifs endlessly. What if I'd brought on the labour early? What if I'd called the midwife when labour first started, the earliest of labour, that Sunday? Would she have detected his heartbeat dropping? How could I not know that my baby's life was ebbing away inside of me? How did I not see this coming and could I have done something to change the outcome?

But all this wondering and speculation doesn't change our reality. Nothing can bring him back. I know I'll never get over this death, but we will get through it. We're determined to get through and help our children grieve. It's hard to watch the grief hit them as it does us. Unexpectedly their faces cloud and tears well. And then the questions come. Questions that rip at my heart and I pray I have the grace and wisdom to answer well.

George was beautiful. And we all miss him so very, very much. It hurts to breathe.