It may seem insignificant to you, but I am grieving the loss of a Magnolia tree. My mother planted this Magnolia in memory of her stillborn son, who was born at 37 weeks gestation. She planted that tree in her little rock garden, so she had good a view from her kitchen window. And some times as she stood and did the dishes and looked out the window, she would be crying as she looked at that Magnolia.
My mother was a Type 1 diabetic from childhood until her death from Breast Cancer. She had many complications during her pregnancies because of it, but never let it deter her from acheiving her goal of being a mother. I was her first born and that pregnancy was pretty much complication free. She fell pregnant a year later and unfortunately didn't have the same smooth sailing. She was admitted to the RWH during her third trimester as her diabetes became harder to manage. She had hypos often, and her BSL readings were all over the place, so they decided to admit her until she'd had her baby.
At 37 weeks, they decided to do an amnio to check the baby's lung maturity. I'm supposing nowadays, they wouldn't have even bothered with that, but back then, amnio was a new technology. They didn't have ultrasounds to guide them though, instead relying on dopplers and feeling the baby's position by hand. This probably wouldn't have been a problem if it was an experienced obstetrician doing it. Unfortunately, they gave my mother a student doctor.
The first needle went in and my mother felt her baby jump up in to her rib cage. She told the doctor, but he told her not to be silly. He took the needle out and it was filled with a bloody fluid. He tried again and once more, my mother felt her unborn move abruptly. The second needle was just as fruitless. The third try, the doctor hit paydirt and sent the fluid off for testing. Pathology would later reveal that it was my mother's urine he had sent away.
Hours after my mother felt how her unborn child distressed. She told the doctors and nurses, but no one listened to her. Then after a few more hours, she felt how the child within her womb grew still. And moved no more. Then they listened. And then they confirmed her fears.
She was induced by herself and birthed her son by herself. He was quickly whisked away without having been held by his mother. She never got to see him, hold him or love on him. She was unconsolable.
Twenty five years later we obtained the autopsy report. My brother had been stabbed in the head, the lungs, the umbilical cord and the abdomen. He had most likely suffered horrendously as he slowly bled to death.
He was buried in a mass grave in Springvale. I have yet to locate it. But one day I will. For my mother.
A year after his birth, my father gave her a magnolia tree to put in the garden. She tended to it and it thrived in that rock garden. She would water it every evening. She could see it from her kitchen window. It was the only truly beautiful thing to come out of a shitty brick home in a shitty little outer eastern suburb. A thing of substance where everything else was lacking.
And now it is gone. Just like my stillborn brother. Just like my mother.
My mother was a Type 1 diabetic from childhood until her death from Breast Cancer. She had many complications during her pregnancies because of it, but never let it deter her from acheiving her goal of being a mother. I was her first born and that pregnancy was pretty much complication free. She fell pregnant a year later and unfortunately didn't have the same smooth sailing. She was admitted to the RWH during her third trimester as her diabetes became harder to manage. She had hypos often, and her BSL readings were all over the place, so they decided to admit her until she'd had her baby.
At 37 weeks, they decided to do an amnio to check the baby's lung maturity. I'm supposing nowadays, they wouldn't have even bothered with that, but back then, amnio was a new technology. They didn't have ultrasounds to guide them though, instead relying on dopplers and feeling the baby's position by hand. This probably wouldn't have been a problem if it was an experienced obstetrician doing it. Unfortunately, they gave my mother a student doctor.
The first needle went in and my mother felt her baby jump up in to her rib cage. She told the doctor, but he told her not to be silly. He took the needle out and it was filled with a bloody fluid. He tried again and once more, my mother felt her unborn move abruptly. The second needle was just as fruitless. The third try, the doctor hit paydirt and sent the fluid off for testing. Pathology would later reveal that it was my mother's urine he had sent away.
Hours after my mother felt how her unborn child distressed. She told the doctors and nurses, but no one listened to her. Then after a few more hours, she felt how the child within her womb grew still. And moved no more. Then they listened. And then they confirmed her fears.
She was induced by herself and birthed her son by herself. He was quickly whisked away without having been held by his mother. She never got to see him, hold him or love on him. She was unconsolable.
Twenty five years later we obtained the autopsy report. My brother had been stabbed in the head, the lungs, the umbilical cord and the abdomen. He had most likely suffered horrendously as he slowly bled to death.
He was buried in a mass grave in Springvale. I have yet to locate it. But one day I will. For my mother.
A year after his birth, my father gave her a magnolia tree to put in the garden. She tended to it and it thrived in that rock garden. She would water it every evening. She could see it from her kitchen window. It was the only truly beautiful thing to come out of a shitty brick home in a shitty little outer eastern suburb. A thing of substance where everything else was lacking.
And now it is gone. Just like my stillborn brother. Just like my mother.
what a sad story :( I can't believe they never even let her see her child :(
ReplyDelete