"The silence is deafening." The unspoken pain of stillbirth.

This story deals with the loss of a child and may be triggering to some readers.

Nine months into my first pregnancy, the excitement to welcome my first-born daughter into the world was at an all-time high. 

A pregnancy that was very wanted and planned, a pregnancy that was low risk. My unborn child, Sage, was surrounded by all the warmth and love I could give her in my womb, and I was ready to give her everything I could earth-side.

I will never forget the moment my world shattered. The day I went to the hospital because it was the only day I did not feel her move. I expected to be told I would have to birth her earlier, but never in a million years would I have ever thought I would have to birth her lifeless body into the world.

Cathy pregnant with Sage. Image: Supplied.

To be told, "I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat" and then forced to endure labour pains and birth as if she was alive. Because Sage still needed to be birthed.

How can nature be so cruel? To allow me to birth death? To allow me to go through nearly 30 hours of labour and end with a perineum tear and my lifeless daughter.

To allow me to go through all postpartum changes as any mother would, but without my baby. I had to take pills to stop my milk supply from coming through, and navigate all the changes that occur hormonally, emotionally, and physically as any mother would, but with the addition of grief, loss, and the homelessness of emotions that come with losing my first-born child after nine months of pregnancy.

How do I face the world as a childless mother? How do I survive the first 12 months and beyond when my world had stopped and shattered from the moment I was told her heartbeat stopped, but somehow everything and everyone around me has continued to move with time?

I have no living children at home to hug tighter. No one to direct all my love towards after birth. 

I came home to an empty house, and the silence is deafening. The nursery room left untouched, reflecting a world that can now only be visited in my dreams with the memories of Sage living. I was bleeding for five weeks after birth, learning to move with a postpartum body, and waking up through the night every night crying realising this was all my reality.

Cathy, Jacob, and baby Sage, born sleeping. Image: Supplied.

So much that I have to grieve every day in addition to the loss of Sage. A pregnancy, birth, and labour without the fear of loss. The first Christmas, New Year, Mother’s Day, and any festive or memorable day. The first cry, movements, smiles, crawls, walks, hugs, eye-gaze, first day of school, and all the firsts that come with a first-born. My first motherhood journey, my identity, my body, the innocence of pregnancy, and my life overall.

I write all of this as a brief description of what this new world is to me. 

Where a part of me is stuck in the life where Sage is, and a part of me is forced to survive the reality of life after loss. I’m constantly battling both worlds every day and trying to survive as I lose Sage every single day over and over again in this world.

Besides trying to stay afloat, I also have to endure the ruthless and unnecessary comments and judgements from other people. Other people who are fortunate to have never, or will never have to experience what I have. I had my lifestyle questioned after losing Sage, and to this day, I am still shamed for simply grieving.

I understand that not everyone will understand the depths of this pain, and I understand that most people have every good intention to help, but the comments dismiss how a bereaved parent feels. It dismisses the life of the baby we lost; it dismisses our emotions that we already struggle to navigate because our love has nowhere to go, and not to mention the blame, shame, and judgement.

I really appreciated those who left me messages to acknowledge my motherhood and the hurt that I carry with me always. I appreciated the messages that ended with "no pressure to reply" because I may not always have the mental time to reply. 

I appreciated the food deliveries that were organised for me. I appreciated those who have the ability to sit with me in my sadness rather than change the subject, project blame, shame and judgement, or even try to "fix" how I feel even though I can never fill the void and pain without Sage.

It has been just over 11 months now and it is still as lonely, isolating, and confusing as it was from the beginning.

Cathy, pregnant with Sage, with husband Jacob. Image: Supplied.

Life after loss, particularly a late-term stillbirth of my first pregnancy, is simply surviving each day with no end to the void and emptiness. 

It is being welcomed into motherhood but always shadowed by loss and grief from the moment Sage’s death was confirmed. 

It is putting on a persona to the world because not everyone is comfortable to sit with that sadness and grief, whilst having another persona at home and around those who care and are able to sit with that sadness. 

It is constantly living two lives, torn between two different worlds, and my heart forever being in two places.

October is International Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Month. 

Red Nose provides vital bereavement support for anyone affected by the death of a baby or child. 

Red Nose hosts a number of Walk to Remember events around Australia (including online ones) where families who have lost a baby come together to walk the steps their precious babies never had the chance to take. This includes families who have lost babies to miscarriage, stillbirth and infant death.

The Red Nose bereavement support line is available 24/7 on 1300 308 307.

Feature Image: Supplied.