Martha Mary Stanley-Duke

Martha Mary Stanley-Duke, first born daughter of Justin and Mary.

Born sleeping at 36+3 days at 8.25am on Sunday 27th May 2007.

Forever in our hearts,
xxx

The Story of Martha Mary Stanley-Duke

(The music playing, Shine by Take That, is what we chose to have at Martha's funeral. It captures the positives from Martha's short life.)

If I'm honest, my pregnancy had always been filled with a bit of uncertainty. Initially, this was the usual first trimester worries, heightened for me because of a previous miscarriage. After several scares of spotting and bleeding, calmed by positive scans, I made it to three months. I was then looking to the five month scan for the 'anomalies' (do hate that word). All was well at the five month scan and the dates more-or-less matched, although the baby was always a few days behind what I felt she should be. I say 'she' as we found out her sex at this point.

When I was seven months pregnant myself and my husband, Justin, went to Cornwall camping. This was the point where I felt I really began to enjoy pregnancy. I felt I was at a point where if the baby was born, she would have a good chance of surviving. However, I still had a niggly feeling as the baby wasn't a great mover, even though I had nothing to compare her movements to. She'd always been a bit sporadic, moving alot for a couple of days, and then really quiet for a couple of days. I always put her quiet days down to her growing. To this day I don't know if that is right, and as I said, I have nothing to compare it with.

My midwife was what I would call 'anxious' and was keen to refer me to the hospital for any slight complaint – perhaps she knew something wasn't quite right and couldn't put her finger on it, who knows. So during pregnancy I had tests for diabetes (as my mother is diabetic), all was fine. I had a growth scan at 32 weeks as the baby always measured small for dates form the outside, but all was fine.

At 36 weeks, on the Tuesday of the dreaded week, I had really bad pubic pain and the midwife sent me to hospital to have it checked. I was hooked up to a monitor, given a thorough check, and all was deemed fine. Little did I know that this would be the last time I would hear my baby's heartbeat.

On the Wednesday evening Justin and I went to see some friends we had met through antenatal classes. I had fish and chips for tea, very enjoyable. We sat watching the football and talking through our impending births. My friend's baby was wriggling a lot and I was aware mine hadn't done her usual after tea kicks. As my baby had been busy in the morning I didn't think too much of it. The literature says to note ten kicks a day, and this she had done. We went home and slept. I woke in the night for the loo, as usual, and when I returned to bed I didn't feel her wriggle around. I was worried, but slept. In the morning I shared my worries with Justin. He listened to my tummy and was sure he could feel and hear movements. I wasn't convinced but thought perhaps I was being a bit neurotic; I had after all been worried most of pregnancy about something or other!

I went to work on the Thursday, my last day in the office before maternity leave. I had a leaving lunch with my colleagues and ate a few chocolate treats. This didn't kick start the baby into action and I knew something was wrong. I shared it with some friends at work and they said all the right things of 'don't worry, the baby is probably getting ready to come out'. But I knew. I went home, found the literature on monitoring the baby's movements and did as it said. Only I didn't monitor for an hour after a sugary drink. I knew. I phoned the hospital, they said come down.

As I drove the hospital Justin phoned, he was working two hours drive away and was phoning to let me know he was leaving and on his way home. I couldn't speak to him I was so choked with tears. Eventually I found the words to convey my worries. He tried to calm me but thought things would be OK, they always had been hadn't they?

Once at the hospital I went to the delivery suite. The midwife put the heartbeat monitor to my belly, just as had been done two days early. The familiar loud sound of the baby's heartbeat didn't pump out. I knew. The midwife said that perhaps the baby was sitting funny and she'd get someone more trained to have a look. The senior midwife then got the doctor as well as the delivery suite's scanner. I looked at the scan and it was still. My heart sank as the realisation begun to set in. The doctor said they couldn't be sure as the scanner was too small to get a good view of the heart but that "there hadn't been movement on the scan and if honest, it didn't look good". I was told to phone someone. I phoned my dad, he wailed down the phone. I phoned Justin, he couldn't believe what I was saying, and he was still over an hour and a half drive away. I phoned a friend, and asked her to come to the hospital. This she did with no questions, despite having a five week old baby herself.

I then found the doctor and said I wanted the next scan to be sure. But I knew. They tried to persuade me to wait so that I had someone familiar with me, but I couldn't, I needed confirmation. In the next scan the doctor showed me the screen, the still heart. She tried to turn the screen away so I didn't have to keep looking but I asked to see, I needed to keep looking, to be sure, to see, to have it confirmed. My heart sank, my head filled with a million questions. I asked these questions and surprisingly still remember the answers. Would I have to give birth normally? Yes, it was better for me long term. How would this happen? I would be induced. Was there a reason for the baby dieing? Couldn't say just now.

I wanted to be alone. The doctor and midwife didn't want to leave me, but I needed space to comprehend the enormity of what my life would now be filled with. I was taken to a room within the delivery suite. I sat, and stared, numb. I cried. Why me? Why now? Where's Justin?

My friend arrived and we hugged. She'd had to bring her baby with her and I held her baby, knowing full well I would never hold my own live baby that was currently sleeping in my tummy. Justin arrived, my friend left. Justin questioned me; are you sure? He didn't want to put me through another scan so he could see but still he questioned, the enormity of it not sinking in.

I was given the option of being induced that night, but I wanted to go home. I needed time; I needed my home to come to terms with what I was going to have to do over the next day. Somehow I slept. I held my tummy, wishing I could feel movements, and I could, but only the movements induced by my body moving from side to side and the baby moving accordingly. My heart broke. I was overwhelmed by the huge attachment I now felt for my baby. All the feelings I had suppressed because of my uncertainty with the pregnancy came over me in a wave.

On Friday morning we headed into hospital. I cried as I left the house. I was broken. Nothing in my life before had been as hard as what I was now going to do. I was scared of giving birth, I was scared of what my baby might look like, I was scared if I could cope.

At the hospital we were shown into the delivery suite and the senior midwife came in to talk us through the events. It was here we learned that this wouldn't be an in-and-out job, that actually getting into labour could take time. Time was what I didn't want. Both Justin and I had assumed we would be home Friday evening, how wrong could we be?! As we sat in the labour room we could hear another lady giving birth next door. She was in the final stages and obviously pushing hard. The inevitable happened and the screams of the baby just tortured me; I knew that I was never going to hear my baby cry. My heart was utterly broken.

We saw the Chaplin and we realised we wanted our own vicar from our local church to be with us. We saw a doctor who barked on about post-mortems and decisions regarding this. Comically he said "I'll give you some space to think this through, I'll be back in ten minutes". Luckily he didn't come back until the following day because I would have bopped him one; ten minutes? The decisions he was asking us to make were heartbreaking and required time and thought. I'd had nine months to prepare for a live baby, I needed more than ten minutes to prepare for my dead baby.

After the first session of Prostin on my cervix we went up to the special room within the hospital, put aside for couples going through the stillbirth experience. It was like a hotel room with en-suite bathroom, double bed, TV and fridge. It was to be our home for the next three days. We were given a booklet from the hospital called 'saying goodbye to your baby', produced by SANDS (who we hadn't ever heard of before). This book became known as the 'crying book', as whenever we read it to each other, we cried. But I am very thankful for that book. It guided us through a traumatic time in a sensitive but practical manner; we did things we might not have done and thought through things properly so that after the event we feel happy that we did all that we wanted to for Martha.

That Friday is a blur. I think I had three more sessions of Prostin, each one significantly more painful than the other. I didn't realise just how painful it was going to be; the drug dried my insides so much that the midwives struggled to find my cervix to apply more of the drug. I had gas and air and sucked on it like there was no tomorrow. I wished there was no tomorrow. Justin held me each time. Without his holding I think I would have lost the plot. In fact I think I did lose the plot several times. I could feel myself getting closer and closer to insanity with the situation I was in and the impending birth. I just wanted out; out of the situation, out of life, it was too much.

Friday night we met another midwife who would later deliver Martha, of course we didn't know this at the time. She was incredibly open and shared all that we were going to encounter. We asked all the questions racing around in our heads that somehow we hadn't had the time to ask before. What would the baby look like? She told us the baby's lips would be dark, that her skin might be peely (from being dead inside for a few days). She talked us through the birth, how I would be positioned, and what drugs I could have (basically everything!). She said we could bath Martha if her skin was up to it, and that she would need a nappy and clothes. Ironically I had taken these out of the hospital bag I had previously packed. Looking back I don't know why, but at the time I knew my baby was dead and so assumed I would not have time with her. Thankfully this wasn't the case. However, I felt rotten that the baby clothes I had put in the bag for our baby weren't with us. Justin and I had also planned to spend the weekend doing the final shop for our baby, specifically choosing the 'going home outfit' together. It broke my heart that we hadn't done this before. The conversation with the midwife was long and tiring, but one that allayed many of my fears and one that prepared me both emotionally and physically for the actual birth experience. I am eternally thankful for the midwife taking the time to talk through the most harrowing event I could possibly imagine.

Saturday arrived and still no sign of labour beginning. Why wouldn't my body respond? Did it not clock the fact my baby was dead and needed to come out? In the morning I was given another dose of Prostin and told my final session would be at 6pm, when the doctor would decide if my waters could be broken in order to bring on labour. For this my cervix needed to be a little bit open. I was told that if my cervix wasn't open enough for my waters to be broken, my body (cervix) would need a rest and no further applications of the drug would be given until Sunday lunchtime – if this happened, birth and my ticket out of this situation would be even further away. So I focused, I willed my cervix open. Justin and I walked; I knew this could bring on labour. But the baby was breech so this made walking a little less effective.

During Saturday afternoon I experienced regular cramps, they weren't anything too major but definitely cramping that took my breath away. I was relieved something was happening. Six o'clock approached, and judgement time with another excruciatingly painful examination. I asked, "what's the news" in my drugged state (I'd again sucked on gas and air). Not good I was told. Apparently my cervix was tightly shut. The doctor and midwife's face shared my anguish; they understood. I turned and buried myself in Justin. I knew that my nightmare was going to continue and there was nothing I could do. I understood that a natural birth was better for me, truly I did (and to be honest a c-section scared me too), but I wanted out. I was tired. I couldn't sleep with this dead weight inside; it was uncomfortable physically and hurt me emotionally. I hated life and all that it was dealing me. And I hated my baby for putting me through this.

Justin and I were left to contemplate another night in hospital. One of the midwives came back to see us. She shared our sorrow. She rubbed my tummy and spoke to the baby and prayed. It was at the point I relaxed and thought, I do want to see my baby, I really do. I acknowledged that this wasn't my baby's 'fault'; it was just the way things were. I realised that yes, my baby was dead, but her spirit was still very much alive. I needed to let go of her physically, love her as I knew I did, and let her out.
I believe this was the ticket to things moving.

Justin decided we had to make the best of the situation, so he was going to go and get some 'fun food' for a Saturday night in front of the telly (hospital food was good for my diet!). In true fashion of our lives, Justin left, and things started! Within the space of fifteen minutes I went from having mild contractions that I could manage to full blown contractions that had me sucking on the gas and air. By 11pm I was in the delivery suite and things were taking shape. The midwife examined me and to my delight I was 4-5 centimetres dilated – the end was in sight! We would get to meet our baby at last and my physical nightmare would end, but and of course the emotional one would only begin.

The birth passed without too many hitches. I had an epidural that worked brilliantly. The midwife we had met on Friday was on the Saturday night shift and she talked me through the whole birth. As Justin snored to my left, the midwife kept me sane with chatter on the right. And time passed, my body did a good job. I was pleased. At eight o'clock on Sunday morning the midwife said it was time to push. I had opted for less epidural towards the end of labour as I knew from reading books that I needed to feel the contractions to push.

Pushing Martha out was excruciating, both physically and emotionally. I could feel her come out; she was so boney, with her feet and bottom first. Just fifteen minutes later and she was with us. Silence. I held her and gazed at her shut eyes. My heart broke, knowing I would never see those eyes open. Slowly a trickle of blood ran from her nose; luckily I had been warned of this. I mopped it with a tissue and cried. Most new mothers mop snot from their baby's noses, I mopped blood. It wasn't fair. Martha had a beautiful face, although her skin on her body was sore and indeed peeling, partly from being dead inside so long and partly from the difficult birthing position. Justin cut her cord and then held her. He sobbed; the true reality hitting home. My heart broke again watching my beloved husband's heart breaking. It shouldn't have been this way. I felt empty.

We headed back to the room we had been in before and it was comforting to be back to our own space. The midwives let us be with out baby. We cried. We cried for Martha, we cried for ourselves but mostly we cried for what should have been.

That Sunday the grandparents, family and the vicar visited. All held Martha and it was good to share this experience. After the visitors we again had time alone with Martha. We had decided to stay in hospital one more night, so we could spend a full 24 hours with our daughter; it seemed wrong to give birth to her and leave her on the same day. During that afternoon we went for a walk together, just myself and Justin. We knew we would have to leave Martha the next day and we needed to prepare ourselves. Leaving her for this short time was invaluable in helping us the following day. It was lovely to return to her and hold her and cherish her that afternoon.

I knew I would wake in the night and want to hold Martha and this happened. At 4am I held her, crying but somewhat comforted with having time to hold her again in the small hours of the morning. I had always felt her every night as I went to the loo, only this time she was still. The pain was virtually unbearable.

The dreaded Monday came. I woke knowing this was the day I would leave hospital empty handed and alone; so alone that no-one expect those mothers that have had this torment will understand. My heart ached. We dressed and held Martha one last time. I stared out of the window, it was raining and somehow this was very fit for how I felt. Walking out that door was so very hard, to the extent I walked out and had to go back before I could walk out for good. Thank heaven for Justin who just held me. His support throughout this ordeal had been second to none and for this I loved him with all my heart.

Arriving home we were greeted with a sea of flowers from well wishing friends and family. Our neighbours had looked after our pet rabbit and at the same time had sorted our post and arranged the flowers. They, along with family and friends, had supported us through the weekend's ordeal. Justin and I sat in the dinning room, numb from the experience. What now?

Justin and I had a week at home together. I was a physical mess form the birth, so tired and sore. Two days after giving birth my milk came in, the ultimate crime. I hated my body, truly hated it for putting me through this. Surely my body could have done something to save Martha? Done something to realise that my baby was indeed dead and didn't need feeding. After a few days I also learnt to accept my milk was 'just one of those things', as I have had to accept for so many things from this experience. After a week at home Justin decided to go back to work. I was dreading this moment and it was indeed as bad as I expected. I knew Justin needed the distraction of work but I really needed him at home, just to hold me. No-one else could offer the comfort he could give by just being there. After four days at work and getting increasingly stressed with trying to balance work and supporting me, Justin gave up on work until after the funeral. Justin then cried and I think perhaps realised that he couldn't do everything.

Planning the funeral became a focus and we spent time talking through every aspect, aware that it was the only occasion we would ever organise for our first born daughter. We toyed with having a small affair with just family but wanted to include our friends that had also been such a support. However, we didn't want people to feel they had to attend, so we opted for an 'open house'. We invited everyone but made it clear that whilst it would be lovely to see them, we didn't expect it. We were bowled over that over 60 people attend the church and crematorium, with people travelling miles to be with us and for that we are forever thankful. The day was beautiful, the sun shinned, we cried and we laughed. Oh what a journey in just three weeks.

Seven weeks later we had the results of the post-mortem. They were inconclusive. It was good to talk through my thoughts, concerns, worries and future with the consultant.

In all, I was given brilliant, thoughtful care from the hospital. My husband turned out to be my biggest rock and we are closer than ever. Family and particularly friends have been amazing. It is hard to know how to help someone going through such a traumatic situation. Should we ring? Should we mention Martha? Should we give them space? There is no 'golden rule'; what was right for us might be wrong for someone else. We found it helpful that people phoned but understood if we didn't answer. I liked people asking questions, trying to understand. I also like hearing about others lives; I needed to know life went on (although I certainly wasn't a good listener as I never seemed to retain what I was told!). It was irritating to be asked "what can I do to help", I didn't know, yet if offered something I was able to decide if it was helpful or not. The friends that said "I'm here if you need me" haven't heard from me. I have relied on the ones that keep phoning, keep asking and offering as that has been more helpful. Just about every person I have ever known (and parents/friends of friends) have sent cards; literally hundreds! It felt like we were being 'held' and supported which was lovely, and greatly needed. I have kept all the cards in a special box and they will forever be a reminder of how Martha touched so many people.

Who knows what the future holds. I still want children but have yet to decide if I am strong enough to embark on that road again.

It has been very therapeutic to write this story, and indeed return to it. I read endless other accounts, each slightly different, and they helped me either anticipate the future or help comprehend the past and present. Perhaps this may help others in the future.

2011 Time moves on and the enormity of what happened with Martha has truely hit home. I've gone on to have two more girls. Lucille was born at home (planned!) one year and a day after Martha (28th May 2008). An amazing and healing experience. Then on the 8th April 2010 Eloise joined our family of girls (induced in hospital as I was 12 days over due). Pregnancy was never easy and both births were stressful but quite straight forward. I do hope that anyone reading this following the loss of a baby is given strength that you CAN go on and have a family. Martha will always be in my heart but every day I am thankful for my two beautiful, giggling girls hear to brighten the day. xx

To help me

Please don t ask me if im over it yet
I ll never be over it
PLEASE don t tell me she is in a better place
She isn t here with me
PLEASE don t say , at least she isn t suffering
I don t understand why she had to suffer at all
PLEASE don t tell me you know how i feel
Unless you have lost a child
PLEASE don t ask me if i feel better
Bereavement isn t a condition that clears up
PLEASE don t tell me, at least you had her for a little while
When would you choose for your child to die
PLEASE dont tell me that god never gives us more than we can bear
PLEASE just say that you are sorry
PLEASE just say you remember my child if you do
PLEASE just let me talk about my child
PLEASE mention my childs name
PLEASE just let me cry



A child who loses its parent is called an orphan
A man who looses his wife is called a widower
A woman who looses her husband is called a widow
However, there is no name for a parent who looses a child
There is no word to describe such pain