Manoah – born at 18 weeks – lay in a bowl of water, his brother immediately put his hand in the water

Thursday, August 8, 2019: 17 weeks and 2 days pregnant

We had another appointment at the hospital. We saw on the ultrasound that your little heart was still beating, at first slowly, then back to normal. We were relieved that you were still alive, but all the amniotic fluid was now gone. There was still some in your sac, but otherwise, it was all gone. We had to wait again. There was nothing any hospital could do for us or our little boy. When we got home, we were glad you were still alive, but this also meant that we or the doctors might have to decide to end your life. The next appointment was on Monday. The doctor secretly hoped that you would have already been born by then, because then the two to five days would have passed since my waters broke.

Now that we were certain our little one wasn't going to make it

we also told our three-year-old son. We told him that the baby was sick and that it had passed away when it was born. Our son listened, but then he just went back to playing. We asked him to repeat what we had just told him. He could do it and just continued playing. Children can handle these kinds of things so much better than adults!

On Thursday evening, I asked for another ultrasound from our midwife in the village

I was actually hoping for a nice 3D ultrasound. This was because I was extremely scared that the delivery wouldn't go well and I would end up needing a curettage. The midwife told me that hardly ever happened. No, that's true, but your amniotic fluid also hardly ever breaks at 17 weeks. I no longer believed that everything would automatically be alright. My mother accompanied me to the ultrasound. My husband found it too intense to watch. To see our son still alive while we were actually already saying goodbye. On the ultrasound, we saw you move a lot, but we also saw you trying to swallow amniotic fluid. There wasn't any left. It was very intense. The 3D ultrasound wasn't an option either, as it could only be done with enough amniotic fluid. However, I was glad to see you move one last time. Soon I wouldn't be able to see you move anymore…

Monday, August 12, 2019: 17 weeks and 6 days pregnant

We had another appointment at the hospital. The ultrasound showed that all the amniotic fluid was gone. There was also nothing left in your little sac or in your stomach. The chance of survival was previously 1% but now 0%, because the amniotic fluid was simply used up and it wasn't being replenished as much as our little boy needed. We discussed that I would be induced on Thursday. This still took a long time, but I had to take a certain type of medicine to soften my cervix and it had to work for 34 hours. I found it very difficult. Your heart was still beating, so you were still alive, but still, the birth was planned. Deep in our hearts, we had hoped that we wouldn't have had to make this decision and that you would have given up on your own. As parents, you don't want that either, because you are our son and so desired, but it is also so difficult to decide about life and death. In the maternity ward, we discussed what we did and did not want with the birth. We had been able to think about this well and for a long time (in a bowl of water after birth, no examination of our child, but examination of the placenta, making prints of the feet and hands), which was super nice, so you didn't have to make hasty decisions. This was all recorded in the computer, so that when we would come on Thursday we wouldn't have to worry about it.

Tuesday, August 13, 2019: 18 weeks pregnant

After dinner, I showered with our three-year-old son. He became sad during the shower because he got shampoo in his eye. I picked him up (I really never do this) and together we stood under the shower for a while. When I stepped out of the shower and dried off, I felt something between my legs. When I looked, I saw a little foot showing. I panicked completely! I had prepared myself for your birth on Thursday. I thought: 'This isn't going to happen by itself.' Maybe naive, yes, but it really took me by surprise. I called my husband to take our son away and to give me my phone. He had no idea what I was seeing and feeling. He wanted to see too. I didn't want that. I didn't want him to panic as well. I called the midwife with the story. She came right away. I also called my sister-in-law who lived behind us to take care of our other son. My sister-in-law and the midwife arrived at our home at the same time. The midwife called the hospital about what to do. They wanted us to come in because the placenta often doesn't come with a premature birth. My sister-in-law took our son to her house where he was allowed to sleep. He didn't understand anything, so sad, just now mom was there and now she wasn't. I had to get into the midwife's car wearing only a bathrobe. I felt so uncomfortable, also because your little foot was already out and I couldn't sit very easily. The drive to the hospital felt long. It was a maximum of 15 minutes, but it felt super long to me. My husband followed in his own car. Around quarter to eight, we were at the hospital. I had no contractions, but you were going to be born. When we walked onto the ward, we were welcomed by my husband's aunt who worked there as a nurse. She stayed for the delivery. The resident doctor also came to look, this was the same one as last week at the bad news talk. I was so glad to see these familiar faces. We didn't have to tell or explain anything. Everyone was informed. I was allowed to try to push right away. The first part went quickly, but then your head got stuck. The pain also became a bit more intense and the resident doctor asked if I wanted to stop for a moment. For our son, it didn't matter how long it took, as soon as he came into contact with the outside air, he had passed away. I decided to wait. After 10 minutes, the resident doctor asked if I wanted to try again. I said that was okay, the blanket was taken off my legs and within 1 second everyone (nurse, midwife, resident doctor, and my husband) jumped up and looked expectantly at what was to come. I saw this happening and had to laugh because they were all looking at my vagina with such tension. The moment I burst into laughter, our beautiful and perfect son Manoah was born at 8:49 PM. Manoah means: 'rest and peace, God is close to you.' We chose this name especially when we knew he would pass away. We are so proud! We have become parents again! That's exactly how it felt! So much love for this too small man! Our brave little beautiful man! So 'strange' to feel so happy, while you know that your son has passed away. Unfortunately, the placenta did not come on its own, so the gynecologist was called in. 'Coincidentally' it was our gynecologist who was on duty. How glad I was that she was there! We didn't have to explain anything to her either. She entered the room and congratulated us on the birth of our son. Then she offered her condolences for the passing of our son. You might think: 'Congratulations, who says that?' But we appreciated it so much! Because at that moment we had become parents for the second time to a beautiful son, unfortunately too beautiful for this world. After about an hour, I had to go to the operating room to have the placenta removed. I could choose between an epidural (local anesthesia, so you are still awake) or general anesthesia. I chose the latter. I didn't need to be present while they did this. We had already been through enough. This seemed like too much for me. When I woke up, Manoah was lying in a bowl of water (a kind of large fishbowl) and he had a nice skin color. The gynecologist came to tell me that the surgery had gone well, but that I had lost 1.5 liters of blood because the placenta didn't want to come loose and when it did, the bleeding wouldn't stop. She told me I had a 'tampon' in to stop the bleeding. After a while, we called my mother and in-laws. They reacted shocked and sad and offered their condolences. This was such a contrast to what we felt. We felt joy, pride because we were allowed to become parents again. Of course, we were aware that Manoah had passed away, but this did not detract from our feelings. My husband was allowed to stay overnight and we fell asleep as proud parents.

Wednesday, August 14, 2019

The first thing I do today is order the cards. We had already made two proofs last week and now knew exactly what we wanted. We're only printing cards for close family (both families). We have also decided to keep the funeral private. This means my mother, my in-laws, and us. The rest of the families are welcome to come say goodbye to our son on Sunday evening. Every so often, my catheter, my blood pressure, and my pulse are checked (even at night). In the morning, a different doctor comes. He congratulates and offers his condolences. He tells us that he wants to remove the 'tampon'. I thought: "Okay, I've removed a tampon before, so that shouldn't be a problem." He tells me not to be startled if he takes out a lot and is busy for a while. At that moment, I didn't think much of it and just said: "Okay, that's fine." Then he started the removal. Phew, there are no words to describe the pain of this. If you've experienced this, you know what I'm talking about, otherwise you're very lucky not to have experienced it. It hurts so much! It's not a 'tampon' as I had imagined. It was just a lot of gauze and bandage that they had pressed in to stop the bleeding. This then sticks to your uterus and the wound in your uterus. Maybe you can somewhat imagine how this must feel when they remove it. I had to cry very hard, so much pain. There you are, lying in a bed with your legs spread. A doctor at your bed, an assistant, and a nurse. My husband stands by me and comforts me. Fortunately, the doctor asks if she should come back later. After half an hour, the nurse comes back and asks if she can remove my catheter. I think: "Well, I'd rather not, but if this doesn't happen, I can't go home." This removal is nothing compared to the removal of the 'tampon'. After lunch, I'm allowed to sit on the edge of my bed. This goes well. I'm allowed to shower and go to the toilet. If I can urinate, we can go home as soon as possible. Actually, I don't want to shower. I want to go home, be in my own environment with my own grief. But they have a shower chair in the hospital which seems quite handy at this moment. While showering, my husband takes some stuff to the car. The nursing staff takes all the time for me and helps me with everything, so sweet! Then it's time to go. The evening shift comes, and it's also my husband's aunt's turn to work an evening shift. She and we are glad that she could be there at the beginning, but now also at our discharge from the hospital. My husband walks to the car with the bowl, in which Manoah has lain and will lie again at home. On the way, a passerby says to him: "That's a beautiful fishbowl." My husband is taken aback and does not respond.

Once everything is in the car

I may be in a wheelchair and my husband's aunt takes me to the car. Manoah is in a container (think of a sealed plastic container). Completely covered with a towel. This feels so strange. We are so proud, but we 'can't' show him to anyone. You also don't want to scare people off, so it's good that we did it this way, but it feels so conflicting. Once home, we put Manoah in the bowl as quickly as possible, that container was really nothing. We place him on the table. We look at it together with pride. My mother comes to bring our other son home. Our son doesn't want to look, which we find perfectly fine. We leave it at that. He can decide for himself when he is ready. In the evening, my in-laws come over for a visit. Our other son has to go to bed and gives everyone a little kiss. My mother-in-law is sitting at the table, where Manoah is also placed. I quickly throw a cloth over the bowl so that our son is not confronted with something he is not ready for. As I do that, he asks: 'What's under there, mom?' I tell him that Manoah is lying underneath and ask him if he wants to look. Now he says enthusiastically: 'Yes!' We let him look. He immediately puts his hand in the water and touches Manoah. He looks at him closely and gives him a little hand, so super sweet! And so special in a childlike way, nothing scary. 'This is just my brother and I'm touching him.'

Thursday, August 15, 2019

My husband is mainly busy taking care of me and our other son. Even when we have visitors, he is busy arranging drinks and such. There is no time for him to mourn. He must and does carry on. My mother is friends with the maternity nurse who would have been here if everything had gone well. She sends the maternity nurse a message to ask if there is any possibility for maternity care. The maternity nurse tells us that we need to call our health insurance to see if we would be entitled to it. I'm not very hopeful, because everything that you get reimbursed starts from the 24th week of pregnancy, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. My husband calls the insurance company, they are super kind and sympathetic and tell us that if the midwife thinks I need this, we will get it. Huh? What a surprise! We immediately call the midwife who is also very sympathetic and asks us what we think we need (how many hours and how many days). We indicate that 4 hours a day is good, for five days. All of this is agreed upon. How amazing is this! This gives my husband so much more room to mourn and say goodbye to our Manoah, but also to share his story with visitors and to do his own thing instead of being busy with me. A weight is also lifted from my shoulders. I am no longer a 'burden' to him and he gets space. So nice! Today is also the day of the photoshoot. Fortunately, the Still Foundation has been able to find a photographer who is available during this holiday period. She is a super sweet woman who is doing her first shoot here. I have already thought of a number of ways I want to have Manoah photographed. She also has some really great ideas. These photos are so valuable to us! Our little man is captured so beautifully! All by someone who does this for free! So precious! The shoot lasts about an hour. Manoah is out of the water a lot. Afterwards, we notice that Manoah starts to look tired and worse, but it's really worth it!

Friday, August 16, 2019

The maternity nurse is coming. She helps me with showering and does the laundry at the same time. She also changes our bed (something I haven't thought of yet). We have visitors all day long, but we have told everyone to text first if they want to come, so it's not too crowded and we're not filled with visitors all day. Fortunately, this is going well. Everyone who sees Manoah is amazed at how complete and perfect he is. In the evening, we have to change Manoah's water. My mother is here, so I ask her if she can hold Manoah while we change the water. She hesitates at first, but she does it anyway, and she's very happy about it afterward! My husband changes the water and I take a lot of photos.

Sunday, August 18, 2019

Tonight, we have set aside an hour for both families and a few close friends to say goodbye to Manoah. We have informed everyone that Manoah is laid out on the kitchen table, so for those who prefer not to see him, this is good to know. It's an hour filled with many silences, even though there are about 25 of us in the house. It's so special to have such a dignified farewell for our son. We cry together, but also laugh together. Our dear maternity nurse also came over tonight to serve coffee, the sweetheart. The hour feels both long and short at the same time. After an hour, I am completely drained. I've mainly been occupied with the emotions of others, comforting, hugging, and cheering up others.

Monday, August 19, 2019: Final farewell to our beautiful, perfect son Manoah

I get up and take a shower first. It's the last day that Manoah is with us. We have decided to have the funeral with just the parents (unfortunately without my father, he passed away in 2017), with our other son, and with the minister. We need to take Manoah out of the water and wrap him in his little cloth. We all hold him for a moment longer. I quickly take some pictures, while I still can. I hold him while the minister reads something from the Bible. I can only cry. My perfect son whom we now have to let go, it's so unfair. My mother has chosen a beautiful poem that she reads aloud. Together with my husband, I place Manoah in his little basket and we all drive to the cemetery. Someone is already there to receive us. We walk in a small procession to the place where Manoah will be buried. Together with my husband, I lay him down at his final resting place. The weather is cloudy, but as soon as the minister starts speaking, the sun comes out. My mother-in-law has prepared something and shares it at the grave. Then we all sing 'Jesus is the good shepherd'. I can't sing. I see one son in a grave and my other son standing there with his father. There are no words for this. Grief tears me apart. Also, walking away from the grave, leaving him there, in the earth, without his parents, torn apart by sorrow. My other son asks if we can also visit grandpa, who is also buried in this cemetery. That's how children are, back to the order of the day, which is also nice and light. We stop by my father's grave. I ask him to take good care of Manoah up there until we meet again. We all go home, drink coffee, and everyone goes their own way. And we are left behind, empty.

Eight weeks after the passing of Manoah

I realize that I'm not going to get through this alone, not even with my husband. I make an appointment with the general practitioner to get a referral to a psychologist or something similar. When I tell my story to the doctor, he says: 'It's only been eight weeks ago. I think it's normal to feel this way. So give it time to find its place.' I get a bit angry. I tell her that it might have been JUST eight weeks for her, but I've been at home with my own thoughts for eight weeks. After that, the doctor seems to soften and asks me what I want. A psychologist or something suitable. Fortunately, I get a referral to the psychologist. I'm glad I was able to take a step in the right direction. The first two appointments with the psychologist were not what I had expected. They were of no use to me, and I couldn't do anything with them. I told her this at the third appointment. She then chose a different approach that I could work with. Clear 'assignments' that I can use in everyday life. An example of this is, for instance, not avoiding contact anymore. This doesn't happen overnight, but by keeping this in mind, you dare to make more contact with others. But also, that it's not bad to cry in front of others. This was and still is a thing for me. I find it difficult. I don't want that, but sometimes it's also good to show your emotions. On the internet, Facebook, and Instagram, I find people who have also experienced the death of a child. These stories touch me, and I cling to them. I hope to get over it as well. I also come into contact with Hiske Kuilman (she is a regular blogger at Kids en Kurken, read her blog here). She has made her son's loss her work. She offers a mini-masterclass that I would love to attend. I tell my husband about it, and he also wants to come along. I didn't expect this, but it's great!

On that day, we will be sitting with about 15 people in a hall

Fortunately for my husband, there are other men as well. We take turns introducing ourselves and sharing our stories. The different stories touch me, so much suffering. Fortunately, my husband shares the story of Manoah. I cannot. My tears burn in my eyes. I only need to introduce myself with my name and that I am the wife of. We receive theory on how grief works when a child passes away. This is different from an adult, very educational. We have learned a lot this day and are glad that we have been together, so that we both understand what we are talking about. We also still have moments when we think back to what the theory says and what is right for us and not for the other.

ANGELA