It's Sept. 17, 2007, the day my daughter would have turned six months old. I sit in the bedroom that she was supposed to share with her older sister and imagine what the room should look like. There should be a second crib along that wall, another dresser over by the door and double the laundry in the hamper.
I stare at the precious photos taken after my baby's stillbirth and my mind drifts back to a much happier time. I'm answering the phone on that beautiful July 2006 morning. I hear my doctor's secretary tell me that Im pregnant. I remember feeling a mix of joy and disbelief that it had been so easy.
This was to be my third child. My first came back in 1993, when I was barely out of my teens. My son and I moved from Peterborough, Ont., to Hamilton, where I met my husband. We were married in 1999, and after many years of trying to conceive again, Emily was born in March 2005. When Emily turned one, we decided that we would welcome another baby, but only if it happened naturally. I knew I couldn't go through the fertility treatments again – the constant charting of ovulation, the fertility pills and the pain of watching other women get pregnant while we failed would all be too much to bear.
When that phone call came within just a few months, we couldn't believe our luck.
A trip to the hospital
My pregnancy progressed well. The morning sickness had subsided by five months, and I gained weight at a healthy pace. The only real issue was that the baby was in a footling breach position (both feet first) and was showing no signs of turning around. My obstetrician explained that it was too dangerous to deliver a baby in this position and scheduled a caesarean section for March 21.
A few days before that date, I was baking a cake for Emily's second birthday party when I began having strange pains. They weren't like labour pains; they were sharp and dull sensations that came and went. I brushed them off, telling myself that the baby was just in an awkward position. But the pain got worse and more frequent. Something was wrong.
We decided to go to the hospital. There, a smiling nurse hooked me up to the fetal heart monitor. She commented that she had felt the baby move and asked if I had, too. I nodded, hoping that this lie would erase my fears.
Throughout my last trimester, my baby's little head would push up against my ribs. I would gently rub it to try to get her to move so I'd be in a more comfortable position. My heart skipped a beat as I realized I hadn't had to do that since the previous evening.
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