From an e-mail to the Natural Death Centre.
When I first read the Natural Death Handbook, it clarified and crystallised much of my thinking about death. I found the book informative, fascinating and often moving. It caused me to reflect on and prepare for my own death. But it wasn't until I experienced the loss of two babies that I realised that the book concentrates heavily on the death of adults. Given that between 20 and 25 per cent of pregnancies end in miscarriage and a further 1 per cent in stillbirth or neonatal death, I felt that the book could place more emphasis on this particularly distressing and sometimes lonely experience.
My babies died in the womb during pregnancy - one at around 20 weeks gestation (John) and another, less than a year later, at 14 weeks (Alex). Both were, medically speaking, miscarriages rather then stillbirths.
24 weeks gestation is the point at which the dead baby is referred to as stillborn rather than miscarried. At this point he or she is legally recognised as a baby, unless at an earlier gestation there are signs of life outside the womb. In addition, from 24 weeks, a birth and death certificate must be issued and the baby must be buried or cremated.
Earlier than this, the baby born dead has no legal status as a human being and it is almost as if he or she never existed. This, and the fact that there are sometimes no identifiable remains, make the grieving process all the more difficult. The experience of miscarriage is often more distressing because others, including those in the medical profession, do not always regard it as particularly significant emotionally. It is as if there was no 'real' baby with no 'real' parents.
At one point whilst I was in hospital for example, a midwife asked me about "the foetus" and I had to tell her that he was my baby and not a foetus. I felt like having a T-shirt printed saying "I had a baby, not a miscarriage"! To me they were precious little beings - tiny, but fully formed and very beautiful.
In the case of Alex, who died in the womb at 14 weeks, the usual procedure would have been to have had an ERPC (Evacuation of the Retained Products of Conception) on a gynaecological ward. There would have been no identifiable body and disposal would have been in the hospital incinerator, possibly along with other hospital waste.
To me this was barbaric. I gave birth to my tiny babies naturally, held them, photographed them, and in Alex's case, took him home for a few days. My other children, both under seven-years-old at the time, saw and held their little brothers and were filled with wonderment and awe at their beauty and perfection. Before they were born I had been haunted by what they might look like and whether they would be deformed or damaged in some way. I need not have worried, but whatever they had looked like, they were mine and I would have loved them regardless.
I was also adamant that I didn't want other people touching them and we conducted the funerals ourselves, with the help of the hospital chaplain. Whilst we hold no religious beliefs, I needed a ceremony to say goodbye to them properly. The chaplain was a very a special man - kind and warm hearted, with an ability to make an instant emotional connection with people. At no time did he attempt, even subtly, to find out what our religious beliefs were and for this I am grateful.
My husband found solace in making the coffins. It was something he could do at a time when so much was beyond his control. He chose pine and made a simple little box just big enough for them. The boxes were pinned and glued and the lid was inset so that it sat flush. Two brass screws were put into either end of the lid to hold it firm. They were sanded and varnished, with a brass plaque showing the baby's name and date of birth/death - how strange, sad and profound to have death before a birth. Inside we lined the coffin with a quilted fabric. There we lay the babies, wrapped in a little shawl. We each chose a little gift to bury them with - a butterfly brooch, a carved wooden heart, little toys ...
They are buried next to each other in a rose garden especially for babies within one of the city cemeteries. The chaplain said some words and my husband and I also read some poetry. We threw flowers into the grave. We said our goodbyes and we have sad but lovely memories.
We treated their births and deaths with the dignity and respect which I feel should be afforded to any human being, regardless of their age. To me a baby of any gestational age is a baby, and not simply a foetus. Regardless of whether that baby could survive outside the womb, he or she was a living being, and as such deserving of the utmost respect after death.
Since my babies died, I have joined the Humanist Society of Scotland, and am now training to be an Officiant at non-religious funerals. I have observed and taken part in ceremonies for babies and would be happy to help anyone else who would like a non-religious ceremony.
Mary Wallace (tel 01786 842239; email: mary@wallace.prestel.co.uk).
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