Charlotte Marmite Bookless was born
on 28th February 1993. She died at birth.
Charlotte, our precious, longed-for daughter,
our gift from God.
Wednesday, 28 February 2007
Charlotte's Birthday, 28th February 2007
I came to you today with daffodils and snowdrops,
Bulbs I’d dug into Southall allotment soil
Back in Autumn
When Winter was drawing in, and the days were
Short.
Fourteen long years ago we dug the soil and
Laid you six feet down beneath the ground
Where I now stand.
Fourteen long years you have been hidden
From our sight, Oh how I wish you could
Spring
Into Life
Like these bulbs which long lay dormant.
And yet... I know
that all that was truly you
is not lost.
You are more alive now than
you
ever
were.
But these human mother's hands
Still long to caress your face,
See your tiny hand resting in mine.
These mother's arms still long to
Cradle
You
In my arms,
Feel the weight of your tiny body,
Kiss your cheek, and let my tears
Wash away the pain of your brokenness.
If only tears would come…
I sit a distance away from where you lie,
Do not know how to approach you,
Do not know how to be with you.
Where is the intimacy we once shared?
That togetherness which felt so natural,
The bond that wrapped up you in me and me in you,
Held.
I have the memories locked in my heart,
You waving at us from the scanner screen,
The fluttering of you within my rounded tummy,
The searing pain as you were born.
I have the tears too, locked in my heart, and the
Cuddles I never gave you
Pile up
Ungiven.
Arms forever empty, a
Charlotte-shaped space
No other child can fill.
Here alone I lie upon your grave,
The sleeting rain stings my face,
The wet cold earth beneath my coat
Chills me to my bones.
It is bleak here.
Grief is bleak.
And yet…
Looking up now, the sun comes out
From behind the clouds,
Vibrant joyful colours of my flowers
Dance in the wind upon your grave.
Time does bring healing,
God does bring healing.
I look to the skies and give thanks
To God
For a life lived.
You were a precious gift for the months we shared,
And on Saturday, we shall come,
Your Dad and I,
And with us your sisters,
Who will laugh and play at your graveside.
We will eat birthday cake, talk of you,
Wonder what you would have been like now,
And ponder which of us will one day
Have the privilege of meeting you first
In heaven.
Four children will write cards, draw pictures
For the big sister they never knew,
Look at your photos, exclaim
‘So cute!’, ‘So beautiful!’, ‘Look at her little nose’,
‘See those tiny feet’.
And we will wonder at this precious child who
Touches our lives
Now and always..
Bulbs I’d dug into Southall allotment soil
Back in Autumn
When Winter was drawing in, and the days were
Short.
Fourteen long years ago we dug the soil and
Laid you six feet down beneath the ground
Where I now stand.
Fourteen long years you have been hidden
From our sight, Oh how I wish you could
Spring
Into Life
Like these bulbs which long lay dormant.
And yet... I know
that all that was truly you
is not lost.
You are more alive now than
you
ever
were.
But these human mother's hands
Still long to caress your face,
See your tiny hand resting in mine.
These mother's arms still long to
Cradle
You
In my arms,
Feel the weight of your tiny body,
Kiss your cheek, and let my tears
Wash away the pain of your brokenness.
If only tears would come…
I sit a distance away from where you lie,
Do not know how to approach you,
Do not know how to be with you.
Where is the intimacy we once shared?
That togetherness which felt so natural,
The bond that wrapped up you in me and me in you,
Held.
I have the memories locked in my heart,
You waving at us from the scanner screen,
The fluttering of you within my rounded tummy,
The searing pain as you were born.
I have the tears too, locked in my heart, and the
Cuddles I never gave you
Pile up
Ungiven.
Arms forever empty, a
Charlotte-shaped space
No other child can fill.
Here alone I lie upon your grave,
The sleeting rain stings my face,
The wet cold earth beneath my coat
Chills me to my bones.
It is bleak here.
Grief is bleak.
And yet…
Looking up now, the sun comes out
From behind the clouds,
Vibrant joyful colours of my flowers
Dance in the wind upon your grave.
Time does bring healing,
God does bring healing.
I look to the skies and give thanks
To God
For a life lived.
You were a precious gift for the months we shared,
And on Saturday, we shall come,
Your Dad and I,
And with us your sisters,
Who will laugh and play at your graveside.
We will eat birthday cake, talk of you,
Wonder what you would have been like now,
And ponder which of us will one day
Have the privilege of meeting you first
In heaven.
Four children will write cards, draw pictures
For the big sister they never knew,
Look at your photos, exclaim
‘So cute!’, ‘So beautiful!’, ‘Look at her little nose’,
‘See those tiny feet’.
And we will wonder at this precious child who
Touches our lives
Now and always..
Tuesday, 20 February 2007
Pregnancy and birth
November 1992
Yes! A strong blue line across the pregnancy test marking positive. I am totally shocked, I was so sure it would be negative. Once it started sinking in I really was pregnant, I was crying with happiness and my husband Dave, hugged me and tried to calm me down. With four babies already lost through miscarriage, we needed to be cautious, but I thought, can’t we just be happy for a few minutes, there’s plenty of time to worry about miscarriage later on.
Today I threw up for the first time – a really drastic sick-up! I may not feel too good, but I don’t care – it’s great news because it means my hormone levels must be fine. I long for this baby to grow healthily and to be rooted securely and very aware of God’s love. I do feel more optimistic this time, but the days pass very slowly and I desperately want to make it past the risky first three months of pregnancy. But as a more immediate goal, I hope the baby will be still alive when I have my first scan next Wednesday. It will be wonderful to see a beating heart, a live baby.
I thank God for the miracle of this child and intend to enjoy every day we have with him or her – whether it turns out to be days, months, or please God, years! I know I’d be off this planet if I thought that every moment with a child is enjoyable, but all the same, I will enjoy all I can and revel in the life of this child.
31st December 1992
Times change, life goes on. Strange I’ve written so little in my diary about this pregnancy. Almost as if in writing, my hopes and dreams come to the surface and I can’t do that yet. My thoughts are continually turned towards this precious baby but somehow I daren’t focus my hopes on paper. Too real. Too much to lose. And don’t I know it. Today the familiar story. A hospital bed. A threatened miscarriage. Scans. And a suprise, yes, something quite different. Not an empty womb, death written in silence across the screen. No. Life, life, life thumping out in each beat of the heart. Life in those frantically waving arms and legs. Life, you are stronger than blood and death. Life pulsing through me. Life, life, our baby is fighting for its life. Struggle on little one, and now sleep, build up your strength. God is able to keep you safe. Peace, my baby, let us rest in peace.
10th February
After a few days in hospital the bleeding stopped and the scans showed the baby alive and well. For now, we have called the baby ‘Marmite’ because that is what I have craved! After a week of bedrest, everything has settled and I am really excited.
My doctor says the pregnancy should have stabilized now that I am beyond the sixteen week mark. I have sent off for catalogues of maternity wear and nursery equipment. This baby has taken over our lives! We talk to him or her… And I thought I felt baby Marmite kick on Friday – though hard to be sure, as I have no previous experience to compare it with.
I’ve got a beautiful maternity top from Monsoon and I feel great in it, really proud of my bump. This baby is so special and so loved and today has been such a bombshell, a shock, an ‘it can’t be happening to us’ kind of day.
The facts are that I had a routine scan today and to me Marmite looked fine – beating heart, healthy size and shape. But the lady scanning us refused to give me a print-out picture of the scan, even though the sign on the wall clearly offered pictures. I explained how much this baby means to us and how I want a picture to keep in case anything goes wrong, but still she refused, and I was left feeling confused and angry. It would mean so much to have an up-to-date picture of baby Marmite.
She fetched the consultant who said that there is very little amniotic fluid around the baby and he is ‘seriously worried’ that the baby’s kidneys have a severe problem. He wants us to go to Queen Charlotte’s Hospital for a second opinion on a much more detailed scanner. If this confirms a problem, we will need to see if it is a genetic abnormality. The consultant said he expected it to be a very serious problem for which he would recommend termination. Horrible word. I would rather continue to full-term and give birth to a dead or dying baby than have a termination. I think I would only consider it if the baby would suffer terribly if the pregnancy continued, or maybe if my own life was also at risk. I never thought we would have to face such ethical dilemmas. When the consultant had explained the situation, I burst into uncontrollable tears and had to be moved to a side room. When I got home I couldn’t even explain to Dave what was happening, I cried and we held each other ‘til I could find the words.
Dave and I are distraught. We love baby Marmite so much. We keep crying and can’t believe it is happening. And yet there is hope. Maybe the problem will turn out to be minimal. Or even if there is something very wrong, God could heal our baby. Or maybe we will have a severely disabled baby who we will have to look after, or who will die early on in the special care baby unit. The worst scenario is that we might have a genetic abnormality that is likely to also recur in any future pregnancies.
15th February
The care we have experienced at Queen Charlotte’s Hospital has been incredible. In all, I should think I was scanned for a couple of hours, and the detail of the scans blew our minds. We could even see Marmite’s tongue moving around in the mouth! The difficulty is that because there is so little fluid, the baby is very cramped which means that its legs are drawn across its chest making it impossible to scan the kidneys. However, regardless of whether there are no kidneys, or damaged kidneys, things are seriously wrong because other abnormalities have shown up too. It seems most likely that I will naturally go into labour early, but even if I get to full-term, our baby’s chances of survival are very slim. If the pregnancy continues, baby Marmite will be delivered by caesarean when the conditions in the womb become more hostile than the conditions of a special care baby unit. The next stage will be an amnioinfusion – fluid will be added to the amniotic sac so our baby has the space to unfurl, enabling any kidneys to be scanned. At the same time some cells will be removed for chromosome analysis.
Family and friends are being amazing in supporting us in prayer and practical help. We have been quite overwhelmed. People are really sharing our pain, crying as they hear the news.
18th February
The amnioinfusion was a nightmare for someone who has a phobia of needles. Never again. The staff were surprised at the language that came out of this vicars’ wife!! Baby Marmite looked really happy when the fluid was added and there was space to stretch. But it looks like there are almost certainly no functioning kidneys. So unless there is a miracle (and we and others still pray for that) baby Marmite is likely to die at some stage before or immediately after birth.
To make things even worse, there has now been a leakage of amniotic fluid, so I have to stay at Ealing Hospital for close observation in case an infection develops. If this happens we will have no choice but to induce our baby.
Sometimes I feel like I should begin letting go and grieving now, knowing that baby Marmite will die unless there is a miracle. But how can I, when he or she is here inside me, heart beating strongly, legs kicking and arms waving at us. While there is this life in me, I cannot begin to come to terms with baby Marmite’s death. And to think that if a serious infection develops, I may have to give permission to end the life of this precious baby. God may it not come to that. I couldn’t bear to do it. I love this baby so very very much.
I feel scared about what will happen, going through the remainder of pregnancy in the knowledge that I will give birth to a dead or dying baby. What will this trauma do to us? Dave looks so tired and stressed, we are both emotionally exhausted.
Baby Marmite, my precious precious baby, how are you today? How does it feel to be lying in me? You are so beautiful, you tug our hearts. Every glimpse of you on the scanner is special. How does it feel to be slowly squashed again as the amniotic fluid leaks out? Baby Marmite, whatever happens, we love you so much, we always will. Relax in God’s love. God is with us, and that is enough.
22nd February
Well today must be a contender for the worst day of my life. Everything that can go wrong has gone wrong. The scan showed all the amniotic fluid has leaked out and baby Marmite is looking squashed and miserable. The lungs can’t develop, and our baby has no chance of survival. But I still feel I cannot kill this child. The counsellor has been helping us look at the options. There have been lots of tears and not much sleep.
The consultant declared that of course we should terminate the pregnancy and as soon as is possible. I felt livid that he should make that assumption. We said we were far to upset to agree to anything.
It gets worse and worse… It seems I now have an infection, and if it passes to the womb it will damage me and baby Marmite and risk my future fertility. Since baby Marmite will die anyway, it seems foolish to continue with the pregnancy and take so many risks. If I don’t go into labour naturally, then on Friday we will begin inducing our baby. Before then we will get the genetic results and be able to talk to the genetics counsellor.
24th February
How are you today, my little baby Marmite? I love you so much. Please don’t feel rejected when you are made to leave your home. Baby Marmite things would only get worse if you stay – you’d get more and more squashed, you’d get more and more ill, please believe me, inducing you is for the best. I love you so much. All along I’ve tried to do what’s best for you, all along you’ve been foremost in my mind. Oh my little baby, I dread the procedure of birth, but I’m so excited about seeing you, holding you, saying our goodbyes. I so wish you could have been with us longer. One day we’ll see you again, and that makes this temporary parting easier.
25th February
Went to Queen Charlotte’s Hospital today, and great news – baby Marmite is a baby girl! And her chromosomes are fine. We have decided to call her Charlotte after the hospital.
She has been diagnosed with the condition ‘Vater Association’. She has no functioning kidneys, her lungs are underdeveloped, she has a heart problem, a blockage and a cyst in her abdominal area plus a cyst in her chest. Her legs and an arm are twisted, and she may have too much fluid in her brain. She has no chance of survival.
We stayed out of hospital for the rest of the day. We went shopping to find something to wrap Charlotte in ready for her coffin, and a little cuddly sheep to be in there too, along with Dave’s childhood teddy. This involved walking round places like Mothercare, but we wanted to get her something special because she is special to us and it’s the only time we’ll ever be able to get anything for her. Then we went back to our house for a final meal. I took Charlotte to the room that was to be her nursery, and I told her she was going somewhere far better – she would be going to heaven. Then I returned to the hospital and cried.
1st March
I was given the first pessary to start inducing baby Charlotte at 9.30 in the morning on 26th Feb. The nurse who had to give it had a tear running down her cheek – that meant a lot to us. Then we said some ‘prayers for the dying’ which really helped, giving us a strong sense of better things awaiting Charlotte. However, with each 3-hourly pessary, and stop-starting contractions, I became more and more upset. After the final one, it was clear that they had not triggered full labour, and we’d have to wait 24 hours before trying again. At that point it was hard to see God in the situation at all, circumstances seemed so totally cruel.
The next afternoon I went into labour anyway. I was surprised how good I felt in between the contractions. On TV there was a whole evening of programmes on the theme of birth – a celebration of birth. Didn’t seem like appropriate viewing while I was busy giving birth to our daughter, dead, but knowing it was on added a kind of poignancy to our birth. Labour was agonizing and I was crying out for all the pain relief they could give me. Eventually a nurse thought to give me advice on breathing, which made a big difference.
At twenty minutes past midnight, on Sunday 28th February, Charlotte Marmite Bookless was born. She just burst out while I vomited! She never took a breath. The Sister took her away and cleaned her up and brought her back to us. Dave anointed her with oil, making the sign of the cross on her forehead, and we said prayers with her. Dave took photos, and during this time I continued to throw-up every time I tried to sit up and see our Charlotte. It was very frustrating.
Eventually I was able to look at her. She was curled up. Charlotte’s face was absolutely beautiful, she looked so peaceful. She had a stubby nose and puckered lips, her head rested against her chest. Her eyes were closed. After we’d finished taking photos, I just held her and gazed at her face, great waves of love welling up inside me. I drank in her features, I will always treasure the memory of her beautiful face. She was quite lovely. I just wish I’d been feeling more well to appreciate the time we had with her. Her hands and feet were so miniature and perfect, and her toes were just like Dave’s!
Although Charlotte was very beautiful,it was obvious there was so much wrong. She looked so squashed, inducing her was surely the best thing, it could have only got worse the longer she stayed in me. I wouldn’t want her to have to undergo any extra unnecessary suffering. As I gazed on her, I felt her body was now just a shell; that Charlotte was already in heaven, with a whole body, free from suffering. That she was already caught up in the joyful worship, released from the pain and limitations of her broken body. I suppose it was almost that we were experiencing a holy mystery – that hospital room became a ‘thin place’ – a place where heaven and earth mingled, heaven breaking through to earth, so close, almost tangible.
4th March
On Tuesday I awoke to find my clothes soaked with breast milk. In a way I am pleased – pleased my body recognizes Charlotte as a very real baby. It has been strange talking to people. I’ve been very calm and matter-of-fact. I’ve been feeling numb. My Mum has stayed here all week, and my Dad and Dave’s parents arrived today, for the funeral tomorrow. We’ve been inundated with cards and flowers and feel very loved.
5th March
My Mum has made beautiful flower arrangements for the funeral. We all wrote cards to put with the flowers on the grave. My Dad arranged the flowers with the named candle holders of our other children (Zeph, Noorjahan, Columba and Caspian) and took photos. It was a beautiful recognition of the value of each of our miscarried babies.
We drove to the graveyard and Dave carried Charlotte into the chapel. She was in a tiny white coffin with a metal plaque on top saying, ‘Charlotte Marmite Bookless, died 28th February 1993’. We sat in the chapel and listened to Eric Clapton’s ‘No more tears in heaven’. The service was led by Janet Lucas, Ealing Hospital chaplain, and it was just as we’d hoped it would be. Dave and I read Psalm 139, and when I read the bit about being formed in the mothers’ womb I broke down in tears but somehow managed to pick up and read on. Dave read a Victor Frankl quote, ‘We cannot judge a biography by its length, by the number of pages in it; we must judge by the richness of the contents… Sometimes the ‘unfinisheds’ are among the most beautiful symphonies.’ (from ‘Men’s Search for Meaning’).
At the end of the service we sat while the song ‘Faithful One’ was played. The words were so appropriate:
‘Faithful one, so unchanging
Ageless one, you’re my rock of peace
Lord of all, I depend on you
I cry out to you, again and again
I cry out to you – again and again.
You are my rock, in times of trouble
You lift me up, when I fall down
All through the storm, your love is the anchor
My hope is in you alone’
Dave carried Charlotte out. We said the final committal prayers , and laid our flowers by the grave. We all hugged and cried with each other and took photos of the coffin, grave, flowers etc. Then we felt very cold - and went home to lunch!
Yes! A strong blue line across the pregnancy test marking positive. I am totally shocked, I was so sure it would be negative. Once it started sinking in I really was pregnant, I was crying with happiness and my husband Dave, hugged me and tried to calm me down. With four babies already lost through miscarriage, we needed to be cautious, but I thought, can’t we just be happy for a few minutes, there’s plenty of time to worry about miscarriage later on.
Today I threw up for the first time – a really drastic sick-up! I may not feel too good, but I don’t care – it’s great news because it means my hormone levels must be fine. I long for this baby to grow healthily and to be rooted securely and very aware of God’s love. I do feel more optimistic this time, but the days pass very slowly and I desperately want to make it past the risky first three months of pregnancy. But as a more immediate goal, I hope the baby will be still alive when I have my first scan next Wednesday. It will be wonderful to see a beating heart, a live baby.
I thank God for the miracle of this child and intend to enjoy every day we have with him or her – whether it turns out to be days, months, or please God, years! I know I’d be off this planet if I thought that every moment with a child is enjoyable, but all the same, I will enjoy all I can and revel in the life of this child.
31st December 1992
Times change, life goes on. Strange I’ve written so little in my diary about this pregnancy. Almost as if in writing, my hopes and dreams come to the surface and I can’t do that yet. My thoughts are continually turned towards this precious baby but somehow I daren’t focus my hopes on paper. Too real. Too much to lose. And don’t I know it. Today the familiar story. A hospital bed. A threatened miscarriage. Scans. And a suprise, yes, something quite different. Not an empty womb, death written in silence across the screen. No. Life, life, life thumping out in each beat of the heart. Life in those frantically waving arms and legs. Life, you are stronger than blood and death. Life pulsing through me. Life, life, our baby is fighting for its life. Struggle on little one, and now sleep, build up your strength. God is able to keep you safe. Peace, my baby, let us rest in peace.
10th February
After a few days in hospital the bleeding stopped and the scans showed the baby alive and well. For now, we have called the baby ‘Marmite’ because that is what I have craved! After a week of bedrest, everything has settled and I am really excited.
My doctor says the pregnancy should have stabilized now that I am beyond the sixteen week mark. I have sent off for catalogues of maternity wear and nursery equipment. This baby has taken over our lives! We talk to him or her… And I thought I felt baby Marmite kick on Friday – though hard to be sure, as I have no previous experience to compare it with.
I’ve got a beautiful maternity top from Monsoon and I feel great in it, really proud of my bump. This baby is so special and so loved and today has been such a bombshell, a shock, an ‘it can’t be happening to us’ kind of day.
The facts are that I had a routine scan today and to me Marmite looked fine – beating heart, healthy size and shape. But the lady scanning us refused to give me a print-out picture of the scan, even though the sign on the wall clearly offered pictures. I explained how much this baby means to us and how I want a picture to keep in case anything goes wrong, but still she refused, and I was left feeling confused and angry. It would mean so much to have an up-to-date picture of baby Marmite.
She fetched the consultant who said that there is very little amniotic fluid around the baby and he is ‘seriously worried’ that the baby’s kidneys have a severe problem. He wants us to go to Queen Charlotte’s Hospital for a second opinion on a much more detailed scanner. If this confirms a problem, we will need to see if it is a genetic abnormality. The consultant said he expected it to be a very serious problem for which he would recommend termination. Horrible word. I would rather continue to full-term and give birth to a dead or dying baby than have a termination. I think I would only consider it if the baby would suffer terribly if the pregnancy continued, or maybe if my own life was also at risk. I never thought we would have to face such ethical dilemmas. When the consultant had explained the situation, I burst into uncontrollable tears and had to be moved to a side room. When I got home I couldn’t even explain to Dave what was happening, I cried and we held each other ‘til I could find the words.
Dave and I are distraught. We love baby Marmite so much. We keep crying and can’t believe it is happening. And yet there is hope. Maybe the problem will turn out to be minimal. Or even if there is something very wrong, God could heal our baby. Or maybe we will have a severely disabled baby who we will have to look after, or who will die early on in the special care baby unit. The worst scenario is that we might have a genetic abnormality that is likely to also recur in any future pregnancies.
15th February
The care we have experienced at Queen Charlotte’s Hospital has been incredible. In all, I should think I was scanned for a couple of hours, and the detail of the scans blew our minds. We could even see Marmite’s tongue moving around in the mouth! The difficulty is that because there is so little fluid, the baby is very cramped which means that its legs are drawn across its chest making it impossible to scan the kidneys. However, regardless of whether there are no kidneys, or damaged kidneys, things are seriously wrong because other abnormalities have shown up too. It seems most likely that I will naturally go into labour early, but even if I get to full-term, our baby’s chances of survival are very slim. If the pregnancy continues, baby Marmite will be delivered by caesarean when the conditions in the womb become more hostile than the conditions of a special care baby unit. The next stage will be an amnioinfusion – fluid will be added to the amniotic sac so our baby has the space to unfurl, enabling any kidneys to be scanned. At the same time some cells will be removed for chromosome analysis.
Family and friends are being amazing in supporting us in prayer and practical help. We have been quite overwhelmed. People are really sharing our pain, crying as they hear the news.
18th February
The amnioinfusion was a nightmare for someone who has a phobia of needles. Never again. The staff were surprised at the language that came out of this vicars’ wife!! Baby Marmite looked really happy when the fluid was added and there was space to stretch. But it looks like there are almost certainly no functioning kidneys. So unless there is a miracle (and we and others still pray for that) baby Marmite is likely to die at some stage before or immediately after birth.
To make things even worse, there has now been a leakage of amniotic fluid, so I have to stay at Ealing Hospital for close observation in case an infection develops. If this happens we will have no choice but to induce our baby.
Sometimes I feel like I should begin letting go and grieving now, knowing that baby Marmite will die unless there is a miracle. But how can I, when he or she is here inside me, heart beating strongly, legs kicking and arms waving at us. While there is this life in me, I cannot begin to come to terms with baby Marmite’s death. And to think that if a serious infection develops, I may have to give permission to end the life of this precious baby. God may it not come to that. I couldn’t bear to do it. I love this baby so very very much.
I feel scared about what will happen, going through the remainder of pregnancy in the knowledge that I will give birth to a dead or dying baby. What will this trauma do to us? Dave looks so tired and stressed, we are both emotionally exhausted.
Baby Marmite, my precious precious baby, how are you today? How does it feel to be lying in me? You are so beautiful, you tug our hearts. Every glimpse of you on the scanner is special. How does it feel to be slowly squashed again as the amniotic fluid leaks out? Baby Marmite, whatever happens, we love you so much, we always will. Relax in God’s love. God is with us, and that is enough.
22nd February
Well today must be a contender for the worst day of my life. Everything that can go wrong has gone wrong. The scan showed all the amniotic fluid has leaked out and baby Marmite is looking squashed and miserable. The lungs can’t develop, and our baby has no chance of survival. But I still feel I cannot kill this child. The counsellor has been helping us look at the options. There have been lots of tears and not much sleep.
The consultant declared that of course we should terminate the pregnancy and as soon as is possible. I felt livid that he should make that assumption. We said we were far to upset to agree to anything.
It gets worse and worse… It seems I now have an infection, and if it passes to the womb it will damage me and baby Marmite and risk my future fertility. Since baby Marmite will die anyway, it seems foolish to continue with the pregnancy and take so many risks. If I don’t go into labour naturally, then on Friday we will begin inducing our baby. Before then we will get the genetic results and be able to talk to the genetics counsellor.
24th February
How are you today, my little baby Marmite? I love you so much. Please don’t feel rejected when you are made to leave your home. Baby Marmite things would only get worse if you stay – you’d get more and more squashed, you’d get more and more ill, please believe me, inducing you is for the best. I love you so much. All along I’ve tried to do what’s best for you, all along you’ve been foremost in my mind. Oh my little baby, I dread the procedure of birth, but I’m so excited about seeing you, holding you, saying our goodbyes. I so wish you could have been with us longer. One day we’ll see you again, and that makes this temporary parting easier.
25th February
Went to Queen Charlotte’s Hospital today, and great news – baby Marmite is a baby girl! And her chromosomes are fine. We have decided to call her Charlotte after the hospital.
She has been diagnosed with the condition ‘Vater Association’. She has no functioning kidneys, her lungs are underdeveloped, she has a heart problem, a blockage and a cyst in her abdominal area plus a cyst in her chest. Her legs and an arm are twisted, and she may have too much fluid in her brain. She has no chance of survival.
We stayed out of hospital for the rest of the day. We went shopping to find something to wrap Charlotte in ready for her coffin, and a little cuddly sheep to be in there too, along with Dave’s childhood teddy. This involved walking round places like Mothercare, but we wanted to get her something special because she is special to us and it’s the only time we’ll ever be able to get anything for her. Then we went back to our house for a final meal. I took Charlotte to the room that was to be her nursery, and I told her she was going somewhere far better – she would be going to heaven. Then I returned to the hospital and cried.
1st March
I was given the first pessary to start inducing baby Charlotte at 9.30 in the morning on 26th Feb. The nurse who had to give it had a tear running down her cheek – that meant a lot to us. Then we said some ‘prayers for the dying’ which really helped, giving us a strong sense of better things awaiting Charlotte. However, with each 3-hourly pessary, and stop-starting contractions, I became more and more upset. After the final one, it was clear that they had not triggered full labour, and we’d have to wait 24 hours before trying again. At that point it was hard to see God in the situation at all, circumstances seemed so totally cruel.
The next afternoon I went into labour anyway. I was surprised how good I felt in between the contractions. On TV there was a whole evening of programmes on the theme of birth – a celebration of birth. Didn’t seem like appropriate viewing while I was busy giving birth to our daughter, dead, but knowing it was on added a kind of poignancy to our birth. Labour was agonizing and I was crying out for all the pain relief they could give me. Eventually a nurse thought to give me advice on breathing, which made a big difference.
At twenty minutes past midnight, on Sunday 28th February, Charlotte Marmite Bookless was born. She just burst out while I vomited! She never took a breath. The Sister took her away and cleaned her up and brought her back to us. Dave anointed her with oil, making the sign of the cross on her forehead, and we said prayers with her. Dave took photos, and during this time I continued to throw-up every time I tried to sit up and see our Charlotte. It was very frustrating.
Eventually I was able to look at her. She was curled up. Charlotte’s face was absolutely beautiful, she looked so peaceful. She had a stubby nose and puckered lips, her head rested against her chest. Her eyes were closed. After we’d finished taking photos, I just held her and gazed at her face, great waves of love welling up inside me. I drank in her features, I will always treasure the memory of her beautiful face. She was quite lovely. I just wish I’d been feeling more well to appreciate the time we had with her. Her hands and feet were so miniature and perfect, and her toes were just like Dave’s!
Although Charlotte was very beautiful,it was obvious there was so much wrong. She looked so squashed, inducing her was surely the best thing, it could have only got worse the longer she stayed in me. I wouldn’t want her to have to undergo any extra unnecessary suffering. As I gazed on her, I felt her body was now just a shell; that Charlotte was already in heaven, with a whole body, free from suffering. That she was already caught up in the joyful worship, released from the pain and limitations of her broken body. I suppose it was almost that we were experiencing a holy mystery – that hospital room became a ‘thin place’ – a place where heaven and earth mingled, heaven breaking through to earth, so close, almost tangible.
4th March
On Tuesday I awoke to find my clothes soaked with breast milk. In a way I am pleased – pleased my body recognizes Charlotte as a very real baby. It has been strange talking to people. I’ve been very calm and matter-of-fact. I’ve been feeling numb. My Mum has stayed here all week, and my Dad and Dave’s parents arrived today, for the funeral tomorrow. We’ve been inundated with cards and flowers and feel very loved.
5th March
My Mum has made beautiful flower arrangements for the funeral. We all wrote cards to put with the flowers on the grave. My Dad arranged the flowers with the named candle holders of our other children (Zeph, Noorjahan, Columba and Caspian) and took photos. It was a beautiful recognition of the value of each of our miscarried babies.
We drove to the graveyard and Dave carried Charlotte into the chapel. She was in a tiny white coffin with a metal plaque on top saying, ‘Charlotte Marmite Bookless, died 28th February 1993’. We sat in the chapel and listened to Eric Clapton’s ‘No more tears in heaven’. The service was led by Janet Lucas, Ealing Hospital chaplain, and it was just as we’d hoped it would be. Dave and I read Psalm 139, and when I read the bit about being formed in the mothers’ womb I broke down in tears but somehow managed to pick up and read on. Dave read a Victor Frankl quote, ‘We cannot judge a biography by its length, by the number of pages in it; we must judge by the richness of the contents… Sometimes the ‘unfinisheds’ are among the most beautiful symphonies.’ (from ‘Men’s Search for Meaning’).
At the end of the service we sat while the song ‘Faithful One’ was played. The words were so appropriate:
‘Faithful one, so unchanging
Ageless one, you’re my rock of peace
Lord of all, I depend on you
I cry out to you, again and again
I cry out to you – again and again.
You are my rock, in times of trouble
You lift me up, when I fall down
All through the storm, your love is the anchor
My hope is in you alone’
Dave carried Charlotte out. We said the final committal prayers , and laid our flowers by the grave. We all hugged and cried with each other and took photos of the coffin, grave, flowers etc. Then we felt very cold - and went home to lunch!
The months following Charlotte's arrival
8th March 1993
We are now on holiday. It is good to be away but it all feels so unreal, and I find it hard because she is on my mind so much. I look out across the marshes and it’s baby Charlotte’s face I see superimposed on the scenery. I read a book and find I’ve lost the thread of the plot because my mind has wandered to her. I lie to sleep and face a continuous replay of what has happened. I get off to sleep, only to dream of her and have grief-filled nightmares.
Gone is the relief I felt first at her death. The reality of all I am missing without her has now hit me hard, I am empty. Every little enjoyment seems insignificant compared to our loss. Nothing can bring her back, nothing, nothing can heal the ache inside. Yet I should feel glad she is now free from suffering. I keep wondering why we bothered to pray for every detail at each stage of her development, WHY, is there any point? And yet I know God is real, God is love, and prayer is important.
A friend of the family felt prompted by God to pray for us at exactly the time that baby Charlotte was born. She had a vision, like nothing she’d had before, of a little baby girl being welcomed and loved by God, held to His cheek, and she knew it was our baby. She didn’t know our baby was to be a girl, and the timing has to be more than a coincidence. It’s a lovely picture to hold on to…
11th March
I wish I’d asked to hold Charlotte again, the next morning when I was feeling better. I feel more and more sad. In a sermon on suffering, a speaker said that instead of shouting ‘why?’, try asking ‘what – what good is God going to bring out of this situation?’. I want to be positive, not bitter. Saw a quote ‘Grieve not that they are no more, give thanks that they were’. Shall try…
14th March
Dear baby Charlotte, I am trying to be strong. I don’t want to spoil the special time we had together by becoming bitter now. I’m happy you’re in heaven, but I miss you, I physically ache for you. Last night, I lay in the bath and the sadness overwhelmed me. I used to sing to you in the bath, Christian songs to tell you of God’s love, and silly songs I made up to tell you I love you. Do you remember me telling you our plans for the future? –about how we’d decorate your room? And I used to soap my tummy, gently running my hands over you, praying for you, heart feeling it would burst with love for you. I really thought you were going to live. I dared to hope, dared to imagine, dared to dream. Baby Charlotte I miss you.
16th March
How dare people walk around like everything’s normal. Why are the flowers smiling as usual? How do sheep produce lambs while I produce death? It’s Spring. Life. Everything is springing into life. And to think people are smiling on their newborn babies. Why did she die?? why Why WHY Why why
I killed you baby Charlotte. My baby. How could I do it? Was it right? Can it ever be right? I didn’t want to do it, with every stage of inducing you I felt a traitor. You holding on for dear life while the cervix was opening, you fighting the contractions. I didn’t know what to do, baby Charlotte. You tell me what I should have done. I didn’t want you to suffer. Please understand. Please don’t feel rejected. I didn’t want to hurt you. I loved you all through labour, I loved you when I held you, I love you now. I’m so sorry.
8th April
I am seeing the counsellor at Queen Charlotte's hospital and she's amazingly supportive. But I’m frightened of getting out of control, afraid of drowning if the tears and pain get out.
12th April
I did some hard thinking at the Good Friday service at church. I cannot deny God’s love when I look at the cross. Jesus really did bear our grief and carry our sorrows, and with each hammer of the nails took upon Himself our anger, our pain. My anger, my pain. I know God is big enough to take my anger. It’s no use pretending my anger against God isn’t there. But it is as I look at the cross that I find a God who enters fully into suffering, I see Jesus who Himself questions God and feels abandoned. I meet a God who understands. And the resurrection also gives hope that things will change, one day things will be different. And I hold onto that.
24th April
I just feel an overwhelming sadness, I miss Charlotte terribly, I ache, I long, my eyes water with tears that don’t quite come. Every time I feel upset I squash it. My brain has a fuse that cuts out emotion if my feelings are in danger of overloading. Tries to protect me from pain, but the pain and rage is burning me up from the inside out.
We went on a boat around Derwent Water. The scenery was beautiful, but it was a really grey day and everything was dull. It fell far short of how it would look on a blue sunny crisp day. And that’s what it’s like without Charlotte. Yes, I can see beauty, but it is dulled, blunted. Without her the colours have lost their vibrancy, the clouds obscure the sun.
One day the clouds will clear and I will see beautiful colours again...
We are now on holiday. It is good to be away but it all feels so unreal, and I find it hard because she is on my mind so much. I look out across the marshes and it’s baby Charlotte’s face I see superimposed on the scenery. I read a book and find I’ve lost the thread of the plot because my mind has wandered to her. I lie to sleep and face a continuous replay of what has happened. I get off to sleep, only to dream of her and have grief-filled nightmares.
Gone is the relief I felt first at her death. The reality of all I am missing without her has now hit me hard, I am empty. Every little enjoyment seems insignificant compared to our loss. Nothing can bring her back, nothing, nothing can heal the ache inside. Yet I should feel glad she is now free from suffering. I keep wondering why we bothered to pray for every detail at each stage of her development, WHY, is there any point? And yet I know God is real, God is love, and prayer is important.
A friend of the family felt prompted by God to pray for us at exactly the time that baby Charlotte was born. She had a vision, like nothing she’d had before, of a little baby girl being welcomed and loved by God, held to His cheek, and she knew it was our baby. She didn’t know our baby was to be a girl, and the timing has to be more than a coincidence. It’s a lovely picture to hold on to…
11th March
I wish I’d asked to hold Charlotte again, the next morning when I was feeling better. I feel more and more sad. In a sermon on suffering, a speaker said that instead of shouting ‘why?’, try asking ‘what – what good is God going to bring out of this situation?’. I want to be positive, not bitter. Saw a quote ‘Grieve not that they are no more, give thanks that they were’. Shall try…
14th March
Dear baby Charlotte, I am trying to be strong. I don’t want to spoil the special time we had together by becoming bitter now. I’m happy you’re in heaven, but I miss you, I physically ache for you. Last night, I lay in the bath and the sadness overwhelmed me. I used to sing to you in the bath, Christian songs to tell you of God’s love, and silly songs I made up to tell you I love you. Do you remember me telling you our plans for the future? –about how we’d decorate your room? And I used to soap my tummy, gently running my hands over you, praying for you, heart feeling it would burst with love for you. I really thought you were going to live. I dared to hope, dared to imagine, dared to dream. Baby Charlotte I miss you.
16th March
How dare people walk around like everything’s normal. Why are the flowers smiling as usual? How do sheep produce lambs while I produce death? It’s Spring. Life. Everything is springing into life. And to think people are smiling on their newborn babies. Why did she die?? why Why WHY Why why
I killed you baby Charlotte. My baby. How could I do it? Was it right? Can it ever be right? I didn’t want to do it, with every stage of inducing you I felt a traitor. You holding on for dear life while the cervix was opening, you fighting the contractions. I didn’t know what to do, baby Charlotte. You tell me what I should have done. I didn’t want you to suffer. Please understand. Please don’t feel rejected. I didn’t want to hurt you. I loved you all through labour, I loved you when I held you, I love you now. I’m so sorry.
8th April
I am seeing the counsellor at Queen Charlotte's hospital and she's amazingly supportive. But I’m frightened of getting out of control, afraid of drowning if the tears and pain get out.
12th April
I did some hard thinking at the Good Friday service at church. I cannot deny God’s love when I look at the cross. Jesus really did bear our grief and carry our sorrows, and with each hammer of the nails took upon Himself our anger, our pain. My anger, my pain. I know God is big enough to take my anger. It’s no use pretending my anger against God isn’t there. But it is as I look at the cross that I find a God who enters fully into suffering, I see Jesus who Himself questions God and feels abandoned. I meet a God who understands. And the resurrection also gives hope that things will change, one day things will be different. And I hold onto that.
24th April
I just feel an overwhelming sadness, I miss Charlotte terribly, I ache, I long, my eyes water with tears that don’t quite come. Every time I feel upset I squash it. My brain has a fuse that cuts out emotion if my feelings are in danger of overloading. Tries to protect me from pain, but the pain and rage is burning me up from the inside out.
We went on a boat around Derwent Water. The scenery was beautiful, but it was a really grey day and everything was dull. It fell far short of how it would look on a blue sunny crisp day. And that’s what it’s like without Charlotte. Yes, I can see beauty, but it is dulled, blunted. Without her the colours have lost their vibrancy, the clouds obscure the sun.
One day the clouds will clear and I will see beautiful colours again...
Poem, May 1993
And was it for this
That clasped in sensuous passion
Nights were spent?
And was it for this
That here for secret keeping
She was sent?
And was it for this
That full of expectation
Plans were made?
And was it for this
That with our friends and family
Prayers were prayed?
I look to the skies but I find no answers
And was it for this
That swathed in soft round curves
My body grew?
And was it for this
That slowed in pregnant pause
I lay and knew?
And was it for this
That through the pain and labour
I gave birth?
And was it for this
We mourned and left you
Buried in the earth?
I look to the skies but I find no answers
That clasped in sensuous passion
Nights were spent?
And was it for this
That here for secret keeping
She was sent?
And was it for this
That full of expectation
Plans were made?
And was it for this
That with our friends and family
Prayers were prayed?
I look to the skies but I find no answers
And was it for this
That swathed in soft round curves
My body grew?
And was it for this
That slowed in pregnant pause
I lay and knew?
And was it for this
That through the pain and labour
I gave birth?
And was it for this
We mourned and left you
Buried in the earth?
I look to the skies but I find no answers
Poem, February 1998
Then, the barrier of a tray between
me and you,
a tray and my fear of your fragility.
Later, a wooden box and six cold feet
of mud held us apart
as I lay against the warm earth
my arms outstretched and longing.
Now, five years the barrier
between us, Time shifts,
springs out, springs in.
Five years, so little time.
Of course the tears still
come, five years, so long.
A five year old child, so
changed from the one I once
Beheld.
I gaze at your photos, long
to reach back in time to
give you the cuddle I
never gave.
I have changed. Hands
have become confident,
Lost the
Fear
Of your paper thin skin.
Five years on, I long to feel
the warmth of your body on mine,
to cradle you
as close
as these live sisters
who cuddle
and cling.
I cannot turn the clock
back
The Polaroid picture
fades and I
feel the physical distance
between us
Grow
And the chasm is a rip
I cannot mend.
me and you,
a tray and my fear of your fragility.
Later, a wooden box and six cold feet
of mud held us apart
as I lay against the warm earth
my arms outstretched and longing.
Now, five years the barrier
between us, Time shifts,
springs out, springs in.
Five years, so little time.
Of course the tears still
come, five years, so long.
A five year old child, so
changed from the one I once
Beheld.
I gaze at your photos, long
to reach back in time to
give you the cuddle I
never gave.
I have changed. Hands
have become confident,
Lost the
Fear
Of your paper thin skin.
Five years on, I long to feel
the warmth of your body on mine,
to cradle you
as close
as these live sisters
who cuddle
and cling.
I cannot turn the clock
back
The Polaroid picture
fades and I
feel the physical distance
between us
Grow
And the chasm is a rip
I cannot mend.
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