Jo & Paul Nash tell their story
On 15 March 2008, our lives changed forever when our precious second son, due in 10 days, went quiet. At 11.21pm Philip Nash was stillborn, beautiful and perfect, but with a ‘true knot’ in his umbilical cord. The knot had tightened.
There is nothing to compare with the pain of losing a child and from this feeling of ‘empty arms’ and a desperate desire for more tangible memories than we had, very quietly a seed was sown. Two months later we wrote to the Jersey Maternity Unit with what had started out as a wish to provide something, anything, for those parents who came after us. As we searched for a special Memory Box for our memories of Philip it hit us that the right idea was staring us in the face. By the time we met with the Maternity Unit staff the idea for memory boxes was up and running; we were delighted with their very positive response.
Fighting the urge to keep this very traumatic and painful event private, we felt the only way to make this happen, for the long term, was to set up a charity and ‘go public’.
Thus Philip’s Footprints was created, in loving memory.
or perhaps as Dr Seuss would say ‘A person’s a person, no matter how small’.
(Horton Hears a Who?)
Philip's Story
Jo had originally shied away from publicly telling ‘Philip’s Story’ but following a chat with a midwife they said it might help people who had also experienced a loss feel less alone. Here are her thoughts and diary excerpts from the time around Philip’s birth.
Got to Maternity at 10am for a check – haven’t felt baby move overnight. He has moved back to back, the midwives find it difficult to get a fix on his heartbeat and mine is quite fast. Eventually they call the doctors, Dr Ahmed gives me a scan. It goes on longer and longer (it can’t be a good sign) whilst I study the textured tiles on the ceiling. I look past him to the scan monitor – I don’t acknowledge it at the time but I see no flutter heart beating.
Finally he looks at me and tells me he’s very sorry, there is no heartbeat. Four pairs of eyes look at me and wait for me to implode. I feel calm. Or is it numb? I call Paul and tell him, ask him to call Mum and Dad to let them know. I can only keep thinking to myself, over and over and over “this can’t be happening to me, this can’t be happening to me”.
Over the next 24 hours I didn’t cry much, it was such a huge shock. In fact it took me a long time to cry properly, from deep within. Some women instantly break down and cry but I just sat there, silently shattered.
I was induced at 1pm, opted for morphine which in hindsight wasn’t the best idea – it took the edge off the pain but wasn’t enough and made me vomit repeatedly. When I opted for an epidural but I as I sit up the contractions overtake me and I can’t sit still long enough for them to insert it.
The next thing I’m really pushing and the midwife checks again and I’m fully dilated. They sit me up and I push hard. I want to cry because I know he’s already dead but I can’t because I’m still pushing. I push his head out and the strangest thing happens. This overwhelming urge has just gone. It just leaves me. They tell me to push again and his body follows. At 11.21pm I push him out and he lies there eyes closed, mouth open. Silent. Still.
I hold him and actually feel contentment, quite in awe of this little person we have created. This warm little body, perfect little face, dark hair, peaceful. Trying to take in every detail, how I wish we’d taken a photo of him then. Paul holds him too and when he passes him back to me, I am so tired. They take him and put him in a cot. We don’t realise he won’t look the same later. They finish stitching me up and I am so tired with the emotional and physical strain – and I realise much later, the morphine – that I go to bed at 1am. Paul stays with him whilst they clean him and dress him, and Paul and the midwife bring him to our room at 3am. He stays with us tonight.
They tell us to stay as long as we want and hold him, cuddle him, but I can’t. I want to remember him in my arms, like he’s alive. There is little point staying, at 10am Mum & Dad come to pick us up and see him, although I warn them that he looks like a dead baby, not all pink and squidgy. We stay outside with our son ‘B’ (age 3), they come out, distraught. ‘B’ doesn’t want to go near me; he asks if I am going to go too. We leave and I feel really weak. I later learn that I have actually lost at least 900ml through the blood tests and birth. Mum & Dad look after ‘B’ and I go straight to sleep, Paul joining me shortly after.
I only held Philip once, just after he was born. But the overwhelming feeling of awe and wonder at this little person we had created was such an amazing, incredible feeling, despite the tragedy. I will never forget it.