Our Stories

Bonnie Hart

My husband, Frank, and I tried to conceive a baby for almost two years. After a diagnosis of unexplained infertility, we started IVF in September 2020. We were over the moon when our very first cycle of IVF was successful. Soon after, we found out we were expecting a little girl, and it felt like all of our dreams had come true.

Thursday 8 April started like most other days. I was almost 32 weeks pregnant. I woke up, went to the gym, followed by my weekly chiropractic appointment. I was working from home that day and powered up my laptop to get started. It was then that I went to the bathroom and saw two spots of blood.

Knowing bleeding can be normal during pregnancy, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, however I called my obstetrician’s office just to be sure. They directed me to call my hospital’s birth centre. Before doing so, I walked upstairs to our bedroom. I felt a sudden wave of dizziness and heat come over me. Knowing this feeling oh too well (I’m a fainter) I sat down so I would not pass out. I think I knew it then, deep down, that something was not right.

I called my husband, who was already on the way home from work, then called the birth centre. They asked for my symptoms and when I had last felt movement. I frantically searched my memory trying to remember when I had last felt her kicks. Was it the night before? The birth centre instructed me to monitor the blood loss and call back in 30 minutes. I laid down and held my bump. Hoping and wishing to feel just even the slightest movement from our girl.

My husband arrived home 15 minutes later. I was so prepared for this baby, but not wanting to be “over prepared” for birth, I hadn’t packed our hospital bags. My husband quickly threw some things in a bag for me. When I stood up there was a significant amount of blood loss, so we got in the car and drove straight to the private hospital. During this time the pain started. My bump became rock hard and was cramping, but I was wondering why there was no break in the ‘contractions’.

Once we got to the hospital, I was greeted with a wheelchair and taken inside. I got onto a bed and the midwife started scanning my bump for a heartbeat. I was told that my belly was too hard, and they needed to get the ultrasound machine. After an agonising 10 minutes, an obstetrician arrived with the machine and started scanning. That’s when we heard the words…

“There is no heartbeat.”

My husband and I looked at each other, helplessly. Surely, it was not possible. It had been a short 45 minutes between the spotting and the scan. “No! No, no, no, no! This is not happening.” I kept repeating. I begged, “Please check again. This can’t be happening.”

We were told that the public hospital was better equipped to manage my care. An ambulance was called, I was put onto a bed and wheeled off. Once in the ambulance, my husband and I blankly stared at one another, holding onto a little piece of hope that the obstetrician had it wrong. That our baby girl was going to be ok.

I was wheeled straight into a birthing suite at the public hospital. After what felt like an eternity, an obstetrician performed another ultrasound where they confirmed our worst nightmare. Our baby girl had passed away.

I was told I had experienced a placental abruption. My placenta, our baby’s lifeline, had burst away from the side of the uterus depriving our girl from oxygen and causing me to haemorrhage. Along with the abruption, my body went into DIC, a condition affecting the blood’s ability to clot and stop bleeding. This is very rare in labour and made my condition extremely high risk.

After that, I feel like I entered a time warp. Where time simultaneously stood still, yet sped up all at once. Midwives and other doctors started to talk about delivery and pain relief options. They were pushing for an epidural, but I was against it. I wanted to deliver my daughter naturally. I wanted to feel every contraction, every ounce of pain. I wanted to feel every part of bringing her into this world, and never forget it. I thought that if there was anything I could do for her, it was this.

My condition was monitored closely over the next few hours. I had multiple cannulas poked into each arm. I was being pumped with fluids. My blood was taken regularly for testing. I almost fainted every time I stood up. The pain was intense and relentless. Now I have experienced labour, I can say that it felt like I was having one never-ending contraction. Going through all of this, was truly an out of body experience. I am sure my body entered a state of shock.

After a while, an obstetrician wanted to progress labour by breaking my waters. But I felt so unprepared to have a baby. Plus, we hadn’t packed a bag for her. I wanted her special things from home; swaddles and some clothing. So at around 4pm I sent my husband home. The midwives could not believe it. I must be one of the only women in history to send their husband home from the hospital while in labour. But I knew my baby was not coming any time soon.

When my husband was back by my side at around 7pm, an obstetrician broke my waters. I was already 4cm dilated. An oxytocin drip was started to induce labour and I was set up with a PCA and gas. With the help of this pain relief, I was able to rest for a couple of hours.

By 10.30pm, the oxytocin drip finished, and I started to have regular, intense contractions. I started pleading for an epidural, but due to my condition and blood loss, it was now out of the question. I begged the midwife to check how far along I was. I didn’t think I could go through any more pain, knowing that on the other side of birth was only death.

The midwife told me it was time to have our baby. It was 11pm when I started pushing. I kept repeating that I didn’t know how to do this. That I didn’t know what I was doing. Looking back, I know I was saying this because I couldn’t feel her moving down. Every push felt as hopeless as the last. I was completely drained.

After a while of pushing, an obstetrician checked our baby’s position and realised she was presenting brow first – basically coming face first. Our baby was stuck, so during a contraction, the obstetrician tried to flex her head to get her into the right position. In that moment I truly thought I was going to die from the pain. It was unsuccessful and attempted two more times unsuccessfully. An obstetrician then tried to apply the vacuum to her head which was also unsuccessful.

At 12.40am, the head obstetrician entered the room and tried once more to get our baby in the right position. When he realised how much pain it was causing, he told us that I would be put under general anaesthetic, and they would deliver our baby. Being that I had been put under before, general anaesthetic was the only familiar aspect about birth, so strangely I was so happy about being put to sleep. I was prepped and wheeled down to surgery.

With her daddy watching over us in surgery, baby Bonnie Hart was delivered at 1.46am on Friday 9 April 2021. She weighed 1675grams. She was briefly placed on my chest for skin to skin before her daddy cut the cord. She was then wrapped and placed in her daddy’s arms.

While I was under general anaesthetic, a team of obstetricians used my contractions to get our baby in the right position, and she was delivered with forceps. I had a slight internal tear which required stitches.

I woke up in recovery at around 6am, still in a lot of pain. My husband came in with tears running down his face. He told me our baby girl was perfect, and that she looked just like me.

I was taken back to our birth suite shortly after, and Bonnie was placed in my arms for the very first time. My husband was right – Bonnie was perfect in every way. She was everything we dreamt she would be and more. A head full of sandy brown hair, daddy’s feet and little nose, and my blue eyes, lips, and long toes. Ironically, in that moment I felt joyous. There are truly no words to describe the feeling of seeing and holding your baby for the first time. But I will never forget the silence of the room, and the heartache of seeing no life in her perfect little body.

Having self-diagnosed white coat syndrome, and fearing needles and hospitals, I was terrified in the lead up to Bonnie’s birth. And although the experience didn’t go how I ever expected or wanted it to, having Bonnie placed in my arms made every part of it worth it, even though she only stayed in my arms for a short while. Her birth was simultaneously the best and worst day of my entire life.

I was kept in hospital for four days following Bonnie’s birth. Throughout labour and delivery, I lost approximately 3.6 litres of blood. Over the 24-hours post birth, I had a total of 6 bags of blood and 9 bags of cryo (cryo is rich in clotting factors, which help to slow bleeding) pumped back into my bloodstream. During that time, we were cared for and supported by a team of incredible, compassionate, and thoughtful obstetricians and midwives, some of whom held us and cried tears of their own for our loss.

We should have had a lifetime with Bonnie, but we had to fit a lifetime into those four days. We were given the precious gift of time thanks to a Bears of Hope Cuddle Cot. A Cuddle Cot is a cooling system that is designed to fit within a bassinet. The cot is essentially an extension of time, allowing bereaved parents the opportunity to create special memories and shower their baby with love after they have passed. Our cot was kindly donated to the hospital by a local mama of an angel baby. We could never be more grateful for that gift.

We created some beautiful memories with Bonnie in the short time we had with her. We stared at her perfect face for hours on end, bathed and dressed her, took many photographs, had castings of her tiny hands and feet taken, had family snuggles until we fell asleep together, played special songs to her, sat in the sunshine and just held her close.

When I was discharged in the days following, my husband and I said our final goodbyes, placed Bonnie in the arms of a midwife, and walked out of the hospital. Though we left with empty arms, we left holding each other just a little more tightly. And we left holding onto something else – hope.

Hope that next time we walk out of those hospital doors, it will be with our rainbow baby in our arms.