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I am pregnant for the third time, standing in the newborn clothes section of David Jones, and I am crying.
Tears spill over and plop onto my bump – warm, wet splashes of grief marking my maternity dress.
The sales assistant has just walked away after helping me choose a beautifully soft blue onesie for my baby boy. But it’s not for him to wear in hospital or for the car trip home; it’s for him to wear when we bury him. After he’s stillborn and put into a tiny little coffin.
Just as an FYI, you should know that this post is sponsored by Mater Little Miracles. But all opinions expressed by the author are 100% authentic and written in their own words.
We were at the 19-week ultrasound when, out-of-the-blue, doctors delivered us devastating news: our baby, a little brother for our children Eve and Tommy, had no lungs. Or rather, he had a cystic mass, like a tumour, where his lungs were supposed to be.
As his heart was already failing from the severity of his condition, doctors said they expected he’d pass away within a week or two. We were sent home to prepare for our baby to die.
Related: This is what the mother of a sick baby wants you to know.
Sick with shock and grief, we spend our days waiting for the moment which will shatter us. It’s harrowing, exhausting and it takes its toll as I crumble from the anxiety.