Serendipity after Frankie
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In 2020, Lyndsay Pastega penned a story of raw grief and healing after losing her 36-hour-old baby, Frankie. You can read it here. Last July, she gave birth to rainbow baby, Lincoln.
Days after Francesca died I felt a deep yearning to hold a living baby. It was primal, like the primal screams when she left. In those first few months, I would wake in the night to a baby crying. In those seconds of confusion I felt peace thinking she was here. And then I would remember. Soon after she passed, she came to me in a dream. I didn’t share it at the time.
It was a moment we had together, just her and I. In the dream, she was a young girl and held the hand of a little blonde boy and she told me ‘Mum he’s ready when you are’. The little boy then looked at Frankie and said “She recognises me”. I woke startled and then tried desperately to go back to that place, to be with her, with them, but they were both gone. It was months before I told my husband Ian.
We never planned on having more babies, and then one sunny afternoon, Francesca ran ahead of us. In that moment, our life plans were dismantled. I am told my soul signed a contract to go through this with her, that we all did, together. I think it’s safe to say I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to understand why.
To mark Frankie’s first birthday we spent the week in a cabin at Lake Crackenback. On our arrival, we found a bird’s nest in the beam at the front door, and we spent five days running from an aggressive mama. As the week progressed we watched as three tiny hatchlings appeared. The kids would run down the stairs every morning to see if they had grown and we watched them feed through the day.
On the last night of our trip, a cyclonic storm hit and the nest was thrown from the beam. We went out in the rain to rescue two babies, but the third was already gone, suffering injuries from the fall. As we buried and said prayers for their youngest baby, we all sobbed and I watched our two babies grieve for a little bird they never met, but who represented our journey. The symbolism was not lost on any of us.
It took six months for someone close to me to gently ask with trepidation, would we try again. I knew it took courage to raise it with me and the truth is that I was desperate to talk it over, yet was unsure how it would be received. Following our trip to Lake Crackenback, I felt simultaneous excitement and deep fear as I stared at a positive pregnancy test and remember silently begging Francesca to make this work. My pregnancies were high risk, they were exhausting and debilitating and we had been through a lot.
When you have walked and survived the dark road of pregnancy or infant loss, it is hard to fathom how one would willingly walk back down that road, knowing the possibility of pain that lies ahead. I had endured the same debilitating weekly IVIG treatment as Frankie and was treated with compassion and empathy as I journeyed on the painful process that is a rhesus pregnancy.
I spent many weeks at Royal Prince Alfred (RPA) Hospital in Sydney and am grateful for the specialists who gave him Intra-Uterine (IUT) blood transfusions to save his life. We still didn’t have definitive answers why Frankie had died, or what had caused it, and we didn’t know if it would happen again. We chose hope over fear, but the truth is that it was excruciating. I found myself counting away the hours, knowing that each extra day was another day closer to viability.
My rainbow baby, Lincoln was born on a Monday morning at 34 weeks. Like my other high-risk babies, I knew he would be rushed to the NICU, but this time was different. I cried from the moment Ian dropped me at the door, to the moment I was discharged two days later. No matter how hard I had prepared, it all came flooding back to me as the trauma of that fateful day flashed before me.
I didn’t see him after he was born, he was whisked away with Ian and I was left lying on the bed in the silence. And I waited. I waited for a text message to say he was okay. Birthing a baby during COVID was traumatic. I stayed on my own that night as Ian left to care for our children who were in lockdown, and with family interstate it was just us.
I was wheeled into the NICU at 5 am the next day to finally meet my parcel from heaven, wrapped, under lights with breathing support. I had waited 14 hours to see him and he looked as perfect as I imagined. I didn’t sleep a wink that night, I just prayed and prayed he would make it.
Towards the end of our 7 week NICU stay, our daughter asked about her weird feelings. She said “You know, I would never choose for Frankie to die, but I know now that because she left, we have Lincoln.” She explained she could never give him up now because she really loved him, even though he was a boy. I cried and smiled at the same time and we talked about serendipity.
Lincoln and Lyndsay.
After 43 days I carried Lincoln down the corridor past the room we kissed Frankie goodbye and I watched as the kids waited at the front door for us, jumping with excitement. They had waited so patiently to meet him and I will never know the fear in their heart when it took so long for him to come home. Our babies lost a version of their parents the day Frankie died, and their little hearts have been through more than many adults go through in a lifetime.
It had been weeks since Ian had seen him. You really can’t imagine how hard it is to have a baby in the NICU, until you have been there.
Eight months on and as I lay with Lincoln I realise I have finally laid down my sword and taken off my armour. I don’t have to be a warrior anymore. It has taken this long to accept he is here to stay. He is serendipity. He was an unexpected joy. We will always be a family of six. I will always be a mother of four babies. A rainbow is no replacement.
Lincoln’s arrival has elevated us to a new level of joy, but a different sadness now creeps in. We ache for the empty seat at our dining table. We ache for the missing piece of our family puzzle. But there is also joy, there is light through our darkness and our hearts somehow beat on. I recognise the blonde boy in my dream and together, the six of us are closing the door on the hardest of our days.
Pregnancy after loss is a tightrope walk of terror and hope. It takes a strength you don’t realise you have, until you can’t bear the thought of never knowing if it was meant to be. If you know someone going through a pregnancy after loss, know that they are walking a terrifying, painful road. It takes so much strength and resilience to keep fighting.
Be gentle. Be patient with them. Commend them on their courage. It is a journey words don’t adequately describe. It is hope and fear, terror and anticipation, love and desperation. It is holding your breath for 40 weeks (and then some). My heart hurts for those whose journey does not end with a rainbow.
Our gratitude to the incredible teams at the Canberra and RPA Hospital Fetal Medicine Units (FMU). To the nurses and neonatologists at the Canberra Hospital NICU, you have walked a road with us, caring for 3 of our babies, two of whom we took home, and one who lives in the stars. And to Red Nose Canberra, who, with limited resources manage to support so many women and families across the ACT, and always made time for us and our children on this journey. If you know Joce, you know she is a gift to this world. We will think about all of you for the rest of our life.
We will ache for our daughter until our last living breath. When we thought our hearts could take no more, we were overcome with love for her little brother. I had to give Frankie back, but Lincoln I get to keep. I will be grateful for the rest of my days, for him, handpicked by her, to heal and bring joy back into our life.
Thank you universe, thank you Francesca.
Feature image: Lincoln and his siblings. All images supplied.
