Trigger Warning - TFMR
I have had two TFMRs. I'm going to share my story now. One tfmr at 21+4w and one at 15w. My two had myelomeningocele spina bifida with Arnold Chiara 2 malformation. He had ventriculomegaly, but it was borderline, as in, it was at the top end of what is considered normal for a fetus at that gestation.
A "grey" diagnosis, because it not incompatible with life, but is with quality of life. Mine were very seriously affected, severe cases.
I was given a 30% chance of my DS2 making it to birth live. And then it was touch and go if he'd make it through birth live. And then at birth he would have required an operation to put in a brain shunt. He would need major spinal surgery to close up the hole in his back which was pulling his brain into his neck, and causing damage every time he moved in the womb. He already had no real movement in his legs. And then having his bowel reconstructed so that he would never use a toilet normally. He would always have a bag for both.
The chances of him having seizures and needed a breathing and feeding tube permanently were a given. And then you add infections in and the chance that the shunt could fail, his kidneys, heart, lungs could fail, he could go into renal failure at any moment.
I couldn't do it to him, and then her (my third pregnancy was a daughter). Condemn them to a life of pain, suffering and not understanding why.
It was, and still is, the worse experience I have ever been through. To choose to end a pregnancy of a wanted baby is hell on earth. The horror is tangible. And I have done it twice.
TFMR is never undertaken lightly. It is compassion and kindness. It is the love that we have for our babies that makes us take on their pain, so that they never experience it.
And the grief is layered. You grieve for the baby you thought you were having, the healthy baby that came home. You grieve for the baby who is living, but will suffer, whose life will never be simple or easy, who will have to fight every day. And you grieve for their death, the loss of them, which ripples into your every day thereafter. And for the loss of you, because you are a different person afterwards. Forever changed and scarred by it.
You bounce into your scan, excited, nervous, hopeful. Then the world falls down around you and you are left trying to Google, research, understand, find the least worst scenario and pin everything on that. You find out that even the least worse scenario is still awful and you choose, you decide, and then sign the paperwork while a consultant looks at you with a kind face, and a midwife holds your shoulders. You go between the appointments hoping that your baby passes on their own, so you don't have to choose.
You pack a hospital bag much earlier than you anticipated. Instead of happily putting in freshly washed baby grows and vests, nappies and a coming home outfit. You choose which blanket you want to wrap your dead baby in, how soft is it? Will it be too big? You give them a name, something which has meaning, knowing that you won't be putting it into silly songs or shouting it across a playground.
And you go in to start the process. It's called a compassionate induction. It's birth. You labour. Pain, vomit, blood, pushing. But instead of a wonderful ending with joy and relief, your baby slides silently into the world and your heart breaks into a thousand pieces.
I let out a sound that my husband says was the most haunting wail of distress he's ever heard. Like a wounded, broken animal.
And then you do the memory making. Bearing in mind, these are the only memories you will ever have. Hand and foot prints, maybe bathe them, sing them nursery rhymes and read them books. Ten little fingers and ten little toes, and three little kisses on the end of your nose.
And then you do the most unnatural thing in the world, and you put your still, tiny, baby into a moses basket with a cold plate under it, and you leave them in the hospital. You give them a love, you try to let them now just how adored they are, and will always be. So, so loved. You didn't want them to suffer or hurt. You're so sorry, Mammy is sorry my darling baby.
And you walk out among happy couples with car seats and newborns just starting their journey, whilst you walk on a completely different one with a memory box and empty arms.
And then you plan their funeral.
And you have to choose how you tell people. You don't know if you will be met with kindness, or judgement. It's not the same as having a stillborn, or a miscarriage, because you chose, you did this to yourself.
And that is just the beginning of a lifetime of what ifs, grieving and why's.