We’re very grateful to Tolu for sharing her story as part of The Motherhood Group’s Black Maternal Mental Health Week (22 – 28 September). Tolu speaks courageously about the death of her daughter, the cultural stigmas that she encountered as a member of the Yoruba community (a West African ethnic group who inhabit parts of Nigeria, Benin and Togo, which are collectively referred to as Yorubaland), and how she has faced those expectations so that she can begin to heal and that her story can support other bereaved parents affected by pregnancy or baby loss.
In September 2013, I was pregnant with my first baby; a baby girl, who I lost at 24+ weeks gestation. I found out I had lost my baby when I attended my first midwife appointment at my local health clinic, and the midwives could not find my baby’s heartbeat. A follow up scan at hospital confirmed the loss. The pregnancy had been quite normal and typical up until that point, but that week of the midwife appointment, everything changed. And although many tests were carried out, I never got to find out the cause of my baby’s death.
Losing my baby came as a major shock to me because I was under 35 years of age at the time, and I was fit and healthy. This is all I thought I needed.
I had heard or read about early losses, so I was extremely focused on getting past the 3-month mark and into a perceived “Safety Zone”, but I had never, at the time, heard of anybody having a loss later in their pregnancy.
I had never heard a story told of it.
I had never ever heard of a pregnant family member or friend coming home from the hospital without their baby. On reflection, it’s either the losses did not happen, or nobody spoke about them.
So, when I came home from the hospital without my baby, I instantly felt strong feelings of shame and failure. I was the only one who had come home without a baby.
These feelings were further compounded by questions and comments from family members; “What did you do?”, “Were you not taking care of yourself?”, “You were stressing yourself too much.”
Then the unspoken question of, “will she ever be able to have children?”
Following my loss, my mother proceeded to brief me on the cultural expectations and directions I was to follow, due to my heritage as a Yoruba person. I was not to choose a name for my baby to be recorded on the death certificate. Instead, I was advised of a particular word to use in the place of a name.
And I was not to attend my baby’s funeral because it was a taboo.
I knew I had to find my own way to move forward with my grief, and this would be my advice to women who have had similar experiences:
- Fully discuss cultural practices and expectations in the beginning stages to identify the flaws and benefits of following the practices. This will bring enlightenment and deter future mental overload and feelings of guilt.
- Acknowledge every life, even if you feel it cannot be celebrated.
- Accept the revelation that life is fragile and not always promised.
- Practice gratitude to ignite peace, hope and positivity. Consider the idea that there is always a good part to a story, even if it is simply being left with the tools to comfort and encourage another grieving parent.
Since my loss and up until the present day, the only person I really had available to talk to about my baby was my bereavement midwife. Family and friends only made comments or gave advice, but there was never any real invitation to talk, to pour my heart out.
My bereavement midwife was very good, but she alone could not take away the pain and the cycle of pain and tears; I had to find my own way out. I scoured the internet and looked deep within myself to come up with my own plan for healing.
I survived my baby’s loss by choosing to attend her funeral, even though it would have been frowned upon in the Yoruba community, and even though it was only me.
I sought out baby loss testimonies online, to hear of real life situations; see what was deemed as normal, and see what was really going on in real life and in real time with regards to loss and grieving. This helped me release my grief and heal.
I wrote poetry to express my feelings and preserve my baby’s memory, and I live with few regrets, so I am healing every day.
And lastly, I now believe it is a must, in every possible scenario, to use intelligence to interpret culture.
If you are a bereaved mother, my advice to you would be to please step away from the pressure, think for yourself and choose the path that will satisfy both your present day and your future. Other people may forget, but you will not.
My main desire is to transform the baby loss space into a place of hope. What I realised at my time of loss is that there are a million sad stories to read and connect with out there. You read the stories, you look back on your own situation, you cry and then repress the rest. Then what is next? How can we move forward? I believe we can move forward in hope, lighter, and with a transformed mind-set if we shift our though patterns into evaluation, release and gratitude.
Support for you
Here at Sands, we know that talking about pregnancy and baby loss can be difficult. Please know that you are not alone, and there are people who understand and whom you can speak to in confidence.
Sands Helpline
t: 0808 164 3332
e: helpline@sands.org.uk