the wordless prayer

Sophie Gidet recounts the silent prayer uttered in a time of tragedy and helplessness

PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS ARTICLE CONTAINS CONTENT ABOUT PREGNANCY LOSS THAT SOME READERS MAY FIND DISTRESSING.

I came out of the room thrilled yet again by the joyous notion of having helped a baby come into the world. The look of utter exhaustion, exhilaration, and thankfulness on the mother’s face. The dad, carefully trying to conceal his tears and the utmost expression of pride and wonder at his partner. The baby nestled there, oblivious and gazing up at the world with this unique and peculiar eyelash-less newborn stare, probably wondering what in the world had just taken place.

But now, the antithesis of this joyous event presented itself: a pregnant lady drenched in blood, the look of horror on her face. Her hair clinging to her sweaty forehead, and that look of sheer panic that no amount of training and experience can prepare you to set right. She was lying on a stretcher, pushed along by the paramedics who had just stormed onto the labour ward and were darting anxious looks around, seeking who they might hand over this desperate situation to.

There was no time for deliberation; I was standing closest, and so the task fell to me. We rushed her into our closest empty room. Hearts pounding, we transferred her to a bed. I cannot remember the words spoken and unspoken that passed between my colleagues and me. My recollection of this event is more of one where you are too anxious to speak anything other than calm, succinct words.

As soon as she was moved onto a bed, my colleagues and I worked through the tasks that lay closest to us. Attempting to speak calming and reassuring words, all the while trying to conceal our own sheer sense of hopelessness. Doppler in hand, I tremblingly placed it on her abdomen. Because this was the unspoken dread on all of our minds, mother firstly and then of us all as the medical team. Is there a heartbeat? Is the baby still alive?

Deafening silence filled the room as I moved across anteriorly and laterally, ears pricked feverishly all the while. Nothing. No noise came from the fetal monitor. A quick knowing look to my colleague that said it all while she was investigating the extent of the blood loss and starting to cannulate the lady. By now, the doctors were in the room too, and I handed the monitor over silently. Only they could make the official diagnosis.

Around that time, the partner ran into the room to his beloved, straining a reassuring smile. And then the diagnosis was made official. I cried as I watched them take in the news. I will never forget standing there watching their worlds crumble. It was his first baby and her second.

It is in those situations that I have no words to utter to God, and there seems so often to be no time either. Inside, all I can do is say a weak ‘Oh Lord!’ that conveys more meaning than words ever will. Like a deep inner sigh to the Maker who is already welcoming this precious little life that dark forces have so cruelly taken from their expectant parents. Oh, the total bewilderment of this sort of situation, yet fully knowing that God is God and only he can work through and within so much earthly pain.

There was no time to deliberate or allow the parents to integrate the terrible news. Her bleeding was ongoing, and our focus shifted to the mother. She needed delivering, and now.

I was honoured in the time that followed to be handed their beautiful child by the surgeon, rosy-cheeked and perfect in every way. The theatre was silent. The mother, temporarily allowed a reprieve from her emotional agony, lay asleep under general anaesthesia.

Later, my colleagues and I were invited to take part in the family’s final goodbyes to their daughter.

So often in healthcare, I am struck anew as to how little we can do and yet how privileged we are to support people through their most difficult times.

Sophie Gidet is a midwife who works in the Southeast of England.