Fien's day

 "It really doesn't feel right, there is clearly something wrong"

"Well, then you should make an appointment with the doctor or go to the emergency room. If only to make sure everything is okay, to feel more at ease again. "

She worries easily. Especially when she is pregnant, then she is extra alert. So everyone around her tries to reassure her that it will be nothing and that everything is ok. She doesn’t go to the emergency room. On Monday morning, she contact her gynaecologist directly. His diary is packed, but he will come to his practice half an hour early on Wednesday. Nina has been a patient there for a long time, he too assumes it will be nothing. So far, the pregnancy is also going perfectly, there is no reason to think anything would be wrong. 

Wednesday morning I go to the gynaecologist's practice. Nina is already there. I took the two eldest to school first and therefore join a little later. We don’t have to wait too long. Almost immediately after my arrival, he invites us into his cabinet.

Nina tells him she hasn't felt Fien for a few days. Something really noticeable, until a few days ago she was still very lively.

The night of 31 August, Nina felt her kicking really hard at night, and nothing since then.

Nina takes a seat in the gynaecology chair. Like all previous times, I watch the ultrasound screen with her. Again, I don't make much of it. It never ceases to amaze me what a doctor does get out of that. Nina has her gaze on the gynaecologist the whole time, she doesn't let go of him.

"It's not ok, is it doctor?" I hear her ask. “Feel free to say it, you know.” His facial expression indicated that it was not ok.

"No, it's not ok. I don't understand. I don't see any more amniotic fluid. Can't you remember one of the past few days it all drained away?"

"No doctor, I didn't notice anything like that."

"I don't see any heartbeat either..." After which he uses a different device, something a gynaecologist usually uses to hear the beating heart. This time, however, a long silence follows.

In the end, he cannot help but diagnose that Fien is dead. From the moment he informs us of this, something he himself was clearly affected by, we enter a stupor, things go on autopilot for a while. I stay with Nina while she gets dressed again. We then take a seat at the desk to discuss how to proceed.

His first suggestion is to have Fien come in a few days with a normal delivery. Something Nina absolutely does not like. Due to all sorts of complications, the previous three deliveries went by Caesarean section. Now giving birth to a lifeless child in a 'normal' way is emotionally far too difficult.

The doctor asks if Nina wants to wait a few days, so she can say parting longer. Apparently, some mums ask for that. But even that is not an option, also emotionally too difficult. The idea of spending a few more days with a lifeless child is unbearable. 

After a few phone calls to the surgical HQ of a couple of hospitals, we agree that Nina will deliver by caesarean section the same day.

A little later, we sit side by side in the tram, in silence. There is not much to say, for a moment everything stops. What can you say now? It is incomprehensible and at the same time so unfair. We undergo it and try to understand it. It felt like a very long tram ride that went on exactly endlessly. Initially, I try to hold back, but by the time we are almost home, I can't hold back my tears.

On returning home, granny is waiting for us, she has come to babysit our youngest. She too is shocked, of course. Not much later I leave for school to pick up the two eldest. I agree with Nina to just pick them up as always. Not saying anything about it yet, pretending it's a Wednesday afternoon like every week.

I am waiting at the school gate with a large group of other parents. One of the mums asks me how we are doing, and Nina. I tell her that we have just come from the gynaecologist, that Fien has died. Of course she is shocked by that too. Spontaneously she grabs me, gives me a big warm hug. Really what I need at that moment. It becomes too much for me, I start crying. Something that does stand out in a group like this, but for the moment I don't care how it comes across and what people might think. By the time the bell rings and the children arrive, I manage to pull myself together and be the "happy" daddy.

Yes, of course when they come home they are shocked by the news that their little sister has died. But somehow, exactly, they can handle it pretty easily anyway. Or do they want to be strong for their mum and dad, not to put too much extra burden on us?

That afternoon I take Nina to the hospital for a caesarean section delivery. This time I do not get to join them in the operating room, as it is not with an epidural, but under full anaesthesia. For the rest, things are different: No crying of a newborn baby. No stuffed bed in the room. We also lie at the very beginning of the corridor. That way, we are a bit removed from all the other happy mums, dads and other enthusiastic visitors.

No birth card at the door. Also no cake with Fien's name on it or a Trappist for the mum (which I always ended up drinking).

Towards the end of the evening, I am invited to sit with Fien in a small room. It feels awkward, it is something I am not at all prepared for. Should I say something to her? Or should I just grab and hug her? Something I don't do, because I find that a bit discomforting. So I put myself next to her for a while, watching her, with much disbelief. It comes over as though I don't quite realise it yet. When I continue after a while, I hear some surprise in the nurse's reaction. That I am ready so soon. Although I myself am completely unaware of how long I have been sitting there. Afterwards, still now, I regret not having taken her into my arms for a while after all.

The nurse accompanies me back to Nina's room and asks her if she wants to see Fien too. Of course she wants to! They wheel the cot into the room and put it next to Nina. Fien lies there wrapped in a blanket made by volunteers. A gesture they use to give extra comfort to those who lose their baby. It's not immediately our style, but accept it gratefully, it really does do something.

Fien is wearing a tiny pink cap. Nina asks the nurses if she can keep it. Also whether they can cut off a tuft of hair. When we go home, we also get a print of Fien's hands and feet. They really make an effort to make it all a bit more bearable for us. Meanwhile, there are ‘the Berre Fund’ and ‘Above the Clouds’, which do some really nice work. They are a handhold for (grand)parents, family and friends when the unthinkable happens to them: the loss of a child.

We have an undertaker in the family, which makes it all a bit easier. He comes right away and guides us on how to proceed. We especially want to protect our two eldest children as much as possible, make sure they get through this well. The youngest is not yet 2 years old, she doesn't realise it yet, it partly passes her by.

Having the two eldest look at Fien does not seem a good idea.

But they keep insisting and the uncle undertaker tells us that sometimes children can handle more than we think. The same day I pick them both up at home and take them to the Middelheim hospital.

Our Fien is already in her little white coffin in the car by then. With the uncle and the two eldest we go to her and open it together. And there she lies beautifully laid out on a soft blanket, her blanket. Full of wonder, they look, they stroke her forehead and her hair and take it all in. Somehow, there is a lot of beauty in this little scene. They handle it very lovingly, with their little sister. Later, it will gnaw extra at Anke. Fien looks very much like her. Fairly brown skin and lots of dark hair.

We let them do it, give them the time they need. Until at some point they indicate themselves that it's ok. Together they put the lid on the coffin and very carefully screw in the four screws.

In the funeral home, the aunt takes some photos of Fien. We are still very grateful to her today.

No, Fien may not be cremated. They find that too scary. Nina would like that though, so she can give Fien a place at home. Something she still regrets today, that she is not at home with us, but buried there at Schoonselhof cemetery.

We involve our children in the farewell, a small ceremony in a small circle. Child-sized with lots of children's songs. A volunteer from the organisation 'people now' assists us. She visited us beforehand to plan the ceremony together. She speaks several times during the farewell. For us it is too difficult, so we let her read out our texts.

In closing, we give Fien her spot on the Schoonselhof children's lawn. I will visit it from time to time, concluding after a bike ride.

For the first few years, we went there with the whole family on 5 September and then we each released a balloon for her, on which we all wrote down a message for Fien. In the meantime, this ritual has been replaced by blowing bubbles every year because, from an environmental point of view, we no longer find it responsible to let plastic run free.

Each we also paint a big white boulder that gets a spot there.

Well, there is some wear and tear, but the sadness and anger never go away. I keep finding it so unfair to this day. She would be so well and lovingly cared for. With every space to develop and become who she wants to be. We still cannot think of a single argument that can justify why our Fien is not here....