Angel In My Heart

By Jade Cheng

On this Cheng Beng (All Souls Day) Sunday, when the Chinese remember their dearly departed ones, let me tell you about a darling angel who almost came into this world, and who has never left my heart. If she had lived, she would be 21 now, a full grown adult!

It was my first pregnancy, and it had gone well ... for seven months. Then I was told by a gynaecologist friend that I was bigger than normal.

"You must see your gynae for a check-up," he stressed. He was very serious, but still I couldn't imagine that anything could go wrong. I had been so healthy, I had worked throughout without any problems. I hadn't even suffered much from morning sickness.

My gynae immediately put me on full bed rest. Something was not right, but nothing had shown up in the ultrasound scan ... until one week later. The baby had a growth around its neck that was preventing it from swallowing, hence my enlarged water bag. More observations showed that the growth was increasing at a phenomenal pace. It was not known yet if the tumour was malignant or not. But the doctor said it would be very difficult for the baby to survive or live a normal life. He recommended inducing birth and not reviving the baby if it could not breathe. My husband agreed.

I hesitated, but was too shocked, confused and numb to put up a fight. I went along with the decision. But inside me, I felt like a murderer, of my own baby, whom I was supposed to protect and nurture. I was relieved when the post-mortem tests showed the tumour to be malignant - she wouldn't have survived.

I didn't know if I could make it through the ordeal of labour and delivery with the knowledge that there would be no bundle of joy at the end of it all. I longed to just go for caesarean - get knocked out and have everything done while I was unconscious. But that meant undergoing a major surgery and I was advised against it.

The night before the delivery, I asked for a sleeping pill. In those days, they didn't allow husbands in the delivery room so I was alone most of the time. I got the thickest novel I could find and fixed my mind on it to shut out all other thoughts. The delivery itself was not overly painful - perhaps I was too numb to feel much pain. My husband had told me to close my eyes and not look at the baby. Again, I was too numb to think independently. I remember the nurse telling me I had a beautiful girl and asking me if I wanted to see her. I shut my eyes tightly and shook my head.

I agreed to give up my baby's body for scientific research. When later, I changed my mind about not seeing her, there was nothing left. The doctor showed me a photograph and yes, the nurse was right - she was beautiful. But we have nothing physical to remember her by. She is buried nowhere but in my heart.

Family and friends were stunned by the turn of events. Not knowing how to react, they pretended that nothing had happened. There was no acknowledgement that the baby had existed at all, that we had lost a baby.

When my mother-in-law caught me crying, she told me not to cry or I would go blind. It was her way of trying to help me get over my loss. My husband, fraught with anxiety over my well-being, was a bundle of nerves. In those days, when nobody understood the psychology of the grieving process, my crying indicated to him that I was not doing well and it made his heartburn worse. In order to help him calm down, I tried not to cry in front of him. That way, they thought I was putting the loss behind me and was on the way to recovery.

My colleagues who knew about the tragedy thought they were respecting my privacy by not gossiping about it to others. Thus, many in the office didn't know any better. For more times than I could bear, the cleaning ladies, the telephone operator, and people form other departments would come beaming to me and ask me if I had a boy or a girl. I broke down many times. But many more times I learnt to say, "I lost the baby". The smiles would turn to shock as the enquirers slinked away in silence. I forcibly pushed down the cry welling up inside me and turned back to work.

I wished my close friends would have the sense to tell others not to ask me about the subject, but they didn't and I couldn't talk about it at all. For months, I sobbed uncontrollably almost every day on the drive home from work, hoping that people in the cars around me wouldn't notice.

Slowly, the months stretched into years. Other events in my life took centre stage. We didn't have other children and I couldn't decide whether or not to go all out to try for kids. My husband said it didn't matter to him whether or not we had kids. "If we have kids, fine. If not, we'll travel," he used to say. I didn't know if I really wanted to be a mother, or whether I wanted a baby to make up for my lost angel. On the outside, I acted normally. But deep inside, I never got over the tragedy ... not for a long time.

It wasn't until eight years later that I had to make a choice. I was about to go all out to try for a baby to avoid possible regret in later years. Then the opportunity arose for me to pursue a course of studies I had dreamt about for more than 10 years. But if the baby effort turned out successful, I wouldn't have time for the studies. Examining myself deeply, I realised that I preferred to pursue the course, that being a mother was not important to me. Then and only then did the last boulder of crippling a corner of my heart dislodge and I was whole again.

It doesn't mean that the sadness is completely gone. Indeed, writing this article made me cry buckets all over again. But it does mean that I am free today to enjoy other people's children - my nephews and nieces, my friends' kids. I am also able to emphatise with the unbearable pain of a mother's loss, even though I never quite got to be a full-fledged mother. I appreciate the need of those who have suffered the tragic death of a loved one to undergo a healthy grieving process, and the role that family, friends and third parties can play in this process.

While I would not have chosen such a painful experience, I thank my darling angel who, in coming so briefly into my life, made me a better, more compassionate and sensitive person. I regret that I never held my baby and kissed her and told her that I will always love her. But I know that she knows. And just as she has moved on, so have I.

Starmag