Love & loss

A sudden and heartbreaking pregnancy loss brought all-consuming grief to Vogue’s Remy Rippon, but also the conviction to bring something that affects so many out of the shadows.

HEALTH

a pandemic felt strangely optimistic. While there was great heartache and devastation happening in the world around us as well as the uncertainty of preparing to give birth amid exhausted hospitals and unpredictable lockdown restrictions, our bubble felt warm. If 2020 was the year everyone wished to be over, my husband and I reframed it as the year our family would grow after years of losses.

Following two previous miscarriages, the notion that this new pregnancy – identical twins! – may finally result in healthy babies began to feel real. The 20-week anatomy scan returned a comforting

BEING PREGNANT DURING

‘normal’ and ‘healthy’ in an email from our obstetrician, and I allowed the cautious cloud that loomed over my third pregnancy to lift: I made parental leave arrangements and diarised Zoom birthing classes.

The air was crisp on the July morning a dull ache in my left side prompted an emergency ultrasound. I was soon diagnosed with Twin-to-Twin Transfusion Syndrome – a condition occurring in 10 per cent of monochorionic twin pregnancies where one baby (the donor twin) gives most or all of their amniotic fluid to the other via their shared membrane, resulting in issues for both babies.

It can be monitored and managed and in more severe cases, doctors can perform laser keyhole surgery to rebalance the fluid. Our case was acute, but the outlook of saving one or both twins with a scheduled surgery the following day, was optimistic.

I was already wide-awake staring at the ceiling when, in the early hours that morning, my waters broke under the intense pressure of the accumulating fluid. With that, the surgery and all possible options to save the lives of our daughters were swept away. It seemed almost cruel that as I lay in the delivery room at the hospital waiting to be induced, I could still feel the belly kicks that had previously brought so much reassurance. Alas, our little girls entered the world that day at just 21 weeks gestation.

In the weeks that passed, my husband and I got on with life. We went to Bunnings. We hung shelves. We bought a sofa bed for the spare room in place of a cot. We baked bread. We did 1,000-piece puzzles in record time. We drove aimlessly in the fancy car we had bought to fit two baby capsules. We filled the emptiness as best we could.

We also learnt grief is an obscure beast. People talk about waves of grief, but I liken it more to an earthquake. When it hits, it rocks even the most solid foundations, with the life you knew as well as the one you imagined crumbling around you. Frequently, that time felt like a series of ‘firsts’: mundane tasks like buying a takeaway coffee or going to Woolies felt different. As soon as I had conquered one, another one appeared.

Then there are the aftershocks. Sometimes they come in the form of lovely ripples (receiving my daughters’ birth certificates in the mail or seeing the little freckle that developed during their pregnancy, which I hope never fades). Other times they’re tectonic shifts that feel physically painful (receiving my daughters’ death certificates in the mail, or collecting a small urn of their ashes from a crematorium on a sunny Thursday). Mostly, grief just feels awkward – like wearing someone else’s clothes and longing to be back in your familiar wardrobe. Where, I wonder, is the ‘what to expect’ manual for this?

Like so many women, my entry into motherhood looked remarkably different to the portrait painted in health insurance ads. But motherhood has many faces. It’s the woman who shows up to the office after a miscarriage. It’s the woman going through yet another round of IVF. It’s the woman googling Australian surrogacy laws after many painful years of trying to conceive. It’s the woman simultaneously saying hello and goodbye to her baby. It’s the woman who holds her breath and pees on a stick every month, and it’s the thousands of women for whom the simple question of ‘do you have children?’ has no simple answer.

The statistics speak for themselves. Recent data shows up to one in four pregnancies in Australia ends in miscarriage. Surprisingly, stillbirth numbers have shown little improvement in the past 20 years with almost 2,200 babies born non-responsive annually. Moreover, stillbirth rates after 28 weeks gestation are 30 per cent higher in Australia than many other developed countries; the Stillbirth Centre of Research Excellence calling it ‘a major unaddressed public health problem’. Where twins are concerned, we know even less. Identical twins – when the fertilised egg splits – remain largely a mystery and doctors are no closer to discovering why Twin-to-Twin Transfusion Syndrome occurs in some identical twin pregnancies and not others.

These are figures many families learn when they become one of those statistics, a sobering fact which prompted Australian director Tahyna MacManus to create MuM: Misunderstandings of Miscarriage, an illuminating documentary on miscarriage and stillbirth, debuting on Stan this month. “I had no idea at the age of 28 that it would even be possible that I would miscarry so I naively fell into that group of ‘this doesn’t happen to me’. I had the positive pregnancy test and I assumed everything was going to go just fine,” says MacManus, who documents her journey through three miscarriages as well as the personal accounts of many women, for the film. “I wanted to start a conversation because I felt alone and isolated, and I felt that maybe if we all start talking and normalising the conversation about miscarriage, there will be less women feeling isolated.”

Opening the discussion raises many complex questions: Does the ’12-week wait’ many couples (myself included) subscribe to in those precarious early weeks of pregnancy manifest a culture of secrecy and shame surrounding pregnancy loss? If we only hear of the success stories, how can we adequately support friends, family and co-workers who are riding the roller-coaster of infertility? Would grief feel less lonely if we knew just how many women and men in our office, circle of friends or pilates class also carried this silent load?

As difficult – perhaps even triggering – as these conversations are, squashing them down like a jack-in-the-box simply means they feel even more jarring when they inevitably pop up. Just this morning, as I hastily dressed in the dark for a 6am workout, I unknowingly threw on my maternity tights. Nothing says ‘you’re not pregnant’ more than an empty kangaroo pouch of Lycra finishing at your boobs. My point? Even if we’re not discussing it, women who are facing an uphill fertility battle or have experienced loss are reminded constantly. Ignoring meaningful discussion means the bowl-you-over moments come with little guidance on how to wade through them.

Navigating what feels right is ultimately a personal journey, as is this admission: when I began writing this piece I had no intention of penning my daughters’ names. But that’s the other thing about a mother’s love and loss: it twists and turns in ways you least expected. In the interest of sharing the complete story and writing the words that are even more difficult to say, I leave this: Bertie and Marlow. And with those two simple words, the load feels a little lighter.

For grief and loss support services, go to www.rednose.org.au or www.miscarriagesupport.org.au.

Mostly, grief just feels awkward, like wearing someone else’s clothes and longing to be back in your familiar wardrobe. Where, I wonder, is the ‘what to expect’ manual for this?

By Johnny garment can be spotted at a glance. Working with sharp graphic shapes, bold cuts and vivid colour, designer Johnny Schembri creates show-stopping clothing that guarantees you won’t fade into any background. The striking creations are born of Sydney-based Schembri’s appreciation of architecture and art. “My designs often feature strong lines. It’s all about fit and structure,” he says. “I’m very much inspired by architecture, interiors and the repetition of tiles and geo shapes.”

When collaborating with Vogue Australia to reimagine the design for NIVEA Black & White Clear, the unique antiperspirant deodorant that keeps black clothing black, and white clothing white for longer, Schembri applied the same process he uses for his instantly recognisable clothing. “The design I created for NIVEA is very much representative of what I do in terms of the shape, the lines, the colour and even the white space – each element is carefully placed and considered,” he says. “I made a series of mock-ups and played with how I would take away the white or put the white back in. It was all about cutting the bottle into different proportions to create an interesting combination.”

NIVEA’s innovative Black & White Clear was the first deodorant of its kind. Its special formula offers 48-hour antiperspirant protection

ATHE DESIGN I CREATED FOR NIVEA IS VERY MUCH REPRESENTATIVE OF WHAT I DO IN TERMS OF THE SHAPE, THE LINES, THE COLOUR AND EVEN THE WHITE SPACE – EACH ELEMENT IS CAREFULLY PLACED AND CONSIDERED.