A heartbreaking story. The loss of any baby is devastating, but I just can’t begin to comprehend how people find the strength to carry on after losing a baby they’ve carried to term.
‘I was 28, married with a three-year-old son, Conor, and experiencing another straightforward pregnancy.
I knew I was having a little girl, which was perfect. The only slight difference with this pregnancy was that I had marginally raised levels of a certain antibody.
I was told these antibodies can cause tiny blood clots in the placenta and, therefore, there was an increased risk of miscarriage. To combat that, I was given aspirin to take daily, which I did, and the pregnancy developed normally.
I was fine, and then on the night of Sunday, April 28, 2002, I suddenly noticed that the baby hadn’t moved in quite a while. Because I had been so busy that day, I knew it had been hours and hours since I had last felt the baby move. I knew something was seriously wrong. She was such an active baby. I tried not to panic; I just mentioned it casually to my husband, Martin. I tried to make loud noises, like dropping utensils on the tiled kitchen floor – that used to make her jump. I tried to prod my bump. This went on for half an hour but there was no movement. That’s when I called the hospital. I had five days to go before she was due.
Even before calling the maternity unit, I considered the fact that my baby might be dead. I had a terrifying feeling, but I didn’t want a big fuss. In my wisdom, I decided to drive myself to the Royal Alexandra Hospital and leave Martin at home with Conor. I got there at around 11pm. The midwife searched for the baby’s heartbeat and I just knew. Minutes later, it was confirmed. I saw with my own eyes on the ultrasound screen. I’d been for many scans, I knew what the heart looked like and this time the heart was just still. There was no disbelief, no “maybe it’s wrong, keep looking”. It was there in black and white: the baby had died.