Baby Loss Awareness Month: Elle's Personal Story

TW: This is Elle's personal story with regards to the loss of her daughter. This story contains reference to baby loss that can be triggering.

I had a completely text book, low risk pregnancy, and we were all so excited to meet the new addition to our family. My three year old son, Benedict, could not wait to meet his new brother or sister, and we knew he was going to be the best big brother in the world.

I had always been hyper sensitive about baby movements, had bought a wristband and downloaded an app to my phone to enable me to keep track of all my little one’s wriggles and kicks. I had an anterior placenta so the movements weren’t quite as pronounced as when I was pregnant with Benedict, but as the weeks went on I recognised a pattern and always looked forward to going to bed because I knew that was when baby woke up and was most lively. Each morning I would also wake up to lovely strong kicks. I had one trip to the Maternity Assessment Centre due to reduced movements at around 7 months but was reassured because as soon as I was put onto the monitor baby started kicking straight away and they picked up a strong heartbeat. That trip aside, everything was going smoothly and we looked forward to August 5th, my due date, with huge excitement.

August 5th came and went. I had my 40 week midwife appointment the following day and everything was fine. I was offered a stretch and sweep but declined as I was happy for baby to come when they were ready. After all, my son had arrived 8 days after his due date, so I had no concerns that this baby was “late” or “overdue”. I now wish with all my heart that I had at least given it a try - who knows if it might have made a difference?

I went to bed as normal on Wed August 7th and enjoyed feeling all the normal kicks and wriggles, and remember feeling a little wistful that soon I wouldn’t feel them anymore, but also couldn’t wait to have my little wriggler in my arms at long last.

When I woke up the next morning I noticed that I couldn’t feel as much movement as normal, but wasn’t overly worried as it did sometimes take a little while for baby to wake up and start moving. I had a shower and got dressed, but still couldn’t feel anything, so I phoned MAU and was told to come in to be checked over. I was obviously worried but not too concerned at this point - I was sure baby would start kicking again as soon as I was put on the monitor like last time. But it was different this time. I could sense the rising concern as the midwife moved the doppler across my bump and kept coming up with my heartbeat but not baby’s. We were taken through for an emergency scan, and after a couple of minutes I heard the words that will haunt me for the rest of my life. “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.” I just remember screaming “no!” over and over again, Adam held me as we both cried, as we both realised our baby had died, that Benedict was not going to get to meet the baby brother or sister he was so excited about. The rest of the morning passed in a blur, we were taken to a room and told what would happen next, given a load of leaflets, I was given a tablet to start the labour process, and we were told to come back to the Snowdrop Suite in two days’ time. I asked if I could have a C-Section instead - surely I wouldn’t have to go through labour to deliver my dead baby? But we were told that a C-Section wasn’t recommended, that it would be better for the healing process, and for any future pregnancy, if I was induced. My baby had died, my baby was still inside me, and here we were talking about a future pregnancy. None of it was making any sense.

I spent the rest of that day alternatively completely numb and in the worst pain I have ever experienced in my life. I kept asking why? What had I done? Why had this happened to me? To us? To my baby? I was terrified of being induced, terrified of undergoing a traumatic long labour and terrified of meeting my dead baby. We had to go home and tell Benedict that the baby brother or sister he was so excited about had died and would not be coming home. It was important that we were straight with him, we didn’t want to tell him the baby had gone to sleep or anything like that because we didn’t want to confuse him - he would expect the baby to wake up again at some point, or alternatively be frightened of going to sleep again himself. So we told him the baby had been very poorly and had died. He thought about it for a moment, before saying “Mummy, why don’t you give the baby some Calpol? That will make it better.” Such simple, innocent words from a three year old boy who had no concept of death. We had to explain that, sadly, Calpol couldn’t help this time. I will never forget his devastated little face.

The next day was just awful. Waking up (somehow I had eventually fallen asleep) and having to remember all over again what had happened. I still had a massive baby bump, I could still feel our baby moving around inside me, but they were phantom movements, she was just being moved about by the amniotic fluid. As we unpacked my hospital bag, I truly felt my heart break all over again as we took out everything that our baby would now never need. We left in a couple of nappies and a couple of sleepsuits, so excitedly purchased only a couple of weeks ago, and that was all.

I was so scared of being induced. I had no idea what to expect, all I knew was that all our dreams, hopes and expectations for the future were now never to be fulfilled.

In the end, our amazing little girl did me a favour. I woke at 2am on Saturday 10th August with pains, my waters broke at 3am and we made it to the hospital at 3.50am. I was examined and told I was 4cm dilated. I had been following a hypnobirthing course, and had written a birth plan, but had discarded it, thinking it would have no relevance now, but the midwife asked me what my plans had been and when I mentioned the birth pool, she told me I could still have that. By the time she came back from filling the birth pool I was ready to push and I literally made it to the pool five minutes before our baby was born at 5.07am. A mere 3 hour labour which I will always look back on fondly. Jackie the midwife handed our baby to me, before I checked and discovered we had a baby girl. The baby girl we had hoped for. She was absolutely beautiful and my heart filled and broke simultaneously as I held her to me and kissed her beautiful face. We named her Giorgia Helena Jane Ternent. We spent two precious, pure, perfect days with Giorgia - bathed her, dressed her, cuddled her, and filled her with enough love as we could to last a lifetime. Our midwife Debbie arranged for Remember my Baby to come and take some photos, and I’m not sure I can ever articulate just how grateful we are that she did, or just what the beautiful photos that Zoe, our photographer, took, mean to us.

A couple of weeks after Giorgia’s birth, Tommy’s launched their #tellmewhy campaign. That word had haunted me since the very second I discovered Giorgia’s heart had stopped beating, and I fear it will haunt me for the rest of my life. Why why why why why why why? Why did this happened to me? Why had this happened to Giorgia? What had I done? Was it because I had had a chest infection and had taken antibiotics? Was it because I had gone to a festival two weeks ago? Was it because I had gone to sleep on my left side that night? The whys and what ifs just kept spinning round and round in my head, and they are still spinning now. I think they always will. The sweep that I turned down haunts me every day. What if I had said yes, and it had worked? I could have saved us all this utter absolute heartbreak. We consented for Giorgia to have a post mortem but it came back inconclusive, as around 60% of stillbirth post mortems do. There was no discernible reason why our baby died and I still find this so hard to process. It just seems so senseless, so pointless, so utterly utterly devastating. My little girl was beautiful and she deserved a life. I will never understand why this was taken from her.

Five years have now passed since Giorgia died and was born, and it still feels as incomprehensible as it did that very first day. Somehow, life has carried on. Benedict is now 8, and a very proud big brother to both Giorgia and to Malo, who was born in August 2021, just one week before his big sister’s 2nd birthday. Going through pregnancy after loss was the second hardest thing I have ever done in my life, I literally felt as if I held my breath for 38 weeks, and only felt able to breathe again when he was placed safely in my arms. They both talk about Giorgia. Benedict often asks us why she died, and also likes to imagine what she would be like, what she would be interested in, and how they’d play together. Malo points to her photograph and says her name. He knows she is someone special, but doesn’t yet understand just how special, or indeed how very very special he is himself - our little heart healer who has completed our incomplete little family.

We remember Giorgia in many ways. She has a tree that we planted in our local park, a stone with her name on outside Elland Road, her name is on the Walk of Art at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park, and also on an RNLI lifeboat. Every time we go to the beach we write her name in the sand, and last year I got her initial inside a heart tattooed on my hand. Forever my girl, forever holding my hand. We mark her birthday every year with sunflowers, birthday cake and a day out somewhere she would have enjoyed. We do as much as we can for her, but it is never enough. It will never be enough, because she will never be here for any of it. And no matter how many years we spend on this earth without her, that will never make sense. And that is why I will always talk about her, and why I will always talk about baby loss to as many people as I can. Because 8 babies are stillborn every day in the UK, there are between 302 and 428 miscarriages every day in the UK, and 5 neonatal deaths every single day in the UK. 5000 much loved and longed for babies are terminated for medical reasons every year. That is so many heartbroken, devastated, bereaved families. Baby loss affects everyone. 1 in 4 pregnancies end in loss. 50% of the UK population have themselves, or know someone who has, experienced baby loss, and it needs to be talked about and understood more.