A note about terminology
I have thought long and hard about how to refer to babies who die in utero. I have found it hard to say the words; my baby died. But despite how harsh it sounds, that’s the reality of the situation: my baby died.
I think people who have not experienced the death of a baby in utero first-hand, also struggle with saying this. The concept of a baby dying before it has been born or taken its first breath can be hard to rationalise. If you carried the baby, however, it is painfully clear that your baby was alive inside you until their heart stopped beating.
The most common way we refer to babies who die in utero is as ‘lost babies’. Baby loss is often used as the overarching title for this topic and encompasses the death of a baby at any stage of pregnancy and in infancy. Other terms used are ‘angel baby’, ‘lost pregnancy’, ‘interrupted pregnancy’, ‘born sleeping’, ‘miscarried fetus’, ‘unviable embryo’, ‘retained products of conception’, ‘genetic termination’, ‘termination for medical reasons’ and ‘born still’. Ultimately, they all mean the same thing: a baby who has passed away before, or after birth, and heartbroken parents with empty arms.
Those of us who have lived through this tragedy know, that we did not lose our babies, or simply forget to bring them home from hospital with us, they died. For me, the term I found myself saying the most was ‘we lost our baby’, especially in the early stages of grief. It took me a long time to say the words, ‘Miles died’. I also consider the many parents who have also walked this path to be part of the ‘baby loss community’, so I decided to use the terms ‘lost baby’ and ‘baby loss’ throughout the book.
Saying ‘lost babies’ or ‘baby loss’ is not an attempt to shy away from the distressing reality that my baby and so many others have died. It’s simply the description that flowed most freely as I was writing. I do also say, ‘when Miles died’ or ‘after Miles died’, as this accurately describes different points in time, and I encourage you to substitute whatever words feel most comfortable for you as you read through the pages ahead.
Annabel xx
Introduction
First of all I want you to know that you will survive this. You probably don’t believe me, or think that it is possible, but please have faith that one day, you will smile again. The loss of a baby is achingly sad, life changing and shocking. I think most people are completely blindsided, their world abruptly turned upside down by the realisation that their precious baby will not be coming home with them. In the blink of an eye, what is supposed to be a happy, life-giving experience becomes one of utter heartbreak. Perhaps you woke up one morning full of hope, your head and heart full of dreams for the future, a future that involved the exact child you were carrying. You were excited to be off to a scan to see your baby, or your mind was occupied by this special news that you were yet to share with others. By day’s end, that excitement had evaporated, your heart was broken and your innocent bubble of happiness had abruptly burst.
We first learned of Miles’ condition amidst an ordinary morning’s chaos. It never occurred to me that by afternoon, our world would be devastated. During the scan where we first received the bad news about our baby’s condition, I thought, No, not us. This can’t be happening. I thought it had to be a bad dream, a nightmare. Was it something I’d done wrong during the pregnancy, something I’d eaten? Or was it down to my age and doing too much?
When you are in the initial throes of losing a baby or have just been told that your baby has died, these questions are ever-present and unanswerable. When the reality of our situation and its inevitable consequences hit, what followed for me was pure fear and overwhelming doubt as to whether we could survive what lay ahead.
I started to write this book when I was beginning to navigate the heartbreaking death of my baby boy, Miles. He was delivered stillborn almost six months into my pregnancy. Until that point in my life, I had never felt such pain, disbelief or utter despair. When I lost Miles, I had the unwavering support of my husband Josh, as well as friends and family who would have done anything to help, yet I still felt utterly alone and inconsolable. I was living in my own world of pain. No one could help me; nothing could ease the heartache. I couldn’t imagine ever finding a way to live with my loss. I searched endlessly for answers, both before and after Miles was delivered. I felt like I had read the entire internet, seeking information and looking for comfort; mostly hunting for stories that would give me some hope of survival.
Over and over again, I couldn’t find what I was looking for, or I found something that resonated, only to click past the page and forget where I’d read it. The internet also has a cruel way of reminding you of what you are not. While searching for stories of baby loss, ads for maternity wear appeared and notifications inviting me to see my baby’s progress popped up. The algorithms could not register my loss. These reminders sent me crashing down: the internet was proving more foe than friend.
I was searching for a heartfelt guide, not an overly medical piece or a carefully worded article giving generic advice. I found many stories that focused on the days and the actual events surrounding the loss of a baby, but couldn’t find many that focused on surviving the grief and heartache in the weeks, months and years afterwards. I needed an honest account from someone who’d been through this shocking experience, something I could return to, like a trusted friend. A warts-and-all book in which it was all laid bare; a story told with absolute honesty and zero filter. I wanted to know that what I was feeling was normal and to hear the experiences of other women who had endured this pain, to read about how they had survived the aftermath and learned to live with their loss. There was very little out there. After a while, I decided that I should write the book I’d wished I had on my bedside table.
I knew that even though I’d never had (and never would have) the chance to get to know my baby outside the womb, this did not alter the significance of my loss. No one other than Josh had had the chance to get to know Miles. This, too, did not make his existence any less of a life. It did not minimise the grief of his death, or make his legacy any less important. The death of a baby in utero is a death different to most others, however it’s just as painful and just as devastating. This was why, for me, hearing the experiences of women who had been there before helped me immensely. I want to do the same for others, by ignoring the silence and stigma attached to baby loss and speaking openly of my experience and the enormous love I have for my baby.
The loss of a baby is a deeply traumatic life event, one you should never feel you have to ‘get over’ or ‘be okay’ with. You can grieve for as long as you like and miss your baby every single day. Grief is a long, hard road, not one to be rushed or forced. I hope you find some practical, honest support in the pages ahead and at the very least, feel less alone in your pain. I am not a psychologist, writer or grief counsellor. I am the very proud mum of a beautiful little boy called Miles who never got to come home with me. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to smile or feel joy again after the day I had to put him down in that hospital cot and walk out the door, leaving him behind. I felt like my heart had been ripped out of my body and my stomach kicked in. But somehow I did learn to feel happy and experience joy again. And I learned that this didn’t take anything away from the love I felt for Miles: it was okay to be both happy and sad.
Baby loss is the loss of a baby at any stage of pregnancy, whether it’s an embryo, an ectopic pregnancy, an early or late miscarriage, a stillbirth, the loss of one twin in utero, or the loss of an infant. Each is different. Each brings its own sorrow and heartache. Miscarriages often go unannounced and are rarely publicly shared, which means women miss out on the support they so desperately need. We are encouraged not to tell people about a pregnancy until twelve weeks. If the baby is lost before this point, it may remain shrouded in secrecy. There doesn’t seem to be an avenue to talk about it openly.
Baby loss is such a taboo subject. Sadly there is a secret society of women who have endured it, often silently. It’s hard to talk about, and people avoid talking about it, as they find it too confronting. People who haven’t experienced baby loss find it impossible to understand the depth of anguish that is felt by those who have. Perhaps that’s why it’s not mentioned: people just can’t bear to wrap their minds around it. The loss is unbelievably isolating, which made it even harder for me to cope with.