Yesterday at the end of Baby Loss Awareness Week, there was an international wave of light, where all over the world people light candles at 7pm local time to remember all the babies who have died. I didn’t light a candle. I didn’t light a candle because I was busy, I was looking after other pregnant women and their babies. It’s ironic somehow, but also it is a fitting tribute to Tilly. In amongst the cacophony of the maternity unit, you probably wouldn’t even think about what brought me here, you probably wouldn’t notice, maybe you wouldn’t even know. But that is why I came here, how I arrived here, and how I know that every single baby is precious. That if I look after someone who has lost a baby I know that they are feeling utterly devastated, in a place that they never imagined they would be. And although I can not tell them that I know, I know they will get through. It is part of our job to share with women in the joy, but also to care for women in the darkness. We have an amazing bereavement midwife on our unit, our women are well supported. When we left paediatric intensive without out baby, no professionals supported us, we had to find out own way. I had to tell a midwife and my GP that my baby had died. We are lucky, we have good friends and family, but some people are not so lucky, or they are isolated. We need to support these women and families, let them make memories, let them talk about their babies. Don’t be afraid to say their names. Let’s talk about baby and infant loss. Say their names. Tilly Grace Beaumont.
Lost
But here’s the thing, Tilly was not a miscarriage, she was not still born, she was not even a neonatal death. She was an infant death. These terms are defined. There are charities and support for different types of loss. Yet somehow, when you give birth to an apparently healthy baby who later dies, you get lost.
In the early hours of the 25th of April my husband and I left the hospital without our baby. We had to go home and tell our three and a half year old that her sister had died, that she would not be coming home again. I had to tell a midwife who called to see ‘how things were’ that I was organising a funeral’. I had to attend a postnatal check up on my own and tell the GP that my baby had died. And the week before Tilly’s first birthday, I had the results of her new born blood spot test through the post. Not one health professional got in contact with me. Not one health professional offered any support. Once I left that hospital we were on our own.
Infant Loss
When I look back, I wonder how we got though those early days, weeks and months, but we did. It’s appalling that there is such limited provision to support parents and families after the loss of a baby, and that there is such a difference across regions. I was lucky to have a supportive network and over the months I was able to find coping mechanisms, but I can see how easily it could have been very different. No one family should feel alone and unsupported after losing a child.
I am about to embark on a career that will allow me to support women and families in many ways, including when they lose a baby. I endeavour to do my best so that no women has to explain why she hasn’t got her baby at her postnatal check, to ensure that I do the communicating and that she accesses the right support. Something positive out of something devastating. Knowing that my experience has shaped me but it doesn’t define me, that I live to make both my girls proud.
