So, this week has been a week where I’ve given a lot of thought to the subject of baby loss. As I get stuck into my dissertation I find myself surrounded by evidence that, actually, we still are not consistently providing women with the care they need after they loose a baby. Whether the baby dies before birth, during labour, or after delivery women are often left floundering through the coming weeks and months with very little support.

Once I left hospital for the final time. With Russ. Without my baby. Not a single health care professional came to see us. No one phoned. Well, no one phoned except the midwife who called to see “how are things?”. So I told her. Like I told the GP at my postnatal check up. Like I shouldn’t have had to tell anyone involved in our care. I told them: my baby died. And, until you have to say those words, you will never know quite how they stick in your throat and make you eyes sting. How they break your heart every single time.

So, this week, in amongst the piles of evidence, the systematic reviews and the guidelines, even before I have critiqued literature and drawn conclusions I have confirmed why I am doing what I am doing. If I can ensure that no body who I care for has to explain why her baby is not with her, or why she doesn’t want to have her baby weighed on day 5, then I am making a difference. Saving her those three little words can make all the difference.