To My Family, I Mattered.

I have avoided sitting down to write this particular blog for a few days now because unlike the usual lighthearted fun and general ease of the topics I cover, this one cuts deep - not just for me but for so many other families around the world.

Although the group of people I keep close is small, I am hard pushed to name anyone who hasn't experienced the loss of a child whether it be a stillbirth, an infant death, a miscarriage or discovering that they are unable to conceive. The figures are staggering.

1 in 4 pregnancies end in loss

1 in 160 babies are born still

24,000 infants die every single year

I am the mother to two angels who got their wings way before I was ready for them to go and even to this day, it is still the hardest reality I have ever had to face.

With no warning and no reason to help you understand, losing a child you felt growing inside you is devastating, and whilst I hope that things have changed, when it happened to me, there was no support or understanding in place to help me through it.

My first child was an early miscarriage.

Had it happened just a few days earlier, I would have probably put it down to a super heavy period, overdosed on paracetamol and eaten way too much chocolate for a few days.

We had been trying for a little while so when I took the test and it came back positive, we were thrilled.

Within days though, that excitement turned to devastation as I started spotting, and 24 hours later, our first baby was gone.

The thing that always stayed with me and still haunts me to this day is the term that was used at the time on my paperwork at the hospital.

'Spontaneous abortion'.

That word on there, associated with choosing to no longer be pregnant was like being punched in the stomach. We hadn't even had time to begin to enjoy the fact that we were pregnant before things went wrong, and reading that word made me more angry than I could ever have imagined because this had not been my choice.

That had been taken away from me.

Even now, it still sits on my NHS notes and when I occasionally see it there, it cuts deep - not just because of the loss but because of what that word represents and because the Dr really didn't care that at that moment, while she was examining me, my hopes and dreams were dying inside me.

You see, and this is the kicker, a baby is not just that one moment in time.

This little life blows in during a moment of passion - planned or unplanned isn't really all that important in the grand scheme of things - and with that new life comes an unbelievable array of possibility.

That little life represents a lifetime of living. Of learning and growing every single day.

Its a collection of stories and experiences that shape the person that they would have become.

Within that tiny little body lies such possibility and potential and the opportunity to be so much more than you could ever imagine for them.

Its relationships, friendships, grandchildren, great grandchildren, family, love, loss, laughter, tears and everything else that living brings.

When you lose a child, you haven't just lost a child. You have lost a lifetime of everything that comes with that little life, and trying to even begin to comprehend that is unimaginable.

My second loss was a year later and much further on.

The first 12 weeks was terrifying because the chances of losing a child are so much higher during that period of time. Getting past that was like being granted a stay of execution.

Every twinge, every cramp, every moment of discomfort sent me spiralling with the fear that we were going to lose this one and I would have to figure out how to move forward again.

I celebrated the 12 week mark because we felt that meant things were going to be okay.

I began to feel little movements at around 16 weeks, like the gentle flutter of butterfly wings against my skin. My body was changing every single day and as my bump began to grow, I started to get more and more excited. We started planning and looking at things that we needed for the new arrival, and in amongst the exhilaration, we never even considered the possibility that things weren't going to end well.

At 21 weeks, I was back in hospital again with another little life leaving my body, and there was absolutely nothing that anyone could do.

He had a name - Benjamin Daniel - and yet even with that, my body was failing me again.

The loss of Ben resulted in a stay over at the hospital as I had to have a scrape the following day to - in their words - 'make sure everything was gone from my womb.'

They put me on the maternity ward to sleep with new mothers holding their newborn babies in their arms.

I spent the night I lost my son listening to babies cry and mothers cooing over them.

It was without a doubt the most cruel thing that anyone could have done, and yet as it turned out, this was normal practice around the UK in every single NHS hospital.

I can honestly say that I don't think I have ever experienced loneliness and pain like I did that night hiding behind a curtain in that ward of women who absolutely had every right to be euphorically happy.

The following day I had my scrape and headed home with no idea how I was going to move forward. You see, at that time, there was nothing in place for parents who had lost their babies.

There was no grave to go to or service to attend.

There wasn't even a certificate to recognise that you had carried your child because as far as the hospital were concerned - this was a spontaneous abortion and didn't require records other than on your own medical paperwork.

How do you even begin to grieve for a child who never even existed in everyone else's eyes?

Someone for whom there is no record of having ever been alive.

Someone that you were already connected and bonded to but who had never even taken a breath?

When you lose a child, you never 'get over it'. You are fundamentally changed and whilst you adapt to this new reality, you never forget that little life that almost was.

For me, its bringing those memories in at key times.

At Christmas, every since I lost them, the first two baubles that go onto the tree are the baubles bought specifically to remember them. They cannot be here but they can still be part of our celebrations because they will always be part of my family.

Their legacy lives on through me and the little things I do to keep them alive.

As part of pregnancy loss and awareness month, there is also a wave of light on the 15th October.

For those of you who have lost a young life or just want to support someone that you know who has, we light a candle to remember and honour those little lives.

It gives you a chance to slow down and stop, to reflect, to remember and to feel the loss for just a few moments of what is an otherwise busy life.

As with every other year, I will be lighting my candles again on the 15th and just stopping for a little while to reflect on the two lives that were lost.

I will be lighting it at 7pm and for anyone who would like to join me for just a few moments, it will be on the facebook page. Lets create a wave of light to honour those babies that will never be forgotten.

I also came across something the other day that may be of interest to any of you who have experienced this. In an attempt to begin to recognise that impact that losing a baby has on families, you are now able to request a certificate that recognises their existence. (UK only).

Mine are on order but for anyone else who may want to have something, I have popped the link below for you.

https://www.gov.uk/request-baby-loss-certificate

You never forget the loss of a baby, no matter how little time they were growing inside you, but what you do with that loss will define how you manage moving forward.

Its finding a way to honour that life within your own home and remembering that even though you may never have met them, they will always be a part of you.

Until next time..............