The summer of 2018 is one I’ll never forget. Britain was in the midst of the longest heatwave since the 1970’s, and I was pregnant with my first child. It was a summer spent excitedly preparing for my son’s arrival with only a tinge of FOMO that I couldn’t join my friends drinking Pimms and revelling in this endless summer. I sat in my garden cradling my huge nine-month bump staring at the now parched grass, imagining myself splashing in a paddling pool next summer with my one-year old son. I couldn’t wait to be his mummy and finally have him here. Little did I know that this would be the last normal day of my life.
The following morning, I awoke at 6am in the early stages of labour. I had a scheduled caesarean section booked the following week as Billy was in the breech position and this was deemed the safest way to deliver him, so I was a little panicked but we remained calm.
I remember straightening my hair and putting on make-up and my husband making jokes about this. Looking back, this was an odd thing to do, I rock up to Tesco looking like something out of The Walking Dead, so I’m not entirely sure why I pissed about that morning getting glammed when I needed to get to the hospital immediately, but those were the last few normal moments of that day before my life inexplicably changed forever.
As I left the house with poker straight hair and a face of makeup that wouldn’t have looked out of place on RuPauls Drag Race, I said to my two chihuahua’s (really clever dogs who understand the English language) “Be good, next time we see you, we’ll have your little brother with us!” But we were wrong, so devastatingly wrong.
We arrived at the hospital, where the tragedy began to unfold immediately. The midwife couldn’t find a heartbeat with the doppler but told us not to worry. We were taken for a scan and met by two sombre faced sonographers. In hindsight, the look on everyone’s faces in that room should have told us everything we needed to know before they even lay me down. A couple of minutes later, in a moment I’ll never forget, a moment I’ve suffered endless flashbacks and PTSD from, I was given the six devastating words that no pregnant woman ever wants to hear; “I’m so sorry there’s no heartbeat”.
I instantly started screaming, “Noooo” at the top of my voice, “Check again”, “You’re wrong”, “Are you sure?” and then collapsed into my husband’s arms. I felt like I was locked in a sensory deprivation chamber or had entered a parallel universe where voices were muffled and I could see people speaking but couldn’t hear a word they were saying.
I had prepared myself for a C section delivery so was stunned to be told I’d have to deliver my dead, breech baby naturally now using forceps and ventouse. My consultant that day coldly explained; “We only do C sections to deliver the baby safely and that’s not an issue now”. To cut a long story short, I had my C section, I knew what was personally right for me that day and I stood my ground.
Billy was stillborn on 29 August 2018 at 2.25pm, weighing 6 pounds 1 ounce and he was the most perfect, beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.
The day was a total whirlwind and I ended up having a general anaesthetic and I awoke to my mum, sister and husband all sitting around me. They brought Billy to us and I was struck by intense feelings of love in that moment rather than sadness. I will never forget seeing his lovely face and not believing how beautiful my son was. I had once said to my mum; “What if he looks like a potato?” and one of the first things she said was “Well he certainly doesn’t look like a potato!” He looked so peaceful and angelic, there were very few tears in those moments, I think we all enjoyed them as strange as that may sound.
Although we were all distraught, I still cherish those moments and think back on them with happiness. At that point, there was so much love in the room for Billy and it’s that I remember rather than the absolute devastation that was unfolding beneath the surface. I sat stroking his face for hours but I didn’t pick him up. When you lose your baby during labour, you lose that time to process and digest what’s happened. There wasn’t time to read about baby loss and see the beautiful photos of other families holding their babies, so there was lots of stroking and speaking to Billy, but no cuddles which is something I’ll always wish I’d done differently. But you do what feels right at the time and I’m grateful we had three days to spend time with him, stroking his lovely soft face, telling him how much we loved him.
Life becomes a paradox, taking you from the best, most exciting time of your life to the absolute worst in the blink of an eye. I was completely shell-shocked going from awaking in labour thinking I would have my baby in my arms, to signing post-mortem consent forms and being asked to make decisions about my son’s funeral. How the hell did we end up here? The surrealness of the situation was immeasurable, a feeling that stays with you for weeks.
This was 18 months ago now, but it still feels like yesterday sometimes. The post-mortem confirmed placenta failure due to a chronic condition I was diagnosed with that occurs during pregnancy. That in itself was a huge blow because this wasn’t something that could just be put down to bad luck (for want of a better phrase) or something that was unlikely to occur again. There is a 70-90% recurrence rate of this condition rearing its ugly head again in any subsequent pregnancy, though this doesn’t necessarily mean the same outcome. This is of course an obvious risk, but one I’m willing to take because my desire to have a family outweighs my fear of going through this all over again. The chance of getting pregnant would be a fine thing though, 16 months of trying to conceive our much longed for second baby and treatment for secondary infertility is underway – because life has really chosen to kick me in the metaphorical balls!
A dead baby, a diagnosis of a chronic condition plus a nice bout of secondary infertility thrown in for good measure, is something that 18 months ago I could never have imagined being my life. But it is and I have to stay strong and positive to get through this. I always remember that there is someone out there much worse off than me. Despite everything, I still have so much to be grateful for. Hashtag feeling blessed might be a bridge too far (and I think there should be hefty fines for anyone who actually writes that on anything!) but I definitely try to remember that I do have so much to be thankful for. I remember that the bad days will pass when they appear and brighter days will be just around the corner. I try to be gentle with myself when I’m feeling fragile and I always remember my own baby loss catchphrase ‘Self-preservation is not selfish’ – should get a bum tattoo of that. I will not though, for obvious reasons.
The last 18 months have been incredibly tough and tested me to my limits, but I refuse to give up hope of finding happiness. I won’t become bitter and lose my sense of humour. I refuse to let this beat me and knock the stuffing out of us entirely. I will still enjoy my life, whatever happens from here. I still laugh and smile, and I like to think that I am still fun to be around (rather than the human embodiment of Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh!). This situation has already taken so much from me, and I refuse to let it have my mental health and future happiness too.
It definitely took a while to arrive here though. The first three months were utterly horrendous, and I would just lay in bed cuddling Billy’s teddies watching re-runs of any of the Real Housewives, (Beverly Hills are my favourite FYI, lots of drama and little dogs). I was definitely at rock bottom for a while and I knew I had to try to pull myself out of this hole.
At first, I struggled to identify as a mother. I was certainly ousted from the pregnancy yoga mum group I’d become a member of. I was walking through the park one afternoon and saw two of these women, pushing their prams. As they walked past me, I heard one whisper “That’s the girl from yoga whose baby died.” Hello to you too! Nama-fucking-ste.
If you are newly bereaved or not in a great place right now, please know that it does get a little easier with time. It’s true that whilst the pain never goes away, it is something you learn to live with. There are many ups and downs, lots of ‘three steps forwards, two steps back’ moments but you will laugh again, you will still have fun and you are still in there. I promise.
You will find a way of keeping the most precious member of your family with you, taking them forward into your future and including them in your memories. I bet if you think about how much you’ve gained from being their parents, it’s immeasurable. I’m so grateful to Billy for giving me so much strength and making me a better person. I want to help people going through this and I want to do some good from a terrible situation, which is all because of my Billy Stardust. A little boy who is so loved and missed every day, a little boy whose mummy I am so proud to be.
Thank you for reading my story. You can follow me on Instagram @lifelossandlipgloss or visit my blog at www.lifelossandlipgloss.com to read more.
Lots of love
Hannah x
Elle Wright is a wife, mother, author and blogger. After the death of her son, Teddy, at three days old, Elle started writing to navigate her new life and as a way to feel purpose again. Her Feathering The Empty Nest blog is a way of finding light in darkness, positivity in times of desperation and, hopefully, making a few people laugh along the way.
This is so beautifully written full of love for your little boy and I’m so incredibly sad for your loss. It’s something every parent dreads. Thank you for sharing as I’m sure so many people will find comfort in reading this. I really hope you get to have a brother or so sister for billy so you can take them both on adventures xxx
Thank you so much for reading about Billy and for your kind message. Hannah xx
Hannah, I am in tears reading this and knowing my own (yet different) loss, I can barely bare reading of the pain you have experienced.
This is an absolute injustice and as a believer in Jesus, I want to share that God knows and God cares. He weeps with you and has compassion on you. This concerns Him!
I am praying for you and declare that the God of Justice is on your side; the Restorer of all things will turn this around and give you what your heart desires. You will bring forth life, and you ARE a beautiful mother.
I hope you don’t mind me joining my real hope to yours.
Love and prayers.
Hello Hannah,
I read your post and I give you a hug from far (but not too far : living in Belgium !) I know words can’t really help in this kind of situation. I thought you were so brave. Billy can really be proud of his mama, I can tell you that.
I just lost my baby boy, one month ago. He was two month old, born the 16th november. His name is Senne, like the name of a rivier in Belgium. We knew that he had a cardiac problem, but it was late in the pregnancy (too complicated and painful to go throught the details) but we thought he was going to be okay. The doctors did. Turns out he didn’t. He gave everything he had, though, and we too as parents. It’s my first time being mama, thanks to him. I found this blog because it’s so, so painful to lose him, I have to read that I am unfortunately not alone to struggle with this pain. I found it so relieving to read you, your words ease this pain a little bit, if possible. I want to keep thinking that beyond the physical pain that I feel, it will be possible to feel better. I want to keep thinking that his life wasn’t fort nothing, that he gave me something important, I learned so much from him and I’m so proud to be his mother. But it’s dreadful to know it’s done. I feel like I’m still waiting him to come back, even if I know it’s absolutely not rationnal.
I’m not sure what I’m saying make sense, I feel a little bit lost, (and I also did my best with my english) but thanks to you, thanks to Elle and other women who write about this, I realize I can still be blessed to had him as a son. To have his dad next to me. You help me really believe that I will be okay.
Ps : you made me laugh (yes !) with your “nama-fucking-ste”, cuz I also did pregnant-yoga and I’m so afraid of seeing this women in my city ! The look of people is really not nice. The way they handle it… also a big no, even if I’m not angry because they couldn’t know what it is, even if they tried to imagine.
Big thought for Billy, as I’m hoping he is in some place playing with Senne, maybe, who knows… I wish you the very best from now on.
Merci, avec amour,
Fanny (yeah it’s my real name, thank you mama ;))
Hi Hannah, I recently found your post and your blog and I find it so encouraging..2018 is the year when my first son was born too. I went into labour on 5th of April , I was 33 weeks pregnant, I had an emergency C section and Jacob came early due to placental abruption, weighing a bit less then 3 lbs. Leaving him in NICU for 5 weeks was heartbreaking, I remember me crying and my partner encouraging me: at leat we have a baby, and he was SO right ..sept 2019 we found out I was pregnant again; I was recommended to take aspirin to prevent the blood clogging and I was offered an extra scan around 33 weeks; anyway at 25 weeks I had an extra scan in my country in a private hospital and everything was fine; the same 5th of April just before midnight, I was 32 weeks, I was rushed to the same hospital bleeding heavily , placental abruption again but this time my baby couldn’t be saved; emergency C section and Jordan was born still on 6th of April at 1am and I truly believe it was his wish to come after midnight and leave the 5th of April for his brother to be celebrated every year. Due to coronavirus pandemic my experience was a bit different to yours, looking back it s so many things I would do differently, but as you said probably it was the best I could do at that time; I was told this time placenta detached from the uterus so fast that didn’t give any chance to the baby; although they have no ideea why it happened again , the doctors did notice a pattern my body is following. Hannah all your posts about Billy and the way you are feeling bring so much comfort to me, you explain everything In such a positive way , when I red about the infertility it just occurred to me it can be even worse and I should be more grateful for the child I m having already even if loosing Jordan it s the hardest thing I ever had to go through. I was so scared that enjoying the time with my son it s a step towards forgetting the other one. You re so strong beautiful mama and woman, I wish I could give you a big hug. Thank you.