‘I was 28, married with a three-year-old son, Conor, and experiencing another straightforward pregnancy.
I knew I was having a little girl, which was perfect. The only slight difference with this pregnancy was that I had marginally raised levels of a certain antibody.
I was told these antibodies can cause tiny blood clots in the placenta and, therefore, there was an increased risk of miscarriage. To combat that, I was given aspirin to take daily, which I did, and the pregnancy developed normally.
I was fine, and then on the night of Sunday, April 28, 2002, I suddenly noticed that the baby hadn’t moved in quite a while. Because I had been so busy that day, I knew it had been hours and hours since I had last felt the baby move. I knew something was seriously wrong. She was such an active baby. I tried not to panic; I just mentioned it casually to my husband, Martin. I tried to make loud noises, like dropping utensils on the tiled kitchen floor – that used to make her jump. I tried to prod my bump. This went on for half an hour but there was no movement. That’s when I called the hospital. I had five days to go before she was due.
Even before calling the maternity unit, I considered the fact that my baby might be dead. I had a terrifying feeling, but I didn’t want a big fuss. In my wisdom, I decided to drive myself to the Royal Alexandra Hospital and leave Martin at home with Conor. I got there at around 11pm. The midwife searched for the baby’s heartbeat and I just knew. Minutes later, it was confirmed. I saw with my own eyes on the ultrasound screen. I’d been for many scans, I knew what the heart looked like and this time the heart was just still. There was no disbelief, no “maybe it’s wrong, keep looking”. It was there in black and white: the baby had died.
That is the most harrowing feeling I could ever describe. I feel now as if I’ve seen hell. This precious, longed-for and much-loved baby had died and I didn’t have a chance to save her.
Having to call Martin was horrific. I phoned my parents first so they could be there when I told him. I screamed down the phone to my mother: “There’s no heartbeat, there’s no heartbeat.”
My mother and father and Martin came into the hospital and I was immediately given drugs to induce labour which started during the night. I drifted in and out of sleep and had really vivid nightmares about demons. All through the night, my mind raced. How could a healthy baby have died? I wasn’t given any answers and, because of that, I started to wonder. Was it something I did? Was it cheese that I ate? Did I not rest enough?
I was able to ask more questions next morning but, still, the big wall of silence.
I had three fantastic midwives throughout the labour and Amy was born at 2.30pm on April 29. It’s not like a normal labour where the baby is alive and has muscle tone. The midwives were fantastic in preparing me. Did I want to see the baby? To dress her? Did I want photographs? This is your one chance.
When the time came and Amy was born, I asked that they take her away – I needed to prepare.
I was absolutely terrified of seeing her, and Martin was, too.
When they brought her to me, she was very pale and had very deep-red lips. Her eyes were closed, but other than that, she was absolutely perfect. She had beautiful dark hair, a tiny wee cute button nose, perfect fingernails and cute chubby legs. She was warm and soft, she smelled so sweet. And I remember holding her and thinking, you’re absolutely perfect, you should be here. And again the feelings of guilt returned. All I could say was: “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”
Amy was taken to the Quiet Room, a beautiful room with a crib, lots of hankies and a remembrance book – it’s for parents and their families to spend time with their baby. All our family came in to see Amy. They showed such dignity, holding her and speaking to her. They were able to comment on Amy’s appearance and compare her to Conor, my husband and myself.
The next morning we cried rivers. We had Amy baptised and went to see her for the final time. I remember thinking, if this is the last time I get to see you, I want to see all of you. I asked the midwife to take Amy’s clothes off. I remember committing everything to memory, looking at her nose, her toenails, everything in detail. I sang songs to her, I cradled her, I just opened my heart up to her and told her how much I loved her. Martin did the same.
And then we had to go. We were passing excited parents leaving hospital with their new car seats, all these happy babies. By that time, Amy was cold, she was firm, it was reality.
When I got home, I was in a world of disbelief. My husband was in bits, he could barely get out of bed, he was crying all the time. I just felt numb.
I don’t remember much about the funeral, just seeing the coffin and barely being able to see where I was walking. Church was packed, and we had hundreds of cards delivered to the house, which was all very comforting.
It took months to start feeling normal again. Martin went back to work after about six weeks and it was the best thing he ever did, whereas I wanted to talk about her, look at the photographs, smell her clothes.
I worked for Bank of Scotland and decided to take my full maternity leave. I needed the time to grieve, and I also needed to know how Amy died. I contacted the stillbirth charity Sands and it helped. But nobody could help me with why she had died. The post-mortem results were inconclusive. The baby was healthy.
So I arranged a meeting with a consultant. He said the antibodies in my blood could have caused a chemical reaction within Amy’s blood vessels or within the cord. I didn’t know what had happened, but at least I had an idea.
I also went to see an expert in high-risk pregnancies and he confirmed what the Paisley consultant had said. That was a turning point. I felt I was finally getting answers.
Because I felt so strongly about unexplained stillbirths, I approached my local MSP and asked for his help to contact the Scottish and Westminster health departments.
Stillbirth, we found, was not a topic on any agenda. Amy, really, was just a statistic, like the other 300 stillbirths in Scotland that year.
Ten times as many babies are stillborn as die of cot death and 60% of stillbirths are unexplained. The campaign Why 17? is about trying to make stillbirth a matter of public health.
Through Sands, I’m about to publish a book, Born Asleep, about what happened to me, to share my journey with other bereaved parents.
I thought I would never have more children; it took 16 months. I was lucky to have Jennifer in 2004 and Jonathan in 2007. There is a part of Amy in all of them.
Every day I think the primary three class is a pupil short. I dream about Amy, at the age she would be now. The pain never goes away.”
Born Asleep, published later this month, will be available through Sands (www.uk-sands.org).
