Reader Post: Sarah’s Story

As part of this blog, we invite readers who have experienced pregnancy loss or stillbirth to share their stories with us. You can submit your story on our Share Your Experiences page.

We’re very grateful to Sarah for getting in touch with her experience. Thank you, Sarah, and we wish you all the best.

I held the pregnancy sac in my hand, alone in my bathroom at home, and stared at it for a while. It was on a piece of toilet paper, had come out as I wiped away this seemingly never ending flow of blood after a visit to the loo. It was my fourth day of bleeding. I was miscarrying at seven weeks, a number that is so small that I almost feel the need to justify it. It took me a while to tell people, to explain to close colleagues why I’d had some off work, or to tell friends the real reason why I wasn’t my usual, happy self. In my experience, when you tell people you’ve miscarried the first thing everyone asks is ‘How far along were you?’. Probably because they don’t know what else to say rather than because of a real desire to know details.

But to me it feels like they’re quantifying my grief, and as though seven is too small a number, too insignificant for it to be valid. And so I try and highlight my sadness by giving more details. Telling the story of nine years spent trying to conceive naturally. Of how our amazing four year old son was conceived after fertility treatment and how we always knew he’d be an only child as we couldn’t put ourselves through that emotional or financial burden a second time. But that didn’t stop us from wanting a sibling for him. Of how this unexpected pregnancy felt like a miracle, how it was a miracle, how it gave us back those dreams, hopes and desires of being parents for a second time. But no-one, besides my husband and I, can really understand those nine years of pain and longing, the unexpected delight, and the crushing disappointment of holding what should’ve become my baby in my hand, on a piece of toilet paper, alone in my bathroom as my husband was at the park with our son.

No medical professional had used the ‘m’ word yet. You see, seven weeks is such a small and insignificant number that I hadn’t yet seen a midwife for my ‘booking in’ appointment. I didn’t even come under our early pregnancy unit and instead had to walk into A&E and tell them I was pregnant and bleeding after a tearful phone call to my GP. It was so early into the pregnancy that my scan was inconclusive and so I was sent home to wait with another appointment set for two weeks time, and a reassurance that they could clearly see a tiny embryo in the sac and so maybe I’d got my dates wrong, that lots of women had bleeding in early pregnancy and so I shouldn’t worry. I had been bleeding for 24 hours by this point, I knew my dates weren’t wrong, a 2mm embryo with no heartbeat is not what should’ve been on that scan photo. My baby was dead, maybe its heart never started to beat in the first place, and I was sent away with no information, was forced to Google ‘what to expect during a miscarriage’ and then sit at home and wait it out.

And so I wasn’t given choices, no options of how to dispose of the remains of my baby, no invitation to a memorial ceremony like the ones I know other people have attended. No one even knew I was pregnant because of this silly, cultural tradition of keeping it secret for the first 12 weeks ‘just in case’. Miscarriage is very common, you know, one in every four pregnancies end like this so best not tell anyone you’re pregnant until you’re past the first trimester. To me, the discourses of miscarriage seem intended to normalise something that is far from normal for the women who experience it. These discourses are so at odds to the trauma and grief and physical pain and fear that I felt when alone in my bathroom on that day, or in the days before and the weeks and months after. Nobody talks about pregnancy loss so it feels like a dirty secret, like I should just be able to pick myself up, dust myself down, and carry on as if this never happened. So I flushed the remains of my baby down the toilet, sobbed in a heap on the floor for around 40 minutes, and still question whether that was the right way to say goodbye.

Remembering Baby: Life, Loss and Post-Mortem


Remembering Baby: Life, Loss and Post-Mortem is a small but powerful exhibition that can be seen in London for the next couple of weeks. It explores the space of pregnancy loss where parents and professionals meet. Organised as a part of ‘End of’ or ‘Start of’ Life Project carried out at the University of Sheffield, it shows ways of articulating loss of a baby in ways where words may not be the only source of meaning. Objects invoking memories are accompanied by sound pieces inspired by memories and experiences of parents who have lost a baby at an early stage of life.

Find out more at; twitter @_rememberbaby



3-14 November 2017, Protein Studios, 31 New Inn Yard, Shoreditch, London, EC2A 3EY

5-14 December 2017, The Art House, 8 Blackfields, Sheffield, S1 4HJ

Reader Post: Georgina’s Story

As part of this blog, we invite readers who have experienced pregnancy loss or stillbirth to share their stories with us. You can submit your story on our Share Your Experiences page.

We’re very grateful to Georgina for getting in touch with her experience. Thank you, Georgina, and we wish you all the best.

I lost my baby boy Saul at 22 weeks in November 2016. At the 20 week scan they found heart abnormalities and this was confirmed by a specialist as tricuspid artresia, a condition where a valve in the heart does not form and this causes half the heart not to develop. We were given options but due to the severity of the problems we chose to terminate the pregnancy as it seemed the most loving thing we could do for our baby.

I had to have an injection to put him to sleep which I found the most traumatic moment of the whole ordeal and I was induced three days later. I was given a private bereavement suite in the hospital and the care we received from everyone there was amazing.

We had him blessed in the hospital and then went home to plan his burial. I couldn’t face anyone so we decided on a private burial with just myself and my husband.
We had ongoing support from the hospital bereavement Midwife and councillor and I’m still in touch with them 12 months later.

Three months after loosing Saul I had the courage to go to a sands meeting and this was like a lightbulb going off, other people were feeling exactly how I was and no one looked at me like I was crazy when I said what I was feeling and how low I had got.

A lot of friends didn’t understand or know what to say so kept their distance. I had a handful of friends who continued to keep in touch but I have lost a lot of what I thought were close friends as they just didn’t understand why a month or two later I wasn’t back to normal.

What I’ve realised is that the only people who can truly understand the emotions and pain that you are going through are people who have been through it themselves and those who work with these people everyday.

Having Saul has changed me completely, I have learnt so much about myself and have made changes to my life that I would never have had the courage to do before I lost him. It has also brought me and my husband closer together, we had real challenges in the first few months but we made it through together stronger than ever.

I would urge anyone going through this to get as much help and support as you can, it’s the most difficult time in my life by far but it does get better and makes you realise what’s important in your life.

You can get in touch with Sands here, and further resources are available on our Useful Resources page.

Next Steps for the Project

As Baby Loss Awareness Week draws to a close, it seems an appropriate time to reflect on what’s next for the Death Before Birth project team.

Our linguists are currently focusing on analysing the transcripts of 16 interviews we conducted with professionals who provide support to those who have experienced pregnancy loss. The majority of those we interviewed work for one of our partner organisations, with participants from the Miscarriage Association, SANDS, and Antenatal Results and Choices. This analysis has enabled the linguists to build and trial an annotation scheme which they will also use when analysing the interviews with the bereaved.

We are also currently conducting interviews with women who have experienced miscarriage, termination for fetal anomaly, or stillbirth. These interviews will enable us to investigate the experiences of the bereaved, the care they received, and their decision-making processes surrounding the loss. We will also identify differences in the language used by caregivers and the bereaved, as this can point to different understandings and conceptions of the experience of pregnancy/baby loss in the two groups.

We’re looking forward to talking about our research at a number of upcoming conferences. Jeannette and Sarah are sharing some of the linguistic findings at the British Sociological Association’s ‘Death and Time’ symposium in London in December, while Karolina will be attending Shifting States, a major international anthropology conference held at the University of Adelaide. We have also submitted an abstract for the 2018 Researching and Applying Metaphor Conference at Hong Kong Polytechnic University.