Host Cheree Kinnear tells her story so others don't feel so alone.
Video / NZ Herald
WARNING: This story contains graphic descriptions of baby loss.
THREE KEY FACTS
October 15 is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day
The UK Government now provides a baby loss certificate to any parent who miscarries a baby up to 24 weeks.
In NZ, there is no official certificate programme, but non-profit organisation Sands offers a certificate of life for parents whose baby or babies have died before 20 weeks’ gestation.
OPINION
When I saw the news that all women in the UK who miscarry are now entitled to receive a baby loss certificate, it brought back the raw grief I’d felt in my 30s when Imiscarried my second child. The baby inside me was 11 weeks old when a sonographer delivered her devastating verdict. Shaking her head sadly, I could tell by her stricken face that something was very wrong.
I was working at Glamour magazine when the first minor niggle came – in the office loo I was surprised to discover a strange, pale pink discharge, but I dismissed it as some kind of minor infection. For peace of mind, I decided to go to St Thomas’s hospital after work to get it checked out.
I was in high spirits, hoping I’d be given a scan and would get to see my baby on screen for the first time. It was 7.30pm when I texted my partner Stuart, barely able to hide my excitement: “They’re doing it now…”
But as I lay there and watched the scanning device being moved over my stomach, the sonographer’s face fell. I’ll never forget the way she concentrated on the screen, gently requesting, “Bear with me…”
“It’s quite small for 11 weeks. You may be fewer weeks pregnant than you thought,” she said finally. “Can I do an internal scan?”
I felt mildly disappointed that I was going to have to wait a little longer than March 3 to meet my baby, the due date that had been etched on my mind.
Minutes later, the internal scan was over and she gently put down the scanning wand. Her face distraught, she turned to me: “Emma, I’m so sorry, I can’t find a heartbeat…”
I looked at her in horror. I couldn’t take her words in. Then it hit me, like a tidal wave of loss. Still half undressed, I sat up and began to cry, “I’ve lost my baby… Where’s my baby?”
Before I could stop myself, I was sobbing with grief. I still had acute morning sickness. I still felt pregnant. It was so confusing.
“Are you sure?” I asked in disbelief, through my tears, searching her face for signs she may have made a mistake.
She nodded and replied gently, “I’m so sorry…”
She talked me through my options: go home and wait for nature to take its course, or book an ERPC (evacuation of retained products of conception). I knew immediately the natural option, in the privacy of my own home, was the best choice for me, with a follow-up scan to make sure the baby had fully gone from my body.
As I left, I asked the sonographer for a photo of my baby – I wanted evidence of the child I’d been lovingly carrying inside me. Most of the images she handed me were blurry but one stood out. In it, my lifeless baby looked like a tiny teddy bear, with a clearly distinguishable head, arms and legs. My hands shaking, I rummaged in my purse, then offered her the £2 you normally pay for a photo, which she sadly waved away.
A sonogram at her 11th week of pregnancy revealed that Emma Elms' had miscarried her baby. Photo / Getty Images
After I left that room I did a series of dramatic things which, looking back now, seem strange. But I was in shock, my hormones had gone haywire and even on a good day, I’m an emotionally charged person, experiencing highs and lows more intensely than others seem to. By contrast, my partner Stuart is always on an even keel – calm, steady and rational.
Putting on sunglasses to hide my tear-stained face, I stumbled into the hospital lift. A young woman with a bump of about five months stared at me anxiously. “Are you okay? What’s happened?”
I paused then told her: “I’ve had some bad news – I’ve lost my baby.”
She gasped in horror, her hand flying to her mouth. She looked so traumatised, I suddenly felt cruel for talking to a pregnant stranger about dead babies.
“It’s okay,” I began, in a vain attempt to reassure her. “I’ve got another child.”
I felt guilty for letting my sadness spoil a moment’s enjoyment of her own baby, but over the next few weeks I experienced what psychologists term “pressured speech” where you have an extreme need to share your thoughts and feelings with anyone who’ll listen.
My grief was so all-consuming, I couldn’t hold back, telling family, friends and colleagues what I’d been through. Unlike some women, I didn’t view it as a particularly private experience. I wanted others to know that the baby I’d named Alice had been real.
Looking back now, if I’d been entitled to a baby loss certificate, it would have helped me greatly with those feelings. As a journalist, I like to see things written down. An official certificate would have been a meaningful record of mine and Stuart’s loss.
The UK Government’s baby loss certificate scheme launched in February this year, but it has just been announced that now all women who lost their baby after September 2018 will also be entitled to apply for a backdated certificate. My miscarriage was in 2010, so I don’t qualify, but back then I found my own ways to mark our momentous loss.
One in four pregnancies end in miscarriage – in many cases an early pregnancy ends before you miss a period and often before you know you’re pregnant. Photo / Getty Images
I’d been so happy to be expecting our second child that I’d planned our whole lives around our new baby. I’d even registered her for a nursery place, because places were in short supply, naming her “Alice Williams” on the nursery application form (my partner’s surname).
The days that followed my scan were tough, as my mind grappled with disturbing thoughts. Perhaps Stuart and I’d had it too easy, with it taking us only two months to conceive both Amelie and now Alice. Maybe we were too blase. Maybe we hadn’t been grateful enough.
I shared my thoughts with Stuart, who was baffled at my way of thinking. “You were so grateful,” he reassured me. “Of course we deserved this baby.”
No one prepares you for the stark reality of miscarriage.
In fact, when the miscarriage took place 12 days later, it started as a series of blood clots, then, in typical theatrical style, I fainted in my hall, which a nurse later explained was because of sudden and extreme blood loss.
Our nanny dialled 999 and I ended up passing my unborn baby in a hospital toilet in A&E.
Miscarriage is still taboo. In the media, questions that mattered so much to me such as “What happens to the baby’s remains when you’re only 11 weeks’ pregnant?” are never asked – nor answered.
I asked the A&E nurse if I could take Alice’s body home in a little box to bury in the garden. The answer was no, for legal reasons, but I hated the idea that she might be thrown into the hospital incinerator. The nurse took my wishes on board, asking the hospital porter to collect Alice’s body, and save her for a “ceremony” I wanted to hold in a South London memorial garden a couple of weeks later.
Few women will know that some hospitals will arrange a burial for your unborn baby, how St Thomas’ did for me. They even put Alice’s body in a tiny white coffin, a solemn-faced pallbearer carrying the doll-sized box for us.
Stuart dealt with the loss differently and found my open display of grief a little hard to understand. At the ceremony in a quiet, sunny cemetery, I even read out a letter I’d written to Alice about the life she would have had with us.
Back then, it felt like a beautiful and memorable way to say goodbye. Now 15 years on, having been lucky enough to have two more daughters, the pain has gone.
After the “funeral”, my feelings settled and I focused on trying for another baby. Little did I know, I would end up having two more children. My girls are now 7, 12 and 16. I’ve told my eldest two about the baby that wasn’t to be, a tale they were fascinated by.
Even now, I still like to recognise Alice’s existence – and I’m so glad other women can have their losses acknowledged too.
Miscarriage: The facts
• One in four pregnancies end in miscarriage – in many cases an early pregnancy ends before you miss a period and often before you know you’re pregnant.
• Almost 75% of all miscarriages occur in the first trimester – the first 12 weeks of pregnancy.
• Having a miscarriage doesn’t mean that you won’t be able to get pregnant again. Most women who miscarry go on to have successful pregnancies in the future.
• About half of all early miscarriages happen because of chromosomal abnormalities; a problem in the way your genetic material combined when your egg was fertilised by your partner’s sperm. Most are unlikely to recur.
• Miscarriages become more common with age, because egg quality decreases as we get older.
• Doing moderate exercise or having sex while you’re pregnant does not increase your risk of miscarriage.
• Most women who have two miscarriages are still likely to have successful pregnancies in the future.
Baby loss in New Zealand
While New Zealand legislation requires parents to register stillbirths, there is no formal equivalent to the United Kingdom’s baby loss certificate (a document that can be issued regardless of how far into a pregnancy a baby dies).
In Aotearoa, the Births, Deaths, Marriages and Relationships Registration Act considers a baby is stillborn if they die during pregnancy after the 20th week, or weigh more than 400g at birth.
Russell Burnard, Register-General, says registration is not possible for losses earlier in a pregnancy - and birth certificates can only be issued for registered information.
“We understand from bereaved parents that the requirement to register a stillbirth after the 20th week can be painful for some, while others find it a valuable recognition of their loss. There is no current plan to change this threshold or introduce new certificates, but we are observing developments in the United Kingdom with interest.”
Historically, he says, the threshold for registration was later in pregnancy. The Births and Deaths Registration Act 1951 defined a stillborn child as one born after the 28th week of pregnancy. The shift to the 20th week in the Births, Deaths and Marriages Act 1995 was based on medical advice.
Burnard said including information about stillbirths on birth certificates helped prevent identity theft. Data was also shared with Statistics New Zealand and the Ministry of Health for statistical purposes.
Meanwhile, Whetūrangitia, an official government website developed to help support family and whānau experiencing the death of a baby or child, includes information on miscarriage (when a baby dies in pregnancy under 20 weeks’ gestation).
The website provides location-specific links to support organisations across the country, including Sands - a national network of parent-run, non-profit groups that assist families who have experienced the death of a baby. Sands offers a certificate of life (with space for a photograph or hand and footprints) for parents whose baby is born at any gestational age.
- Kim Knight
If you have gone through pregnancy or infant loss and need support, information is available at:
