I miscarried at three months and would have loved a baby loss certificate

One mother shares her experience miscarrying her second child and explains how a baby loss certificate would have meant the world to her

Trigger warning: contains graphic descriptions of baby loss.
When I saw the news yesterday that all women who miscarry are now entitled to receive a baby loss certificate, it brought back the raw grief I’d felt in my 30s when I miscarried 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.
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 ok? 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 OK,” 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. 
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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 Government’s baby loss certificate scheme launched in February this year, allowing anyone who miscarried after 2018 to apply for a backdated certificate. Now, it’s just been announced that all women can apply, no matter how long ago they miscarried.
A certificate is available to anyone who lost their baby before 24 weeks (or 28 weeks for a loss before October 1992). So far, over 50,000 certificates have been issued. My miscarriage was in 2010 and back then, I found my own ways to mark our momentous loss.
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 blasé. 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.”
The hardest part was being at home, waiting for the body of my baby to appear. It took 12 long days for it to finally happen. As I waited, I was horrified by the thought of bits of my child falling out of me, maybe being flushed away down the toilet.
No one prepares you for the stark reality of miscarriage. I rang the hospital and asked whether I should try to save her (or his) body in a bucket. Should I bring her remains into the hospital? Their answer was inconclusive, but they suggested I should try.
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 due to sudden and extreme blood loss. 
Our nanny dialled 999 and I ended up passing my unborn baby in a hospital toilet in A&E, with a nurse calling through the door that I shouldn’t flush the baby away, as they wanted to see the remains for medical analysis. 
The baby – I hate the word ‘foetus’ – was bigger than I thought. She was a couple of inches long, like a mini tennis ball. To me, Alice wasn’t just ‘tissue’, she was my tiny child. I wanted everyone to view her the same way, to acknowledge my loss.
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’s 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 focussed on trying for another baby. Little did I know, I would end up having two more children. My girls are now seven, 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.
For support, visit The Miscarriage Association
Emma Elms has three daughters, aged seven, 12 and 16. Follow her family life at @writeremmaelms