Two years ago, we were expecting our first child.
Two years ago, we were very excited — we talked about our baby every day, we looked forward to each new experience that pregnancy afforded. Two years ago, our lives changed forever. Our baby died.
We were holidaying in Spain. I was 25 weeks pregnant and enjoying being kicked (from the inside!) on a regular basis. Towards the end of our holiday, I was going to bed one night and laughed out loud because the baby kicked me harder than ever before. I now know that was the last kick I was to feel. The next day, I started to realise things were far from right. I’d had chocolate — the baby hadn’t responded. I’d eaten ice-cream — the baby hadn’t responded. It always kicked after I’d eaten those foods. I lay down for a rest so that I could count the kicks in case I’d missed them in the busyness of the day. They weren’t there. I finally accepted that something was terribly wrong and we needed help. We phoned family and friends in Britain for advice: ‘go to hospital’ was their only advice.
No heartbeat
We had an ultrasound scan in a room filled with monitors. Big screen TVs staring at us all over the walls. It was there on the wall that we saw our baby — motionless with no heartbeat. The nurses confirmed there was no heartbeat and showed the smallest amount of compassion. A rub on the leg was all I got. I remember thinking, ‘I wonder what they do to get the heart going again?’ before realising that they don’t. Our baby had died.
