Elodie died in the 24th week of my pregnancy – it was like she never officially existed . . .
That’s why a simple baby loss certificate would be such a comfort for mums like me
ALMOST 12 years ago, I gave birth to my first baby, a daughter named Elodie. Although my partner Mickael and I held her in our arms and had photos taken with her, there is no official record of her birth.
The only document I have is the receipt for her ashes from the crematorium where we held her funeral. As far as the world is concerned, Elodie never existed; she was not a person. That’s because she was stillborn at 23 weeks and six days gestation, just shy of the legal age of viability.
For thousands of women who, like me, have suffered a stillbirth or late miscarriage before 24 weeks, the realisation that there will never be an official record of our baby’s existence makes an already traumatic experience even more painful.
From last month, bereaved parents in England will now be able to apply for a baby loss certificate — an official, although not legal, document — which recognises loss and acknowledges that babies like mine did exist, rather than classifying them as mere unfortunate clinical events in our records.
Hopefully more countries like Ireland will follow suit, as being able to apply for this certificate would have made all the difference in the world to me on September 27, 2012. On that date, I walked out of the maternity unit of University College Hospital, London, with empty arms.
I was still sore and weak from blood loss, after giving birth late the night before, and my bump remained swollen.
Had I not taken a tablet to dry up my milk supply, my breasts would have been engorged too, growing ready to feed her. My body ached for my missing baby.
But Elodie now lay in the hospital mortuary.
Mickael and I returned home to my silent flat to begin preparing for Elodie’s funeral, which took place the following week at Golders Green Crematorium.
SIX weeks later, we scattered her ashes in the sea at our favourite secluded, cove beach near Nice, France, near where he then lived and she had been conceived. We spelled out her name with stones in the sand.
People were kind and sent cards, flowers and their sympathy, but we were alone with our grief. Nobody save Mickael and I, and the two midwives who delivered her, ever saw Elodie or held her. Usually, when someone dies, they live on in the memories of those who knew them.
There are no memories of Elodie, no anecdotes; she never took her first breath, let alone her first steps.
Even though I keep copies of her hand and footprints, tangible evidence of her existence, in a box at the back of my wardrobe, she never made a single footprint on Earth.
And so, after her funeral, we were left to get on with our lives as if the previous six months — all the scans, the kicks, all our dreams and plans — had never happened.
My grief was amplified by the knowledge that Elodie was stillborn because I had taken the decision to end her life, in order to spare her suffering. She had a rare chromosome disorder that meant she was unlikely to survive birth, or would almost certainly die in pain shortly afterwards.
On the advice of doctors, and after much discussion, I had chosen to terminate my pregnancy.
Unfortunately, her condition, Trisomy 2 mosaicism, wasn’t discovered until I was over 22 weeks pregnant. After that, it felt like the clock was ticking. The doctors told me to take my time in making my decision, but it was clear they were keen for me to go ahead with the termination as soon as possible, preferably before I reached 24 weeks.
This was, of course, partly for the sake of my baby, who was continuing to grow and develop. But I also felt the pressure of the consultant’s schedule, and the need to avoid pushing my termination into a post-24 weeks legal category, which would doubtless bring with it more paperwork for the medics and hospital administrators.
After that point, at which ordinary abortion is no longer permitted, they would have had to seek approval for a termination under Ground E of the Abortion Act (allowing abortions over 24 weeks in cases of severe foetal abnormality).
Elodie’s heart was stopped in a procedure called a feticide, two days before I was induced into labour. I was painfully aware that had she lived for just three days longer, she would have become an official person.
Like most people, I hate bureaucracy and form-filling, regarding them as a necessary evil. But at that dreadful time, I yearned for the opportunity to fill in an official document with Elodie’s details, to write what would have been her full name, Elodie Freeman Lorinquer, and to print my name and signature next to it.
Even if you have given birth, if your baby doesn’t officially exist, then you are not officially a mother either. Not being able to record Elodie’s existence made me determined to commemorate her in some other way.
Soon after her stillbirth, I had website, hoping at last to fill in Elodie’s details. But, for me, the development has turned out to be bittersweet.
For now, at least, only parents of babies born after September 1, 2018 will be able to apply for the certificates.
This means I will not be able to obtain one for Elodie just yet.
So many families have ghost babies — children who have only ever lived in our wombs, and in our minds, hearts and dreams. Baby loss certificates recognise that losing a wanted child is no less painful if it happens at 23 weeks, or 20 weeks or 15, than it is at 24 weeks or more.
Although these pieces of paper will not bring our children back to life, they will at least allow us to acknowledge that they did once exist.
NO ONE Talks About This Stuff, edited by Kat Brown (Unbound) is out on March 21.