I lost my baby Elodie at 23 weeks and six days pregnant and it was treated as if she never officially existed

Almost twelve years ago I gave birth to my first child, 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 proof 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 wasn’t a person. That’s because she was stillborn at 23 weeks and six days’ gestation, just under the legal age of viability in Britain.

For thousands of women who, like me, have had a stillbirth or late miscarriage before the 24th week, the realization that there will never be official proof of our baby’s existence makes an already traumatic experience even more painful.

But last month, after years of campaigning by charities, the government finally took note. Relatives in England will now be able to apply for a baby loss certificate – an official, although not legal, document – ​​which acknowledges our loss and acknowledges that our babies existed, rather than putting them in our NHS records as merely unfortunate clinical classify events. .

Being able to apply for this certificate would have made all the difference to me on September 27, 2012, when I left the maternity ward of University College Hospital in London with empty arms. I was still sore and weak from the blood loss after giving birth late the night before, and my bump remained swollen.

If I hadn’t taken a tablet to dry up my milk supply, my breasts would have also become engorged and ready to feed her. My body ached for my missing baby.

But Elodie was now in the hospital morgue.

Mickael and I returned to my quiet flat to begin preparations for Elodie’s funeral, which took place the following week at Golders Green Crematorium.

Six weeks later we scattered her ashes in the sea on our favorite secluded beach near Nice, France, near where he lived and she was conceived. We spelled her name with stones in the sand.

The people were kind and sent cards, flowers and their condolences, but we were alone with our grief. No one but Mickael and I, and the two midwives who delivered her, ever saw or held Elodie. When someone dies, they usually 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 had to carry on with our lives as if the previous six months – all the scans, the kicks, all our dreams and plans – had never happened.

My sadness was heightened by the knowledge that Elodie was stillborn because I had made the decision to end her life to spare her suffering. She had a rare chromosome abnormality that made it unlikely that she would survive birth, or almost certainly die from the pain shortly afterwards.

On the advice of doctors and after much discussion, I chose to terminate my pregnancy.

Unfortunately, her condition, trisomy 2 mosaicism, was not 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 that they wanted me to proceed with the abortion as soon as possible, preferably before I reached the 24th week.

Of course, this was partly for the sake of my baby, who continued to grow and develop. But I also felt the pressure of the consultant’s schedule, and the need to avoid my discharge being put into a legal category at 24 weeks, which would undoubtedly mean more paperwork for the doctors and hospital administrators.

After that point, at which regular abortion is no longer permitted, they should have sought approval for a termination under Ground E of the Abortion Act (which allows abortion beyond 24 weeks in cases of severe fetal abnormalities).

Elodie’s heart was stopped during a procedure called feticide two days before I was induced into labor. I was painfully aware that if she had lived just three more days, she would have become an official person.

Like most people, I hate bureaucracy and filling out forms because I consider them a necessary evil. But in that terrible moment I longed for the opportunity to fill out 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 to press.

Even if you have given birth and your baby does not officially exist, you are not officially a mother. Unable to capture Elodie’s existence, I decided to commemorate her in a different way.

Shortly after her stillbirth, I had a necklace made, printed with her name, her date of birth and her footprints.

I’ve written about her several times over the past twelve years, including in an essay in a new book, No One Talks About This Stuff, to be published next month. I know talking about her has helped other women who have gone through similar experiences or faced similar choices.

It is a great comfort to me to know that Elodie, even though she is no longer alive, made a positive difference in the world.

The new infant loss certificates will be available to women – and men – who have lost babies at any stage of pregnancy. I know this will be a comfort to many people, especially those who have never been fortunate enough to carry a baby to term and have therefore remained childless.

Miscarriage is still not talked about enough, and this will help break the taboo. After Elodie I suffered two more losses myself, after six and nine weeks. For some reason I imagine these babies would have been boys.

But while the miscarriages were physically traumatic, the pregnancies were over so quickly that I never felt the need to memorialize or document them.

Finally, in 2015, Mickael and I had a healthy baby girl, whom we named Sidonie. She is now eight and often talks about her older sister, with whom she would like to play.

In September 2020, my family moved to a houseboat in East London. We named our new home Elodie and boldly painted her name in gold leaf on the stern.

When I heard the news about the introduction of the new baby loss certificates on the day of the launch, I was so happy. I went straight to the gov.uk site, hoping to finally fill in Elodie’s details.

But for me, the development has proven bittersweet. For the time being, only parents of babies born after September 1, 2018 can apply for the certificates.

This means I can’t get one for Elodie. According to the Department of Health, “We will work to expand eligibility for certificates prior to September 2018 as soon as possible.”

So many families in Britain have ghost babies – children who have lived only in our wombs, and in our minds, hearts and dreams. The new infant loss certificates recognize that losing a wanted child is no less painful if it happens at 23 weeks, or 20 weeks, or 15 weeks, than at 24 weeks or longer.

While these pieces of paper won’t bring our children back to life, they will at least allow us to acknowledge that they once existed.

No One Talks About This Stuff, edited by Kat Brown (Unbound), will be released on March 21.