After losing her newborn daughter, Hilary Freeman was determined to make a positive difference
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 UK’s 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.
But earlier this year, after years of campaigning by charities, the government finally took note. Bereaved parents in England will now be able to apply for a baby loss certificate – an official, although not legal, document – which recognises our loss and acknowledges that our babies did exist, rather than classifying them as mere unfortunate clinical events in our NHS records.
Empty arms
Being able to apply for this certificate would have made all the difference in the world to me on 27 September 2012, when 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, at a beach near Nice, France, where we 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
