At the end of my second pregnancy, I was in early labour when my baby’s kicks slowed. I called my midwife and, on her advice, went to hospital and asked for a scan. I went alone, leaving our two-year-old son with my husband. What happened next, I still struggle to believe 10 years on. A scan showed our baby’s heart had stopped. He was delivered the next day. He was stillborn. We called him Finn.
I will be honest and say I did not actually believe this could happen. Stillbirth sounded like something from centuries ago. I knew babies could die from complications at birth and die after birth, but I refused to believe that a fully formed baby still in the womb could just stop living. All through the night in labour with Finn, I kept hoping he would come out alive, that the doctors had made a mistake.
I doubt I was alone in being so naïve about stillbirths, and part of my refusal to believe Finn had died was natural, it’s the denial many people experience when faced with the death of a loved one. I think that same denial is behind people’s reluctance to talk about stillbirth – we want babies to survive, and to contemplate anything else is against our instincts.
The problem is, when we pretend babies don’t die, we compound the pain and isolation of parents who have lost a child. In my case, the silence around stillbirth accentuated the massive guilt I felt at not bringing Finn into the world alive. If it only happened to me, I must have done something wrong.
Our kind of loss is indeed quite rare, and that’s what I tell anyone who is pregnant if the subject comes up. But tragically, it’s not that rare. Every day in the UK, around 14 babies die before, during or soon after birth, according to the stillbirth and neonatal death charity Sands. Finn was one of those babies and we went home without him.
In the days that followed, we faced the horrible task of telling people. They were expecting happy news and baby pictures. Instead, we had to find ways to say our son had died just before he was born. Friends sent flowers, which made us feel less alone and that Finn’s death was something they acknowledged. People donated to our fundraiser for the NSPCC in Finn’s memory. Many wrote cards, dropped cakes, some stayed to talk.
One reaction to Finn’s death stood out. Someone texted back that “everything happens for a reason.” The phrase infuriated me. At another time, I would probably have dismissed it. But drowning in grief and trying to make sense of our sudden loss, I became pre-occupied with this idea that everything has a reason. I wanted the world to make sense again. I made lists of possible reasons, asked people if they believed it. Eventually, I learned to let it go. I accepted there was no reason. Nature can be both wonderful and cruel, and sometimes babies die.
But the phrase returned when I gave up my job as a journalist to write a novel. I wanted to tell the story of babies like Finn and mothers like me. My main character is also told that “everything happens for a reason” after her son is stillborn and she becomes obsessed with finding the reason.
That phrase that so annoyed me ultimately became the title of my novel, Everything Happens for a Reason. But if you asked me what not to say to a grieving parent, those words would top the list. Likewise, I’d advise against any other phrases that could pre-occupy a grieving person, including ones that begin, “At least you have...”
At the same time, I do think it is better to say or write something than say nothing. When friends acted like nothing had happened, it felt like Finn hadn’t mattered and that there was no place for our story.
Beyond writing and calling, there are practical things you can do for a friend who is grieving a baby. Being given cake and meals was great when I had little energy to cook myself. But remember when dropping things off that your friend may not always feel like chatting. That said, I was grateful to friends who got me out the house to the park with my son, or in evenings without kids. Being included like that helped me believe I was still good company. Some days are harder than others after a loss, so if your invitation to a grieving friend is turned down, don’t be hurt. But do try again later, keep checking in.
Be careful about how and when you share your own baby news and friends’ baby news. I received a baby announcement in the post just weeks after Finn died and was not ready to be faced with a picture of a newborn. I would never begrudge anyone else their healthy baby, but that card left me sobbing, “Why can’t I have my baby too?”
You can also help a grieving parent find help elsewhere. Grief is draining and what may seem like easy tasks the rest of the time can take days or months to work up to. You could suggest looking together at websites for baby loss charities like Tommy’s and Sands, help your friend find local groups where they can meet others who have suffered losses. Encourage them to talk to their GP. Find out what bereavement support their hospital offers.
Finally, the thing I most appreciated was being asked what had happened. People talk about breaking the silence around baby loss and for me that’s what it means: Giving grieving parents space to tell their story, to discover the stories of others, and to feel less alone.
Katie is donating her fee for this piece to Tommy's, the largest UK pregnancy and baby loss charity.