This is Louise's story, about her experience of baby loss. Louise is one of the Sands Bereavement Support Services Officers and mum to a much-loved baby called Rosie.

I’d heard of stillbirth and pushed it out of my mind because it was too difficult to think about, especially during my first and relatively blissful pregnancy with my eldest daughter, Rosie.  Having recently got married, finding out I was pregnant felt like a dream come true and we sailed through the following nine months with relative ease and excitement right up until our induction date when I was 41 weeks and 5 days pregnant. Sadly, the day I was meant to start induction didn’t go as planned and after arriving at hospital we were given the harrowing news that Rosie no longer had a heartbeat. 

It’s difficult to put into words how we felt in that moment, my husband ran to the sink to vomit, I sat on the bed and didn’t make a sound and the days that followed were some of the most challenging I have ever had to face. On Monday 13th May 2019 our beautiful daughter came into the world in silence, and we instantly fell in love. Her cute button nose and kissable chubby cheeks are etched into my mind forever, my eyes wanted to absorb every fine detail knowing time was limited and in the not too distant future I was going to have to say goodbye, forever. 

We spent three days with Rosie in hospital, surrounded by our close family, until we made the decision it was time to go home without her. On reflection, I’m not sure how I managed that or how my legs allowed me to walk away from her when we did but to this day that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, without doubt. We were given a memory box in hospital, similar to the ones provided by Sands, and it was such a comfort having somewhere special to store all the memories we made with Rosie in such a short time, and I cherish it to this day. 

Over the next four years I found it useful to take things step by step, and on some of the worst days I would focus on getting through the next minute if that’s all I could cope with. My grief has evolved in that time, I’ve lost friends and made new ones, I’ve gone from believing I would never feel joy again to being able to belly laugh with genuineness and without feeling guilty for that. I’ve realised in that time that asking for help is so important, and prioritizing what’s good for my wellbeing is more than okay, its vital.  

That first year was full of milestones we took step by step and as part of that we made sure we had somewhere we could go to spend time to reflect, so we decided to plant a tree at our local reservoir that was creating a new woodland of memory trees. We were able to put some of Rosie’s ashes into the ground before her tree was planted and I like to think that she is now contributing to the air up there and the earth that sustains that woodland. I imagine her enveloping herself around me as I feel the breeze on my face when I visit.  

Rosie is my eldest child, she is part of the fibre of my being and the motivation to be the very best version of myself that I can; for me, for her, and for my other children. If I could speak to the version of me who walked through those hospital doors full of hope and anticipation back in 2019 I would tell her she is so much stronger than she ever thought possible, that it will feel like you can’t breathe right now but it will ease and you will start to see gaps in the black fog that will surround you, I promise. 

I will forever feel sadness that Rosie isn’t growing up as she should and that’s okay, the sadness has settled into my bones and become a part of who I am and I wouldn’t change that for anything. Her death has given me empathy and understanding to others in a similar situation and helped me support bereaved families in my role at Sands on the helpline. She has taught me so much, and I will spend the rest of my life continuing that learning process, supporting others and loving her fiercely along the way.