Lauren’s love

“I was full to the brim with grief. There was anger, there were so many why’s and what if’s?” And so much longing for Kitty, all whilst still trying to be present for my son.”

Kitty was stillborn just a few days before Lauren’s elective C-section at 38 weeks. Here Lauren shares her story of the unexpected parts of grief and how petals helped her in hope that others won’t feel so alone during the emotional rollercoaster that is baby loss.   

Here is Lauren’s story. 

My pregnancy with Kitty was uncomplicated, I had extra scans which were always a bonus as I got to see her on the ultrasounds more than most mums get to. On the first scan she held her hands in the shape of a love heart. I was in disbelief to find out she was a girl, having a 2-year-old little boy I thought I was destined for dinosaurs, tractors and football. Quickly, I became fully invested in girl mum life, buying all the pink, bows, lace, velvet and bunny clothes. Kitty had a full wardrobe up to age 1.

My pregnancy flew by with a toddler to keep me on my toes. I had my elective C-section booked in to relieve some of the stress and I was all ready at home for Kitty’s arrival. At 38 weeks I attended triage with reduced movements, I was sent home with no concerns. 3 days later I found myself feeling different, heavy for the first time. By the evening I needed to use the toilet a lot, and I was having back-to-back Braxton Hicks. I started to realise I hadn’t felt Kitty move, only Braxton hicks and it was hard to tell the difference. I had used a home Doppler, but that night I couldn’t find her heartbeat. I still wasn’t too worried at this point as I knew the Doppler shouldn’t really be used apart from by a professional.   

We went into hospital again and, thankfully, I was seen quickly. The first midwife tried the Doppler with no success, the second midwife who I had seen 3 nights ago attempted and still nothing. I confessed I couldn’t find it at home either. This is when things started to feel different, there was sudden urgency.   

A doctor was called, an ultrasound performed. I started to feel my eyes sting, the pressure of the ultrasound was hard on my belly, the midwife’s hand was soft in mine. I remember covering my eyes with the other hand as the room stayed silent. No one was saying anything, ‘what’s happening’ I remember repeating. A second doctor was now in the room, hushed voices muttering over the black and white screen.  ‘Is she gone?’ I asked. Still nothing but a slight nod from the midwife next to me who still hadn’t let go of my hand. After what felt like eternity the doctor sat next me. ‘Your baby has died’.  

It is still very painful to think back to that memory but I felt as though I was in a bad dream, on the edge of waking up, stuck in a loop and it was all going to be okay when I woke up. Unfortunately, that moment never came.   Instead the midwife asked to hug me, she spoke softly in my ear whilst holding me tightly, I can’t remember much of it apart from her saying, ‘You won’t be alone in this, there are so many other women out there like you, you are in my prayers tonight’.   

The conversations about what happened next seem so minimal compared to what was happening. I took some medication, made some impossible phone calls and chose to go home for the night and next day. How I got through the next 48 hours I’m not quite sure. But the painful experiences were not over yet: there was repacking a hospital bag, taking out the things your baby would never use, arriving at a delivery suite surrounded by other pregnant women knowing you wouldn’t be bringing your baby home.   

The birthing experience was as peaceful and smooth as I could have hoped. I was lucky enough to have two amazing birth partners, my sister-in-law and my mum. I opted for a natural delivery after weighing up all the risks, I felt empowered and got to give birth how I had always imagined. But also nothing like I had imagined. 

Kitty was born at 00:19 on 24/03/2026. (The year of the firehorse) to Ellie Gouldings – How long will I love you, with the help of a lot of gas and air, my birthing partners and a wonderful midwife – an all-girl gang. 

When Kitty was delivered, I knew I wanted skin on skin, and I wanted to see her. Initially the midwife told me her head was fragile and I shouted, ‘I don’t care’. She was my baby and I didn’t care about anything else other than holding her. She was placed on my chest, and we lay for a few hours, whilst my birthing playlist played.   

The days that followed I was given so much information, most of which I couldn’t retain. Post-mortems, funerals, memory making. But with the help of the bereavement team, I was guided through each step.

On day 2, I went into a mothering role where I felt like I wanted to do everything that was on offer to make memories with Kitty. Washing her, changing her clothes, having professional photos taken, cutting locks of her hair, finger and handprints and having a naming ceremony. After all, these moments were all I would ever have to remember her by. Making those decisions were easy but deciding how long I would stay with her was impossible. There was no right time to leave but equally I didn’t want to be stuck in hospital, and I needed to see my son.   

I wanted to stay with Kitty forever, I wanted to bring her home, but not like this. When I left Kitty I put photos of her family with her, we wrote her letters, I used my colostrum which I’d collected to massage into her skin, I sprayed her clothes with my perfume, I read to her and kissed her goodbye.  

For the next few weeks I was troubled over how much I should visit Kitty in the chapel of rest. I felt at peace with how I’d left her, so instead I dropped her funeral clothes off and the bereavement midwife dressed her and gave her the matching bracelet I’d brought us.   

I spent the next few weeks in survival mode; it quite literally was getting by hour by hour. I had the funeral to focus on, so I put all my energy into that, choosing flowers, songs and writing a poem. After the funeral, things started to change; the harder feelings started to creep in.   

 I was anxious about going out, to drive, to see people. I feared other bad things would happen to me or my family. The world I knew felt different – and i felt vulnerable existing in it. Doing basic things like having a day with my family felt off. I couldn’t enjoy anything. I was anxious about my son, when I’d never been that sort of parent before. I was so easily overwhelmed, I couldn’t make simple decisions or organise basic things in my life. I was full to the brim with grief. There was so much restlessness and feelings of, what now? What do I do with myself now? There was anger, there was so many whys, and what ifs? And so much longing for Kitty, all whilst still trying to be present for my son. I didn’t want to miss a second of him but equally I wasn’t always able to parent how I wanted to and that made me feel immense amounts of guilt.   

Baby loss shines a light on all aspects of your life from your career, your relationships, your confidence, what you want from life and makes you second guess everything.  Baby loss grief is different to any other kind. I often think this is because it is not the order of how things should go. In life, you may expect to lose parents or friends or siblings along the way. No parent should lose a child. It is solitary, lonely and confusing. You don’t just lose a baby – you lose your child, a life that you had imagined and dreamed about, even planned for, I had holidays booked with Kitty’s name and space allocated. Logistically, financially, everything was ready.   

To go from two opposite worlds in the blink of a second – from the epitome of love and excitement at meeting your new baby to hearing they have died and you will never meet them alive is something that no words will ever do justice for. There is no silver lining, no lesson to be learned, no ‘at least’ and no solution. It is completely confusing for the brain to comprehend. I still had moments of thinking ‘when the baby arrives’ because my brain hadn’t quite caught up. My body was postpartum and my arms were aching.

So what did I do? I focused on trying to calm my nervous system, spending lots of time outside, exercising, planting a colourful garden for Kitty and being gentle with myself.  That’s not to say it was onwards and upwards, there are still days/weeks, even months where the grief washes over and completely wipes me out, but with each wave I learn to stand again and put one foot in front of the other.   

So much of stillbirth is silent, the clinic room when you wait for eternity for someone to tell you the news you are suspecting, the birth with no cry, the people you expected to show up that didn’t, the car journey home because no one knows what to say now and the room you go home to where all your baby’s belongings are waiting, silently.   

And in all that silence, I had so much I wanted to say and talk about. That’s where Petals came in. I had worked with them previously for birth trauma with my son, and was kindly allocated the same counsellor, this meant I didn’t have to explain everything again and we could focus on Kitty.   

My counsellor let me pour my heart out, speak every thought and feeling without judgement. Most importantly she validated everything I said. She used analogies to help explain the unexplainable feelings I was having.  She made me feel normal when sometimes I felt like I was the only person that was feeling this way. My counsellor made me feel heard when I still had ongoing questions about what really happened to Kitty, she gave me the permission and courage to ask the questions when I wondered if I was being desperate.   

Most importantly she told me to be kind to myself. She told me that grief was different to mental health, that I didn’t have to push myself when I couldn’t face the day, that I wasn’t going to get worse because I enforced new boundaries or cancelled plans, and that in fact, I would never be the same person again. My daughter had died and life would probably never be the same again. I allowed myself to not need to always find an answer as to why I was feeling a certain way, was it the date? Was it the impending meetings with the hospital? Was it offloading? Maybe it was just that my daughter had died and that was enough – I didn’t need any other reasons. Petals helped me to understand that grief doesn’t follow a neat model like you might find in a textbook and, actually, I might feel all the different stages of grief repeatedly, unexpectedly and in no order for some time. Which is exactly how it has been.   

A common phrase used within the baby loss community is that grief doesn’t change, you just learn to live alongside it. I can’t say I am quite there yet but with the help of Petals I am slowly starting to understand this phrase more and hold hope that one day I will have found a way to walk alongside my grief whilst always remembering my darling Kitty.