It was on the pages of British that I first wrote about the night my baby died five months into my pregnancy. Writing about my son, Axel, came so easily. Nothing has changed about the way I speak of my love for him, the night he died and how he is in my thoughts every day. Only now, I’m more confident in the way I talk of my grief and my relationship to a baby nobody knew.
When I first began talking about Axel in 2017, I felt fraudulent when referring to him as my baby. I found limited information that I could relate to, and only a few people in the media were speaking openly about the realities of pregnancy loss. Due, in part, to this, I mistakenly felt I was making too much of my experience. Nobody, other than my husband, doctors and midwives had met him. Axel was an idea of what was to come in my future to most people. But he was – is – my son.
Pregnancy loss, at any stage, can only be truly understood if you have lived through this experience. The minute you are told you are pregnant, the idea of a future with your baby begins to take shape. When you live through a loss, you have plans and a deep love for your baby, but nowhere for them to go. Early miscarriages often leave no footprints, photos or keepsake from a hospital stay to hold onto. After Axel died, one of my biggest regrets was not taking a treasured item from the hospital home with me. I had his footprints in an envelope, but wish I had taken the blanket that his small body had been wrapped in. For months after he died, I had a profound longing for something physical to hold, something that symbolised not only Axel, but hope that everything might be okay in time.
It was hard for friends to know what to say, and what to send to my home to let me know they were thinking of me. One thoughtful friend sent me a precious stone, the card attached explained it represented hope and resilience in times of suffering. During the first few months, when my body longed to hold Axel and every sensory memory took me back to my time in hospital, I held the stone close to me. It wasn’t the stone that was the source of comfort, it was the act of holding something tangible against my body. That feeling translated to a form of connection to my baby.
When an older member of a family dies, jewellery is often passed down through generations. Wearing a significant piece can symbolise their importance in your life. I wanted to create a piece of jewellery that would form a similar sentiment; a pendant to honour the memory of a longed-for baby. During my deepest stage of grief, Monica Vinader sent me a beautiful disc pendant, with significant words engraved into it. I knew the natural partner to bring my concept of a feather pendant to life was her. We worked on the idea for months, Monica designing the pendant with her signature passion and care. The result is a beautiful, delicate piece of engravable jewellery that I hope will bring comfort to those who wear it. That the proceeds of the pendant will be donated (up to £20,000) to Tommy’s charity makes the sentiment all the more meaningful for Monica and I.
Tommy’s is the largest charity in the UK that funds research into the causes and prevention of miscarriage, stillbirth and premature birth. I have been fortunate to work with them several times over the past nine years, gaining a greater understanding of their dedication to make pregnancy and birth safer for everyone. When you find yourself living through this experience, something you could never have prepared for, Tommy’s helplines and resources can be an invaluable source of comfort.
The grief of losing your baby is palpable, but there are understandable challenges in how others may grasp the depth of your trauma. So much of grief can feel invisible, particularly when there are no memories that exist outside of you, or even a name. Throughout history and across cultures, we have used objects and rituals to mourn. There is something instinctive about this physical expression of love. A physical memento can give that loss somewhere to exist – something to keep close, and in time, something that makes it easier to talk about the baby you lost with those around you.
When someone dies, we simply have to find new ways of carrying them with us. My hope is that the feather pendant becomes a way of taking a baby, or the idea of what a future may have held, with those who have lived through pregnancy or baby loss.