I still can’t believe what I’m about to write. Putting it down into actual words seems to make it all the more real, but it’s necessary. On Monday 22nd February, after 41 weeks of pregnancy, I gave birth to mine and Joe’s second child. Our gorgeous baby boy, Robin Peter Todd. 

I woke at 4:30am with mild contractions and we went to the labour ward at about 8am as everything had ramped up really fast. 

We were both so excited and full of imaginings of the joy the rest of the day would hold. We had not found out if Leo was having a baby brother or sister and looked forward to announcing if there would be another boy to add to the ever increasing band of male cousins or if another girl would be on the cards. 

On arrival, due to COVID restrictions, I was taken alone for the routine monitoring of his heartbeat and to set me up for labour. Joe was left to patiently wait until I was ready. I was used to being alone now for these things after a covid restricted pregnancy. 

The student midwife checking me struggled to find Robin’s heartbeat and a senior midwife came to help. At this time, it was thought he may be breach and therefore in a difficult position to monitor, my labour continued to progress. Finally, Joe was able to join me. I was taken into a back room so they could hook me up to a different machine to scan me more thoroughly. By this time I was having contractions every 2-3 minutes, repeatedly asking for gas and air or pain relief but all attention was now on establishing Robin’s welfare as unbeknownst to us they grew increasingly concerned. Even at this point we could not have believed what would come next. Immediately after one of the contractions I opened my eyes to see Joe’s face looking down at me in complete shock. The midwife asked me if I had heard what the sonographer had said and I replied that I hadn’t. I turned to look at her and she said the sentence that will quite literally haunt us for the rest of our lives. 

“I’m so sorry, I can’t find the heartbeat. Your baby has died”.

I remember looking at Joe and telling him I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t give birth to our child knowing they weren’t there anymore. Joe doesn’t have the words to explain what he felt in that moment. The only thing we can say is that our world came crashing down around us. 

Unfortunately it doesn’t matter what you want, I was in full labour and your body does what it needs to and takes over. It was too late for an epidural, any drugs or an emergency section, I was pushing. Joe held my hand the entire time, without him I couldn’t have done it. 

We still don’t know what, why or how we lost Robin. Me, Joe and Leo were watching him wriggling around in my tummy only the night before. 

What has followed have been the darkest of days. That day holding our beautiful boy and choosing his name. Leaving the hospital without our child. Making decisions about his funeral. Registering his birth and death. First visits with our families where all we can share of our baby are photos and memories. A funeral restricted by Covid. Mother’s Day. Answering the innocent, well meaning questions of strangers, neighbours and friends. So many unbearable days. 

Alongside this, we have been stunned by the love in our lives, by the care of our family and friends, by some of the wonderful professionals we have met. We have also been shocked by some of the things that are not in place for people after child loss or by services that solely rely on charity rather than being part of policies and practices in the NHS. 

So here we are. Living each new day for our sons. Making a choice to add Robin’s goodness to the world through our actions. My amazing husband has decided that he wants to do something to try and stop any other family ever going through the pain we endure. He is going to run the London Marathon on Sunday 3rd October for a wonderful charity called Teddy’s Wish. 

Teddy’s Wish fund research into the causes of baby loss and also provide support to grieving families who otherwise would not have access to counselling or guidance. 

It’s not in our nature to post such intimate moments of our lives on social media. We rarely post our happy times so it is with vulnerability that we share this with you all. However we know people need to hear the details of our experience in order to understand just how devastating this is. 

It’s an uncomfortable topic, we feel guilty sharing our grief. We know it’s not nice to think about and it’s definitely taboo but it shouldn’t be. 

It happens to people, way more than it should and it needs to stop. There are so many beautiful women around me who are currently pregnant and the thought of this happening to anyone else is unthinkable. Our wish would be that one day no parent has to return home without their child. There are no names for parents who have lost a child. For siblings who have a missing playmate. At present 1 in 200 pregnancies end in stillbirth meaning loss after 24 weeks of pregnancy. That is 8 families a day! We want to help make this stop. 

If you’ve managed to get to the end of this absolute essay, thank you! Now onto the bit where we turn to ask for your help. We couldn’t save our son but if we raise enough maybe we could save someone else’s? Absolutely anything you can contribute would be massively appreciated and if you can’t give anything (we know COVID has affected a lot of people) please share this page to spread the message. 

With love always Emily, Joe, Leo and Robin.