I lost my baby Elodie at 23 weeks and six days pregnant and it was treated like she never officially existed

Almost 12 years ago, I gave birth to my first baby, a daughter named Elodie. Although my partner Mickael and I held her in our arms and had photos taken with her, there is no official record of her birth.

The only document I have is the receipt for her ashes from the crematorium where we held her funeral. As far as the world is concerned, Elodie never existed; she was not a person. That’s because she was stillborn at 23 weeks and six days gestation, just shy of the UK’s legal age of viability.

For thousands of women who, like me, have suffered a stillbirth or late miscarriage before 24 weeks, the realisation that there will never be an official record of our baby’s existence makes an already traumatic experience even more painful.

But last month, after years of campaigning by charities, the Government finally took note. Bereaved parents in England will now be able to apply for a baby loss certificate — an official, although not legal, document — which recognises our loss and acknowledges that our babies did exist, rather than classifying them as mere unfortunate clinical events in our NHS records.

Being able to apply for this certificate would have made all the difference in the world to me on September 27, 2012, when I walked out of the maternity unit of University College Hospital, London, with empty arms. I was still sore and weak from blood loss, after giving birth late the night before, and my bump remained swollen.

Had I not taken a tablet to dry up my milk supply, my breasts would have been engorged too, growing ready to feed her. My body ached for my missing baby.

But Elodie now lay in the hospital mortuary.

Mickael and I returned home to my silent flat to begin preparing for Elodie’s funeral, which took place the following week at Golders Green Crematorium.

Six weeks later, we scattered her ashes in the sea at our favourite secluded, cove beach near Nice, France, near where he then lived and she had been conceived. We spelled out her name with stones in the sand.

People were kind and sent cards, flowers and their sympathy, but we were alone with our grief. Nobody save Mickael and I, and the two midwives who delivered her, ever saw Elodie or held her. Usually, when someone dies, they live on in the memories of those who knew them.

There are no memories of Elodie, no anecdotes; she never took her first breath, let alone her first steps. Even though I keep copies of her hand and footprints, tangible evidence of her existence, in a box at the back of my wardrobe, she never made a single footprint on Earth. 

And so, after her funeral, we were left to get on with our lives as if the previous six months — all the scans, the kicks, all our dreams and plans — had never happened.

My grief was amplified by the knowledge that Elodie was stillborn because I had taken the decision to end her life, in order to spare her suffering. She had a rare chromosome disorder that meant she was unlikely to survive birth, or would almost certainly die in pain shortly afterwards.

On the advice of doctors, and after much discussion, I had chosen to terminate my pregnancy.

Unfortunately, her condition, Trisomy 2 mosaicism, wasn’t discovered until I was over 22 weeks pregnant. After that, it felt like the clock was ticking. The doctors told me to take my time in making my decision, but it was clear they were keen for me to go ahead with the termination as soon as possible, preferably before I reached 24 weeks.

This was, of course, partly for the sake of my baby, who was continuing to grow and develop. But I also felt the pressure of the consultant’s schedule, and the need to avoid pushing my termination into a post-24 weeks legal category, which would doubtless bring with it more paperwork for the medics and hospital administrators.

After that point, at which ordinary abortion is no longer permitted, they would have had to seek approval for a termination under Ground E of the Abortion Act (allowing abortions over 24 weeks in cases of severe foetal abnormality).

Elodie’s heart was stopped in a procedure called a feticide, two days before I was induced into labour. I was painfully aware that had she lived for just three days longer, she would have become an official person.

Like most people, I hate bureaucracy and form-filling, regarding them as a necessary evil. But at that dreadful time, I yearned for the opportunity to fill in an official document with Elodie’s details, to write what would have been her full name, Elodie Freeman-Lorinquer, and to print my name and signature next to it.

Even if you have given birth, if your baby doesn’t officially exist, then you are not officially a mother either. Not being able to record Elodie’s existence made me determined to commemorate her in some other way.

Soon after her stillbirth, I had a necklace made, imprinted with her name, her date of birth and her footprints.

Over the past 12 years, I have written about her several times, including in an essay in a new book, No One Talks About This Stuff, which will be published next month. I know talking about her has helped other women who have been through similar experiences or faced similar choices. 

It’s a great comfort to me to know that, even though she didn’t live, Elodie has made a positive difference in the world.

The new baby loss certificates will be available to women — and men — who have lost babies at any stage in pregnancy. I know this will be a solace to many people, particularly those who were never lucky enough to carry a baby to term, and have therefore remained childless.

Miscarriage still isn’t talked about enough, and this will help to break the taboo. After Elodie, I suffered two more losses myself, at six and nine weeks. For some reason, I imagine that these babies would have been boys. 

But although the miscarriages were physically traumatic, the pregnancies were over so soon that I have never felt the need to commemorate or document them.

At last, in 2015, Mickael and I had a healthy baby daughter, who we named Sidonie. She is now eight, and she often talks about her older sister, with whom she’d love to be able to play.

In September 2020, my family moved on to a houseboat in east London. We christened our new home Elodie, boldly painting her name in gold leaf on her stern.

When I heard the news of the introduction of the new baby loss certificates, on the day of their launch, I was so pleased. I went straight on to the gov.uk site, hoping at last to fill in Elodie’s details.

But, for me, the development has turned out to be bittersweet. For now, at least, only parents of babies born after September 1, 2018 will be able to apply for the certificates.

This means I will not be able to obtain one for Elodie. According to the Department of Health, ‘We will look to expand eligibility for certificates pre-dating September 2018 as soon as we can.’

So many families in Britain have ghost babies — children who have only ever lived in our wombs, and in our minds, hearts and dreams. The new baby loss certificates recognise that losing a wanted child is no less painful if it happens at 23 weeks, or 20 weeks or 15, than it is at 24 weeks or more.

Although these pieces of paper will not bring our children back to life, they will at least allow us to acknowledge that they did once exist.

No One Talks About This Stuff, edited by Kat Brown (Unbound) is out on March 21.