Carolyn's Story
“Rebecca Madeline’s name has been spoken for 24 years, and I will never stop saying it. When you say her name, you break the silence.”
In June 2002, our daughter was stillborn. We named her Rebecca Madeline. Rebecca had always been the name we said we would choose if we were ever blessed with a girl. Her middle name honoured her grandmother, who died just a few months before she was born. Saying her name still connects those two generations of love.
At 38 weeks pregnant, my midwife noted that Rebecca was small for gestational age and arranged a follow-up ultrasound scan. The Monday was a Bank Holiday and the Tuesday an additional holiday for the Queen’s Jubilee celebrations. I went into hospital with reduced movements before I reached that Wednesday appointment. It was there we were told that Rebecca had died due to a massive placental abruption. After a traumatic labour, she was born silently just after 11pm on Tuesday 4 June 2002.
In the early days after we lost her, I found out about Sands from a leaflet I was given in hospital. But I didn’t feel able to call the Helpline. I just didn’t know what to say.
And that word – silence – has stayed with me.
So many parents tell us that after their baby dies, the people around them don’t know what to say and are frightened of saying the wrong thing. So instead, they say nothing at all. People avoid your baby’s name. They avoid the subject. It’s usually meant kindly. But it can feel incredibly lonely.
While others may fall silent, many of us want to talk about our babies. Not just in the early days, but years and decades later. We want to say their name. We are proud to say their name. And it can truly mean the world when someone else says it too.
In time, I connected with other bereaved mums and helped resurrect my local Sands group. I attended the Sands AGM later that year and in December went to the annual Lights of Love service — something I still try to attend each year. Over the years, the support I’ve received, directly and indirectly, has been invaluable. At times, quite literally a lifeline. Sands became my voice when I was unable to speak.
Rebecca’s name has now been spoken for 24 years, and I will never stop saying it.
We remember her in many ways, especially at Christmas. We hang decorations on the tree chosen for her. We have a little china angel bought in her memory. We buy a ‘Daughter’ and ‘Sister’ card, and her brothers can write a message if they wish. We visit her headstone on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day with cards and a small tree. In recent years, instead of sending Christmas cards, I donate the money in her memory or buy a gift for a child in need.
Over the years, working at Sands, I’ve had the privilege of hearing and speaking so many babies’ names. Each one precious. Each one carrying a story, a family, and a love that does not end.
For me, Say Their Name Day matters because it breaks that silence.
When you say our babies’ names — when you say Rebecca — you acknowledge that she was here. That she is loved. That she matters.
And that means more than you will ever know.
In June 2002, our daughter was stillborn. We named her Rebecca Madeline. Rebecca had always been the name we said we would choose if we were ever blessed with a girl. Her middle name honoured her grandmother, who died just a few months before she was born. Saying her name still connects those two generations of love.
At 38 weeks pregnant, my midwife noted that Rebecca was small for gestational age and arranged a follow-up ultrasound scan. The Monday was a Bank Holiday and the Tuesday an additional holiday for the Queen’s Jubilee celebrations. I went into hospital with reduced movements before I reached that Wednesday appointment. It was there we were told that Rebecca had died due to a massive placental abruption. After a traumatic labour, she was born silently just after 11pm on Tuesday 4 June 2002.
In the early days after we lost her, I found out about Sands from a leaflet I was given in hospital. But I didn’t feel able to call the Helpline. I just didn’t know what to say.
And that word – silence – has stayed with me.
So many parents tell us that after their baby dies, the people around them don’t know what to say and are frightened of saying the wrong thing. So instead, they say nothing at all. People avoid your baby’s name. They avoid the subject. It’s usually meant kindly. But it can feel incredibly lonely.
While others may fall silent, many of us want to talk about our babies. Not just in the early days, but years and decades later. We want to say their name. We are proud to say their name. And it can truly mean the world when someone else says it too.
In time, I connected with other bereaved mums and helped resurrect my local Sands group. I attended the Sands AGM later that year and in December went to the annual Lights of Love service — something I still try to attend each year. Over the years, the support I’ve received, directly and indirectly, has been invaluable. At times, quite literally a lifeline. Sands became my voice when I was unable to speak.
Rebecca’s name has now been spoken for 24 years, and I will never stop saying it.
We remember her in many ways, especially at Christmas. We hang decorations on the tree chosen for her. We have a little china angel bought in her memory. We buy a ‘Daughter’ and ‘Sister’ card, and her brothers can write a message if they wish. We visit her headstone on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day with cards and a small tree. In recent years, instead of sending Christmas cards, I donate the money in her memory or buy a gift for a child in need.
Over the years, working at Sands, I’ve had the privilege of hearing and speaking so many babies’ names. Each one precious. Each one carrying a story, a family, and a love that does not end.
For me, Say Their Name Day matters because it breaks that silence.
When you say our babies’ names — when you say Rebecca — you acknowledge that she was here. That she is loved. That she matters.
And that means more than you will ever know.
