Harriet Cochrane

Ribbon Run

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219
kms

My target 161 kms

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I’m taking part in Sands Ribbon Run

I’m taking part in Sands Baby Loss Awareness Week 9-15 October.

Support me as I walk 100 miles in October in support of Sands, helping them to continue to build a world where more babies survive and more families receive the happy ending they deserve.

Ribbon Run is a sponsored run, walk or jog where thousands of people come together to remember their babies and raise funds for Sands. 

By sponsoring me, you are helping Sands break the silence around baby loss and to continue to save babies’ lives.

£3 - could provide a Sands birth certificate for a baby whose birth cannot be registered through a register office.

£10 - could provide a hand and footprint kit to help create memories.

£20 - could provide a bereaved family with a memory box to help create and keep safe precious and lasting memories of their baby.

£35 - could answer a call from someone reaching out for support who has been through pregnancy loss or the death of a baby.

£100 - could help ensure every hospital in the UK has a dedicated Sands volunteer to help healthcare professionals access our training, guidance and support.

My Achievements

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Received 5 Donations

Raised £100

Raised £150

Reached Goal

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My Updates

1000 Decisions

Monday 28th Oct
We've not long received our copy of Pip's birth notes, and it's a hard read. Not from the consultants/midwives handwriting, but reading them is like re-living the experience all over again.

There were parts that I'd forgotten about, and lots of notes that I didn't think were being recorded. It shows the volume of decisions we had to make, from when to induce labour, right through to noting the time we walked out of those hospital doors without our baby.

I needed to see the notes, to make sense of time scales, to remember what we had asked, and what had been asked of us. To have them as a record that we do indeed have a daughter, she wasn't some fever dream.

Parents talk of how hard life is freshly post partum, your hormones going wild, navigating your new role as Mummy and Dada. It's unbelievably hard to navigate being new parents without your baby. 

Where do you put all that love?

Coming home to see all the things we had brought for her, her cot and changing mat etc. It was painful reminders of how we thought life would look after the birth of our baby. So we hid them, boxed them up and put the smaller things in the attic, and donated the larger items to charity shops.

Her tiny coffin, which we decorated in the same colours as her moses basket broke my heart, it was so small. Lined with lovely natural calico, and the tiniest pillow I've ever seen.

We sent her off with lots of soft toys, letters from Tim and I, photos, flowers, blankets, and comforters.

No parent should have to say good bye to their baby whilst still in maternity pads. 

All I wanted to do was to get her out and hold her hand one more time, It took everything I had not to walk out of there with her.

I can't imagine a pain more unbearable than this moment, and I hope this is the saddest photo I'll ever have. 

My heart shattering into a million pieces for our daughter, our lovely Pip. Gone forever.

Spending Time With Our Daughter

Thursday 10th Oct

The next morning we woke up to Pip having been moved to the room next door to us, and again we could go in and out of there as much as we wanted.


The clinical photographer had been to take photos of Pip on her own, and would we like photos of us too? I wasn’t sure, Tim went through and I sat on the hospital bed on my own, then another wave of guilt, that feeling of overwhelming grief, and also that I was a bad mum because I couldn’t face having photos taken.


A few minutes passed and I decided to go through, seeing Tim holding our little girl was all too much, she should be alive, we shouldn’t be going into another room to see her, she should be snuggled on my chest. The photographer suggested we all put our hands in together for a photo, and I just couldn’t do it, my grief was too big. I left. 


Every time I walked away from her there was more guilt. My body had done this, and now I had to live with the consequences. Except I wasn’t facing them, I was walking away, retreating back to bed to hide, to try and pretend the ending was different. Our bereavement midwife came and sat with me, she offered me a couple of books to read, accounts from other families in similar positions to us. I took them and added it to the pile of leaflets and resources to read about baby loss and grief. I thought we would be heading home with leaflets on breastfeeding, on when our baby’s first check up would be, not decisions to make about her funeral.


We had a busy morning with meetings to fill out paper work and deciding on what we would like to do with Pip. What kind of post mortem we would like, where she would be transferred to for it, and what funeral arrangements would we make. I can’t really remember what was said, our consultant Rachel had on a lovely skirt which might seem like an odd thing to remember, but it was pleated and full of colour, and I wondered if she had worn it for what was supposed to be our rainbow baby, or whether it was pure coincidence.  I can remember Tim holding my hand, sitting on the edge of the massive chunky chairs that were in our room, but the details are hazy and the words won’t come to me now.


I remember being asked to sign some paper work, I think it was to release Pip from our hospital to Addenbrooks in Cambridge for her post mortem, but I’m not sure. All I can remember is crying so much that I couldn’t even see where to sign, let alone make a signature that at some point in the future would be recognisable as my own.


It felt completely wild to be signing her away, we’d not even been with her that long, and yet here we were being asked to send her off.


We were given the option of keeping Pip at the hospital over the weekend rather than her being whisked away from us on the Friday, and we agreed it was the best thing to do. I needed more time, if not with Pip, just to make sure we had made the right decisions.


Our mum’s arrived to see Pip, each one had time with her on their own. We were painfully aware that both our mums had been very excited about us finally getting pregnant, and now here we were inviting them to hold our dead baby. When I first mentioned it to my mum, she wasn’t sure at first, and I totally understood her feelings, we were the same, there are so many questions that fly around your head. What would she look like? Do I want memories of this? I told her Pip was super cute, that she had perfect little hands and long legs, and I would completely respect her decision either way on whether she wanted to see her or not.


I am so pleased both our mums took us up on the offer of meeting her, it made her seem more real, and gave them some memories of her too. I didn’t stay long to see them hold her, I was too ashamed that Pip had died in my care, and seeing their tears made me feel even worse about it all, so back to bed I went. Back to hide from the world. 


Tim’s mum had paid for this round of IVF, it took us a year to take her up on the offer, I knew that we could potentially be throwing this money away, what if it didn’t work. Would she be ok with spending that amount of money on something she may never see? Not once did I think it would work and then have a stillborn baby. Not once. 


It literally never crossed my mind. 


And after all that worry about spending it, then the high of a positive pregnancy test, here we were asking her to see our perfect Pip, cold and lifeless in a hospital room.


The crushing weight of grief is so tiring, especially straight after birth, Tim kindly offered to take our mums for a walk so I could rest, but in the end I just wanted to be with Pip, so the midwives carefully brought her back into our room in her cold cot.


I picked her up and cuddled her, I sat there wondering how many other mothers are doing the same thing in the hospital right now, only their babies were living.


We wrote letters to Pip before we left the hospital, I needed somewhere I could openly talk to her, let her know how sorry I was for not being able to keep her safe. The guilt and the shame of losing a baby is so all consuming at times. It doesn’t matter how many times the midwives, consultants and doctors tell me I did nothing wrong, my body couldn’t keep her safe. 


I was the only one looking after her, and she died with me. 


I’m not sure this feeling will ever change, even if we find a medical cause, I was the one growing her, I was the only one who could keep her safe, and she died. 


We spent the rest of the day with her in our room, after spending five days hiding from the world I needed to get out of there. I thought a trip to fill up my water bottle in the corridor would be good, I wouldn’t be going far, and it was a speedy retreat back to our room if I needed. That was a big mistake. Seeing other women with their babies, or hearing phone calls from happy parents telling families that their newborn had arrived was a lot to take in.


I felt we had been kept away from the other parents, in a good and kind way, by keeping beautiful living newborn babies cries away from us. But at the same time we were being kept away from new parents. No-one wants to be in our situation. It’s unthinkable. They wouldn’t want to see us, and we struggled seeing them. 


The call bells from other rooms were a constant noise, each time I wondered if it was because a baby was nearly here, or a new mum needing help with latching. Parents walking in and out with food deliveries, and going home with their babies. Our midwife had said that when mums decide they want to leave, they want to leave NOW. And she was right. Suddenly I didn’t want to be there any more, it didn’t feel like a safe haven, there were too many happy families beyond our door and it was getting harder to ignore them. So we gave her notice that we would be heading home that evening. 


Packing up our stuff was hard, but walking out of that room leaving our beautiful Pip behind was one of the most horrific things we’ve had to do. Tim took our bags out to the car first, so that we only had ourselves to walk out with.


I cannot describe the pain I felt in my chest as we were ushered out the back door, clutching her memory box so tight, I couldn’t see from the tears in my eyes.


We should have been filming ‘the hot dad walk’. We should have been walking out of the front door with our newborn daughter. We should have been walking out in the bright sunlight to our car with the baby seat. Instead we said one final goodbye to her through the window, and left.


With a midwife's words of advice still bouncing around my head, we stopped off at M&S to pick up a caterpillar cake, a cheese board and a bottle of Port. Just like we had said we would once our baby was born, and although she wasn’t coming home with us, we could still make those memories.


I sat in the car whilst Tim went in, I was still so sore from birth and the last thing I felt like doing was food shopping. Had this been a normal birth, I would have prepped this beforehand so we wouldn’t have to make a stop, but of course none of this was planned, so we were rolling on instinct instead. Another thing I had failed at, no baby, and no food.


I had thought we would get better sleep at home, in our own bed, with the silence that comes from living in a village. But I hadn’t thought about how loud my thoughts were going to be.


As soon as I laid my head down on the pillow I was taken straight back to the night we were last at home. When I was laying there trying to get her to move, that feeling of not being pregnant, making that phone call to the maternity triage, and then the world of pain we fell through when there was no heart beat.


Instantly I regretted leaving her at the hospital, we should be there. I wanted to hold her again and be with her. 


Tim wasn’t so sure about going back to see her, and I wasn’t sure if it was my hormones pulling me towards her or guilt or something else. We knew she would deteriorate every day, and would change really quickly, what would we find if we saw her again?


She would be in the cold store at the hospital i guessed, rather than in her moses basket. Would that change her appearance? We sat on it for 24 hours, I still felt the same.


I needed to go back and hold her, tell her how much I loved her and that we would remember her forever. 


I felt like we left her in chaos, not actual outside chaos, but my brain was chaos. The guilt and sadness had been strong at the hospital before we left, and I didn’t want that to be her final moments with us.


We’d left with me weeping over her moses basket, me saying how sorry I was that I couldn’t keep her safe, that my body had let us down, and she'd died. I couldn’t let that be my lasting memory with her. 


Sunday


So we went back, and it 100% the right decision. We were apprehensive about going back, what would she look like now?


We were ushered in the back door again, and thankfully back into the same room we had been in before. There was no time limit on how long we could stay with her, she was back in her cold cot with all her teddies, letters, flowers and blankets.


I just needed the time to hold her again, to feel the weight of her in my arms, resting on my now empty tummy. To stroke her hands and tell her how proud we are of her, how much we love her, and that we will never forget her.


It was a much calmer experience, and one where I felt the most like her mum. We had time to breathe and think, read her stories and soak up every inch of her. We took some more photos and just spent time as a family together. 


She had changed, quite a bit actually. But she was still perfect, our perfect Pip.


There was a moment when Tim was holding her that I had a moment of clarity, and said I wanted us to leave via the front door. We had done everything every other family had done on this ward. And we had done it through extreme grief.


We deserved to walk out of that ward with our heads held high, through the front door. 


I needed to do it, I was so proud of Pip. Of Tim too for getting us both through this crazy, unimaginable ordeal. 


We were parents too.


I’d given birth. 


We have a daughter.


She is called Pip. 


Luckily the ward was pretty quiet, the doors to the rooms open for the most part, I could see birth balls ready to use, the big birth pools that I'd dreamed of using sitting ready for its next mother to labour in. The empty cots awaiting new babies. 


And we walked out.


Not in shame, tears yes. Lots of tears, but our heads held high, hands clasped tightly together and we walked out into the sunshine. Tim and I as a team, we would get through this together.


Meeting Our Daughter

Tuesday 1st Oct

They had whisked her behind the curtain straight after birth, I felt we needed a little bit of time to get cleaned up, and properly back in the room before we met her.


I wanted to be with Tim, for us to re-connect before we embarked on meeting our child. It may sound odd to say that, and I feel guilty for not wanting to hold her straight away, but I think it was the right thing to do, for both of us. We didn’t know what to expect, and I didn’t want that first meeting to be crazy and chaotic. We were scared too.


That post birth high is unlike anything I will ever have again. I felt so incredibly proud of us. SO PROUD of what we had gotten through, as a team, together, Tim always by my side.


We did it. 


I could see in Tim’s eyes that we had been through two completely different experiences during the birth, and now straight after we were in very very different places. I was on a high, the tension and pain had left my body, I felt invincible and just so happy.


Tim on the other hand looked like he had just witnessed something truly horrific, he looked traumatised and so sad. I wanted to remind him that this post birth high was my hormones, and just general relief that we had got through it safely, that it was ok we were in different places right now. If I could have given him my happy hormones I would have done, I wished we were in the same place. But I couldn’t, and I don’t think any part of our grieving journey will be the same as each other.


We made a pact to keep talking to each other about how we were feeling, keep the communication open, be brave and have those hard conversations.


We had asked our midwife to give us an idea of what condition our baby was in, we knew babies deteriorate as time goes on in the womb after death, and it had been days since she died. Whilst kneeling beside me on the bed, she let slip that we had a daughter!


A daughter!! A little girl, our precious little girl. I looked at Tim and said “I thought we were having a girl”, I guess it’s mothers instinct. It was such a lovely way to find out her gender.


They brought her through to us, wrapped in a white towel and pale yellow blanket, she was so perfect, our perfect Pip. Her hands were so tiny, her little button nose, she was still warm. Those first few photos we have of me holding her say it all, a proper smile, the first one in a long time, and little did I know the last one in a very long time.


I was so proud of her, she’d done so well throughout the pregnancy, and she was perfect. She looked just like our scan photos, and had really long legs and big feet. We just sat and admired her, looked at her little face, and stroked her hands. I don’t remember our midwife leaving, we were absorbed in the details of our daughter. 


I handed her to Tim, and it broke my heart a little, him finally getting to hold the child we had longed for, for over 9 years, and here she was, dead.


He looks good as a Dad, she looked tiny in his arms. We were lucky and had packed a camera, not knowing at the time if we would take any photos or not, but these are now our very very treasured memories.


Hospital time is like no other, and I wish we had documented more of our time there through photos, but when you’re in the midst of it all, it was the last thing I thought about.


Tim said he thought he’d make a good girl dad, and I said he’d have made a great one. It’s easy to forget that everyone in our family had their own idea’s of what it would be like with our baby, and I hadn’t really thought, or asked Tim about the things he would like to do with her, what would his days look like given free reign?


I got my famous nhs tea and toast. And I can tell you it was better than I had imagined it would be! 


At some point we gave her back to the staff, they got the cold cot ready for her, and I had a shower.


I wasn’t too sure how I’d feel about the cold cot, but it turned out to be a moses basket, complete with white frilly cover, and lots of cosy towels and blankets tucked up in there with her. It looked far less scary than I had thought it would.


Your instinct when touching a baby is to keep them warm and cosy, and every time I touched her, the coldness of her skin shocked me, I knew she needed to be cold so we could spend more time with her, but your instinct is to wrap the blankets around her tightly, to warm her up, but now that would never be the case.


Somehow in the mad panic of telling Tim what to pack for our stay, I had thought to get him to bring her some outfits. We settled on the one we had planned for her to come home in, her “Hello World” little onesie. He had thought to pick up some of the large muslins too, and some little teddies we had bought for her, things which later on would go with her on her final journey.


Hours were spent looking at her and holding her. A midwife came in and started to clear up from the birth, I hadn’t clocked my placenta sitting quietly in a bowl on the side trolly. She remembered that I had wanted to see it, and carefully showed us it’s various parts. I had wanted to see it from an inquisitive point of view, I’d made this whole new organ, one that I had birthed, and I wanted to be nosy and see what it looked like, knowing I’d never make another one, or get the chance to see it again.


When the staff had left, and Tim was out getting dinner for us, it was unbelievably quiet. Pip was in her moses basket by my side, and I was just staring at her. It was Wednesday evening and I hadn’t slept properly (and I say properly in the loosest sense of the word, because who sleeps well in the summer at seven months pregnant?!) since Friday night, leaning back on the bed I closed my eyes briefly.


It was so quiet, then the moses basket made a creak, my eyes popped open and I stared at Pip, did she move? Had they got it wrong, was my baby waking up? Could the love that we had shown her brought her back to life?


I know it sounds crazy, and maybe it is, but in those few seconds I really hoped they were wrong, that she was sleeping and not dead.


It turns out the cold pad on the bottom of her basket makes the wicker creak when it’s cooling down, it wasn’t my baby waking up, a miracle, it was just hot and cold working their magic on the basket.


After the trauma of the moses basket creaking earlier in the evening, we decided to take the midwives up on the offer of having Pip sleep in another room to us for the night, I still feel guilty about this, and have to remind myself that we made the best decisions we could, at the time, with how we were feeling. I was so tired, we desperately needed some good sleep, we knew we would have lots of decisions to make the next day about her autopsy and funeral.


The midwives used a small office space for her, they had set up a little nightlight, and put a blind up at the window. They said we could visit her whenever we liked in the night, and they would keep an eye on her for us. It was like a little nursery space, so cute and really thoughtful. She went in there with all her teddies, and blankets.


It feels really hard to take care of yourself in this situation, you’ve just given birth, are trying to create memories that will have to last a lifetime, and then throw in grief and mum guilt, it’s a complicated cocktail of emotions. I don’t know what other people do that first night, are they there snuggling their newborn baby, or do they need the rest like we did?


There are so many options of what to do at each point in hospital, which is a good thing, but it can also be overwhelming, and we just had to trust our instincts and go with what we thought was best at the time. Looking back I think 98% of the decisions we made were right, but with time and hindsight (and sleep) there are a couple of things I feel we could have made different/better choices with, and if I could do it again, maybe I’d have her in with us.

Labour

Monday 23rd Sep

I sobbed when the first real contractions came, not because they hurt, but it meant the beginning of the end. I felt so out of my depth. I’d done so much research on birth and labouring, and not once did I research Stillbirth. 


I felt, and still feel, stupid. 


How stupid of me to think this baby would come home with us. How stupid to have been buying baby clothes and excitedly planning the nursery. How stupid of me to not have researched what I now needed to know. 


We were afloat in this devastating fog, from my pain relief options, to the cold cot, I knew nothing. The midwives had to write things out for us as we weren’t able to hold information in our brains, grief has such a huge impact on our minds and bodies, and we were just at the start of seeing that. It was becoming obvious that this impossible task was more impossible than I thought. 


Hospital time is completely different to normal time, you need to do obs at 2am, yeah of course. 4am blood tests, yeah go for it.


Then suddenly it was morning, and the realisation that we had to tell our mums this devastating news. There’s no hiding that a 6.30am phone call on a Sunday morning can be anything other than something bad.


The second I heard my mums voice I could barely speak, our mums were so excited for this baby too. They knew our 9 year struggle, all of the early and ivf losses, they’ve been through it with us, and we knew they’d be as heartbroken as we are.


Tears rolled off my cheeks onto the hospital bedding. What do I say? How can I say that we’ve lost our beautiful baby, and now I have to go through childbirth.


The anxiety around the birth and what was to come after, that would come later on. For now it was grief. 


Phone calls to slightly wider family followed. We needed them, not just as a shoulder to cry on, but to help us prepare physically for the birth. We had rocked up at the maternity triage with just my maternity notes and a bottle of water, and now we might be here for days, we needed some bits from home.


They did good, bringing the bare essentials as well as the ‘nice to haves’. Some clean pyjamas, a hair brush to make me feel human, and some wonderful extras like moisturiser and lavender pillow spray. 


Our lovely midwife suggested we spend some time outside in the sunshine, it was a heat wave after all, and here we were plunged into darkness in our hospital room. We picked lavender and rosemary from the little garden.


I retreated to the hot bath after a while, needing the intimacy and comfort of a small space, somewhere I couldn’t be poked or prodded. Something that felt familiar and cocoon like, our lovely midwife had found a light projector, and family had bought over some nightlights, it was just what I needed for a bit. 


It was in the bath that I could really be in awe of my body for a little bit, on the whole I hated it, it had betrayed me. But in the few minutes of calm in the water, I could admire the way my body was having contractions, my tummy getting hard and pointy, then being able to watch it ease off before coming again. I held the sides of my tummy and wished the ending would be different, I tried to think of how much more magical this would be if we were birthing a live baby, the excitement rather than dread that it would be bringing.


I thought of all the other mothers who had laboured in this tub. Did their babies make it? Or were they like us, expecting silence after the birth?


The contractions ramped up, it was painful and getting more intense, waves of grief floored me and made it almost impossible to labour without sobbing, only a few days in and already I was mentally exhausted, little did I know what the next few months would feel like.


It was Wednesday morning, we had rocked up at the hospital Saturday night, and the labour felt long and exhausting. Our lovely midwife could see me fighting against my body, fighting against the contractions. 


Subconsciously I was fighting to keep hold of our baby. How can I let her go? It’s taken 9 years to get to this point. 


I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t let go. I tried. Mind over matter, but my mind was fighting against my body, making the labour longer and more stressful for everyone involved. If I could have switched my mind off for a few hours I would have done.


One of the consultants came in, and said we needed to progress further with the labour, I got this feeling they didn’t think I was doing too well, that maybe I’d never be able to let go of our baby.


More hours passed, the pain was intense and I just didn't have the energy to keep going. I asked for an epidural, little did I know that I wouldn’t get it, but the comfort thinking it was on it’s way helped a little.


The new epidural bed came into the room, and I had to switch from my bed to this new one. It was cramped in there with staff and beds. Tim was told to go out and get some fresh air.


Tim’s bed went out, the new bed came in, and our midwife rolled the birth ball over to me, popped a puppy pad on top and asked me to get onto it. I was dizzy, felt sick and asked to lay on the floor, she said no, in a firm but kind way, and helped me off the bed.


I tried to balance on the ball, and as I let my weight down on the ball it popped my waters. 


It was like when you wash the back of a spoon, it sprayed everywhere. I had screamed when it happened, not from pain, but from shock. Our midwife, who had been clearing the bed sheets off of my bed, immediately un-scrunched them and said “get on the bed, get on the bed, get on the bed” over and over until I was back up there.


The instinct to push was unbelievable. There was no stopping it.


I could hear our midwife saying to Tim and a new midwife who had rushed back after seeing the call bell light up for our room, “we’re having a baby, we didn’t think we were, but we’re having a baby” and trying to direct Tim to walk around the mess I’d made on the floor when my waters broke.


He appeared by my side mid push. It’s pushing like I’ve never felt before. I suddenly felt super excited to meet our lovely baby.


Those 6 minutes of pushing felt like 20 seconds, and before I knew it I could feel her moving round in the birth canal and being born.


That relief after she was born was instant, like someone had flicked a switch and suddenly I could see and hear again properly.


I looked to my side, there was my lovely Tim, “hello” I said, I felt like i’d been on another planet for days, and here we were re-connecting again.


I didn’t notice the injection to help the placenta out, on all fours, gas and air still in hand, I just stared at the bedding, the mess I’d made, all the gore of birth around my knees. Tim saying “you don’t have to look at that”, it wasn’t that I wanted to, I was just so physically tired my head had slumped down. I could feel the midwives doing what they were doing behind me, then Jen telling me to take one big gulp of gas and air before one last push to birth the placenta out.


Finally, it was done. Three and a half days since I first took the medication, I had done it.

Finding Out We Had Lost Our Baby

Wednesday 18th Sep

Lying down in our bed, that panicked feeling creeping in that she’d gone, I didn’t feel pregnant. And then the full moon and a sky full of stars told me it was over before we even got to the hospital. I always said our baby would be born on a full moon, I never thought she would die under one.


There was silence from the midwife when she couldn’t find her heartbeat. “Babies can still hide from us, even at this gestation”, kind words meant to calm and reassure us.


We held on to the tiniest crack of hope, maybe she's right. Our baby is just hiding. 


Then more people came in, the portable ultrasound machine, more people. Their silence rang through my ears, and finally, ‘I’m sorry”.


It was over. Our baby had gone.

My husband crying and kissing my tummy broke my heart, then the overwhelming urge to run. Just run. Get out of there and run.


I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t see.


I felt sick, let's get in the car, wind back time and pretend this isn't our reality. Please, let’s do anything but this. Not this.


My beautiful Pip, gone. 


How on earth are we going to get through this. How can I birth our baby knowing she’s gone. Was it my fault? Of course it was, I was the only one looking after her, the only one keeping her safe, and I couldn’t do it. I hadn’t done it. Somehow, she’d died. 


We were left on our own for what felt like an eternity, they had to prepare our room, the one at the end of the hall specifically for parents in our situation. Keep us away from the other birthing people, the new parents walking out with their brand new babies. The people labouring and then the elated phone calls to friends and family detailing their lovely new bundle. And of course keep us away from them, they don’t need to see devastated parents, reeling from the news, our dead baby. That’s not what anyone needs. 


My heart went out to that initial team of doctors and midwives, I’d lost it at hearing the news said aloud. I couldn’t control my emotions and it can’t have been pretty to witness, it was raw and unfiltered. No amount of apologies made me feel like I could make them unsee my reaction. They don’t come to work to deal with people in our situation. They want to be able to fix things and save mothers and babies.


And yet here we were, the unfixable ones.


It was too late for our beautiful Pip, there was nothing they could do but offer condolences and mugs of tea.


I read sometime after, that the screams of mothers being told the news their baby has died is one that sticks vividly in the minds of healthcare professionals, a sound that can’t be forgotten. It's a pain that is unmatched in life, and here I am, one of those mothers who's screams rang through the corridors.


It seemed like 5 minutes before I had to take the first of the medication to induce labour, the reality was that it had been a few hours. After an obscene amount of blood was taken for testing, it was time to start. Such a small tablet for such a life changing task ahead.


5am, down it went.


The overwhelming sadness of what I had to do now, and the constant ‘I don’t think I can do this’ took its toll on both my body and mind. 


I asked for a C Section, Knock me out and wake me up when it’s done. I can’t take the mental pain of this, it’s all too much to bear. Our lovely midwife Sarah sat with me as I cried into her, she said it’s common for women in our situation to ask for a C Section, and for those that do, it’s often regretted later on in life, that permanent scar, another thing reminding you not only of your baby loss, but that you lost your dream birth too. She asked me what was on our birth plan, and through sobbing/laughing at the sheer idea of it now, I said I had wanted a water birth, to use hypnobirthing techniques, that the room would be filled with essential oils and calm low lighting. But the reality was that I hadn’t purchased any of these luxuries.


The thought of trying to hypnobirth our baby out felt impossible. My mind was all over the place, full of sadness and loss, not the lovely calm oxytocin that I apparently needed to birth my baby. And then came the thought of her getting stuck. The information I had read said my baby and I would work together in birth, but here she was, unable to help, in the same way I couldn’t help her at her last heartbeat. We were together but with a vast ocean between us. 


Whilst we waited for the medication to begin I gave my husband a crash course on hypnobirthing. Told him of the key things I would need him to do for me whilst we went on this devastating  journey together. From filling up the bath, to providing cold wash cloths on my neck, remind me to drink sips of water, and keep a playlist going. Simple tasks that would make a big difference. 


Little did we know it would be days before we got to meet our little girl.

Raising money for families just like us.

Wednesday 28th Aug
Through all the trauma of losing our little girl, there were a few things that really helped us through the first few hours and days. One was a memory box where the midwives took her hand and foot prints, and a lock of her hair. It also gave us a place to put the blanket she was first wrapped up in. We walked out of the hospital not with our beautiful baby, but the memory box was something to cling onto. Our whole world was shattered, and this was the only part of her that we could bring home that night. It wasn't something I had thought about, and yet has provided a place to keep all her important documents and keepsakes. If you can donate enough to offer another family the same kindness, I know it would be treasured forever.

Thank you to my Sponsors

£400

Janis Handscombe

Your story touched my heart and made me think of my mother who , over 60 years ago, also suffered a still birth at 28 weeks. There was noone to offer support back then and it affected her for many years, including her relationship with my sibling when he was born 4 years later. After I lost my baby at 24 weeks was the first time she'd spoken about it. I like to think we helped each other. If she'd had Sands for support, like I did, the loss would have always been there but how she survived it might have been different.

£106

Lucy Arrowsmith

£106

Graham Wright

£106

Stuart Stubbs

Love to you Harriet (and Tim, of course). You're an incredible woman, and your strength is a complete inspiration xx

£100

Glen Cochrane

What a brilliant way to support a great cause in memory of our precious Pip Juno xxxx

£100

Anonymous

£74.20

Francis Chan

Thank you for sharing your experiences, it's a very courageous thing to do. You and Tim are in our thoughts. Liz and I send our love, if there's anything you need please reach out.

£53

Chloe Taylor

All the best with your fundraising x

£53

Liz Taylor

£53

Eleanor Linkie (nee Bishop)

Brilliantly written about something that is so harrowing. So sorry to read what you and Tim have been through, but pleased to see the good that’s coming out of it, and Pip will forever be a part of your lives xxx

£53

Sarah Molloy

Dear Harriet and Tim. Sending you both love and strength as you navigate this time. You are both incredibly brave. Love Sarah

£53

Suzanne Brown

Thank you for sharing Pip's story Harriet, you have shown such fortitude in doing so. Sorry we weren't able to join you today, doing such a positive and practical thing, to help others. Much love to you and Tim, Sue and John xx

£53

Cathryn Smith

From all of us at number 6 colgrove we send you all our love. Take it one step at a time xx

£53

Sam And Tim Barrow-williams

£53

Pat Khambatta

Harriet, your fundraising is such a worthwhile and loving way to honour and remember Pip . Pat and Paul xxx

£53

Joe Howden

Sending all my love and support to you and Tim.

£53

Jenny Battell

Amidst the heartbreak how brave and generous you are . Thank you for sharing this experience.

£53

Kaye

What a wonderful thing to do in memory of Pip 💕 Thinking of you both xx

£53

Loretta Eaglestone

Almost at your target ! So proud of you my beautiful darling daughter , we will always have little Pip in our hearts xxxxx

£53

Mike Williams

❤️

£53

Kate & Ella

We are so pleased to feel part of Pip's life and unbelievably proud of you both xxx

£50

Alex Wilshire

xxx

£50

Anonymous

£50

Laura And Greg Xxx

Darling Pip, our beautiful, bright star. I don’t need to tell you this because I know you felt it, but your Mumma is a truly incredible, brave, talented woman. And you will never be far away from each other xxx

£50

Miranda & David Edington

Sending lots of love

£50

Beth

It feels like you've already had to walk so far. I'm sorry this is such a poor substitute for genuine family support. Sending you deep love xxxx

£50

Sue Davies

Thinking of you both. Lots of love, Sue xx (Via Laura - cos Mum couldn’t work out how to do it!)

£50

Dan + Evie

We are so sorry for all you guys have been through. Sending all our love. Best wishes for all the steps ❤️

£41

Anonymous

She’ll always be there watching down on you both. 🌟 1732883 Cancer 8h 36m 8.455 7° 37' 16.25" Big love beautiful Pip. We’ll keep an eye on Mummy & Daddy. xxx

£39.22

Jack Puttock

Well done on hitting your fundraising goal!! :)

£35

Becky Allam

A truly wonderful way to remember your beautiful and perfect Pip. Our love and thoughts are with you every day and I would love to enjoy some Autumn walks with you in memory of your baby girl. So much love, Becky & Mark xxx

£35

Mr & Mrs Brace And John

Xxx

£32

Tim Cochrane

Really proud of you. Xxx

£31.80

Charlotte Rastan

I’m so sorry for what you are going through. Sending lots of love to both of you. xx

£31.80

Donna Davies

Sending you both love and light x

£27

Frey And Jo

Glad we can donate to a wonderful cause in memory of beautiful Pip 💞

£26.50

Tom And Jess

£26.50

Alex Stiles

£26.50

Phil S

£26.50

Sheila Hopkins

Good luck Harriet, we will be thinking of you and Pip. Mum and daughter xx

£26.50

Robert Hopkins

Sending so much love to you, Tim & beautiful little Pip. We’re thinking of you all Xxx

£26.50

Hayley And Mark Critchley

We're so sorry to learn of the passing of Pip and everything you've been through. Wishing you the best for this challenge in her memory and thinking of you x

£26.50

Greg Roberts

£26.50

Rebecca Potter

Good Luck with your fundraising in memory of Pip. 💕 I hope you enjoy the Autumn walks too. Lots of love. Xxxx

£26.50

Cathy Truelove

Thinking of you all, as always and sending our love. Cathy & Neil xx

£26.50

Kay Barnard

Will always remember and think of you,Tim and Pop. Xx

£25

Charlotte Potter

Thank you for telling your story so beautifully, Harriet. You’re so brave and everyone is so proud of you. Lots of love to you, Tim and, of course, Pip <3 Love Char and Ciarán xxx

£25

Michael Leckie

£25

Ned Potter

What a lovely way to remember Pip. Well done Harriet xx

£25

Stuart Cameron

£25

Sam Horner

£25

Sam And Livy Coare

£21.20

Gareth Iwan Jones

Best of luck with the Ribbon Run and the 100 mile challenge!

£21.20

Diana Stainton

Lots of love x

£21.20

Katie Black

£21.20

Emily Arthur

Thinking of you both. Xo

£21.20

Emma Hope

What an amazing way to honour Pip Juno. You’re a hero x

£21.20

Colin Hamilton

❤️

£21.20

Caroline Denholm

So sorry for your loss but this is incredibly brave. Sending love to you both ❤️

£21.20

Sam Morley

£21.20

Julie Storey

❤️

£21.20

Chloe L

Sending you strength & support.

£21.20

Louise Baltruschat Hollis

£21.20

Charli Truelove

Thinking of you both and Pip and sending big love xxxx

£21.20

Maria Sullivan

❤️

£21.20

Hannah Rintoul-hoad

A story of a wonderful mother. Wishing you a future filled with happiness x

£21.20

Harriet Foxwell

Tim, I read your post on LinkedIn. I’m so sorry. Sending love to you both. X

£21.20

Will Dean

Lots of love Harriet and Tim. xxx

£21.20

Dani Hughes

Sending you both lots of love

£21.20

Helen Dudley

Such a moving account of the devastating loss you have sadly had to experience. Sending you much love.

£21.20

Louise Td

£21.20

Oliver Crocombe

£21.20

Luke Surry

Sent with love and best wishes. I’m so sorry for your loss x

£21.20

Linda Shergill

So sorry for your loss. Sending lots of love to you and Tim. X x x

£21.20

Amy Mckie

£21.20

Alex Talcer

Sending you both lots of love and support.

£21.20

Anonymous

From a sewing friend

£21.20

Charlotte Foster

I'm a friend of Becky and Alex's. I'm so sorry to hear of your loss of your beautiful baby girl. Such an amazing charity you are raising money for.

£21.20

Sarah Kidner

Sending this with love to you both and good luck for your challenge. Sarah K. x

£21.20

Lauren

Thank you for so bravely sharing your story and letting us see the beautiful pictures of your darling Pip, what a privilege. Sending love for every step of your walk and journey going forward. Xxxxx

£21.20

Caroline Beashel

You're such an inspirational team. Sending so much love to the three of you x

£21.20

Gregory Stanworth

£21.20

Chloe Haynes

£21.20

Kelly Goodall

Sending lots of love ❤️

£21.20

Sharon

Sending you love. Your heartbreak is heartbreaking. But in sharing your story you have helped others understand the depth of this little understood grief.

£20

Laura Savvas

£20

Gemma Searles

£20

Loxo Creative

Sending lots of love and support from Jonny, Ruth and gang

£20

Jen Clark

Harriet and Tim you are both so wonderful and your fundraising will be such a help for unfortunately many others who have to experience the same grief you are both experiencing:( Totally heartbreaking reading your heartfelt words - you are a total inspiration and I couldn’t be prouder to know such an amazing couple 🥰 sending much love to you both 🥰 Pip is and will always be just so perfect and beautiful 💕

£20

Charlene Guy

Dearest Harriet, I can't imagine the pain and loss you have been feeling these past months and the strength it's taken to get through each day. You are truly incredible and I think you are the most bravest of people. To you and Tim, Pip would be so proud of what you are doing. I hope you know we are with you on each step of this journey and you are an inspiration to many. Well done on all these steps and for being brave. To share this story and then to turn it into something positive for others is truly remarkable.

£20

Chris Klinkert

£20

Anne Fowler

£20

Amalia

£20

Imy And Jack

Sending all of our love and support!

£20

Jack Puttock

Sending you and Tim lots of love 🧡

£20

Beverley Momenabadi

Thank you for being so brave in sharing your story x

£20

Lucy Johnston

£15.90

Anonymous

£15.90

Jayne Mays

I am so sorry for the loss of your beautiful baby girl. Xxx

£15

Ethan Copping

£10.80

Laura S

£10.60

Liam Paton

Well done Harriet, thinking of you and Tim x

£10.60

Adam Gasson

£10.60

Ian Grinham

£10.60

Immy And Dan

We’re behind you every step of the way!

£10.60

Joe Oliver

So much respect for you doing something positive out of this. Sending love x

£10.60

Laura

❤️❤️❤️

£10.60

Kitty Clark

All my love 🤍

£10.60

Jenny Legg

Hello Harriet, I worked with Tim at the BHF years ago and was so sad to hear about your daughter Pip. Sending love xxx

£10.60

Jonathan Bowden-howl

£10.60

Sophie

£10.60

Danielle Brooks

Sending you lots of love xxx

£10.60

Erika

£10.60

Lauren

Grieving the loss of your baby is a deeply personal experience, one that may feel impossible to navigate. Allow yourself grace and patience, as you carry forward the memory of your little one in your heart. Thinking of you, Harriet and Tim, with deepest sympathy and compassion. X

£10.60

Anonymous

£10.60

Rachael Johnson

❤️

£10.60

Deborah Cutler

Good luck for your walk. Such a great cause

£10.60

Susannah Knight

Sending love on your Journey.

£10.60

Jo Reid (gev)

❤️

£10.60

Amy C

Thank you for being brave to share your journey, I hope it helps with the grief and you get some answers soon. Be kind to yourselves as you learn to live with what happened. Love from a friend of a relative.

£10.60

Vicki Pummery

Sending you both so much love and strength, I'm so sorry for the loss of beautiful Pip ❤️xxx

£10.60

Deborah Garfen

£10.60

Athar Abidi

£10.60

Jennifer Gibson

£10.60

Jessica Childs

Well done Harriet, so proud of you!

£10.60

Anonymous

£10.60

Hannah Dedman

£10.60

Helen

❤️❤️❤️

£10

Gemma Samways

Lots of love xx

£10

Rosie Stevens

Sending so much love to you both. A wonderful way to support such an incredible organisation Harriet.

£10

Hayden Waldrop

£10

Victoria W

Sending you both much love and strength.

£10

Sarah Cunningham

£10

Lauren Hindley

Thank you Harriet and Tim for sharing your story. My heart goes out to you all. A wonderful thing you are doing in memory of precious Pip. Sending love.

£5.30

Andy Rmg

£5.30

Hannah Harding

Sending lots of love and support for your fundraiser, from Ali’s sister (a midwife) x x

£5.30

Anonymous

£5.30

Sophie

Thinking of you both x

£5.30

James White