When I was 41, my husband Peter and I discovered we were expecting a baby. Of course, we hadn’t planned for this, and at first, Peter was overwhelmed and unsure about how we could make it work. He had just begun a new life in Denmark while I remained in South Africa, pregnant with my fourth child. But, as with many unexpected bundles, all confusion and trepidation were soon replaced with joy and excitement. We came together and embraced the miracle growing inside me.

A new life

Peter had never experienced fatherhood before, so we eagerly delved into the world of pregnancy and parenting. I purchased countless baby books, eager to learn about what lay ahead for us. The excitement built as we prepared for our first ultrasound scan together. I had already been to one before Peter’s return and heard the exhilarating sound of our baby’s heartbeat. It was the sweetest melody, filling my heart with love and anticipation.

The sound of silence

As the doctor performed the routine examination during our scan, a sense of unease washed over me. I sensed something wasn’t right as I looked at Peter’s face. The doctor painstakingly searched for the reassuring heartbeat, but it remained elusive. I urged him to double-check, convinced that he had simply missed it. However, when the doctor left the room and gave us a moment alone, reality began to sink in.

The reception area outside was filled with expectant mothers, joyously cradling their rounded bellies while their proud partners stood by. I was dazed and only half listening as the receptionist softly informed me that a surgical procedure called a Dilation and Curettage (D&C) was scheduled for me later that evening. Her sensitive tone was not for me –it was aimed at sparing the room from unnecessary distress. In that moment, I felt shattered, standing in stark contrast to the happiness around me.

We returned home to gather a bag, but I postponed returning to the hospital for as long as possible. I wanted to prolong my time with my unborn child, to hold onto that precious life that had been growing within me. I wasn’t ready for the pregnancy to end; I couldn’t bear the thought of them taking my baby away.

The echoing chasm of loss

I remember going into the operating theatre, tears streaming down my face. The anaesthetist looked down over his mask with big compassionate blue eyes. He gently told me his wife had lost three babies, and I must not lose hope. This little soul will live in my heart forever. I will never forget his words; as time went by, I valued and appreciated them more and more. He acknowledged my child and my grief – something I would soon learn was a rare gift.

Amid my grief, I encountered so much insensitivity from those around me. People would say, “It’s for the best,” or remind me that this pregnancy wasn’t planned. They would suggest that perhaps it was nature’s way of taking care of something that wasn’t viable. These words only added to the confusion and guilt I felt. I blamed myself, wondering if I hadn’t adequately cared for my body or if my actions had somehow harmed the baby. The lack of acknowledgement and understanding left me feeling lost, angry and hurt.

Grief and grace

Then, one day, as I sat alone in the sun, sipping a cup of tea, I reached out to God. I asked for a glimpse of my little angel, and at that moment, a vision came to me. I saw Benjamin, my baby, with his perfect features and stunning blue eyes. I knew in my heart that he was real, even if others didn’t acknowledge him.

Through my journey of healing, I discovered that the loss of a baby is a pain shared by many. It is estimated that nearly one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage. Yet, so often, the grief of these mothers goes unrecognised,  and their babies’ brief lives are not honoured. It became clear to me that life begins at conception. When we discover we’re pregnant, we don’t say we’re expecting an embryo or a foetus; we say we’re having a baby. And just like any other life lost, we need to grieve and honour the memories of our little ones.

The son of the right hand

Benjamin, the name I gave my son, holds a beautiful meaning: “The son of the right hand.” It symbolises honour and status, a reminder that every life, no matter how short-lived, is valuable and deserves recognition.

In the wake of my loss, I found solace in sharing my story, and connecting with other mothers who had experienced similar heartbreak. Together, we formed a support network, a safe space where our pain was understood and our babies’ lives were cherished. We spoke openly, validating each other’s grief and finding strength in our shared journey.

I realised that society’s failure to acknowledge the loss of a baby can stem from a lack of understanding or fear of addressing such a sensitive topic. But it’s essential to recognise that every woman who carries a child, no matter the duration, becomes a mother. The love we hold for our babies transcends the physical, and the pain of their absence echoes within our hearts.

Benjamin’s light

As for Peter and me, our journey didn’t end with Benjamin’s loss. Instead, we held onto hope, knowing that life had more blessings in store for us. So we embarked on a new chapter filled with love, resilience, and the determination to cherish every moment. But, of course, this didn’t mean that life was done dishing out our share of pain, loss and grief. Life can be messy, filled with extreme highs and devastating lows. But, while Benjamin’s physical presence may be absent, his spirit continues to guide us, reminding us to treasure the gift of life and the precious bonds we share.

So, dear grieving mothers, may you find solace in knowing that you’re not alone. Your baby mattered, and their memory will always hold a place of honour. Take the time to heal, surround yourself with understanding hearts, and embrace the love that remains within you. You are a mother, and your love knows no bounds.