I share this story from a mother’s perspective, but it is important to say that the impact of losing a child reaches the father in ways that are deep, complex, and often unspoken. As mothers, we live the physical journey so intensely, but fathers carry the weight of witnessing everything: the fear, the pain, the procedures, the heartbreak, and the helplessness of not being able to take any of it away.
My husband Jamie has been my rock, my best friend, and my strength. Maya’s story, our story, has shaped us, held us together, and brought us even closer, even through the darkest moments of our lives.
Our pregnancy with Maya was, as a whole, a good one
I was sick throughout, but everything else seemed perfectly normal. Every scan was reassuring, every check-up was normal, and as I reached 37 weeks, I felt we were finally approaching the finish line. I wasn’t on maternity leave yet, still working full time with just one more week to go, but I was nesting, preparing, and ready to meet our new baby girl.
On Sunday 21st October 2018, the sun was shining, and we had gone to meet a friend for breakfast. I remember feeling that Maya was a little quiet that morning. Normally she was so active, wriggling through the night and reminding me she was there. My husband and I talked it over (we openly discussed it with our friend too) and decided to pop to the hospital, just to be safe. I was confident it would be nothing, just our baby resting or maybe having a little snooze.
We got to the hospital, and I was taken into a room and hooked up to machine to have a scan. The moment the doctor looked at the screen, I felt it. Something wasn’t right.
A second doctor.
A heart monitor.
No heartbeat.
Just the empty static sound, like an old television trying to tune in.
Everything around us shrank. Our world felt impossibly small. Then the most incredible consultant came in to speak with us. Her words were gentle yet devastating. She gave me options. I could carry Maya to term or be induced within 48 hours. A C-section wasn’t recommended. We left to try and take it all in, but nothing felt real.
A Walk by the Sea
We walked along Crantock Beach under cold blue skies, sitting on the rocks, staring at the ocean, broken and unsure. Eventually, we decided I would be induced. It was one of the hardest and scariest decisions we’ve ever made.
The Daisy Suite and the Journey No Parent Should Face
The next day, we returned to the hospital. We were shown the Daisy Suite, a suite that was created for families experiencing loss. It was quiet, private, and filled with compassion. The bereavement midwives were extraordinary. Their empathy and care were limitless.
The consultant who had previously seen us gave me the first pill to begin the process of induction and we were heading home once again. That evening at home, we barely spoke. We watched a film quietly, holding hands, feeling the grief washing over us again and again. It didn’t feel like home, and everything just felt like a dream. I remember finding my husband in the bedroom at one point crying in the corner of the room. I just held him; there were no words that could comfort or take the pain away.
The following morning, we returned to the Daisy Suite and started the induction. We were terrified and heartbroken. Jamie stayed by my side, his presence anchoring me. I can’t imagine what it was like for him, not only losing Maya, but watching me in pain, unable to protect either of us.
The hours that followed were long, painful, and exhausting. Injections, sickness, an epidural, moving to the maternity ward, all while hearing newborn babies crying nearby. After nearly 18 hours of pain physically and emotionally, Jamie insisted it was enough and that perhaps induction was not the right way to deliver Maya. They agreed to do an emergency C-section.
Meeting Maya
I was heavily medicated during the C-section, but Jamie stayed with me throughout, absorbing every moment, every fear, every tear. I will never be able to thank him enough for his courage and love. Finally, Maya was born on 24th October 2019.
Back in the Daisy Suite, the consultant explained that Maya had passed peacefully due to a true knot in her umbilical cord, cutting off her oxygen and blood supply. It brought a small, bittersweet comfort to know she felt no pain.
They asked if we wanted to see her. Of course, we said yes.
Maya was brought to us in a cold basket, looking so peaceful, like she was sleeping. We held her, talked to her, memorised her face. The nurses took photos, precious memories we will forever be grateful for.
That night, Jamie stayed with me. We barely slept. The midwives created a memory box with her footprints and photos and added a leaf to the memory tree at the hospital, (this was supported by Sands).
Leaving the hospital the next day with empty arms was one of the hardest moments of our lives.
The Aftermath
Home felt hollow.
Too quiet. Too painful.
But our community surrounded us, flowers, cards, meals, visits from friends. I didn’t want to hide. I wanted to speak about Maya, to honour her presence. Even my pregnant friend came to see me, despite how hard it must have been for her. Her courage helped my healing more than she knows.
We planned Maya’s funeral. It was small, beautiful, and full of love. We scattered her ashes on a beach close to us. Then we organised a paddle out, this is a local tradition, where you take surfboards into the sea to form a circle, speak words, and splash the water in remembrance. Over 60 people came and supported. It was deeply moving.
Our community held us up when we could have easily fallen apart.
What I Wish We Had Known
Pregnancy is often painted as joyous and straightforward, especially late on. At 37 weeks, I truly believed we were safe. No one had spoken to us about the complications that can happen, even if they are rare. I wish there were more open conversations, more awareness, more honesty.
Parents deserve to be informed, not to live in silence or shame.
A Rainbow After the Storm
Four months later, we fell pregnant again. Having the same consultant who had been there for us with Maya felt like being guided by someone who genuinely cared about our hearts as much as our health. She arranged counselling and supported us every step of the way.
It was a difficult pregnancy, full of fear, sickness, and complications, but with her help, and with Jamie’s unwavering strength, we made it through.
Our rainbow baby, Leila, was born by C-section, delivered safely into our arms. Whilst we were in hospital the bereavement midwives who had looked after us came to meet Leila, I felt so honoured that they felt it so important to meet Leila.
Maya’s Legacy
Our journey has been filled with both sorrow and immense love. Maya may not have been here for long, but she made a profound impact, on our community, our family, and on who we are as a family, who I am as a mother and human.
We speak about her often. We celebrate her every year. Leila knows she has an older sister watching over her.
Maya taught me compassion. She taught me gratitude. She taught me to treasure every moment.
We share this story to break the silence.
To honour her.
To help others know they are not alone.
And to remind us all that even the smallest lives can leave the biggest footprints.