When Kyle saw a doctor look to a nurse with concern that was the moment he knew something was wrong. Shortly afterwards, a registrar delivered the news he and his partner Rachelle feared - that their baby daughter Bluebell had no survival chances even if she was born with a heartbeat. He reflects how in the weeks that followed, it became apparent the lack of support available for people in his position.

Rachelle told me she was experiencing bleeding. I was receiving counselling for a separate matter at the time and was due a home visit shortly. I contacted my counsellor to explain the situation and postpone our appointment. I was worried but managed to rationalise my thoughts whilst driving to the hospital, “it won’t be worst case scenario surely, there’s too many other possible scenarios”.

We arrived at the hospital’s maternity priority unit with other expectant parents present though we weren’t attended to by the doctor for about an hour, all the while listening to other people’s babies’ heartbeats on the monitors. The doctor came to examine Rachelle and after examination I saw the doctor look to the nurse with concern. That was the moment I knew something was wrong. The nurse, jolly and reassuring before this moment, now had a completely different demeanour about her. The doctor returned with the registrar, who delivered the news we feared. Rachelle was in labour and our baby had no survival chances, even if she was born with a heartbeat.

We were moved into a private birthing suite, The Bluebell Suite, so we could be more comfortable and process everything whilst we waited for Rachelle to deliver Bluebell. The staff were amazing; they looked after us and nothing felt like an inconvenience. Maybe to be expected given the nature of our situation. Rachelle’s parents arrived for support. We tried our best to get some sleep and shortly after 4am, I awoke to Rachelle’s waters breaking. At 4:47am, Bluebell was born. 

Not a lot of people know what happened after that, not even close friends or family. But shortly after Bluebell was born, she had already gained her wings by this point, Rachelle was losing blood at a seemingly alarming rate, so the doctors moved her into an emergency theatre room. Rachelle said to me “I don’t feel good”. I froze in panic. I could do nothing but stand and watch as the doctors attended to Rachelle with urgency. I could see the colour from Rachelle’s face draining like a phone battery. After what felt like an eternity, I heard the doctor call for the registrar. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. I suddenly fell to the chair in disbelief. We came into hospital as a three and within the space of 12 hours, I thought I was going home alone. 

Thankfully, against the odds, Rachelle pulled through. In the weeks that followed, it became apparent the lack of support available for people in my position. The night still haunts me on a daily basis, with the added layer of losing Bluebell. I feel I’m quite isolated in my position, not many people know or understand what we’ve been through.

I think because fathers don’t go through the physical side of baby loss there’s a thought that it doesn’t feel like it’s your loss and your grief. I remember people frequently asking me how Rachelle was doing, without them even thinking they should ask me too.  

There’s nothing anyone can do or say to fix anything, but a simple acknowledgment would be so appreciated by me, and to many other dads in my situation too.

Father’s Day is usually one of my most difficult days. It has always gone unacknowledged how difficult the day is for me, like it doesn’t matter. Bluebell’s birthday and Christmas time can be difficult to navigate also, again with little to no acknowledgment from others that those days can be a struggle. 

Since Bluebell died, lilac has become a significant colour to us and as I’m into fashion, I like wearing lilac pieces like hoodies, hats/beanies etc. It is my own way of honouring her and feeling close to her.