At 23 weeks and six days I went into labour and gave birth to my beautifully formed little boy. He made a few murmuring sounds and movements and I thought for the briefest of moments that there was hope for my baby, only to be told he was under the viable age and I had miscarried. My head was spinning. How had I miscarried? My baby was in my arms and he passed away within minutes. I was then given pethedine for pain as I had to continue to push the placenta and he was taken from me.

I got to see him for half an hour the next day and was given a Polaroid photo and his hand and foot prints, before being discharged. This was 1998; I know that today this wouldn’t happen, thanks to the help of charities like Sands, and that any signs of life would be acted upon.

I went on to miscarry before 16 weeks of pregnancy seven more times. Then finally in 2007 had my rainbow baby: a girl. All the way through that pregnancy, my son was still referred to as a miscarriage. Even now that hurts so much; it is like people just want to use that term because it’s convenient.

My miscarriages were painful and those were my babies but to this day, I maintain that my son was not a miscarriage. He died in my arms. Don’t sweep him under the carpet, because I never will. He did get a burial but not a birth or death certificate, so technically he never existed, but he did to me and I will never forget those fleeting moments that I was able to hold my son.