Scrolling through my phone, I came across the video of my son, Jaiden, finding out he was going to be a big brother. My husband, Vijay, and I had just come home from the three-month scan. As soon as we told our little boy – who was five years old at the time – the good news, he excitedly burst out ‘congratulations!’ to us. Every time I watch this video, it makes me cry. We were all so happy then.
Then I suffered birth trauma – like 30,000 women tragically do in the UK every year – and lost my baby boy. It was a completely normal and healthy pregnancy. I loved seeing Jaiden’s growing excitement; he even eagerly went up to the loft to bring down his old buggy and pram for his new sibling. But on the Saturday of the last bank holiday weekend in May, I started feeling small contractions. Jaiden was busy drawing a sunny picture of all of us as a family. By Sunday morning, the contractions were getting more frequent so I called my local maternity unit and they said to just carry on as normal unless the pain intensified. I even had a spicy Nando’s to help induce labour.
By 8pm, we were back at home and things started escalating quickly. I went to the toilet and noticed blood. Within 15 minutes, the sanitary towel was more covered – and the pain was quite bad. In the time it took us to get to hospital – no more than 10 minutes – I was in excruciating pain. In fact, I couldn’t even put my seatbelt on because I couldn’t deal with any more pressure on my back.
A nurse examined me and said I was 7cm dilated so took me down to the delivery suite in a wheelchair because I couldn’t walk. That’s when staff tried to use a cardiotocograph to try to monitor my baby’s heartbeat. Unfortunately, as I couldn’t sit still, the strap around my belly kept clipping off or the monitor confused my heart rate with the baby’s. I found out later that, after my waters broke, a fetal scalp electrode (FSE) – which is a small clip that is attached to the baby’s scalp to record the baby’s heartbeat – should have been used to provide a continuous and more accurate recording of the heart rate. We had it for Jaiden because it was a long labour then, but staff told us there were none available on this occasion.
I remember looking at Vijay and saying ‘this pain is something else’ and he just knew I was serious. I repeated this to the midwives and my husband later told me that he noticed some rolling their eyes. Within two hours after arriving at the hospital, a registrar came in to tell me that they needed to perform an emergency C-section because my baby’s heart rate was declining. So after half an hour of being prepped, I suddenly felt the pulling of my skin trying to get the baby out. I felt a great pressure being relieved, then silence. None of the usual crying. Then I heard the sound of compressions and rhythmic counting down from three. I looked at Vijay in desperation and his face was aghast. Our baby wasn’t breathing, so they were resuscitating him.
After the longest 30 minutes of my life, a midwife told us we had a baby boy and they’d managed to resuscitate him but he was now on a ventilator and needed to be transferred for critical neonatal care. We were in utter disbelief. That’s when I went into shock and started vomiting everywhere. My teeth began chattering and I was shivering to the point that I needed foil blankets over me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw our baby being wheeled out of the room and then a crash team came in. I was losing consciousness so they had to put me under general anaesthetic. The last thing I remember was seeing a consultant towering over me wearing a visor covered in my blood. I lost four litres of blood from my uterus.
Four hours later, I was wheeled into a recovery room. When I woke up, Vijay relayed to me that our baby was actually too poorly to be transferred so he’d remain on a ventilator until we were ready to make the decision to take him off it. There wasn’t any more they could do. I was still coming out from being under general anaesthetic and on morphine too, so I had no emotions left in me. I wasn’t even crying. That’s when I decided that we should take him off the ventilator. My thought process was, why make him suffer? So he was placed in my arms and I could immediately feel him struggling to breathe. I tried to hold him for as long as I could, but I was too weak so Vijay took over after a few minutes. After a few more exasperated breaths, our baby took his last. He was gone – just seven and a half hours after he was born.
Later that day, Vijay had to explain to Jaiden that his baby brother wouldn’t be coming home. He struggled to understand why, as he was only five years old at the time. We decided to name our baby Joshan and even though he was no longer with us, I was allowed to have him in a crib by my hospital bed for up to 48 hours. I had to stay in the maternity ward of the hospital for a week, so – although I had my own room – I could still hear other people giving birth, which was heartbreaking.
Following a post mortem, the coroner decided to pursue an inquest. But due to Covid-19 delays, that three-day inquest eventually happened in March 2022. I wanted to say my piece so I gave a speech at the beginning of the proceedings. Joshan, our soon-to-be three-year-old who would’ve started preschool. Every morning when I wake up, there is a piece of me missing. I relive the traumatic labour I went through and how I came home with empty arms. I walk past what should’ve been his bedroom. I wish Jaiden had his little brother to play with – the grief and sadness he’s endured during his childhood is very unfair. I look at his photo above the fireplace knowing I’ll never be able to replace it with a recent one. I wonder what his personality would be like and if he’d be a cheeky and chatty like his big brother. I wish the day he was born was different because every day is now painful. I wish no other family has to experience what we are going through. Every day, we remember Joshan. Our sweet, beautiful baby.
The inquest found failings in the standard of care provided to our baby that led to his tragic death. It concluded that Joshan died from ‘perinatal hypoxia as a consequence of an unexplained and rare complication of maternal uterine rupture’, in circumstances where ‘a delay in recognising foetal distress more than minimally contributed to Joshan’s death’. This highlighted that his death could have been prevented had there been the correct equipment available that night, enabling staff to act more decisively. My uterus ruptured slowly, to the point that it was a 30cm tear. That explains why my pain gradually intensified.
As a result of the inquest, we received a formal apology in July of that same year. I’m glad we fought and got this result, but it won’t bring back Joshan. It won’t make up for all the agony we experienced.
In the aftermath of this whole ordeal, some positivity has come out of it. I got involved with Sands charity, which supports anyone affected by the death of a baby. I ended up participating in a forum for women of colour about baby loss and the health inequalities we can disproportionately experience. That’s why I’ll never stop fighting for families like mine.
As for that picture Jaiden drew of our little family the day before Joshan’s birth, it is now kept safely in Jaiden’s cupboard as it is a painful reminder of happier times before it all came crashing down. Every year on Joshan’s birthday, we bake a cake to remember him. I just want Jaiden to have the childhood deserves. He might not have his younger brother, but his parents will always love him – and we’ll all love Joshan forever too.
