What lies beneath...

Three years on from Monty's stillbirth, I still go to Bristol SANDS. I look forward to the monthly bereavement support group meetings as an opportunity to devote a couple of hours to my son, to see new friends that I have made, and to share thoughts, feelings and experiences with other bereaved parents.

It can be emotionally tiring, opening up to new people but there is comfort in being surrounded by others who understand because they are travelling on a parallel journey.

It's the club I never wanted to join...
but now I'm a member, I don't want to leave.

This month, I shared the observation that I will be forever broken. It may sound dramatic but it is the truth. I am not the same person that I was before my son was born. I am somewhat healed but I am fundamentally and permanently changed by the experience.

The charity Mind includes bereavement in its A-Z of mental health. In my first year as a bereaved parent, I experienced several of the symptoms listed. A friend suggested counselling and I found that it really helped to talk to someone. But there is a legacy of bereavement - a feeling that something is still not quite right. And I have started to realise that this feeling is simply part of my 'new normal'. It is here to stay.

I found this thoughtful blogpost on Coffee and Crumbs, which gives a sensitive view on what to say to someone who is grieving. It's true that I grieve differently every single day. Some days are better than others.

My bereavement journey continues.

He's my brother

She reached the photo down from the shelf for her little sister. She held the photo frame carefully and showed her sister the picture:

"This is baby Monty. He died."

This is how my 5yo introduced her sister to their brother.

I was proud of how she described him and how she shared this family history with her youngest sibling. I felt sad that she had to have a conversation like this at such a young age, with an even younger, almost-no-longer-a-baby sibling.

Would you know my name?

It's that time of the year, again.

Another year passed; another anniversary come.

Happy birthday, Monty xxx

I'm thinking of getting you a tree. Your big sister would like an apple tree. We could plant it at the arboretum and look at it each time we visit. We could have a plaque with your name and decorate it for you...
like we have decorated your rose bed in the front garden.


I think about you every day. I hold you close in my heart.

How is it that three years have passed?

I want you to remember

October is Baby Loss Awareness month. Next week is Baby Loss Awareness week. October 15th will see another Wave of Light ripple around the world. I will light my candle and post a photo.

At the end of this month, we will mark the anniversary of the day we realised that something might be wrong with our second pregnancy; followed by the anniversary of the date we found out that our baby had died; followed by the anniversary of the date that our son was stillborn.

Nearly three years have passed since we lost Monty. I wouldn't say that time has healed us but that we have got used to living with loss. I no longer wear bereavement like an open wound; it has been woven into the fabric of the 'new me', the person I have become since losing my son. I am forever changed and will live the rest of my life as a bereaved parent.

I have two beautiful daughters and they bring me immense joy. Yet, there is a gap between them. Not just an age gap but a sibling gap - the space where their brother should be. A space where he will always exist (or, at least, be remembered).

I want my son to be remembered. By his family, by our friends and by the people that we meet and with whom we share his story. He was real and he existed (albeit briefly and only inside me).

I want you to remember: Monty Turton (stillborn) 3 November 2012

A picture of you...

I spent about half an hour today on a coffee break, talking to a colleague about his son, who was born a couple of months after mine.

My colleague described his son's interests, likes and dislikes. They love playing Lego together; they have started 'hanging out' with each other at the park; they are becoming real pals. My colleague said that he is really enjoying this new stage of parenting, where the child's personality really begins to develop and shine through.

During the course of the conversation, I began to wonder what Monty would be like at two-and-a-half years old. Would he enjoy playing with construction toys with his sister? Would he chase her around at the park, follow her up the climbing frame, or try to swing higher on the swings? Would he be able to speak in sentences or form an opinion? Would he like to snuggle up for a bedtime story?

I imagine that he would be boisterous and noisy and give us a cheeky grin. I imagine that he would share his love freely, with hugs and kisses for his sister. I imagine that he would like songs and stories and painting and sticking. I imagine that he would be lots of fun. I imagine that he would fit right in.

Turning orange

June is SANDS Awareness Month. This year, SANDS aims to turn social media orange, encouraging people to change their profile pictures and upload selfies to raise awareness and money for the charity.

I'm doing my bit, too. This month, I acted as a lay-person reviewer for research proposals looking at attitudes towards post mortem examination for babies and children. Instead of accepting the fee for my work, I asked for the money to be donated straight to SANDS. I'm also still knitting and collecting blankets to send in for the SANDS memory boxes.

I have also written an article for the Willow Tree Centre newsletter, due to be published later this month, about how bereavement counselling helped me to deal with my loss and rebuild my life.

As more time passes since Monty's stillbirth, my strength grows. His loss is no longer a physical and visible wound; my bereavement is becoming more neatly woven into the fabric of my life. I still want something positive to come from my experience, so I look for opportunities to give something back, to raise awareness and to raise funds.

Always loved, never forgotten

#Sands2015

Seeing what isn't there

This photo, taken just over a year ago, makes me smile. It also makes my heart ache.

We had gone for a day out with my family: grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins. We found this fallen tree log and my mother suggested that the kids sit on it for a photograph. They duly hopped up.

At the time, I just thought it was lovely to capture a shot of the three of them together. It wasn't until later that I noticed the gap between my daughter and her eldest cousin. The space where my 18-month old son *should* be sitting.

To others, this photo is simply a memento of a happy day out.

To me, it is a reminder that there is always someone missing.

Counting conundrum

The passage of time does nothing to ease the burden of answering the seemingly innocent question: how many children do you have? In the past week, I have encountered this question three times in situations where I have not wanted to disclose the 'right' answer.

In general, my rule is that I will talk about Monty with people I am likely to form a friendship with or with whom I will come into contact often in the future. I have told other parents in the school playground, for example, as I don't want my son to emerge like a skeleton from the closet.

I don't tend to tell people with whom I am making a fleeting acquaintance because the revelation that my son was stillborn is usually met with an apology and condolences, followed an awkward silence. Then, I find myself saying that it's OK...

but it's not OK and it's never going to be OK.

It isn't that I dislike talking about Monty. In fact, the opposite is true. I love talking about him because I love him and talking about him preserves his memory and reinforces his place in our family. It's just that I prefer to talk about him on my own terms. Memories of him are all I have and to share them is extremely personal.

I am a mother of three, with two surviving children. I like to talk about all of them and to omit Monty feels wrong. Besides, I believe that being open about my experience of stillbirth helps to break down the stigma and taboo that persists around baby loss.

I still hesitate, though, each time the question is asked, when I try to decide how to answer. A moment during which I have to choose whether to be truthful or not.

The first time ever I saw your face: birth story #3

Baby 3: Another daughter

Mid-morning, I called the Antenatal Ward at the hospital to see if there were any spare beds. I was 38 weeks pregnant, it was late August and the weather was hot. The midwife who answered the phone spoke in a bright and breezy tone. There was room on the ward; I could arrive after lunch.

My in-laws had come to stay to look after our daughter whilst my third labour was induced. My pregnancy had been closely monitored and had planned a 'managed, natural delivery'. They drove us to the hospital and wished us good luck. My daughter, sitting in the back seat, gave me some advice: "Mummy, don't forget to push the baby out like this!" *made a 'straining for a poo' noise*

We were shown to a small room on the antenatal ward and I was officially admitted to the hospital. Over the next few hours, there was lots of monitoring of baby's heartbeat and movements. We knew that we were expecting a baby girl. She kept wriggling around and kicking the foetal monitor, so the readings were inconsistent and had to be repeated several times. When the doctor was happy with the results, we were allowed to begin the induction process. A hormone-laden pessary was inserted; we were told it could take up to 24 hours to take effect. The waiting game had begun.

I walked around to stimulate the induction and, within an hour or two, I could feel a strange set of nervous pulses down the backs of my legs and around my lower back. It was difficult to work out whether or not I was having contractions. Sitting down made some of the sensations subside, so I sat and tried to concentrate on what I was feeling. There was something regular but not very painful. We called the midwife and I was hooked up to another monitor. Yes, there were contractions and they were regular but they weren't doing much and baby was very active.

It took a while for the doctor and midwife to reassure themselves that the baby wasn't distressed - she was very active. I told them that she was often active but since her heart rate kept rising and falling, they wanted to be careful. After a few more hours, they removed the pessary and performed an internal exam. The doctor thought I was probably dilated enough for them to be able to break my waters. "It won't feel very comfortable" she warned "but it will move things along." I went to the loo, my husband gathered my bags and we walked slowly along the corridor to the Delivery Suite.

I was shown into a large, high-tech delivery room. The midwife chatted to us about our birth plan and talked us through the net stage of the induction: breaking my waters. The doctor marvelled at how active the baby still was and gasped when she saw the outline of baby's foot through my bump! My husband got the TENS machine ready and the midwife filled in her paperwork and got her tools. We waited for a big contraction and she broke my waters. I felt a gush of warm fluid and breathed deeply through the pain. I stood up so that the bed sheets could be changed and my husband applied the TENS pads.

Very quickly, the contractions came faster and more intense. I knew things were progressing rapidly. "Does it feel pushy?" the midwife asked. "It can't do!" my husband exclaimed "It hasn't been long enough!" It did feel pushy, though. I climbed back onto the bed and knelt up. The midwife told me to let her know when I wanted more pain relief and my husband got ready - he was going to catch our baby girl as she was born! In just over an hour, she arrived. There hadn't been time for extra pain relief.

Our daughter cried out. I was so relieved to hear her cry! My husband passed her through my legs to rest on the pillow under my tummy. I looked at her face and noticed her dark hair. I requested the hormone injection to speed delivery of the placenta and within another few minutes, that was out too. I turned around to sit down and cradle my baby girl. The midwife weighed her and checked her over, then brought her to me and popped her inside the top of my nightie for some skin-to-skin cuddling. My daughter turned her head and latched on for a feed.

It was nearly midnight.

I was told that, like her brother and sister before, my third baby had been born with her hand by her cheek; this time, I only suffered a small scratch and didn't need stitches. After the feed, I got up to shower and change into clean pyjamas. It was hard to walk or stand up straight - my back and abdominal muscles were incredibly sore and I felt weak. Tea and toast helped. My husband dressed our daughter and we got ready to be transferred to the postnatal ward for the night.

My husband wasn't allowed to stay. We said goodbye and he promised to return in the morning with our elder daughter. I spent the rest of the night dozing next to my beautiful new baby, watching her chest rise and fall as she slept in her crib.

The first time ever I saw your face: birth story #2

Baby 2: A son

It was a bright, sunny yet cold Winter's day. After lunch, my husband and I drove to the hospital. My overnight bag was on the back seat of the car. I clutched my V-shaped pillow and cried. We were on our way to the maternity unit to start the induction process and meet our second baby but I wanted to turn the car around and go home. I was not looking forward to what was to come: we were going to have a child that we would never raise.

I was 34 weeks pregnant and my son was dead. Two days earlier, I had seen the community midwife, who referred me to the hospital for a growth scan. By the time I got to the Assessment Unit, his heart had stopped beating. We had spent a night at home, trying to come to terms with how my second pregnancy was going to end and waiting for grandparents to come to look after our daughter.

On this November afternoon, we settled into the bereavement suite and talked through the induction procedure with the midwife. I was given medication to soften my cervix and sent home for 24 hours.

The next day, I returned to the hospital with my husband and my Mum. This time, I knew that, when I went home, it would be without my baby. We had a birth plan but I told the midwife that I was scared. I gave her a tiny vest and a fleecy blanket and asked that she dress the baby in them when it was born, to keep warm. I felt helpless.

The induction was started with a pill. The dosage was to be repeated every four hours until labour was established. We watched TV and waited.

Within two hours, I felt contractions and took some paracetamol. After four hours, a second pill was given. My labour then accelerated rapidly. I changed into an old nightie and asked to borrow a TENS machine. We moved to the room next door to the bereavement suite, the TENS pads were applied and I was given some gas and air. I knelt on the hospital bed. My husband held my hand and gave me sips of water. My mother mopped my forehead and the back of my neck with a cool, damp flannel. When I felt a dropping sensation inside, the midwife said the baby was coming. With a few short pushes, it was all over and my baby came silently into the world. "Let me look after this little angel for you" the midwife said. She put it in a crib and came back to help me deliver the placenta. She administered a hormone injection and within a few minutes, the placenta was out too.

I felt relieved that the pain was gone and empty that my baby was no longer a part of me. The midwife told us we had a son and we named him Monty. Like his sister, he had been born with his hand by his face but because he was so small I suffered only a small graze and didn't need stitches.

My mother went with the midwife to bathe and dress Monty. My husband made me a cup of tea. I drank it, then vomited and passed out on the bed through exhaustion.

When I woke up, a kind doctor was asking for permission to perform a post mortem and take samples for testing. I nodded consent and asked if I could take a bath. I washed and put on clean pyjamas. I asked the hospital porter to remove the clothes I had laboured in - I didn't want them back.

The midwife brought Monty to us. He looked as though he was sleeping. He was wearing his vest, wrapped in his blanket and was laid in a Moses basket. The midwife had given him a blue knitted hat. His hand was by his cheek, as it was when he was born. He looked tiny and frail but otherwise perfect. We stared into the basket and cried. My husband took some photographs and held his hand.

Eventually, we decided to let him go. The midwife took Monty away, to be transferred to the Chapel of Rest. We went back to the bereavement suite and had some tea and toast. I crawled into bed sometime around midnight but couldn't really sleep. Each time I woke up, I cried.

The next morning, it snowed. The midwife gave me a memory card with Monty's handprints and footprints on it and a lock of his hair. The doctor returned with consent forms for me to sign to give permission for the post mortem and disposal of tissue samples. The midwife read through my notes with me because the birth had happened so fast and gave me a pill to stop my milk from coming in.

I was discharged after lunch and we went home. I didn't want to leave my son behind - I thought he would be lonely and frightened without his mummy. The rightful place for a newborn was with his mother. I hoped the mortuary staff would take good care of him.

Time To Talk

Today is Time to Talk Day. People are taking five minutes to talk about mental health. Here is my story:

I have blogged about my bereavement following Monty's stillbirth but found it difficult to describe how much bereavement has felt like a mental illness. When I first went to see a bereavement counsellor, I was given a questionnaire to fill in to determine whether or not I was depressed. Not surprisingly, I ticked most of the boxes.

In the first few months after losing Monty, I found it difficult to sleep. I couldn't concentrate or make decisions, not even on watching TV or choosing what to cook for dinner. I lost interest in things that I had previously enjoyed: singing, knitting, socialising. I just wanted to shut myself away at home but I hated being by myself. I went through the motions of daily life. People who visited thought I was 'doing well'. From the outside I appeared to function normally. Inside I was hollow. My self-esteem and self-confidence plummeted. I could no longer identify myself as the person I had been before my son died. My life had been derailed and I felt like I was in free-fall.

Relationships and friendships were put under strain. My world shrank. The only people important to me were my husband and my daughter. I tried to concentrate on getting myself better but I didn't know how and I needed a lot of help. At my lowest ebb, I told my husband I was broken and could never be fixed.

It took five months for me to feel ready to return to work but even that was too soon. It took longer for me to be able to get back to my hobbies. Even now, I struggle to learn new songs and to concentrate on anything other than the simplest knitting patterns. I continued to attend bereavement counselling until after Monty's anniversary and still regularly meet my counsellor for coffee.

I often wonder which box to tick when I have to complete equality monitoring forms. Do I have a disability? Should I declare my bereavement stress? I don't know. I don't consider myself to be ill but I'm not sure that I will ever be fully recovered. Many of my symptoms have gone but they have left a mark. Losing Monty has changed me forever. I am not and will never again be the person I was before. I have been taken on a journey to the depths of my soul and learned a lot about my mental health - something I previously took for granted.

The first time ever I saw your face: birth story #1

Baby 1: A daughter

I spent the day of my due date at home doing a jigsaw puzzle. There was no sign of baby coming. My husband came home from work and cooked dinner. My Dad phoned; I said nothing was happening. Since it was a nice May evening, we decided to go for a stroll. We got home at around 8pm and sat down to watch NCIS.

At some point during the programme, I noticed some cramping sensations. Nothing painful but over the course of about an hour, I realised that they were regular. I quietly started to time them: every 6 minutes or so and for about 30 seconds. My husband continued to watch TV - his favourite show Justified was reaching its conclusion. By half-way through, I was pacing the room. I told my husband about the cramps, which were more intense but still not very painful, and he started to time them.

At around 11pm, I decided to phone the hospital. We had been told at antenatal class to stay at home for as long as possible and only to go in if the pain was unbearable. I could talk through contractions and just wanted reassurance that it was OK to go to bed and try to get some sleep! The midwife who answered the phone was lovely. She asked when I had last felt baby's movements and when I said it had been a few hours earlier, she suggested that I should go to the Assessment Unit for monitoring. I pointed out that baby normally got active when I went to bed and that I was still up but she insisted that I go in for a check. "Just bring your maternity notes and a spare pair of knickers" she said "as we'll probably send you home again in an hour or two."

I slipped on a pair of shoes and a cardigan and grabbed my notes. We put my overnight bag in the car just in case. It felt uncomfortable sitting in the passenger seat but, at midnight, it only took 20-minutes to drive to the hospital.

I was hooked up to a foetal monitor and was relieved to see baby's heartbeat. When I was reclining on the bed, the baby started moving around too. The contractions got stronger and longer and the pain more intense. After an internal exam, I was told I was only 2-3cm dilated, so not in labour and couldn't be admitted to the Delivery Suite. I could go home if I wanted. I didn't. I was given two paracetamol, which I promptly puked back up. The doctor said it was very quiet on the neighbouring ward and kindly ran me a bath to help ease the discomfort.

I think I stayed in the bath for a couple of hours, until the water went cold and we could get no more hot from the tap. When I got out and put my clothes back on, the pain was much worse. I shuffled back to the Assessment Unit and they offered another internal exam. I was 7cm dilated! Hurrah! I could go to the Delivery Suite. They wheeled me up in a wheelchair, notes in one hand, spare pants in the other.

I don't remember much about the room I was taken to. By now, the contractions were every couple of minutes and so intense I couldn't speak. I accepted the offer of gas and air and my husband applied the TENS machine. I deployed my best 7-11 breathing - a technique learned through my singing hobby - and focused on the job in hand. I noticed the light begin to change as the dawn broke and I heard the birds wake up and start singing.

I wondered how much longer I would wait before asking for more pain relief but then it became time to push. The *short* journey down the birth canal seemed to take forever! At 7.30am, my daughter arrived. She was quiet and blue but they revived her with some oxygen and tested her responses. She was OK. I delivered the placenta whilst they checked her over and we decided on her name.

I had given birth kneeling on a floor-mat and cushions. The midwives asked I if could get up onto the bed so that they could check if I needed stitches. I said 'yes' but I couldn't - the rapid loss of weight had changed my centre of gravity and my stomach muscles were floppy; I couldn't find my balance! They helped me up and checked me over. One of the midwives told me that they had found two true knots in the umbilical cord, which could have had catastrophic consequences if they had pulled tight. The other told me that my daughter had been born with one hand by her head and that I had a third-degree tear. A Registrar was called and I was taken off to theatre for a spinal block and a proper suturing.

When I got back to the delivery room, my husband was there cuddling our baby girl. Everything was peaceful. He had popped out to the car whilst I was in surgery and collected my overnight bag. The midwife had helped him to dress our daughter and wrap her in a blanket.

I spent the whole day waiting for the effects of the anaesthetic to wear off. In the early evening, my catheter was removed. I had to stay overnight. I ended up staying another day and night after that too, in order to establish breast-feeding. My daughter was very sleepy and reluctant to feed. Kind midwives helped me to express colostrum. On the second morning, after an almighty effort, my daughter took two good feeds and we were discharged.

Outside, the sun shone strong and warm and we drove home very slowly with our tiny, precious bundle in her car seat, to begin life as a family.

Birthday message

Dear Monty,

By rights, we should be celebrating your second birthday today. This should be a day of presents, cake and laughter and the sort of candles you blow out whilst making a wish.

What would you wish for if you were here?

What would I wish for on your behalf?

I spent your present money on gifts for an unknown child. A child who is less fortunate than others. A child who may not have parents or siblings. A child who may not be loved.

You are loved by your family, even if you cannot feel it. Your sisters would love to have their middle brother to play with.

I wish that we were wishing you a happy birthday today and singing you the birthday song. I wish that we were opening presents and eating cake and blowing out candles. I wish that you were here.

Love,
Mummy
xxx

It's a family affair

Ever since our new baby cam along in August, my elder daughter has been fascinated by the concept of kinship and family.

When we brought her sister home from the hospital, she asked me "Mummy, do we get to keep the baby?"
I said "Yes."
"But we didn't get to keep baby Monty." she said "He died but he can still be in our family. I wish he hadn't died - I would have liked to have kept him, too."

She is very keen to understand what being a family is all about, as if we weren't a proper family before. "A family has a mummy and a daddy, a big brother or sister and a little brother or sister." she told me on the way to school this week. "We have a family because I am the big sister."

She has also asked why she doesn't have a big sister and finds it hard to comprehend that it's because she is our first baby!

Keeping the conversation going

Over the past week or two, I have had a few opportunities to talk about my family, my pregnancies and my experience of stillbirth and bereavement stress. I am grateful for each and every one of these opportunities because talking about it reminds me how lucky I am, how far I have come and how much I can do to help others understand.

Thank you to the friend who has a shared and, in my opinion, greater experience of baby loss. It is always comforting to speak to someone else who has been 'pregnant again' and who understands the unspeakable weight of anxiety at a time that should be filled with joy. The long wait for your baby to be born safely and delivered breathing into your arms is difficult to navigate and so difficult for those who haven't lived through it to understand.

Thank you to the Willow Tree Centre for the invitation to attend your 10th anniversary celebration. I enjoyed speaking about how bereavement counselling helped me to deal with Monty's death and how I found the strength for a third pregnancy. I am brave because you helped me to rebuild myself.

Thank you to the friend who shared her experience of being pregnant again after miscarriage. I know what it feels like to no longer be able to hide the bump and to have to make small-talk with well-meaning friends, colleagues and strangers. I found it very hard to talk about my third pregnancy; to hear others tell me that it would all be okay this time around. I felt confused, anxious and very grateful for the increased support offered by my community midwife and the hospital consultant. Those who cannot listen to your fears cannot empathise. Find someone who can.

Thank you to the friend who asked me how old Monty would be. It was his second anniversary just a few weeks ago. I can't imagine what life would be like with a 4-year-old, a 2-year-old and a newborn! It was nice to re-live his story, to talk about what happened and to remember the positive stillbirth experience that we were so fortunate to have. I feel privileged to live at a time when stillbirth is not brushed under the carpet, when my son does not have to be a skeleton in our family closet.

It is important to keep these conversations going. I strongly believe that no-one should have to live through baby loss and bereavement alone. If those of us who are bereaved parents keep talking about it, the taboo will be broken.

Wish you were here...

It has been two years since you were born 'sleeping'.
[I don't like that phrase because it's not as if you could have woken up...]

Somehow, it seems that this second anniversary is harder than the first. It feels lonelier. Almost as if we should have 'moved on'...
but I could never leave you behind.

I remember the quiet of the delivery room and the midwife's kind words as clearly as if it were yesterday. If I close my eyes, I can see you, wrapped up cosily in the moses basket, wearing a little blue hat. You looked peaceful and, at first glance, it did look like you were asleep but you weren't - you were perfectly still.

How things have changed since then. I have been broken and become stronger. We have tried to come to terms with and understand your loss. You now have a younger sister, who is 10 weeks old. Your elder sister has started school. She asks about you often and wishes you were here because she likes being a big sister.

With you and your sisters, our family is complete. Your photograph is framed alongside theirs and I look at your image every day. I wonder what you would look like at two years old. What games would you play? Which words would you be able to say? What would be your favourite thing to eat? Would you cuddle up to me like your sisters do, or wriggle to get free and refuse my kisses?

I've been capturing my grief in photographs over the past month. Although I may appear healed on the outside, I am still very broken in places inside. I feel your loss as keenly today as I did two years ago.

I love you, Monty. I miss you.
I wish you were still here.
In many ways, I think you still are...

Do you believe in life after loss?

On the afternoon of the day that I was told my son had no heartbeat, a doctor reassured me that I could have more children. "We know you can carry to full term" he said "you've done it before." At that moment, it was difficult to hear his words and impossible to think beyond the inevitability of giving birth to a baby who would be stillborn.

He was right, though, and I have been lucky enough to have another baby.

After a year of grieving, I conceived. After post mortem test results, physical rehabilitation, support groups and bereavement counselling, I was given hope. After the anxious wait of an emotionally challenging and physically demanding third pregnancy, I have a second daughter.

Do you believe in life after loss?
I do.

Wave of Light

Guest post: Snipchat

This is a guest post written by my husband:

Kate and I have been together for as long as we haven't; we met on the first day at university in October 1996, halfway through our lives so far. For the past eighteen years, Kate has either been on the pill, attempting to conceive, pregnant or recovering from childbirth.

After having our three babies, we don't want any more children. The loss of Monty meant that the last pregnancy was particularly stressful and exhausting, despite the increased medical attention we received. While our rational scientific brains knew losing this baby was unlikely, it was impossible to stop worrying about it, impossible to imagine how we'd survive if the worst were to happen again.

We're older, tireder and in generally worse condition. Kate's abdominal muscles have taken a battering, coping without sleep is harder, and the thought of starting again again with another newborn is not appealing at all.

We are a partnership of equals. We both work, both cook, both take care of the children. Until now, though, the burden of contraception has fallen on Kate. I'm redressing this balance by having a vasectomy.

My wife has given so much to this family, putting us above her health, career and peace of mind. She is loved by us all for it, and it's time she had a break. No pills, no injections, no coil, no tube tying.

A vasectomy is a simple and straightforward procedure, done in minutes. We're certain this is the right thing to do. The common argument against it is that it's permanent, and you “never know” what might happen in the future. I'm fully aware of that and I'm fine with it. I consider our family complete and permanent.

Our lives have been in limbo for the past few years, with no real plans for the future other than to wait for the next pregnancy. We're done with that. Our children mean more to us than we could ever have imagined, and the next chapter of our family's story starts now, with the certainty that our daughters are at the centre, growing into the bright, independent young women we know they can be. We can plan for the future again. It's liberating.

Remember

October seems to be the new Lent, with campaigns for people to give up smoking and drinking alcohol for 31 days. It is also Baby Loss Awareness Month.

This year, the Wave of Light will take place at 7pm on Wednesday 15th October, at the end of Baby Loss Awareness Week. We will be lighting a candle in memory of Monty.

There is also a project called Capture Your Grief, which encourages people to take and share images along a set of themes as a way of healing themselves and expressing the grief they feel after the loss of a baby or child. I'm not a great photographer so I don't know how much I will participate in this project but I want to give it a go.

Today's theme is "Sunrise". I took this photo to capture the watery, Autumn daylight filtering through the leaves and branches of the tree outside my bedroom window. In the first few days and weeks after Monty was born, I would lie in bed, looking out at this tree and feeling the subtle warmth of Autumn sunshine. It was very calming and grounded me in the midst of my grief.