After struggling with fertility due to PCOS and undergoing bariatric surgery in November 2022 to give myself a better chance of conceiving, I was preparing to be referred for IVF in August 2024. But then, something incredible happened — I found out I was pregnant naturally. It was such a shock, and for a moment, it didn’t feel real. But it was. That tiny second line changed everything.

It was Rhylie. Our miracle girl.

Despite the fear that came with my past experiences, hope began to take root. I was so anxious, but I also felt a deep, quiet love that grew stronger every day. I didn’t share the news with many people straight away — I was nervous, protective, scared to believe. But in my heart, I was already planning a life for her. I pictured her tiny hands, her first smile, her laugh, the cuddles I’d wrap her in. I spoke to her every day. I loved her from the very beginning.

Rhylie came to me when I least expected her — but exactly when I needed her. She was everything I had hoped for, and more. She made me a mum and changed my life forever.

For years, I didn’t think I would become a mum due to polycystic ovary syndrome and struggles with weight loss. In November 2022, I had gastric sleeve surgery, hoping it would improve my chances. By May 2024, sitting in the fertility doctor’s office, I was told I would need IVF due to my low AMH and my partner’s low motility. It broke me — not being able to conceive naturally at just 31.

Then, on June 5th, during a college outing, I suddenly felt as if I had drunk far more than I actually had. My “hangover” wouldn’t lift, and by June 9th, I noticed my period was four days late. On a whim, I took a pregnancy test — POSITIVE. I cried tears of joy, shocked after being told IVF was my only option.

Despite the disbelief, numerous private scans confirmed it. My morning sickness eased at 13 weeks, leaving only occasional nausea and tiredness.

The first time I heard Rhylie’s heartbeat was at just 8 weeks pregnant, on Saturday 6th July 2024. I had just returned home from Turkey—my friend had undergone a gastric sleeve surgery, and I’d flown out with her. I booked a private scan the day after I got home. I was still in disbelief that I was pregnant, still processing everything, but the moment that little heartbeat filled the room, it all became real. I cried tears of joy. That sound—steady and strong—was my baby. It was Rhylie.

Because of my anxiety and the constant need for reassurance, I had many private scans. In fact, by the time I reached 26 weeks, I had spent around £500 on private scans alone. I was meant to receive 4-weekly scans through the NHS due to my previous bariatric surgery, but I couldn’t rest in between. I needed to see her, to know she was okay. Each scan brought momentary peace, but the anxiety always crept back.

I first felt Rhylie kick when I was around 17 and a half weeks. It was the strangest yet most beautiful feeling—like little taps, fluttery nudges. I remember thinking, “She’s really in there.” I couldn’t wait to meet her.

We had a gender reveal dinner on the 30th of August, surrounded by close friends and family. The cake was heart-shaped, white with frosting around the edges, and “Baby Carey” written on top. There was actually a bit of a cake drama behind the scenes—my sister and best friend Jacqui picked it up while Barry and I took my niece to his friend’s daughter’s first birthday. When they saw the cake, they weren’t happy with the lettering. So they rushed to a local cake shop, which couldn’t fix it, but kindly gave them letter cutters. Off they went to Asda to get pre-made icing and fixed it themselves. It turned out perfect in its own way.

That same night, just before the main course arrived at the restaurant, I went to the toilet and noticed I was bleeding. I panicked. I found Barry and my mum, and my mum came with me to the toilet. She told me to call triage. When I did, they told me to try and eat, do the reveal, and come up afterward—they’d be waiting for me. As you can imagine, I wasn’t in the mood for food. I picked at my plate, barely tasting it. We cut the cake—it was pink. A girl! I was convinced she was a boy. In the video, I look like I wasn’t happy, but really I was scared. Terrified. Something didn’t feel right.

After the dinner, we went to triage. I had a urine test, and the doctor diagnosed a UTI. I was given antibiotics and sent home, but that moment changed something. My anxiety didn’t ease—it got worse. Deep down, I just had this bad feeling.

Rhylie was always most active at night. That was her time. When everything was quiet and still, she’d start her little dance parties. It became part of our rhythm, just her and me in the dark.

I was so excited to create her nursery. I did it myself, exactly how I dreamed it would be. I chose a hot air balloon theme and panelling. I panelled the wall where her cot would go, painted it soft pink, and added cloud bookshelves. I found beautiful hanging hot air balloons from someone on Facebook Marketplace—they looked brand new and were much cheaper than the ones I’d originally seen. I got matching bedding, a play mat, and a canopy. It was all coming together.

I actually picked out Rhylie’s nursery furniture when I was just 14 weeks pregnant. My dad paid for it. Maybe it was early, but I was just so full of hope, so full of love for this little girl I hadn’t even met yet.

I never got to have my baby shower. It was booked for the 25th of January, just a week and a half after she was born. I was due on the 11th of February.

From as early as 18 weeks, I felt like I was never away from triage. I just had this persistent bad feeling that something wasn’t right with Rhylie. At 26 weeks, I went back to triage due to reduced movements. The midwife there noticed I had been coming in several times with similar concerns and immediately booked me in for a scan that same day.

When I arrived for the scan, a registrar in training was performing the ultrasound, guided by an experienced sonographer. After carefully taking all of Rhylie’s measurements, they reassured me everything looked fine, and I was able to go home.

I was scheduled for my next scan at 28 weeks since, due to my previous bariatric surgery, I was meant to have scans every four weeks. However, during that scan, the sonographer noticed a discrepancy in Rhylie’s growth measurements compared to the previous scan. Although she was confident that Rhylie’s measurements were still within a healthy range, she advised that I return in two weeks instead of four for another scan. To keep a closer eye on things, she also arranged for me to see my community midwife once a week for blood pressure and urine checks before the next scan.

At the 30-week scan, everything appeared fine, so they reverted back to the standard four-week interval for scans. But just two weeks later, my anxiety took hold again, and I returned to triage. During this visit, a midwife asked why I hadn’t had a gestational diabetes test yet. I explained that my midwife told me it wasn’t necessary since my BMI was under 30 at booking.

The midwife informed me that in her NHS trust, the test was still standard practice regardless of BMI, and she also noted glucose in my urine — a sign they took seriously. She booked me into the day bed unit to be monitored twice a week, where I would have CTG monitoring, blood pressure checks, and urine tests regularly. Additionally, she scheduled another scan for the following day, which was the 23rd of December. At that scan, Rhylie was measuring at 4 pounds.

Despite the routine monitoring and supportive care, the anxiety I carried was constant and overwhelming. I felt like I was in a state of heightened alert, always waiting for the next test or scan to tell me everything was okay or to confirm my worst fears.

The last time my community midwife took bloods was when I was 28 weeks pregnant. I hadn’t seen her since I was 30 weeks. I was supposed to have a 32-week appointment, but when I mentioned this to the midwives at the day bed assessment unit, they were shocked to hear it had been cancelled. The response I got from the community midwife was, “Well, you’re at the day bed twice a week. I don’t need to see you.”

That comment felt incredibly dismissive. My anxiety was already overwhelming, and to be told I didn’t need care from someone who was meant to be part of my pregnancy support team made me feel abandoned and brushed off. Thankfully, the midwives at the day bed unit were not okay with that response — they tried to contact my community midwife themselves because they knew how important continuity of care was.

During one visit to the day bed, a midwife told me something I’ve never stopped thinking about. She said that my notes mentioned my consultant had requested scans every 2 weeks, but that had been changed by the sonographers. I still don’t understand why that change happened, or why no one noticed it and acted on my consultant’s instructions. Why wasn’t anyone reading my notes properly?

After my last scan at 32 weeks and 5 days on December 23rd, I wasn’t scheduled for another scan until I would be 37 weeks, on January 20th. That’s nearly 5 weeks later — and it haunts me. In that gap, I kept attending day bed twice a week. Barry came with me every time. I never stopped trying to be heard.

At one of those visits, I came in really upset and told the midwife that Rhylie’s movements weren’t the same. I said I had felt her, but not as much. Her response was, “Any movement is good movement.” I know now that this is not true, and it makes me feel sick when I think about it — but I’ll explain why further on in my story.

On Friday 10th January, I had a complete breakdown. I was on the phone to my mum, crying uncontrollably. I told her I had a terrible feeling that something was going to happen, and that I felt like no one was listening to me. My mum understood exactly what I meant — she had been hearing all the same things I was being told, especially about the community midwives saying I didn’t need to be seen.

She told me to phone and demand an appointment. So I did. My usual midwife was on annual leave, and I spoke to another one who said the same thing — that I didn’t need to be seen if I was at the day bed unit. I explained how anxious I was, and also told her what the day bed midwives had said — that they don’t do the same checks the community midwife does, and I still needed both. Eventually, she said, “Well, if it makes you feel better, I’ll book you in to see your midwife on Monday.”

Later that day, I went for my second monitoring appointment of the week at day bed and updated the midwife on what the community midwife had said. I also told them that I still hadn’t been given an appointment to see my consultant, even though I was high risk due to my gastric sleeve surgery. That consultant appointment was supposed to go through my birth options, but it never came.

I’d been prescribed Adcal and extra vitamins by my consultant around 14 weeks because gastric sleeve patients are at higher risk of delivering babies who are smaller due to limited nutrient absorption. The prescription was meant to give more support to Rhylie’s growth, as I couldn’t eat large amounts — but I was still deeply worried whether she was getting everything she needed from me.

On Sunday, January 12th my sister and niece stayed over, as they usually did every second weekend. It was part of our normal routine, but that morning didn’t feel normal at all. I woke up feeling drained—physically exhausted and emotionally flat. My sister noticed and said,
“Phone triage if you’re not feeling well.”
But I shook my head, telling her I’d be okay. I didn’t want to make a fuss or seem like I was overreacting again. Deep down, though, I wasn’t sure I believed myself. Looking back now, I wish I had called triage. I wish I had listened to that little voice inside me.

All day, Rhylie’s movements felt different. Not less, just… off. More erratic, without her usual pattern. Her sleep cycles seemed unusually short she wasn’t giving herself a break. Something just felt wrong. At the time, I told myself, I have four weeks left—surely nothing can go wrong now. How wrong was I.

At the time, I told myself more movement must be a good thing—I was so used to being anxious that I didn’t want fear to take over again. But now I can’t help wondering—was that the first real sign?

Monday 13th January 2025

I realised I had slept through the entire night—something unusual for me. Every other night, I would be awake with Rhylie because that was when she was most active. Those quiet hours were our special time. But that night was different.

That morning, I took Barry to work—his first day at his new job. Before that, we shared breakfast together, feeling Rhylie gently kicking inside me. It was a quiet, hopeful moment amidst everything.

After dropping him off, I went to Aldi to pick up a few things. When I got home, I suddenly felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my back that took my breath away. I felt exhausted, so I went for a lie down. It wasn’t unusual for me to take a midday nap—this had become part of our routine. It’s quite funny because my dog Daisy knew the routine too and would usually jump into bed with me. But that day was different—she wouldn’t come anywhere near me. Thinking back, I wonder if she somehow knew something wasn’t right.

That morning, Rhylie’s kicks had felt normal again. But at exactly 12:17 PM, the sharp, stabbing pain struck my back. Then came small kicks and a bubbling sensation in my belly, like something was shifting or releasing. It was strange and unsettling.

I told myself to hold on until my 2 PM community midwife appointment—the same one I’d only just managed to get after breaking down on the phone, begging to be seen on Friday 10th January because my last appointment had been at 30 weeks. I kept thinking, It’s okay. We’re going to see the midwife at 2.

I arrived early for my community midwife appointment, which was held at the local doctor’s surgery, at half past one. Why did I go early? I’m not sure—maybe something in my gut was telling me to get there ahead of time. As I sat in the waiting room, my phone buzzed with a Facebook message from my mum. She asked when we were due to go pick up Rhylie’s pram.

I had chosen the iCandy Peach 7 in the shade Cookie, and I loved it. It felt perfect for her. But a strange feeling came over me. I didn’t want to tell her it was this coming Wednesday—just in case something happened. Throughout my pregnancy, I had been cautious about celebrating or planning too much, afraid I might jinx anything. I was careful about even talking about nursery things.

So, I replied,
“I don’t know… I’m at the midwife’s right now. I’ll ask Aimee to phone and check.” Aimee is my sister.

In my heart, I knew the pram was due to be collected on Wednesday, but I was scared to say it out loud.

At 2pm, the student midwife came to get me from the waiting room. It was her first day as a year 1 student midwife and I thought she was so young and sweet. I went into the room and my midwife looked at me and instantly said, “Laura what’s the matter, you don’t look yourself?” I broke down and told her I had back pain, I was anxious, I hadn’t felt Rhylie kick much. I said, “I’m so f*cking anxious, I’ve hardly felt her kick today. The last time I did was at half seven this morning. I can’t wait for these 4 weeks to be over and she’s here. I’ll never do this again, I’ll never get pregnant again.”

I lied and told her I’d felt movement at 7:30am, but I hadn’t. I just wanted her to phone triage for me. I was so anxious and scared to call myself—my sister sometimes had to phone and pretend to be me. I don’t even know why I felt so embarrassed. But that’s my advice to anyone pregnant: don’t ever feel silly or like you’re a burden. Please phone triage. I wish I had.

My midwife said, “Okay Laura, let’s check baby and calm your nerves.” She asked me to lie down and got the Doppler. She tried to find her heartbeat and I just heard crackling. Nothing. She moved it around and kept trying, but still nothing.

I said, “I don’t feel good.” The room went fuzzy. I must’ve passed out because the next thing I knew I was sitting up with my head between my legs. She panicked and told the student to go get water—then she went herself. The student tried to calm me, saying, “It’ll be okay.” I kept saying, “This is bad. I’m going to be told bad news.”

She came back and tried again. Still nothing.

Then she asked, “Laura, where’s Barry?”

“He’s at work,” I replied.

“He needs to go to the hospital with you,” she said, handing me my phone. I phoned Barry and told him, “My midwife is sending me to triage. She can’t find Rhylie’s heartbeat.” But he didn’t understand the panic. He said, “Okay, you go to triage and let me know where you are when I finish up—everything will be okay like it usually is.”

My midwife asked if he was going. I said, “Yeah, I’m going to pick him up on the way.”

I didn’t.

I got in the car and drove straight to Wishaw General. I ran red lights the whole way. I got stuck in traffic near the bridge at the retail park with roadworks and I started poking my belly. “Come on Rhylie, give Mummy a kick.” Nothing.

I eventually got parked—miracle if you know Wishaw—and walked down the long corridor I now call the green mile. I passed the scan department, passed all the people waiting, walked into the triage entrance. I thought Barry’s going to be raging again, probably be here for ages.

The midwife looked at me and said, “Can I help you?”

“My midwife sent me.”

“Laura come in here,” she said, pointing to the room right at the entrance.

I burst out crying. “You’re going to tell me bad news aren’t you?”

“No, we just need to check for ourselves.”

A doctor came in with the scanner. It was the registrar who trained on me at my 26-week scan. She turned the screen away. Her hands were shaking. She scanned me, then said the words that have never left me:

“I’m so sorry Laura, her heart has stopped beating.”

I screamed. “No.” The midwife held me. She was so upset for me. I don’t think I cried the way people would imagine. I froze. I was in shock.

She asked if she could phone my partner. I said yes. She asked his name. She phoned Barry and said, “You need to get up here ASAP.” I took the phone.

Barry said, “What is she trying to say Laura?”

I screamed, “She’s dead Barry. They can’t find her heartbeat. She’s gone.”

After I phoned Barry and told him Rhylie was gone, everything felt like it was happening around me instead of to me. My body was moving—I was talking, breathing—but inside, I had gone completely numb.

I don’t remember ending the call with Barry. The midwives were still there, trying to comfort me, but all I could think was that I needed to let my mum know. I needed someone to understand what was happening, because I couldn’t.

I FaceTimed my mum, and I remember my voice shaking as I said, “They can’t find Rhylie’s heartbeat.”

She looked confused and said, “What do you mean?”

I felt the words leave my mouth like they belonged to someone else. “She’s gone. Her heart has stopped beating.”

She didn’t say much after that. Just, “I’m on my way.” And she hung up, probably because she needed to do something—to take control in the only way she could.

After I came off the phone to my mum, I remember I video called my dad. If I remember correctly, he already knew, because Aimee must have phoned him right after my mum hung up. When he answered, he looked teary-eyed, like he was trying so hard not to break. My dad—the man who loved me first—seeing me at my most vulnerable. Even through the screen, I could feel how helpless he felt. He told me he was leaving first thing tomorrow morning to drive up from Liverpool.

My mum and Aimee were already on their way.

Not long after, the midwife who had been with me when I was told that life-changing news came back into the room. She told me they were going to take me somewhere more private.

I was walked out of that room and down the corridor to the bereavement suite. That walk felt like the longest, loneliest walk of my life. It felt like the walk of shame, though I know now there was never any shame in what happened. But in that moment, I felt every pair of eyes on me—midwives, staff, strangers in the corridor—and all I wanted was to run away or for the ground to open up and swallow me.

They put me into one of the little side rooms on the ward. I think there were two small side rooms, and then the main bereavement room, which was called the Ohana Suite—the place I would eventually go.

While I sat in that little room, the same midwife stayed with me. She told me a midwife from the labour ward was coming down to see me and talk through my options with the doctor.

Her name was Amy.

What felt like ages later, Barry finally burst through the door. A midwife had to walk him down because even though we’d taken the same walk to triage, he didn’t know where this part of our next journey was.

He came in and said, “Laura, what the fuck…”

The midwife gave us some time together at that point. I don’t remember what we said to each other. Everything was numb.

After a while, the same doctor who had broken the news to me came back in with the midwife. They asked us what we wanted to do next.

I said I wanted a natural birth. The doctor nodded and said that was the best course of action to take.

Barry looked at her and said, “Can’t you just get her cut out of you?” Men, eh.

I looked at him and said, “Barry, why would I want to go get a C-section and then have to recover for six to eight weeks without a baby? I’m doing it naturally.”

Then I turned to the doctor and asked if I could have an epidural, because if this had been under normal circumstances, I’d planned a water birth and no medication. But the thought of giving birth and feeling my dead baby come out of me was terrifying.

The doctor said I was welcome to have whatever pain medication I wanted—that this was my decision to make now.

She also advised that we stay in the hospital instead of going home.

I just looked at her and said, “How do you expect me to go home when her room’s all ready waiting for her? I literally packed my bags this morning.”

She said gently, “That’s why we don’t advise you to go home.”

So that was it—my decisions about Rhylie’s birth were made.

Then I asked the question I’d been dreading: “When will it start?”

The doctor and midwife looked at each other and said, “Whenever you like.”

I said, “ASAP. Because I don’t want her to deteriorate. I don’t want her to be in there any longer.”

I was petrified about what she would look like when she came out. I kept imagining she would be born with black skin and black fingers—I don’t even know why that was the image in my head, but it was.

After the doctor left, my mum and Aimee arrived. They were absolutely heartbroken. My sister was hysterical. They started asking me questions—though now, I can’t even remember what those questions were.

After a while, we were taken across to the Ohana Suite.

The suite was massive—like a little apartment. There was a big king-size bed, a two-seater sofa and an armchair, a dining table with four chairs, and a fridge with a sideboard (in Scotland we call this a bunker, which still makes me smile a little). There was also a hospital bed and all the medical equipment.

We had our own en suite bathroom, a wardrobe, a TV, and windows that looked out into a courtyard.

My midwife, Amy, left us alone for a while so we could get used to our surroundings. The room was beautiful. On the wall was a big decal with a tree and butterflies, and it said:

Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten.

It was from the film Lilo and Stitch, and for some reason, those words felt comforting in the middle of all that heartbreak.

After some time, Amy came back in and asked if I had any questions.

The only question I could think of was whether my mum and sister could stay with us. She said yes straight away.

Then I asked, “I know that I have support here with my mum and sister, but Barry needs support too. Would his mum be able to come and stay until I give birth?”

There was no hesitation from Amy at all. It felt like, even though she was the professional, I was the one who got to make the rules now. That’s what you call excellent patient-led care.