Friday 

February 2024 

Friday will always be the day I stopped growing you. It was the day I signed a consent form to stop my pregnancy and the day that the end of growing you officially began.  

A week before that, it was the longest morning of my life. I was irritated and anxious, with my phone in my hand all morning, waiting for the call from Bristol. I couldn’t concentrate on your sister. I felt like a terrible mother: in worrying so much about you, I wasn’t paying any attention her. I waited all morning, feeling sick. I called the hospital, I emailed the consultant and I heard nothing until 2pm. Fortunately your daddy was home from work by then and that was the first time I had cried. The relief that we had an appointment mixed with the sadness that we had an appointment made it all so so real. And we had to wait 5 more days. 5 agonising days, not knowing what would happen to you, or to us. 5 days of thinking through scenarios and not knowing the answers. 5 days of not telling people what was going on, as we were waiting for the facts. We needed facts, information and answers. We didn’t need miracles: we needed answers. But we had to wait 5 whole days.  

The following Friday, was the start of the end. Amy came over in the morning, to see me and your sister. She reassured me that doing this now was far kinder than trying to save your life once you were born. I had all the facts by now. I knew what your life would be like and I didn’t want that for you. But it wasn’t an easy decision. It was the hardest decision I have ever made. I wanted you so much. I loved growing you and I wanted to keep growing you, but I couldn’t. I wanted another baby, a sibling for your sister and a person to complete our family. I wanted you.  

I drove to the hospital again. I sat in the special room with daddy again. We met a consultant and a midwife and I asked lots of questions: about you, about giving birth to you and about everything I could think of. I listened to the answers that I didn’t want to hear because they were questions I didn’t want to be asking. It was a conversation I didn’t want, in a situation I wished wasn’t happening.  

At that moment I didn’t know if I wanted to meet you, but I knew that if I did, I needed to give birth to you. I didn’t want to give birth to you because I thought it would break what was left of my very broken heart. I was so worried you would arrive fighting for your life; I was so relieved that you didn’t. We were reassured that the staff would do everything possible to make everything so dignified for you, with the greatest amount of respect for you and for me. We were promised the best possible care in the worst possible scenario. That was all I had. At that point, I had hope. I had hope that I could give you a dignified, respectful end to your life. That was the best I could do for you.  

I left the hospital feeling numb. I had taken the pill that would be the start of the end for you and it was devastating. We just didn’t know how we could put you through the life we understood you would have, so we did the kindest thing we could. It was a choice no parent ever wants to make. It’s a choice I wish I was never faced with. It was a very very bitter pill to swallow, baby girl. I am so sorry. 

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