Pip’s story

When we found out we were expecting our second baby, it felt like a quiet kind of joy. Not the loud, all-consuming excitement of a first pregnancy, but something gentler, rooted in experience and grounded in hope. We called the baby Pip from the very beginning—our little seed. We weren’t as prepared this time because we didn’t think we needed to be. Our first pregnancy had gone so smoothly. We assumed this one would follow the same path.

I’d had some spotting early on, but it didn’t ring alarm bells. It’s so common, and everything felt okay otherwise. It wasn’t until our 12-week scan that our world shifted. It was a Friday afternoon. I remember thinking how strange it was to be walking into that room feeling excited, and walking out an hour later, barely able to breathe.

The sonographer told us there were serious concerns. We didn’t know what they meant exactly—just that something was very wrong. That initial shock was followed by a limbo I wouldn’t wish on anyone. We had to wait for a referral to foetal medicine, but they couldn’t even book us in until the following week. And then we couldn’t be seen until the week after that. It was agony. Each day felt impossibly long.

The timing made it all the harder. That very week, we had just started to share our happy news with friends and family, feeling confident that the first trimester was nearly behind us and assuming everything would be fine. Suddenly, we knew something was clearly wrong, but we didn’t yet know what, or how serious it was, or where it might end up. We couldn’t explain it to anyone because we didn’t even understand it ourselves. And trying to put it into words—especially when people were still congratulating us—felt almost impossible.

I was already showing more than I had the first time around, so I felt very visible. But emotionally, I was retreating. I didn’t know how to face people without the answers they might gently ask for. So I began to hide a bit—from friends, from conversations, from the world—just until we had clarity. Those weeks felt unbearably long and very lonely.

In between those appointments, I ended up in A&E due to heavier bleeding. We were told we were now high risk for miscarriage. It felt like we were holding our breath, waiting for the inevitable. But then, another scan showed that Pip was still alive—struggling, but holding on. We were told they could pass at any time, and so began the awful waiting game. We had no answers yet. No name for what was happening. Only fear, grief, and confusion.

When we finally got to the foetal medicine team, they were gentle but honest. The prognosis was poor. The signs pointed towards something chromosomal, though it couldn’t yet be confirmed. They offered us a CVS, and I agreed, knowing it was the next step, but also feeling like I was breaking inside. I remember lying on that bed, sobbing so hard that they gently asked if I could try to keep still for the procedure. It felt impossible—how do you quiet heartbreak?

A few days later, we got the results. Edwards syndrome. A diagnosis I’d vaguely heard of but never really understood until it became our reality. We were told that only a very small percentage of babies with Edwards syndrome survive to birth. Fewer still live beyond a few days or weeks. And those that do are severely affected. It became clear that if Pip did survive, it would be into a life full of pain and limitations. And he was already running out of time.

That was when we knew. We knew we had to let him go.

But that knowledge didn’t make the decision any easier. Pip hadn’t gone by himself. That was the hardest part. We had to be the ones to let go—to stop the fight he was still somehow clinging to. It felt so deeply unfair. He was so small, so loved, and still so determined.

What made it even harder was how silent everything felt. This kind of loss is rarely spoken about. I didn’t know many people who’d been through it, and most of my friends haven’t had children yet, so they couldn’t really understand what it meant to lose a baby like this—not just the physical experience, but the dreams that vanish with them. It often felt like there was no space for this kind of grief. I didn’t know how to talk about it, and I think people didn’t know how to respond. It became something quiet, unspoken, and that made it even more painful.

In the middle of that silence, I found ARC. I hadn’t even known what kind of support I needed until I stumbled across their website. Just reading other people’s stories helped me feel less alone. They offered such compassionate, informed guidance at a time when we were lost in shock and grief. When everything felt uncertain and overwhelming, ARC helped us make sense of what was happening and reminded us that what we were feeling was valid. Their support was like a steady hand in the dark.

I lost Pip at 14 weeks. Physically, the recovery was straightforward. Emotionally, it’s still something I carry with me every day. There was no right or wrong choice. Only love—and an aching absence where a future used to be.

We had him cremated. We have his ashes now. We still call him Pip. And in the quiet ways we can, we honour him. We’re getting matching tattoos, something small but permanent, because even though his time with us was short, he mattered.

I’ve found myself wanting to shout about this from the rooftops, not because I want attention, but because I want this to be known. Talked about. Not something hidden away behind closed doors. TFMR is love in action. It’s also grief, guilt, silence, stigma, and unbearable sadness. I want to say to others going through it: you are not alone. You are parents, and you are making the most compassionate decision in a moment that asks far too much of you.

Writing this now, I am fortunate enough to be expecting our rainbow baby. It’s a blessing I don’t take for granted, but it doesn’t undo what came before. It’s a strange place to sit—hopeful, anxious, cautious. Joy tinged with sorrow. Pregnancy after loss is its own journey, one I walk every day with Pip in my heart.

He never got to breathe the air or see the sky. But he was here. He was loved. And he always will be.