I gave birth knowing my baby wouldn’t cry – doctors still call this a miscarriage

We learned that if a baby is born before 24 weeks, it’s classified as a miscarriage (Picture: Alexis Curtis-Harris) ‘Look, I’m really sorry,’ said the doctor. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’ I was only five months pregnant, but I’d been rushed to hospital earlier that morning after my waters had unexpectedly broken. As I was scanned, my partner, Charlotte, and I kept watching as our baby’s heart rate dropped – until the moment it just stopped. It was the most traumatic thing we’ve ever been through. Our little boy, Sage, was only 22 weeks old. He had been kicking me that very day – then, in the space of three and a half hours, he had died. It just didn’t make any sense. Charlotte and I met on Hinge in 2022. Our first date lasted nine hours, and we’ve been together ever since. It was very clear from early on that we both wanted to be parents, and started looking into IVF clinics after we’d been together for about three years. As a same-sex couple, NHS Fertility treatment isn’t available to us in our area, so our only option was to go private. We don’t have any family money, so we saved every penny possible. In total, we ended up spending nearly £25,000, factoring in the vitamins and other things to help our chances. We decided that I would carry our baby, and after regularly injecting myself to stimulate my ovaries, we had 22 eggs retrieved in April 2025, and ended up with 12 good-grade embryos. We saved every penny possible for IVF (Picture: Alexis Curtis-Harris) Although I became pregnant soon after our first embryo transfer, it ended in a devastating miscarriage at nine weeks and six days, which left us heartbroken. Ask Metro Use AI to go deeper into the stories you care about – powered by Metro and trusted publications. After that, I was desperate to get pregnant again. I received the all-clear to start the transfer again in October 2025, and we had a positive pregnancy test soon after. We were scanned privately every week during our first trimester and at our 16-week scan, we found out we were having a boy, and started referring to him as Sage between ourselves. By the next check up at 20 weeks, he was so active and lively. Then, two weeks later, everything changed. My umbilical cord had prolapsed through my cervix (Picture: Alexis Curtis-Harris) I woke up at around 3am on a Thursday morning with bad stomach cramping in my pelvis. I wasn’t too worried – I thought it could be trapped wind – but I went to the toilet, and saw what looked like my mucus plug (which seals the cervix during pregnancy), so Charlotte suggested we call maternity triage. They didn’t ask my name, my details or my medical history. They just asked if there was any blood. When we said no; they said we shouldn’t worry. It turns out that I should have been invited to hospital for an assessment there and then. Two hours later, my stomach was still hurting. I went to the loo again – and my waters broke in an eruption. I stayed on the toilet while Charlotte called an ambulance. Panicking, I felt between my legs, as I could tell something was there – it was my umbilical cord, which had prolapsed through my cervix. Giving birth while knowing that my baby wouldn’t cry when he came out was impossibly hard Quote Quote I didn’t realise it at the time, but this is one of the most severe obstetric emergencies you can have. If the cord’s out, it restricts oxygen to the baby – I just thought it meant he could be born today. The ambulance rushed us to hospital and I was given a scan. When we heard Sage’s heartbeat, we felt so relieved. Time started to blur at this point, but eventually the doctor came to see us and said that our baby was ‘really, really small’, adding that his brain and lungs wouldn’t be developed enough. In disbelief, Charlotte asked: ‘Are you telling us we’re just waiting for his heart to stop?’ ‘Yes,’ said the doctor. ‘I’m really sorry, I am.’ We couldn’t even comprehend it. We just had to sit and wait until his heartbeat stopped. I still needed to give birth, so once he’d gone, they started to induce me at about 11am. Sage was finally born at 9.44pm. Our entire future was planned around our little boy (Picture: Alexis Curtis-Harris) Luckily, we were in a bereavement suite, away from other families. But giving birth while knowing that my baby wouldn’t cry when he came out was impossibly hard. We’d spent so much time waiting for that moment; and the room was silent. Charlotte cut the cord, and then they put Sage in my arms. I kept thinking: ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen for another three and a half months.’ After that, things took a very scary turn. I wasn’t delivering my placenta –instead, blood was just pouring out of me – so the doctor tried to manually deliver it. But the umbilical cord snapped off, leaving it inside. I was rushed to the operating theatre. I had a massive obstetric haemorrhage, losing over 2litres of blood. Charlotte was petrified. I’ve never seen her look so scared. She thought she’d lost both Sage and me on the same day. When I woke up the next morning, I was covered in cannulas, bruises and dried blood, but I was alive. Do you need support? Sands is the charity speaking up about pregnancy and baby loss, saving babies’ lives and supporting bereaved families. Every day in the UK, 13 babies die shortly before, during or soon after birth, and at least 1 in 6 pregnancies end in miscarriage. As the UK’s leading pregnancy and baby loss charity, Sands offers a safe, understanding community for anyone affected by pregnancy loss or the death of a baby, including parents, siblings, grandparents, healthcare professionals and friends. We provide support for all types of pregnancy and baby loss, whether your loss happened recently or long ago. We also offer specific support for men, those affected by Termination for Medical Reasons (TFMR), and people from Black and South Asian communities. Free helpline: 0808 164 3332Email: helpline@sands.org.uk Open 10am to 3pm Monday to Friday, and 6pm to 9pm on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday evenings. www.sands.org.uk We stayed at the hospital for another two days with Sage, which was the saddest – but also the best – thing in the world. He just looked like a sleeping baby. He had my exact nose, and the cutest little pout. Doing normal things with our little boy, we sat and watched RuPaul’s Drag Race together; while Charlotte got up early and watched the sunrise with him. But we knew we’d have to say goodbye – it was the most horrific thing on earth to give our son his final kisses. To say goodbye to somebody we’d planned an entire future with, who never got a chance to live, is a truly awful thing. I kept saying ‘I’m so sorry, Sage,’ over and over again. When I finally let them take him away, I was hysterical. We left the hospital with just a memory box. The following days and weeks don’t really bear thinking about. We were so devastated, and just tried to support each other as best we could. We’ve since been told that an ascending infection contributed to my waters breaking prematurely, known as PPROM (preterm pre-labour rupture of membranes). We’ll know we’re ready to try again when we feel able to cope with another loss (Picture: Alexis Curtis-Harris) After about six weeks, I went to A&E with heavy bleeding unrelated to the haemorrhage, where a doctor said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry – I’ve just seen you had a recent miscarriage’. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I hadn’t had a miscarriage; I’d given birth to my son, who was stillborn. But we learned that if a baby is born before 24 weeks, it’s classified as a miscarriage. This was incomprehensible to us. We’re not downplaying the gravity of a miscarriage as we know it’s a horrific, life-changing experience – but I gave birth to Sage. I’ve got the tears; I’ve got the stretchmarks. It just doesn’t feel comparable to me, in any shape or form. For now, though, all we can do is keep encouraging people to say Sage’s name, to keep his memory alive. Charlotte and I have talked about re-starting IVF in the future. We know I’ll be carrying again; I’ve had some tests and, thankfully, my womb is healthy. But we haven’t fully processed the trauma of losing Sage yet. We’ve agreed that we’ll know we’re ready to try again when we feel able to cope with another loss. For now, we’re just trying to heal. Losing Sage has brought us closer together as a couple, and our families have been incredibly supportive – but our entire future was planned around our little boy. So, as cliche as it sounds, we’re just taking it one day at a time. As told to Izzie Price Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing izzie.price@metro.co.uk. Share your views in the comments below.