Wendy Varley's baby Otto died before she went into labour. She describes his birth, and her continuing love for her 'shadow child'

My labour began early in the evening, eight days before my due date. My midwife Barbara asked me to come to hospital for routine monitoring. I checked my bag, and we asked my partner Ian's parents to come and stay with our 14-year-old triplet daughters.

It was a quiet night - Barbara ran the monitor over my bump and tried to pick up Otto's heartbeat, without success. We switched to a different room with more up-to-date monitors. I didn't panic (not on the surface, anyway), just waited patiently for the heartbeat to be located. Several times we thought we'd found it, but realised it was an echo of my own. Eventually we found a rapid heartbeat and for a while I thought my rising panic was unfounded.

I was deeply worried inside
Something was still bothering Barbara. The heart rate was dropping low for a baby. She put in a call to the registrar and attached a continuous monitor to my pulse through my finger. The two read-outs were shadows of each other. Ian remained confident, and I was trying to stay calm, but inside was deeply, darkly worried.

The registrar brought in a portable scanning machine. He scanned my tummy in silence. I could see Otto's shape but no movement. He said we should break my waters and attach a scalp monitor to the baby. I was dismayed. I was only 1cm dilated, very early to break the waters, and I asked for a second opinion. He agreed to call in my consultant. When he left the room Barbara said gently, 'You understand what is happening?'

I was totally numb

I tried not to panic. At the same time, I knew that the lack of movement was not a figment of my imagination. On some level I was acknowledging that Otto was already gone. On the surface I tried to suppress the truth, because it was too painful to face.

My consultant arrived, scanned my tummy again and looked in detail at Otto's little form. He homed in on his chest. No movement, not a flicker. Eventually he said, 'You can see that the heart is there. And you can see that there is no heartbeat. I'm very sorry.' He broke the news so gently. I gulped. I cried - sobbed - suddenly. But then swallowed it. I'd landed in a parallel universe. I desperately wanted to rewind a couple of hours and try again and find myself in the right place.

He then showed us that there was fluid around Otto's lungs and some at the back of his neck, which suggested he had been dead for some time. Ian and I were left alone so that we could take in the news privately. I don't remember if we cried or hugged.

I wanted him to be born normally
From that point on, every decision was my own, and my instinct was to allow my body to work out this tragedy in its own way, without intervention. I could have had an epidural, but I wanted to keep the sense of intimacy, with just myself, Ian and the midwives present.

Thankfully, I was the only woman in labour that night. Once I was in the delivery room I knelt gratefully, leaning against the beanbag at the head of the bed. I clung onto the frame and howled like an animal. I have never made so much noise in my life. All the pain and grief I was feeling merged and I simply had to let go. I had no choice.

'I'm sorry, baby, so sorry'
My body took over. The transition was agonising, but I knew it must mean I'd almost finished my task. I was howling and sobbing, because I knew my baby was dead. As Otto finally slid out at 2.45am I was crying, 'I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.' I could hear Barbara and the other midwife sobbing as Otto was born.

The pain subsided and I was desperate to turn round and see him. Ian helped me over and we were handed our son. He was perfect and I felt just the same rush of love as when I'd first seen my daughters. He was undoubtedly our son, instantly familiar. So beautiful. So still, but as if he was asleep. And warm. And soft. It was so hard to believe he was dead.

We were left alone with Otto
We unwrapped his blanket so we could look properly at his body, his beautiful hands and feet. I kissed his shoulder and stroked his back before we wrapped him again and held him close. Our son.

Ian and Barbara took photographs, and Barbara later gave us a card with Otto's hand and footprints, which is perhaps the most precious memento we have of him. Evidence that Otto was here.

A cot death in the womb
The sense of unreality when he died gave way to a gradual, agonising acceptance that he had gone from our lives before we knew anything about him. On the surface we coped, but privately the grief was overwhelming, and we all accepted that one of our family was missing. Telling Ian's parents and our children was the hardest thing we have ever done.

Otto was quite small at 6lbs 1oz, but scans towards the end of the pregnancy showed nothing amiss. My consultant had no answers, but did say that sometimes stillbirth is like a 'cot death in the womb' and you will never know why it happened. I suspect if we'd had a postmortem we still wouldn't know why he died.

Milo has helped me heal
After several months Ian and I dared to try again. Otto's absence reminded us that we really did want another baby. I took nothing about pregnancy or childbirth for granted. This time everything went well, and our son Milo was born 15 months after Otto died, a vigorous 8lb boy.

But Otto's absence is still there, and I feel as if he's my shadow child. The one I love like the others, but will never be able to mother. The one I'll never see grow up. I'll always wonder who he was and why he had to leave.