On the 24th of August 2019, I will be undertaking the National 3 Peaks Challenge - which entails climbing Ben Nevis, Scafell Pike and Snowdon in 24 hours - for my beautiful baby boy Dylan Thomas.  

My son was stillborn on the 6th of December 2015 at 38 weeks due to undiagnosed Vasa Praevia - a condition in which babies are needlessly dying, with more awareness desperately needing to be raised to stop this from happening. 

Due to the NHS not scanning for it as routine - despite there being a 100% survival rate when diagnosed antenatally - the only way to stop otherwise healthy babies losing their chance at life is through parents like myself sharing our stories and knowledge.

So here I share with you a little of mine and Dylan's story together, in the hopes that it will make a difference to someone, somewhere. It was gut wrenching to write, and chances are it won't be comfortable to read in parts either. But this is the reality of Vasa Praevia. So please, bare with me.

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I can honestly say that falling pregnant with Dylan was the best thing that had ever happened to me. The moment I knew I was going to be a mother altered everything; after years of depression, with no idea what I was put on this earth for, there it was - his little heartbeat. My reason. My everything.

I'd had a painless bleed early on in my pregnancy, but was assured this was normal. Then at my 12 week scan, I was told I had a low lying placenta; something that would likely rectify itself and was nothing to worry about. Little did I know at the time that I had two risk factors for Vasa Praevia.

At my 20 week scan, sure enough, my placenta was no longer low lying. If I knew then what I know now, I would have asked them to check for VP.  Something that only takes an extra couple of minutes using a colour doppler, but can literally save a life. Of course, I had no idea what it was at the time. So no questions were asked, and I left the scan elated that I was growing a healthy baby boy.

The time between my 20 week scan and the day Dylan was born, I'd experienced a lot of reduced movements. I trusted my instincts that something wasn't right, so each and every time we would go to the hospital, only to be told that everything was okay and that we could go home. Aside from the anxiety, every moment of being pregnant was magic. I'd lie and watch him dancing in my stomach for hours. I loved sitting in the rocking chair in his bedroom singing to him, picturing what it would be like to do the same with him in my arms.

At exactly 38 weeks pregnant, I was napping in bed with Dylan's dad, Gaz lay next to me, when I woke up to a 'pop' - my waters. I remember feeling the warmth running down my thigh, excited and nervous at the same time. But it seemed to be going on forever, so I sat up to take a look.

That was the moment that my world shattered.  The moment I replay every single day. I was sat in a pool of blood; blood that wouldn't stop coming. 

I screamed for help. Gaz frantically called the hospital, to be told to phone an ambulance. By this point I was stood at the foot of the bed, frozen to the spot, hysterical, as I desperately tried to hold myself, to stop the blood from coming out. I felt another pop. More blood. All I could do was scream through sobs 'I'm losing my baby. I'm losing my baby.'
A fast response vehicle arrived within 5 minutes, but I was told that couldn't take me to hospital. So I was laid down on the bed, a cannula put into one hand, saline hanging from a coathanger, all the while still haemorrhaging.
Another fast response vehicle arrived, another cannula, more saline. But still no ambulance.
It was after around half an hour that the paramedic noticed I was having contractions 3 minutes apart. With each one, a fresh rush of blood. I was in shock by this point. I felt no pain at all. My stomach was soft, Dylan unmoving.
All I could do was lie there and wait. I've never felt more helpless in my life.
72 minutes later, the ambulance arrived. They asked me if I could walk to it. They hadn't brought a chair with them, and I didn't want to waste more time waiting for them to get one, so I said I could. I remember my pyjama pants sticking to my legs with each step.

When we arrived at the hospital, i was taken into a room where somebody used a hand held Doppler to detect Dylan's heartbeat. I remember the silence, me telling them that you can usually pick his heartbeat up right away. A doctor arrived with a portable ultrasound - he was alive. His heart rate 80 beats per minute. She shouted for a category one c section, then I was rushed into theatre. There were so many people around me, shouting that I needed to be prepped, someone pressing an oxygen mask into my face so hard it hurt, tugging my clothes, the pain of the catheter going in. Then nothing.

I don't remember being told that Dylan had died. My first memory coming around from the anesthesia was having him in my arms, looking at his beautiful face, in awe that I'd made something so perfect. I still felt the rush of love that everybody tells you about. The maternal instinct running through my body. The true volume of my grief was masked with morphine initially.

Family came to see him, all of them bravely keeping it together, not wanting to show their own pain in front of me. Nobody treated him like he was any different to a baby born breathing. He was simply Dylan Thomas. My beautiful 5lb 15oz baby boy. My world. My everything.

The following week would be made making memories the best we could. Thanks to a Cuddle Cot, Gaz and I were able to stay on a special bereavement suite on the maternity unit. So the days passed in a blur of memorising every tiny detail of him, of singing his lullaby whilst cradling him in my arms, taking photos, doing things any other parent would - except we wouldn't be bringing our baby home.

Planning a funeral, mortuary visits, having to accept that you will never see the baby that grew inside you laugh for the first time, beam a smile saved especially for you - knowing that all you can have is precious keepsakes and memories for the rest of your life, is something I wouldn't wish upon anybody. A piece of me died with him that day. I'll never be the same person I was. Whilst its my belief that I carry Dylan with me in my heart always, he should be here right now. Had I known about Vasa Praevia, my son would be alive. It's a simple and as devastating as that.

I was told that it was rare. In actual fact, it affects 1 in every 2500 pregnancies. If you conceive through IVF, your odds are 1 in 300. Read that again. The most traumatic part for me was knowing it wasn't me that was bleeding - it was Dylan.

Vasa praevia occurs when one or more of the baby‘s placental or umbilical blood vessels cross the entrance to the birth canal beneath the baby. So when the cervix dilates or the membrane rupture, the unprotected vessels can tear, causing rapid fetal haemorrhage. When the baby drops into the pelvis, the vessels can be compressed, compromising the baby’s blood supply and causing oxygen deprivation.

The risk factors for Vasa Praevia are:

• A velamentous cord insertion (this is what I had with Dylan).

• Those with a bi-lobed or succenturiate-lobed placenta.

• Painless bleeding at ANY point in pregnancy.

• Those with low lying placenta or placenta praevia.

• Multiple pregnancies.

• IVF pregnancies.

• Previous uterine surgery.

So please, help me to raise awareness. To stop another innocent life being stolen before it even had chance to begin. 

Please visit www.vasapraevia.co.uk to gain any further information. This is the charity I am trying to raise funds for; because until it is being scanned for routinely, knowledge and awareness is the only power we have, and without the help of this organisation, things will not change. 

If you've made it this far, then thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

Melissa.