Ben and marina fogle: 'having a stillborn baby was truly awful but it brought us closer'

Ben Fogle. Marina Fogle 26 June 2020 7:00am BST MARINA'S STORY  Ben and I both have two siblings, and when we found out I was expecting our third baby in 2014 we were so excited about

becoming a family of five. With Ludo and Iona, now 10 and nine, to run around after, there wasn’t much time to dwell on the pregnancy, but it was straightforward until 33 weeks, when we were

almost at the finish line. It was August and we were at the end of an idyllic summer holiday with my family in Austria when I woke up experiencing cramps – caused, I assumed, by eating too

many plums from the garden. As the morning wore on, though, my blood pressure plummeted and my father and sister, both doctors, called an ambulance. On the way to the hospital, I began

bleeding heavily. After a scan failed to disclose the reassuring thuds of a heartbeat, I overheard the doctors using the words ‘dead baby’ in hushed German. I thought, that’s it. I awoke

from general anaesthetic and an emergency caesarean to learn that I’d had a little boy, but that he had been stillborn. I had suffered an acute placental abruption; without warning, my

placenta had become detached from my uterus, starving the baby of oxygen and causing a haemorrhage that left me within 20 minutes of death. At first, I was numb with shock. The physical pain

was the worst I’d ever experienced and cannulas protruded from all over my body; all I wanted to do was escape into sleep. Back then I didn’t cry for the baby – not even when Ben arrived

the next day, having raced to my side from Canada, where he’d been celebrating his grandmother’s 100th birthday. Even when we met and held Willem, the name we chose for our much-wanted son,

I wished I could feel more emotion. It was at breakfast the following day that the tears finally came. A tidal wave of emotion had built up and it burst through in sobs that convulsed my

entire body. I’ll never forget the nurse who coldly placed a box of tissues in front of me and walked away, or the one who gave me the hug I desperately needed. Ben’s primary concern at that

stage was for me. His relief that I’d survived superseded his grief at losing Willem. Kind and supportive as ever, he threw himself into making practical arrangements: rearranging flights,

dealing with health insurance and telling our friends the awful news. Meanwhile my sister, Chiara, told Ludo and Iona that the baby had died. Soon after, Ludo began experiencing stomach

aches from anxiety, because he was worried about me being so ill, so I realised I had to talk to him myself. It was a difficult conversation; we both cried and he asked a lot of questions,

but telling him the truth about what had happened to Willem in simple terms, and reassuring him that I was better now, was what he needed. Later, Ben and I held a small funeral just for the

two of us, and buried Willem’s ashes in a little churchyard in the countryside close to my parents’ house. Even as my body recovered, my emotional pain began to manifest in physical ways. I

felt exhausted and so forgetful that I wondered if the blood loss had left me brain-damaged. Ben was always there to hold me as I wept, but I wondered how I was going to cope. Perhaps

inevitably, as Willem’s mother, much of the focus was on me in those bleak early days. I was the one who’d been heavily pregnant, and wasn’t any longer. Some of my lowest moments came when I

encountered people who didn’t know. Shortly after we’d arrived home, I bumped into an acquaintance after dropping Iona at nursery. ‘Oh, you’ve had your baby,’ she said. Her words caught me

off-guard; they felt like a physical blow. ‘No, he died,’ I had to reply. Her eyes filled with tears and I found myself consoling her while thinking, this isn’t what I need. Most of our

loved ones got in touch to say how sorry they were, offering a welcome reminder I was in their thoughts. Others remained silent. Rationally, I knew it wasn’t that they didn’t care, just that

they didn’t know what to say, but in the midst of my sadness, that was how it felt. As time went on, my grief took a different path from Ben’s. Just as I was gradually beginning to feel

stronger, his sorrow hit as his initial adrenalin wore off. We always tried to be sensitive to each other’s feelings, but even the strongest couple can feel they’re suffering separately in

the aftermath of trauma. We have always been so close, but there were times we struggled to communicate. Talking about Willem was incredibly important to me, because when people didn’t

acknowledge him I felt they were forgetting. You forget the things that don’t matter, and he matters very much. But I knew Ben’s instinct would have been to mention him less – not because he

didn’t care, but because it was painful to be reminded of what we’d lost. Finding Julia Samuel, a wonderful bereavement counsellor [author of This Too Shall Pass and a friend of Diana,

Princess of Wales], helped us bridge that gap. For months, we saw her for sessions together and alone. I felt a strange guilt at feeling such powerful grief when I had two healthy children,

so it was a relief to hear Julia acknowledge that we’d experienced something truly awful. Nothing could fix it, but we could learn to live with it. Her wisdom and understanding helped us to

process our individual grief, but also to open up to one another and really listen. We started leaving the children with my parents and going for a walk together every weekend to give

ourselves time to talk properly. For me, learning to embrace rather than resent the ways Ben and I are different has been a key lesson. He lives in the present and loves to spend money on

experiences, whereas I’m naturally much more cautious. The Easter after Willem died, Ben was working in Africa and said, ‘Why don’t you and the children come out?’ Previously, I might have

thought that we shouldn’t go; that travelling through rough terrain with two small children would be too dangerous. I’m so glad we did, because for the first time since our loss, I went an

entire day without feeling that aching sadness that Willem wasn’t there. It was an amazing moment when I realised my life wasn’t always going to be consumed by grief. Two years after losing

Willem, Ben began mentioning his desire to climb Everest. At first I wasn’t keen: it was dangerous, expensive and would mean weeks away from home. But his thirst for adventure was one of the

reasons I fell in love with him, and he felt it was important, so I supported him. He had encouraged me to run a half-marathon, which I’d never previously have attempted. I’m braver and

more resilient now because of what we’ve been through. I’m also more empathetic, and our relationship is closer as a result. I’m proud that as a couple, we’ve been through one of the most

challenging tests you can face and emerged stronger. BEN'S STORY The first time Marina became pregnant, we lost the baby at 12 weeks. It was my first encounter with the bitter reality

that with pregnancy, nothing is guaranteed. But once Ludo and Iona were safely here, and she sent me a scan photograph to let me know she was expecting our third child, I felt nothing but

excitement. I assumed we’d already had our share of bad luck. I was in Canada when my father came to my room at 3am to tell me that we’d lost the baby and Marina was gravely ill. So certain

had I been that there was nothing to worry about that I didn’t even have my phone switched on; my sister-in-law had called him instead. Being so far away, I felt absolutely helpless, then

petrified as I got on the plane to England, not knowing if Marina would make it. When I turned on my phone after landing, I was sick with dread that I’d find a message saying she had died.

After a connecting flight to Austria, I finally arrived at the hospital. I remember the stark whiteness of the walls and curtains, which matched the pallor of Marina’s skin. I was so

thankful she had survived, but when a nurse asked, ‘Do you want to meet your son?’, I wasn’t at all prepared. My instinct would have been to say no, but Marina wanted us to. Willem looked

perfect, just like our other babies, as if fast asleep, and although now I see it was important to have that moment, at the time it felt unbearably harrowing. Over the eight months Marina

was pregnant, we’d built a dream of how our family would look – from how Ludo and Iona would help take care of a little brother or sister, to the practicalities of fitting three children

into the car. Now, we had to deal with decisions we’d never expected. Going through the list of names we’d liked and choosing Willem, deciding to cremate him, planning his funeral: I tried

to stay strong as we muddled through it all in a fog of shock and devastation. I found it agonising when Marina broke down in tears, sometimes at unexpected moments. I knew she needed to

talk about Willem, but it was immensely difficult for me to have that constant reminder of what we’d lost; that extraordinary pain of missing someone you never had the chance to know. Marina

didn’t want us to forget him, which I understood. I didn’t either, but I preferred to focus on the two beautiful children we had. We shared a fear of the emotional minefield of seeing

acquaintances who assumed the baby was here and asked, ‘What did you have?’ Naturally, there was more concern for Marina, because she had that physical bond with the baby. And actually,

although I’m an open person, I found people’s sympathy hard to navigate. When they talked quietly and patted me on the back, it was often more stressful than helpful. For six months after

our loss, I suffered extreme anxiety about being around groups of people, which I’d never experienced before. I’d go to red-carpet events for work and end up leaving. I became quite

reclusive and lost my confidence. When Marina suggested we go to therapy, it felt like an admission of failure. I’d never had therapy before and thought we should be strong enough to find a

way to cope by ourselves as a couple. But actually, Julia helped tremendously in making us be more honest about our emotions. Having a third party there opened me up in a way I might

previously have found uncomfortable. She helped us to understand that it was natural for us to grieve in different ways, and to see each other’s perspectives. Julia encouraged us to include

the children in our conversations about Willem, something I was more reluctant to do because I didn’t want that darkness to encroach on their lives. They were only four and three. She

explained that if we avoided telling them the truth of what had happened, their fertile minds would imagine something even worse. Initially, I went along with it for Marina, but over time,

I’ve come to see that acknowledging Willem’s place in our family’s story by talking about him, marking his birthday and decorating his memorial stone at Christmas has brought us all closer

as a unit. We’re better at talking, as well as listening, and the children mention their little brother often. Even now, though, hard as I know Marina will find me saying it, I dread his

anniversary. I’ll always struggle with seeing her revisit the pain. Another difficult choice we had to make after Willem’s death was whether to try again for a third child. We were told it

would be too dangerous for Marina to carry another baby, so we talked about other options, including surrogacy and fostering. Together, we came to a decision to pour our energy into enjoying

what we had, rather than worrying about what we didn’t. Planning my Everest climb in 2018 as a tribute to Willem, as well as a test for myself, gave me a long-term focus. In the short term,

I found solace in long runs, as well as appreciating every moment of our life as a family of four. We bought a puppy, Storm, who has brought us great joy. Because of our loss, we make more

effort to surround ourselves with love, fun and excitement. As a couple, Marina and I have also taken comfort in sharing our experience with others. If being honest about the challenges we

faced and showing that it’s possible to get through them together helps even one other family, what we went through won’t have been in vain. _AS TOLD TO POLLY DUNBAR_ _MARINA IS A CO-HOST OF

THE PARENT HOOD PODCAST; THEBUMPCLASS.COM. BEN AND MARINA ARE PATRONS OF CHILD BEREAVEMENT UK, WHICH OFFERS SUPPORT WHEN A BABY OR CHILD OF ANY AGE DIES. CALL THE HELPLINE ON 0800-0288840,

OR VISIT CHILDBEREAVEMENTUK.ORG_