Myleene Klass: I had my fourth miscarriage live on air – I deserve more than a baby-loss certificate

The first time I miscarried, I was on holiday in Dubai.

I was laid out on a hospital bed, my small bump covered in jelly as the nurse passed the ultrasound wand back and forth. In the Middle East, the screens are huge like a cinema. Instead of seeing the image any hopeful mother wishes to see, I saw my baby floating in the darkness, limp and lifeless.

I clutched my friend Katie’s hand and wept. It was the saddest thing I had ever witnessed.

But then I went on to lose three more – one, while at a dinner party. I lost another while on the loo – and faced the excruciating dilemma of what to do with my baby’s remains. Do I… flush? Do I try to lift their remains out of the water? Questions no woman should ever have to ask herself.

My most recent miscarriage happened while I was live on air. I knew what was happening to my body, but I had to continue until my radio show was over. And, in a way, I didn’t want it to be, as that would mean facing the reality of another monumental loss.

A friend who I had called in between tracks urged me to go home – but what was I going home to?

I knew I’d not only have to cope with my own grief and confusion, but also that of my partner, our parents and our children, who had excitedly awaited the arrival of their new brother or sister just as much as we did. It felt like I could suspend their magic for a little longer.

And that is a big part of baby loss that not many people consider, or talk about.

When I first worked on my documentary, Myleene: Miscarriage and Me, it was considered revolutionary to get my entire family involved. But to me, it made perfect sense. Yes, the miscarriage happened to me and to my body, but its impact was far-reaching. The pain and the gravity of the loss weren’t just felt by me.

It was also during the filming process that I learned that my auntie, who has always treated me like a daughter, suffered a miscarriage when she was younger. She had never opened up about it until that point.

Instead, like many women her age, it remained a dark secret – shrouded in guilt and shame. And, to this day, women are still shouldering this gigantic burden, believing it is in some way our fault and that we are failing when it comes to the one thing we are meant to do: create and sustain life.

It’s why, in part, I embrace the new baby-loss certificates being offered by the government to women who have been bereaved in this way.

Previously, women like me had no tangible proof of our babies’ existence, beyond our own memories and the evidence that clung to our bodies. Now, at least there is some acknowledgement of the life that was carried, however brief.

But I say “in part” because… well, it’s only a small step – a shuffle, really – towards the progress that women need and deserve.

Baby-loss certificates are tokens, keepsakes; they don’t cost the NHS or government anything to provide them and, therefore, they are essentially “unofficial, official records”: never to be stored at any town hall, in the archives or by our family GPs.

What happens to the women who miscarry at home and never have their loss recorded? Why, even with these certificates, is there no official mark on our medical records, outlining what happened, unless we demand it? I, for one, believe this is a minimum requirement – especially as my daughters and my son might later need this crucial bit of information when planning their own families.

For the past two years, I have been tirelessly campaigning with MP Olivia Blake. We believe that there are three fundamental changes that need to happen, to improve healthcare for women and the aftercare they receive.

Firstly, we need data. We know that for the majority of women’s health issues, there is a lack of data collection and understanding of how widespread a condition is – and the same goes for miscarriages. The data biases and discrepancies mean we are not represented and our experience is considered less of an epidemic than it is.

I was once told by a senior – female – health minister that collecting this sort of data wouldn’t be in the best interest of the government, because figures would drastically spike. I was astonished. Of course this would happen, but isn’t it better we know exactly the scale of the issue so we can better serve these women and prevent baby deaths?

Right now, thanks to the work of Tommy’s, we have a rough idea of how many women are affected; early miscarriages happen to 10 to 20 per cent of pregnancies and late miscarriages happen to 1 to 2 per cent of pregnancies. But there are still many women who have endured this kind of loss who aren’t represented in the numbers. This needs to change.

Second of all, we need more research into what causes miscarriages – and these tests should not be reserved for women only. Testing male fertility is far less invasive than testing women and it also helps shift some of the blame, which is more often than not placed squarely on the woman’s shoulders – the language used (a missed miscarriage, an incompetent cervix, blighted ovum…) speaks to this.

I took progesterone, testosterone (which they are now giving to women going through menopause, too) and baby aspirin during my final pregnancy – and I got my rainbow baby.

I was part of a clinical trial, and was open to just about anything if it meant carrying a baby to term. The results of the trial spoke for themselves: beyond my success, they found that, when women were bleeding, 8,500 babies could be saved per year with the use of progesterone. Imagine how many more lives could be saved with dedicated research.

Finally, for those who suffer miscarriages, it is paramount they receive specialised care. This isn’t a slight to GPs or other medical staff, but just as those who have cancer are referred to oncologists, women who miscarry must be seen by experts who understand the condition – and its longer-lasting impacts.

Studies conducted by Tommy’s show that the level of PTSD that miscarrying women experience is not too dissimilar to that of soldiers returning from Afghanistan nine months later – nine months obviously being the biggest insult of all.

By having more early pregnancy units (or EPUs) around the country, we can combat the current postcode lottery and ensure women – from all cultures and backgrounds – have access to the medical treatment and help they need. There are only around 200 in the UK at the moment, and many are over capacity.

These centres are vital, not just in terms of providing the correct care, but also to help grieving mothers – who are currently forced to enter wards or reception areas with expectant or new mothers. To sit beside elated women clutching their first, grainy scans or a newborn when you have just lost yours is unnecessarily cruel.

There is no dignity afforded in miscarriage and the death of a baby. For both my dilatation and curettage (D&C) procedures (I had two late miscarriages, which meant the baby had to be removed from me), I was asked to fill in paperwork I could barely read for crying. How did I wish to dispose of the “products of pregnancy”?

For my part, I will continue to advocate for women like me, my friends, my auntie and for future generations. I want all my kids to know how much I fought for them, both in life and death.

And I urge other women – and men – to not settle for the tiny crumbs that parents are being thrown. At the moment, a dead baby receives less medical care and official acknowledgement than a broken toe.

This is barbaric. Women’s healthcare has always been shrouded in shame, but we deserve better and so do our babies. We deserve dignity, answers – and change.

‘Myleene: Miscarriage and Me’ is on BBC One tonight at 10.40pm, and available to watch on the BBC iPlayer). To request a baby loss certificate, go to gov.uk