Carrie was born at the very end of summer, as the seasons quietly shifted around us. It was September 9th, 2017, a warm, golden day that felt just right for the arrival of our first baby. By the time we brought her home two days later, there was a crispness in the air and the leaves had begun to fall. I’ve always loved that time of year, and it felt almost poetic that our daughter would be born in that gentle transition between summer and autumn.
Over the following months, Carrie grew and changed so quickly, and we often felt as though we had always known her. She couldn’t have been anyone else; she was perfectly herself. It’s hard to put into words how natural it felt to love her, how impossible it was to imagine life without her.
We celebrated her first seasonal milestones with joy. Halloween found her dressed as a tiny pumpkin, and during Bonfire Night she stayed snug indoors with her uncle while I went out to the fireworks, texting him constantly to check on her. Christmas brought festive outfits, gatherings with friends, and trips to see family. Carrie was the first grandchild on my husband’s side, the first granddaughter on mine, and she was showered with gifts—mostly clothes too big for her petite frame, which she would grow into over time.
January brought its own challenges. Carrie entered the infamous four-month sleep regression, waking almost hourly for several weeks, coupled with a massive growth spurt. Winter felt endless as we bundled her into snow suits and hats for every short outing. So when February came, we eagerly anticipated our first family holiday: a week in Portugal. Both grandmothers joined us, giving me a rare chance to nap or soak in a bath while her dad enjoyed some uninterrupted football. For the first time, Carrie went out in just a cardigan, without layers upon layers, enjoying the warmth of the sun and a freedom we hadn’t seen in months.
Returning to London, the cold hit hard again. March arrived and Carrie turned six months old. We finally enjoyed brighter days, trips to the aquarium with a little friend, and plans for Easter breaks and family visits up north. But then came another cold snap, and along with it, illness. Carrie caught her first proper winter cold—snotty nose, raspy throat—and I took her to the doctor just to be safe. Initially, it was deemed nothing serious, just a routine cold.
By the end of the week, her symptoms persisted, so we returned for another check. This time, the doctor sent us to the pediatric ER, suspecting bronchiolitis. Tests confirmed the likelihood, and while she needed to stay in for observation, we were reassured it was common and nothing to worry about. I stayed overnight with her, watching over her sleep, feeling her tiny breaths against my chest. She was tired and grumpy, but no one seemed overly concerned.
The next morning, my husband arrived, and I was having breakfast when the consultant came around. Before any detailed checks could begin, Carrie became distressed, then arrested—and then she was gone. Just like that, our lives shattered.
The shock of losing her is impossible to put into words. We returned home that night, empty-handed, having held our daughter for the last time. The house felt foreign, silent without her presence. How could she be gone after being with us every single day since September? That sense of injustice and disbelief was crushing.
In the weeks that followed, grief was a strange, surreal reality. One thought that haunted me was the bitter, illogical idea that “of course this would happen to us.” We had tried for over a year to have Carrie. When I finally fell pregnant, it felt like a miracle. I cherished every moment of pregnancy, every kick, every flutter. I worried constantly, as any parent does—about shots, bumps, accidents, the tiniest things that could go wrong. And now, to lose her, our first, so suddenly—it was incomprehensible.
I’ve always been sensitive about pregnancy and childbirth, understanding how private and precious it can be. I never flaunted my pregnancy or her first days, even as I quietly celebrated her with friends and family. I wanted to savor every moment with my own eyes, not through a screen, knowing how fragile life can be. And yet, in the cruelest irony, it was my baby who died.
In my darkest moments, I found myself thinking, sarcastically and bitterly, “Of course this would happen to us! Our first baby, the one we tried so hard for, gone just like that.” Grieving minds seek reasons, even when there are none. Those feelings upset friends and family, but they were part of my reality. It’s okay to feel that way. It’s okay to be angry, confused, and heartbroken—because something so devastating has happened.
Amid the pain, love is what cuts the deepest. The love we had for Carrie, the love that fills our homes and hearts, remains. It manifests in grief, in tears, in remembrance, and slowly, with the support of others, in gratitude. Even in this jagged new world, I feel grateful for being her mother, for every smile, every glance, every tiny hand that held mine. On Mother’s Day just a week before she passed, I posted a picture with Carrie and my mother, celebrating generations of mothers—how cruel fate seemed then, yet how true it still feels now.
The truth I’ve learned is that the world is neutral. It doesn’t reward kindness, nor punish it. Goodness and tragedy coexist, and no parent, no child, is immune. What matters is the love we carry forward. Carrie is hope and light, her presence forever woven into me. Science shows that a child’s cells remain in a mother’s body, a part of her forever. She lives in me, and while I live, so does she.
Carrie Jean Fisher-Parr
9th September 2017 – 24th March 2018
