I was 26 years old, and my partner, who was 30, and I had a little girl of 21 months when our baby boy was born during the summer holidays. I was on maternity leave, and we were the happiest and most fulfilled parents ever. Two wonderful children, a countryside house, a united family, absolute serenity… Was this what happiness was all about?
The Pregnancy and Birth
December 2023: first ultrasound. The gynecologist told me, “You’re having something unusual, Madame.” Our story began like that. There were two babies, but one little heart had stopped beating. The news was hard to accept; I needed a week to process the loss of my twin. Although it happened early in my pregnancy, I had imagined the joy of this pregnancy multiplied by two. Soon after, I returned to see the gynecologist to focus on my baby who had clung to life. The rest of my pregnancy went well; during ultrasounds, he was always at the top of the growth charts. Except that there was calcification in his mitral valve, which was apparently not serious.
My baby was born three weeks premature. I could hold my little boy against me after 40 minutes of pushing. I will remain silent about the insensitivity of the staff when they took out the twin with the placenta. The return home went very well, but I could only breastfeed my son for 15 days because he constantly stuck his tongue out and couldn’t latch properly.
During his two-week check-up, I mentioned that he was sticking his tongue out. They told me it was related to breastfeeding; not knowing any better, I believed them. For the one-month visit, his tongue was still sticking out, and he couldn’t hold up his head. “He probably didn’t want to,” “everything was fine”: I remained convinced of these assertions. With hindsight, I was probably blinded by his beauty, wisdom, calm… He slept well at night but sweated a lot, his tongue was always out, and he hardly cried.
He was being cared for with us and was supposed to go to his childcare provider after my maternity leave.
The Day Everything Changed
On Monday, August 31, after the summer holidays, my daughter went back to her daycare. I dropped her off and then left for a 20 km drive home for my first perineal rehabilitation appointment with my midwife. My son was at home with his father for the morning.
At 11:34, after leaving the appointment, I opened my phone and read, “Saul is not breathing; the firefighters are on their way.” My heart raced; I called several times. A woman finally answered. It was our village mayor asking me to hurry home.
When I arrived, there were several fire trucks, and my baby was lying on the dining table surrounded by people. His father was sitting on a chair in shock; I didn’t understand what was happening. My son had a cardiac arrest in his bed; his father found him almost lifeless and started CPR, which the firefighters said saved his life at that moment.
My baby was airlifted to the CHU with his father. The SAMU doctor warned us he could have another arrest during the flight. I watched the helicopter take off, screaming my pain, and joined them. He was admitted to pediatric intensive care.
When the Diagnosis Came
On the evening of his arrival, they explained that there was blood in his brain and surgery was necessary. The night after his operation, we thanked the surgeon, still unaware of the difficulties ahead. In reality, he had subdural hematomas, ruptured bridging veins, and retinal hemorrhages. But we were not informed.
Apart from a nurse who made an accusatory remark on our arrival evening, I never felt any discomfort between the medical staff and us (not in front of us anyway). The next morning, a doctor told us that a report had been filed with the prosecutor for shaken baby syndrome. We didn’t understand: Who could have shaken him? Why? It was impossible. I never doubted his father and knew my son; it was unthinkable that anyone would hurt him.
The people we dealt with were kind despite the allegations. But we didn’t have time: we had to find out what happened to our baby. We continued our research online and discussed with doctors the hypotheses we found. We requested blood tests for his father and myself to rule out a genetic disease, a request that took a long time to be accepted. One day, a doctor told me, “We’ve opened many drawers, but there are still plenty of others.” We remained hopeful.
However, his health did not improve; he had been intubated since arrival and had elevated intracranial pressure. All the diseases we had considered based on our research were not possible for him. Despite the nurses telling the head nurse “we have to find out, this baby was not shaken,” they never found anything and thought they were certain of a diagnosis.
“The greatest enemy of knowledge is not ignorance, it’s the illusion of knowing.”
In the Judicial Machine
Two days after our arrival in the ward, our daughter was taken to the CHU for examination. We were placed under arrest that evening, leaving our two children without knowing if we would see our son alive upon return. We spent about 24 hours in custody during this first interrogation, with a search and sealing of our home before being able to join our babies. It was traumatic: criminal activity was unthinkable for us.
Our daughter was placed with my parents for a month, where fortunately, we could visit her. Our relationship with child protective services was good. She was able to say goodbye to her little brother the day before his extubation and on September 11, 2020, after 12 days of struggle, our baby passed away in our arms. He had been two months and seven days old.
We were interviewed voluntarily then placed under arrest a few months later. Being three weeks from giving birth to our third child, I was able to leave; as for their father, he was put under judicial supervision and for my part, I remained in the status of an assisted witness.
Living with Suspicion
For a long time, it felt like my life had been stolen. We no longer had any secrets from anyone; they took our two babies away from us.
I continued my research for years and recontacted all the doctors who followed me or cared for our son. But they were all evasive (the procedure is scary!). We were traumatized by every phone call, opening the mailbox, the sound of a car stopping in front of the house. I always had this fear that we would be taken away from our daughter again, whom we tried to protect as much as possible from the innocence of a two-year-old girl. She clearly saved us.
She was quickly followed by a psychologist, several times since her little brother’s death.
We had a third child, a gift from heaven, exactly 14 months after his big brother’s passing. The pregnancy wasn’t peaceful; I was monitored by an incredible gynecologist specialized in prenatal diagnosis and my psychiatrist.
Our relationship didn’t hold up. How can you keep space for love when justice takes all the room? Even our grief took a backseat. We were no longer on the same path, but today, the father of my children is my best friend and we will always support each other.
I had an exhaustion depression a year ago and I’m still under treatment.
I don’t have the life I imagined, but I think I’ve worked hard to get better because my children do not deserve to suffer from ignorance. Today, I know that my baby was sick and he won’t come back. My greatest wish is for everything to stop, for him to be allowed to rest, for him not to be just a file, and for his grave not to be sullied by this injustice. I want to find the serenity I haven’t known in five years and for us to be left alone.
My children are exceptional; they talk about their big/little brother as if he were with us, and I’m proud of keeping him alive through us.
For consistency across testimonies, this text may have been slightly edited or translated by artificial intelligence. If you notice any error or inconsistency, please don’t hesitate to contact us.
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