I HADN’T got to the stage where I had explained to regular readers the reason why I’d been injecting myself every day in the stomach.

It was a self-protective gesture, really, one which was trying to avoid tempting fate, but recent events mean there is no longer any need for any mystery.

My husband and I were expecting another baby, our ‘rainbow’ – the term used to describe any pregnancy which comes after a stillbirth or miscarriage.

We knew things would be complicated; as a result of investigations after the death of our son in October, we found out that I have a serious autoimmune disorder known as Hughes Syndrome / APS.

Despite the odds, we dared to hope that things might be OK. I injected myself daily with the blood thinner Clexane, and we attended Basingstoke Hospital for constant appointments under a consultant.

Last Monday, we had the most detailed scan it is possible to have. Our baby was in absolutely perfect health and was being supplied by oxygen and all the necessaries by my body.

So it was a terrible shock to us when, as happened last time, I attended a regular midwife appointment just four days later, and the baby’s heartbeat could not be located.

Once again, I lay and silently prayed on the table as the minutes ticked by, knowing what would follow.

And it all came to pass exactly as in October. At hospital, the baby was confirmed dead. I was given some medication and I returned home to wait until Sunday when I’d go back to the hospital to give birth to our child.

Our baby was born just before 2pm, under the care of our wonderfully caring midwife Jessica.

Where previously I cried oceans of tears from the moment we were told the news, this time it took a while for the floodgates to open – they did, of course, just at the moment Samuel entered the world.

What I felt then more than anything else, and I still feel now, is empty. I wander around carrying on with everyday life, looking after our daughter, doing the school run, buying groceries, but I feel as if I am in a semi-drugged state.

I cannot allow myself to think about what has happened, otherwise I don’t think I will be able to get through the day at all.

Things possibly feel so much worse because we were fully aware that he was healthy and perfect, and has been killed, almost instantly and without warning, by this horrible, merciless condition.

My husband is so sad, angry and heartbroken that, once again, we have been robbed of the chance to complete our family, and that our daughter has been denied the opportunity to ever know another of her brothers.

I felt such terrible, terrible guilt that my body keeps doing this to our precious cargo, even though I tried my best to give this baby his best chance.

It was still clearly nowhere near enough.