The baby we love, but never knew: Life can never be the same for Keith Vaz MP and his wife since their first child was stillborn

I had just finished dinner in the Members' Dining-Room with Harriet Harman, Tom Clarke and other colleagues - discussing the outcome of the Shadow Cabinet elections - when the pager bleeped and asked me to respond to a telephone number that I didn't recognise.

When I got through to the extension, I was told that my wife was in a big London hospital. I was not unduly worried as Maria had visited the hospital many times to make sure that her pregnancy was going well.

But the person who answered the telephone said that there had been complications, and when I spoke to my wife, she said she had been told that the baby's heart had stopped beating. I was stunned.

I was in such a daze that I drove past the hospital twice. The main reception was closed, and I had to wait several minutes at casualty to attract the attention of the receptionist, who was laboriously writing out a list. Four people stood chatting with her, but no one tried to ask me what I wanted.

Eventually I told her that my wife was pregnant, and asked whether she knew where she was. The receptionist said that she must be in the maternity ward.

In the bleak corridor leading to the ward were my sister, brother-in-law and mother-in-law, all in tears. I walked into the room, which looked as if it had not been refurbished for several decades. My wife told me that the doctor had said the baby inside her had died. He and a nurse came to explain.

It was, he said, 'one of those things'. But why, I asked, was it not possible to save this baby? What about all the technology? This was a pregnancy in its 30th week. It was not supposed to happen like this. When I asked for a second opinion, I was told that my wife's consultant could not be found.

There was nothing that could be done anyway. There was no counselling for us parents, who only the day before had decided on a name for the child. I had predicted that we would have a girl, because I believe that the 21st century is to be the century of women.

There were faeces on the floor of the visitors' lavatory. And there appeared to be no refreshment facilities and nowhere for relatives to wait near by, except in the room itself or in the cold corridor. If a consultant would not come to me, I decided, I would take my wife to a consultant.

I asked if it was safe to move her to the hospital in Leicester, my constituency and our home town. The doctor agreed, but we had to wait for an hour for a copy of her notes because the key to the photocopying room could not be found.

At 11.30pm I set off to drive my wife to Leicester. We were both totally unable to come to terms with the way our lives had been changed for ever by the missing heartbeat.

From the moment of our arrival at 2am at the hospital in Leicester, we were treated with care, consideration and even love. The consultant explained that these events were rare, and quoted a figure of six per 4,000 in Leicestershire.

At 10am the baby was induced. By noon my wife was in pain, and was moved out of the delivery suite to a room down the corridor. Every time I left her, I was greeted by a cheery welcome from a constituent. If only they had known what was happening. (Just at this time, the Court of Appeal in Luxembourg announced its decision on the Bank of Credit and Commerce International, and the media went beserk requesting comments.)

My eldest sister arrived just as Maria's contractions started. The midwife and my eldest sister took control. I was asked if I wanted to help. My wife and I had had many discussions about my attendance at the birth, and I had always said no. But now our world had changed. Maria never cried, though she seemed to be in great pain. I knew that when the baby's head started to appear, all this effort was going to be in vain, but I had a secret hope that when the baby was born it would be alive.

Then this beautiful, wonderful little girl appeared. Tight around her neck was the umbilical cord. The thing that gave her life had taken it away. She was laid on the bed, and my sister and I cried. All I can remember is weeping and asking the midwife if there was anything she could do to save this child. I had seen it so many times: you attach a machine and the heart starts again. I showed my wife our baby. My mother arrived, followed by my mother-in-law, and they all said she looked like me.

I looked at the face of my child, and there was nothing I could do. Since being elected, I have taken up thousands of cases for people, and I had gone into politics to help people - but here, I could not help myself.

My mother asked our local Catholic priest to bless the baby. He prevaricated by saying that a dead baby could not be baptised; that the baby had to be brought to the church.

When he came later in the week to see my wife, I asked him why, when the issue of abortion was discussed in the Commons, he and the Catholic church, through its local priests, had been on the phone for support. Did they not classify a dead baby as a baby? In this, the worst grief I had experienced, where was the church's compassion?

He muttered something about guidelines like some departmental official. I told him that he and the Catholic church had let my wife and me down, and reminded him that, if they did not exist to comfort people at a time like this, what was the use of them? This was not grief but anger.

My wife then began to bleed so badly that the consultant returned. By 10pm she had lost 10 pints of blood, and was taken to the operating theatre. At 1am, the consultant woke me to tell me that she had not stopped bleeding and that sooner or later - in about an hour - I would have to make a decision to consent to the removal of her uterus in order to stop the bleeding. He told me that he had to give me that time to think.

I was shattered. She would not be able to have children again. She would not forgive me, I said; I could not and would not make this decision myself. I called my mother, mother- in-law, sister and the Anglican priest who had blessed our marriage in Leicester. He led us in prayer. We waited for an hour.

The consultant returned to say that my wife had had a complete transfusion with 20 units of blood. She had stopped bleeding. Our prayers had been answered. Two Polaroid pictures of my daughter were brought in, and it was a joy to see them.

The undertakers were marvellous, and took care of the administration. I explained that I wanted a cremation and to have the urn of ashes. He explained, professionally, that there would be no ashes: when a child is cremated, there are no ashes.

The Registrar of Deaths was kind and compassionate, but she kept apologising for being too clinical. I asked to see the register of still births. Looking through the names of these children and the occupations of their parents, I saw that death is a great leveller.

The past two weeks have been a nightmare. Not even the best fiction could match it. I am left with several immediate impressions. First, how do people who live in London tolerate the state of and facilities of some of their hospitals? Where is the training and time spent to ensure that so- called 'professionals' can deal with situations of this kind? Where, oh where, are billions of pounds going?

Second, how brave women are. These tragedies are made bearable by the courage of women - of a wife, mother, sisters, mothers-in-law, doctors, midwives, nurses and ancilliary workers. They have a monopoly in compassion and kindness.

Third, there must be a way to stop these deaths. I do not subscribe to the 'one of those things' school of diagnosis. In an age when we can put people on the Moon and beyond, when computerisation and technological advances are so incredible, surely some piece of equipment can be created that will discover such things before they go wrong.

Before our daughter died, I addressed a meeting in Dundee, and I told the audience about my hopes for my unborn baby. It worried me, I said, that the child was to be born into a society of violence, desolation and despair. None the less I fervently wanted it to be born.

We cremated our daughter, Sahara, at a family funeral last week. The only consolation was to recall that she had not lived long enough to know the injustice of this world. Yet she had lived long enough, albeit it in her mother's womb, to be cherished for the rest of time.

The author is Labour MP for Leicester East. In memory of their child, he and his wife have set up the Sahara Trust to promote the well-being of children. For information, contact National Westminster Bank, St Martin's, Leicester LE1 9NB.

(Photograph omitted)