Our beautiful son Caspar was born on 4 November 2009 at 38 weeks, plus five days' gestation. He suffered a lack of oxygen during induced labour following an undiagnosed placental abruption. He lived for 12 days.

I became pregnant very quickly once we decided to start our family and we were very excited.

At our 12-week scan, however, we were told our baby had an abdominal wall defect, called an exomphalos. Devastated by its possible links to severe chromosome abnormalities and heart defects, we went to great lengths to have every test possible and see the best specialists available.

After weeks of fear and research, we found out that the exomphalos was not linked to anything else, was very small and would simply need an operation after birth to fix it. This proved to be absolutely correct.

So we relaxed and enjoyed the rest of the pregnancy.

We always knew we would be induced a little early to ensure our baby had a bed in the special care baby unit.

At 38 weeks, we had a scan with our foetal medicine consultant. Our baby was breech and although the option of a C-section was briefly mentioned, it was given with several risk factors involved. Based on that, we decided to have our baby turned by a procedure called an ECV. (A decision I live to regret).

Our baby turned easily and we were booked in for induction at 38 weeks, plus four days.

The first day of induction was fine, we were excited and got looked after well. I did have some painful tightenings, but I coped.

During that first night, my partner was called back from home as I had leaked fluid and was in a lot of pain. Eventually I was given pethidine and passed out.

The next day, still on the antenatal ward, as labour ward was busy and no beds were available even though I was high-risk, I was given my second dose of Prostins by a new midwife.

A few hours later, I was having very strong, regular contractions and was in severe pain, still behind a curtain on a ward of seven. The very busy midwife gave me pethidine eventually, but this had no effect and I was climbing the walls in pain. My partner tried many times to get help from the midwife but she failed to come. I was shouting in pain and pleading for some help.

Eventually a large bag of membranes got squeezed out intact (my waters) and I screamed.

I was taken to labour ward, but because myself and my baby had not been monitored in the last few hours the midwife assumed I was about to give birth and communicated this to the midwife taking over. Nobody checked my dilation or my baby, whose heartbeat hadn't been checked for over two-and-a-half hours!

After preparing the room for delivery, my baby's heart rate was only finally checked "22 minutes later" and found to be just 60 BPM (it should be between 120-160 bpm). I was then checked and found to be only 3-4cm dilated. There was no way I was going to give birth. The midwife who was supposed to have been looking after me had very little up-to-date information on me and had failed to monitor my baby to check for distress. We have since discovered she is a junior.

A registrar was called and I was rushed for an emergency C-section.

My next memory was my partner Tim walking into the recovery room in tears clutching a picture of our baby, our son, covered in tubes and wires.

Our son, who we named Caspar, had been in distress and had suffered a reduction in oxygen due to a partial placental abruption (they found a few clots behind my placenta), but because he wasn't monitored, it had been too long for him and he was showing signs of brain damage.

Caspar was put on a "cooling mat" for three days sedated to try and stop the damage. Over the next 12 days, we sat with him, willing him to be okay. We talked to him and sung to him and kissed and cuddled him. We took many photos and some video footage.

By day eight, Caspar was still on the ventilator, he hadn't opened his eyes and he barely moved. The results of an EEG and an MRI showed severe brain damage due to hypoxia.

I remember screaming out in tears when the consultant told us the news, "they could have saved him, they didn't monitor him, my poor baby".

I knew in my heart that a failure in care had led to this tragedy.

We fell so deeply in love with our little boy, he was the most beautiful baby in the world, perfect in every way, and he should not have been like this, there was nothing wrong with him.

The care of Caspar in the SCBU was amazing and the lovely nurses who all fell in love with Caspar supported us so much. But Caspar had no gag reflex left and he couldn't breath unaided, he couldn't even open his eyes to see his mummy, but the grip of his tiny hand around my finger melted my heart.

We knew we had to let him go - he was starting to deteriorate having been lying in a cot so long unable to move.

I looked at my son on day 12 of his life, covered in tubes, a machine keeping him alive. How had this happened to my little boy? We had arrived at the hospital with a perfectly healthy baby who was ready to begin his new life with his mummy and daddy.

We then lived every parent's worst nightmare, we had to remove Caspar's life support.

I carried Caspar to the room we had been staying in, still attached to his ventilator. His daddy and I sat cuddling him, but the move had disturbed him and I could feel his heart rate slowing. Caspar's nurse Chrissie came in and detached his ventilator and left us. We held Caspar and talked to him, so he wasn't scared, telling him how much we love him and always will, and we kissed his soft skin. He gasped a little but peacefully fell asleep forever on daddy's chest with his mummy cuddling him.

We bathed Caspar and dressed him in his little sleepsuit. He looked gorgeous. We then spent ages just holding him and cuddling him and taking more pictures. He slept between us that night, I never let go of him for a second.

Looking back, I was in so much shock that night. I had gone to hospital to give birth and 14 days later we were leaving the hospital with our son in his Moses basket, but he was dead.

We spent the next day with Caspar and took him to see his home, I lay him in his cot and played his lullabies, my heart was shattered seeing my perfect 6.5lb little boy so tiny in his cot, but knowing that he was sleeping forever.

We took Caspar to a funeral directors, and we saw him for the next eight days while we somehow arranged a small but incredible funeral for him. Caspar didn't really change in that time - he just had little red cheeks like he had been out on a cold winter's day.

Those days are irreplaceable, we were able to say so much to Caspar and cuddle him all we wanted. I made sure he was comfortable with his teddies wrapped in his blanket with a photo of his mummy and daddy dressed in his coming home outfit.

The day of his funeral arrived, I placed Caspar in his teddy bear casket and kissed him goodbye forever. I don't know how I ever managed to leave him, my poor little boy.

The funeral was very emotional. Caspar's daddy and I managed to read out the letters we had written to Caspar. I had to be almost lifted out of the chapel, shouting out to Caspar how much I love him.

That was eight months ago and I am forever heartbroken. I cry for Caspar every day, for the way his life was so unfairly taken, knowing that he should be here now and would be if we had received better care from those we wrongly trusted, and if better resources had been available. An investigation continues.

I am fortunate to be pregnant again and Caspar's sibling will hopefully shine a little light into the very dark black hole we are in. But we know a million babies won't ever replace Caspar.

I have such a strong motherly instinct to protect Caspar's memory and I cannot accept that he is gone and I will never see my son again. Most of all I feel an enormous pain for Caspar, that he has been denied his whole life.

We have many memories with Caspar in such a short space of time and these I will treasure my whole life. But I will always worry that Caspar is looking down crying for his mummy, though I hope one day I will be able to think of him in a happy place smiling down.

The pain of losing your child and then not even knowing where they have gone to is just too much to bear.

Caspar, we love you so much

Mummy and Daddy x x x