The weekend after the CVS (Chorionic Villus Sampling), I had a little bit of bleeding and, as instructed by the midwife at the hospital, I 'sought medical attention'. We spent an hour and a half waiting in the waiting room of the out of hours care centre to see a GP who eventually quickly dismissed us. A family were waiting there as well. We didn't speak with them but I enjoyed watching the little girl running around. She played with her father. He referred to her as 'Amelia'. When she wandered off, her little brother would call her: 'Mia'. I thought to myself, 'that's a lovely name. Perhaps if this pregnancy ends well and we have a daughter we can call her Amelia. Mia for short'. As time passed and the chances of the pregnancy progressing well grew smaller, I parked that idea. We didn't name our little girl when she was born. The idea of giving her a name that she would never hear was just too much. What's in a name? Her memory would always be with us. The extra strength that we found from who knows where to deal with her loss , the new degree of understanding between us, her parents, would be what we remembered her by. People would ask me if we had given her a name and I would answer, almost aggressively: 'no!'. What's in a name? What was this extra pain I was protecting us from by not naming her? When I saw the draft of the funeral service I first thought that perhaps we should name her. 'We have come to give thanks for baby and then my surname'? How impersonal! What should we name her? The answer was quick to come... Amelia. Mia. What's in a name? I had hoped to use that name, Mia. To call a child and for that child to come running. There. There's the pain. Could I not perhaps keep it for a potential future baby? Somewhere I knew I could not. That name would always be associated with this pregnancy, with this baby. When I mentioned to my mother that we were thinking about giving our baby girl a name, she had a similar reaction to my initial, slightly aggressive: 'no, we haven't given her a name!'. When I explained about the funeral and how impersonal it sounded, she said: 'well, maybe you should call her Mia'. I was stunned. Had I told her about the little girl in the waiting room? I didn't think so... 'What made you suggest that name?' I asked. "Well, Mia just means my in Italian. So you would really just be calling her 'my baby'...". And so Mia it is. Mia, my baby.