In the 1960s, my mother miscarried at three months - as happens with many women, the foetus was passed in the toilet.
She lay on the living room floor until my dad got home from work. He had to run to a telephone kiosk to phone for a doctor.
The GP examined Mum, looked into the toilet bowl and then flushed the contents. He sympathised with my parents and told them that he'd organise a hospital appointment.
At the local hospital, the first thing that the gynaecologist said to Mum was "What did you do?"
Mum - who was about 40 at the time - had to defend herself: "I wanted that child." She'd had me at the age of 35. She had two subsequent miscarriages and there were no accusations with those: the last one took place in the maternity home, after she'd been taken there for bed rest.