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PREGNANCY JOURNAL

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I Lost My Son At 32 Weeks. The CO Detector On Our Wall Was Working The Whole Time.

Why The National Standard Is Killing Babies And No One Is Talking About It.

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By Hannah Roberts

Published June 2, 2026 · As told to Safe Home Journal
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"I was 32 weeks pregnant when my son stopped kicking on a Tuesday. By Friday I knew he was gone. By Sunday I learned what killed him."

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His name was Oliver.

 

I’m sharing this because I’m pregnant again. And I almost didn’t write it. But if I’d read something like this six months ago, my son would still be alive.

 

I want every pregnant woman reading this to read it twice.

 

My husband James and I got married three years ago. We bought our first house the year after. A small starter home on a quiet street. Two bedrooms upstairs, one bathroom, a converted basement James turned into his office. A garden with a maple tree I told him I wanted to bury our placenta under one day.

 

I got pregnant on the second try.

 

We told our parents that weekend. His mum cried. My mum cried. My dad gave James a handshake that lasted too long.

I texted my best friend Lauren and she screamed down the phone and I sat in my car in a supermarket car park and just let her scream.

 

I was 6 weeks pregnant.

 

I had no idea what was about to happen.

The First Trimester

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The first trimester was hard. I threw up every morning for nine weeks straight. I ate plain bagels for breakfast for two months. I slept on the sofa some nights because the smell of James’s deodorant made me gag.

 

But I loved it. Every time I felt sick I told myself it was a good sign.

 

At 12 weeks we got the NIPT results back. It was a boy. I cried for three hours.

 

That night James and I sat on the sofa with my laptop open and we picked his name.

 

Oliver. It was James’s grandfather’s name. The grandfather James lost when he was seven. The grandfather James talked about every Christmas.

 

Oliver Mitchell. We said it out loud about fifteen times that night. I went to bed and put my hand on my belly and said it again. Oliver. He was 4 inches long. He had a name now.

The Second Trimester

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The second trimester I started feeling him. It happened during a meeting at work — a little flutter, like a fish gently turning inside me. I texted James straight away.

 

By 22 weeks James could feel it from the outside. He’d rest his head on my bump every night before bed and talk to Oliver. He talked about football. He talked about teaching him to drive. He talked about how lucky Oliver was to have me as his mum.

 

We started the nursery at 24 weeks. I picked the colour. Soft sage green. James said it looked like a hospital. I told him it looked like the inside of a leaf. We argued about it for ten minutes and then he painted it sage green because he loved me.

 

I bought a stuffed bunny. I didn’t tell James about the bunny. It was just for me. It sat on his cot mattress for the eight weeks before he came and the four months after he didn’t.

 

I still have it.

The Third Trimester

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At 28 weeks I had my baby shower. Twenty-two women in my mother-in-law’s garden. Lemonade with mint. A cake shaped like a babygrow. Lauren made me cry by saying I was going to be the best mum she’d ever met.

 

The car seat went in the car at 30 weeks. The hospital bag went by the door at 31 weeks.

 

The dog had stopped sleeping in our room around then. He was sleeping in the basement now, which was strange because he’d slept at James’s feet every night for six years.

 

I figured he was hot upstairs.

 

I figured wrong.

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"He’s going to be a footballer. That’s what James said. That’s the last memory I have of Oliver being alive."

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The Sunday Before

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The Sunday before everything happened, Oliver kicked so hard my coffee cup shook. I was sitting at the kitchen table reading the news on my phone. James was making eggs. I felt him hit me from the inside and the cup of decaf on the table actually moved.

 

I shouted for James. He came over and put his hand on my belly and Oliver kicked his palm. James looked up at me and his eyes filled with tears.

 

He’s going to be a footballer.

 

That’s what he said. That’s the last memory I have of Oliver being alive.

The Week Things Started To Shift

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The week after the kick I started getting headaches. I figured it was the heating. The boiler had kicked on for the season the week before. The air felt drier. I drank more water. I took paracetamol. I called my GP and her receptionist told me to just rest more.

 

James slept through his alarm two days in a row. He blamed work stress. He kept saying he was tired in a way he hadn’t been tired before.

 

I was tired too. But I was 32 weeks pregnant. I was supposed to be tired.

 

On Monday I noticed Oliver hadn’t kicked since the weekend. I told myself he was just having a quiet day. 

 

On Tuesday I hadn’t felt him at all. I called my midwife. She said come in.

70 PPM

Legal threshold before a standard detector must alarm

20-50

PPM levels that can be fatal to a fetus over weeks of exposure

4 hrs

Legal delay before a standard detector must sound at threshold levels

The Ultrasound

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She moved the wand around for what felt like an hour.

 

The room was quiet in a way that rooms aren’t supposed to be quiet. The sonographer had stopped talking. She was looking at the screen and not at me. I watched her face and I knew before she said anything.

 

She left to get the doctor.

 

The doctor came in. She was young. She looked at the screen. She looked at me. She said Mrs Roberts, I’m so sorry.

 

There is no heartbeat.

I called James from the car park. I couldn’t say it properly. I kept getting the words in the wrong order. He was there in eleven minutes.

 

We sat in the car for a long time.

Oliver

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They induced me that night. Our son was born still at 32 weeks and 4 days. He weighed 4 pounds 1 ounce. He had James’s nose. He had my ears. He had ten fingers and ten toes and a full head of dark hair.

 

He was perfect.

I held him for four hours. I memorised every part of him. I told him his name. I told him about the maple tree. I told him about the stuffed bunny. I told him his dad was going to teach him to bowl a proper delivery.

 

I told him I was sorry.

 

I told him I didn’t know.

The Question I Couldn't Stop Asking

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The days after Oliver were a blur. I remember the drive home with the empty car seat. I remember James carrying the hospital bag inside. I remember sitting in the nursery in the rocking chair for a long time.

 

But I kept asking the same question. Why. Why did this happen. I was healthy. My numbers were good. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I had done everything right.

 

My midwife said sometimes there is no answer. She said stillbirth is more common than people realise. She said we could run tests. She said sometimes the tests come back normal and we never know.

 

I said I need to know.

The Perinatologist

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Three weeks after Oliver, my GP referred me to a consultant in maternal–fetal medicine. A specialist in high-risk pregnancies. She didn’t sit behind her desk. She sat next to us on the sofa in her office. She had a box of tissues already on the table.

 

She went through everything. My blood tests. My antenatal appointments. The placenta pathology. The cord. Everything came back normal.

 

Then she asked about our house.

 

She asked if we had a carbon monoxide detector. I said yes. She asked if it had gone off. I said no. She asked when we’d last replaced it. I said I didn’t know. She asked if we had a gas boiler. I said yes.

 

She paused.

 

She said Mrs Roberts. I want to order a carbon monoxide test. I want to check your blood and James’s blood. I want to know what your CO levels have been.

The Results

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The results came back four days later.

 

My carboxyhaemoglobin — the measure of carbon monoxide in my blood — was elevated. Not dramatically. Not at a level that would have sent me to A&E. But elevated. Chronically elevated. The kind of elevation that happens from weeks of low-level exposure, not from one acute event.

 

James’s was elevated too.

 

The consultant called us in. She explained it carefully. She said carbon monoxide crosses the placenta. She said a mother’s body can handle low-level CO that wouldn’t even cause symptoms in an adult. But a fetus cannot. A fetus has foetal haemoglobin, which binds to CO far more readily than adult haemoglobin. And once CO binds to foetal haemoglobin, it stays bound much longer than in an adult.

 

She said Oliver didn’t die suddenly. Oliver died slowly. Over weeks. While you were doing everything right.

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"By the time my blood was clean.
His was still drowning."

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Want to know what detector firefighters trust around pregnant women?

Scroll down to read the full firefighter explanation

The Fire Brigade Came The Next Morning

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I asked the consultant what we needed to do. She said the fire brigade was going to come to our house. She said they would test the air. She said we should not go home that night.

 

The fire brigade came the next morning. Two men. One was probably in his 30s. The other was older, maybe my dad’s age, and he introduced himself as Station Officer Reyes. He took off his helmet when he walked in.

 

They went into the downstairs cupboard with a meter. They were down there for forty minutes.

 

Station Officer Reyes came up. He didn’t sit. He stood in our kitchen and said: Mrs Roberts. Your boiler has a cracked heat exchanger. About three inches long. Carbon monoxide has been venting through the crack and going straight into your ducting. Every time the boiler ran, it pumped CO into every room of this house. Including your bedroom.

 

I asked him how long. He said based on the crack pattern and the corrosion, at least three months. Maybe longer.

 

He said: Heat exchangers crack from age. From stress. From the metal expanding and contracting every time the boiler fires up. It happens to brand new units. It happens to ten-year-old units. It happens silently. You can’t see it. You can’t smell it. The boiler runs perfectly. The flame looks normal. The thermostat works. You have heat. Everything seems fine. Meanwhile carbon monoxide is going straight into every room of your house.

 

He paused.

 

And the worst part is, this is how most carbon monoxide deaths happen. Not from boilers exploding. Not from one big leak. From small cracks. Small cracks that leak slowly. Small cracks that leak at levels too low to trigger your alarm. But high enough to suffocate a baby in the womb.

Where Carbon Monoxide Comes From

Carbon monoxide doesn’t just come from gas boilers. It can come from anything that burns fuel:

 

  • Gas and oil boilers
  • Wood-burning and pellet stoves
  • Open fires and fireplaces
  • Water heaters
  • Gas hobs and tumble dryers
  • Generators
  • Anything that burns wood, gas, oil, propane, kerosene or coal.


Anything with a flame or a flue can fail. Pipes corrode. Vents rust. Seals crack. Chimneys get blocked.

 

For a pregnant woman, even a small leak — one that doesn’t set off your alarm — can be fatal for the baby.

The Detector On Our Wall

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I asked him about the detector. The white plug-in alarm in the hallway upstairs. The one I’d checked every month. The one with the green light I’d seen every single night for the eight months we’d lived in this house.

 

He asked me to bring it to him. I unplugged it from the hallway and brought it down. He held it in his hands.

 

He said: This alarm is working. The sensor is fine. The battery is fine. The green light is on. The test button works.

 

I didn’t understand.

 

He said: Ma’am. These cheaper alarms are designed to meet minimum safety standards. They are legally allowed to stay silent until carbon monoxide reaches a certain level. And even then, they don’t always go off immediately.

 

He looked at me.

 

The readings in your bedroom over the last three months were likely between 20 and 50 parts per million. Spiking higher when the heating was on. Dropping back down when it was off. Never quite reaching the level required to trigger this alarm. So this alarm did exactly what it was designed to do.

 

He held it up. It stayed silent.

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"This detector did exactly what it was designed to do. It stayed silent."

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The Safety Standard

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I asked him what 70 PPM even meant. He said it means the law allows your alarm to ignore the very levels that can harm a fetus. The standard was written for adults. Healthy adults. Not for pregnant women. Not for babies. Not for anyone whose body can’t tolerate slow exposure over weeks.

 

James was sitting at the kitchen table now. He had his face in his hands.

 

The officer looked at him. He said: Sir. This is not your fault. This is not your wife’s fault. This is the fault of a safety standard written decades ago, based on what we understood at the time. You did everything you were supposed to do. You had an alarm. You checked it. You pressed the test button. The problem is the alarm is not actually designed to protect a pregnant woman.

 

He set it on the kitchen table.

 

That green light on the front. It just means power. It does not mean safe. It does not mean anything. The test button only tests the speaker. It does not test the sensor. The sensor inside could fail and that button would still beep. The light would still glow. You would never know.

 

He looked at me.

 

Mrs Roberts. If you ever get pregnant again, I am begging you. Do not trust the white plastic on the wall. It was not built for a baby.

What Every Pregnant Woman Needs To Know

 

❌ The green light only means power. Not safe.

 

❌ The test button only tests the speaker. Not the sensor.

 

❌ Sensors expire after 5–7 years. The light still glows. The button still beeps. But the detector has stopped working.

 

❌ Even brand new detectors are legally allowed to stay silent until CO hits 70 PPM — and can wait up to 4 hours after that to alarm.

 

❌ Fetuses are fatally affected at much lower levels than adults.

 

❌ Your CO detector is completely blind to natural gas and propane.

The Detector Captain Reyes Recommended

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I asked him what we should do. He pulled a different alarm out of his bag. He set it on the kitchen table.

 

He said: This is what we use at the station. This is what most of the crew have on their walls at home. It’s called the Althera 4 in 1. It uses what’s known as a higher-grade sensor. The same level used in professional equipment.

 

He turned it over. He said it alarms much earlier than standard alarms. Before symptoms start. It has a digital display. Real numbers. You can see exactly what’s in your air at any moment. Zero means safe. If it’s not zero, you know.

 

Then he said the part that I think about every morning now.

 

And it doesn’t just detect carbon monoxide. It detects natural gas. It detects propane. It detects combustible gases. Your old alarm was blind to all of that. So even if the leak in your house had been a gas line instead of carbon monoxide, your old alarm wouldn’t have made a sound either.

 

He looked at me.

 

If you ever get pregnant again, please. This is the one you put on your wall.

 

I bought four that night. One in the hallway. One in the bedroom. One in the downstairs cupboard. One in the nursery.

Want to see the detector Captain Reyes recommended?

See the Althera 4 in 1 →

I'm Pregnant Again

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We didn’t talk about trying again for nine months. The nursery stayed exactly the way it was the night Oliver died for almost six months. The sage walls. The cot with the cream sheets and the gold stars. The stuffed bunny on the pillow.

 

I went into that nursery once a week and sat in the rocking chair and cried and rocked and cried and rocked. James wouldn’t go in at all for the first three months.

 

In month six, on a Saturday afternoon, he carried the bunny into our bedroom and put it on my bedside table. He said I think Oliver would want him with you instead.

 

Then in month nine I peed on a stick at 6:14 in the morning. Two pink lines. I called James at work. He said are you serious three times before he believed me.

 

I’m 19 weeks pregnant right now. It’s a girl.

 

I look at the Althera screen on my bedside table every single morning before I get out of bed. I look at it every single night before I fall asleep. I check it before I leave the house. I check it when I come back.

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Zero.
Zero.
Zero.
Zero.

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The Number That Lives In My Head

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James’s mum keeps asking when we’re going to paint the nursery. I told her we’re not painting it yet. We’re not buying anything yet. We’re not naming her yet.

 

Not until we get past 32 weeks.

 

That’s the number that lives in my head. 32. The number Oliver didn’t get past.

 

I know I’ll never feel fully safe again. I know that. But I know now what I didn’t know before. I know what killed my son. And I know what would have saved him.

Please Hear Me

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I’m sharing this because every single woman who is pregnant right now reading this needs to know what no one told me.

 

If you have a carbon monoxide alarm on your wall, please look at it tonight. Is it a small white circle with a green light? If it is, you have no idea what’s in the air your baby is breathing.

 

The test button doesn’t test the sensor. The green light only means power. And the current safety standard allows that alarm to stay silent at levels that harm unborn babies every single year.

 

I’m not a doctor. I’m not a salesperson. I’m a mother who held her dead son for four hours in a hospital room and then drove home with an empty car seat.

 

I’m telling you what I wish someone had told me.

 

Please. Don’t trust the green light.

The Althera 4 in 1

Grade 3 sensors. The fastest alarming on the market.

A real screen with real numbers.

Detects carbon monoxide, natural gas, propane, and combustible gases.

All four. While you sleep. While your baby grows.

Final Words

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It’s what’s on my wall now. What Station Officer Reyes has on his wall. What the men and women at his station have on theirs.

 

Higher-grade sensors. Faster alerts than standard alarms. A real display that shows real numbers. Detects carbon monoxide, natural gas, propane, and combustible gases. All four. While you sleep. While your baby grows.

 

It’s the only alarm I will ever trust again.

 

If you are pregnant right now. If you are trying to get pregnant. If anyone you love is pregnant. Please don’t wait until you are standing outside your home watching the fire brigade air it out.

I can’t bring Oliver back. But maybe I can save your daughter. Or your son.

 

By the time my blood was clear. His was still full.

 

Don’t be me. Please. For Oliver.

 

🤍

 

— Hannah Roberts

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What Other Pregnant Mothers Are Saying

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"I'm 28 weeks pregnant and read Hannah's story at 2 AM. I haven't been able to sleep properly. I ordered three Altheras the next morning. The peace of mind alone is worth more than I paid."

-Grace M, 27

"My husband installed our Althera the day it arrived. We had a slow leak in our water heater we never would have caught. Our regular detector hadn't made a sound. I'm 31 weeks pregnant with our first. I cry every time I look at it."

-Olivia H, 32

"I'm a labor and delivery nurse. I see unexplained stillbirths every year. We almost never test for CO unless someone specifically requests it. Every pregnant woman I know now owns an Althera because of stories like Hannah's."

-Lily A, 42
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This article is an advertisement and not an actual news article, blog, or consumer protection update. Names and identifying details may have been changed for privacy. Individual results may vary. Carbon monoxide detection products should be installed according to manufacturer instructions. The Althera 4 in 1 is not a substitute for professional inspection. If you suspect a gas leak or CO emergency, leave the premises immediately and call 911.