“Something’s wrong...”
Two words. One sentence. All sorts of possible meanings.
At about 7:30 on the morning of 28th March 1984, those were the two words that Jane, my partner at the time, said when she went into our daughter Hannah’s room to get her up.
I went into the room, reached into the cot and picked Hannah up, even though she looked like she was sleeping, eyes closed arms up above her head it was obvious that she was dead. A very small smudge of blood under her nose was the only sign that something was different.
Up until then I had absolutely no knowledge of what sudden infant death syndrome was, now I know too much.
I can remember every detail of that day, every second from start to finish. It’s burnt into my very being, I can see everything unfold like I am watching a play that I in. Only I know how it ends.
I can remember the faces of the ambulance men who came to help, I can remember every bump of the road on the short journey between Twickenham and West Middlesex hospital. I can remember watching the paramedic doing his best to bring her back, I can remember thinking that he was wasting his time but praying that he wasn’t, I can remember the design of the tie the young consultant was wearing when he confirmed what we already knew.
I remember having wet feet as we walked slowly out of the hospital hours later to the car of a friend who came to pick us up – wet because I had forgotten to put on any shoes when I left the flat to get in the ambulance.
I can still hear my mother’s voice, cracking with emotion when I told her what had happened, and the reaction of Hannah’s lovely child minder when I told her why she would not be coming to her that, or any other, day. I can see my brother and my dad arriving at the flat, neither knowing what to do – my brother wanting to hug me, but as a family we didn’t do things like that.
I can still see Jane staring out of the window at nothing, alone in her grief and me not really knowing what to do or what to say.
I can still feel that whole body emptiness that comes with complete devastation, that horrible twisting, hurting feeling like your insides are trying to disappear into themselves, the inability to breath or swallow, the hurt and anger that something like that could happen to you. The desolation and loneliness. The hot prickling sensation at the back of your eyes that tells you that you are within seconds of floods of tears.
I could go on, but you don’t need to know any more. Except to say that every day I live with those same emotions and the same sense of loss. Some days it’s all buried away and I don’t even realise it, others it’s there just below the surface.
And I’m not alone in these feelings. Every day other people go through exactly the same thing as I did, everyone of them collecting the scars that will last forever. But there are people that can help, who understand and can talk to you.
These people are the Foundation for the Study of Infant Death. They were there for us all the way through, and it’s for them that I am going to drag my 51 year old, slightly overweight, frame through the Sahara desert.
When we return on 15th March it will be exact 13 days to the 25th anniversary of Hannah’s death. There’s a certain synergy in that for me.
I’m lucky, life has gone on and I have four fantastic children who probably think I am slightly mad for attempting this. But it is something I have to do, for Hannah, for me, for Dom, Luke, Matthew and Caitlin, for everyone who has ever gone through the same thing as we did. And also as a roundabout way of saying ‘thank you’ to all those people – most of whom I have lost touch with – who helped with a kind word or deed back in 1984.
But most of all for FSID, maybe your money and my blisters will help towards finding a reason where so far there have been none. And then maybe another parent will never have to go through what I went through on 28 March, 1984.
At about 7:30 on the morning of 28th March 1984, those were the two words that Jane, my partner at the time, said when she went into our daughter Hannah’s room to get her up.
I went into the room, reached into the cot and picked Hannah up, even though she looked like she was sleeping, eyes closed arms up above her head it was obvious that she was dead. A very small smudge of blood under her nose was the only sign that something was different.
Up until then I had absolutely no knowledge of what sudden infant death syndrome was, now I know too much.
I can remember every detail of that day, every second from start to finish. It’s burnt into my very being, I can see everything unfold like I am watching a play that I in. Only I know how it ends.
I can remember the faces of the ambulance men who came to help, I can remember every bump of the road on the short journey between Twickenham and West Middlesex hospital. I can remember watching the paramedic doing his best to bring her back, I can remember thinking that he was wasting his time but praying that he wasn’t, I can remember the design of the tie the young consultant was wearing when he confirmed what we already knew.
I remember having wet feet as we walked slowly out of the hospital hours later to the car of a friend who came to pick us up – wet because I had forgotten to put on any shoes when I left the flat to get in the ambulance.
I can still hear my mother’s voice, cracking with emotion when I told her what had happened, and the reaction of Hannah’s lovely child minder when I told her why she would not be coming to her that, or any other, day. I can see my brother and my dad arriving at the flat, neither knowing what to do – my brother wanting to hug me, but as a family we didn’t do things like that.
I can still see Jane staring out of the window at nothing, alone in her grief and me not really knowing what to do or what to say.
I can still feel that whole body emptiness that comes with complete devastation, that horrible twisting, hurting feeling like your insides are trying to disappear into themselves, the inability to breath or swallow, the hurt and anger that something like that could happen to you. The desolation and loneliness. The hot prickling sensation at the back of your eyes that tells you that you are within seconds of floods of tears.
I could go on, but you don’t need to know any more. Except to say that every day I live with those same emotions and the same sense of loss. Some days it’s all buried away and I don’t even realise it, others it’s there just below the surface.
And I’m not alone in these feelings. Every day other people go through exactly the same thing as I did, everyone of them collecting the scars that will last forever. But there are people that can help, who understand and can talk to you.
These people are the Foundation for the Study of Infant Death. They were there for us all the way through, and it’s for them that I am going to drag my 51 year old, slightly overweight, frame through the Sahara desert.
When we return on 15th March it will be exact 13 days to the 25th anniversary of Hannah’s death. There’s a certain synergy in that for me.
I’m lucky, life has gone on and I have four fantastic children who probably think I am slightly mad for attempting this. But it is something I have to do, for Hannah, for me, for Dom, Luke, Matthew and Caitlin, for everyone who has ever gone through the same thing as we did. And also as a roundabout way of saying ‘thank you’ to all those people – most of whom I have lost touch with – who helped with a kind word or deed back in 1984.
But most of all for FSID, maybe your money and my blisters will help towards finding a reason where so far there have been none. And then maybe another parent will never have to go through what I went through on 28 March, 1984.
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