I Still Miss You My Beautiful Baby

28/03/24

Yesterday should have been my youngest child’s (Poppy) 26th birthday.

It was also the anniversary of her death.

The passing years have dulled the agony of loss, but I’m aware that it left me different. There’s the me before this shattering event, and the me after.

That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Poppy’s short time with me brought so many priceless gifts and in many ways, I’m better for her having been in my life.

The lessons, and personal growth experiences, were extremely tough, but it knocked off some of my hard edges, softened me and allowed more compassion into my heart. Something about the lack of choice but to accept what was happening quelled the fractious anti-everything teenager that still lived (lives?) inside me.

It was only much, much later that I was told how close I’d come to dying too. I was extremely fortunate to be in a hospital with a wonderful medical team, who saved my life that day.

Far too many women don’t have that privilege. And dammit, it still makes me furious that decent medical care is a privilege rather than an absolute right for every person on this planet.

Not only was I helped medically, the hospital had an amazing, specialist bereavement support team, who gently moved into action.

People tend not to go into labour expecting to have to arrange a funeral at the end of it – the team tactfully and supportively lead me through everything, including paying the burial costs from their precious fund..

In helping take care of practical arrangements, they allowed me space to try to come to terms with what had happened. They held me close through the emotional devastation, listening, comforting, offering support resources.

I was there for a week as my body recovered enough to take the horrific walk out of the hospital, leaving my baby behind in a morgue refrigerator. It was the hardest 200m walk I’ve ever taken. My knees buckled twice as my mind rebelled, screaming and pleading for someone to say it was all a horrible mistake. My mouth said nothing.

The journey home was an almost out of body experience, I felt so disconnected from everything and everyone. How could all these people just be scurrying around, attending to their day to day business when my child had died? How could the hugeness of it not have rippled into the world and impacted them?

Within days of coming home from the hospital, I packed away the never used nursery and donated all of it to the hospital, so it could help other mums. I was scared to leave it too long, in case it became a shrine.

The donations were made on the very clear understanding that they wouldn’t reveal why the items had been gifted. I wished the recipients to experience something positive because of Poppy’s life, not to feel the things they received were tainted by her death.

I kept the personal mementos in a little box with a photo of her in the lid. My hand is stroking her face, streaks of blood on my fingers still. She looks perfect. Aside from the colour of her skin, she looks like she’s peacefully sleeping, her little hands curled up to her chin.

Inside the box there’s our hospital wrist and leg bands, there are photos that remarkable people kept it together to take. Even in those first moments when we were told they’d been unable to save Poppy, how smart these people were to know it wasn’t an intrusion, rather a preservation.

There’s a sweet, hand-knitted cardigan that she was dressed in when she was first born. There’s a small blood stain on it from where her nose bled. I know some people would think it’s macabre, but that now rusty looking stain contains her DNA, so to me it gives a miniscule direct connection to her real, physical self.

There’s a small card, with a beautiful message from the hospital team. Inside are tiny purple inked prints of my baby’s hands and feet, together with a little lock of hair.

There are notes that Kieran wrote to me while I was pregnant, and a heart-breaking one from afterwards.

There are cards and letters of condolence and sympathy.

There’s not much, but it’s all I have.

Over time, as is the norm with grief, I learned to live with the hole left by Poppy’s absence. The pain and loss inside me have been packed into a little suitcase that hangs on my heart. It makes my heart a little heavier than it used to be, but it doesn’t drag it down.

I always make sure I have space and freedom in the days immediately before and after this anniversary. Well, I make sure I have no work obligations.

Over the years I’ve come to accept that on the actual day, I need to take account of the grief experienced by Lena and mother, who were with me in the room that day.

They have a pattern of remembrance they like to follow, although there have been years when it’s been far from what I’d ideally like to do. I’ve mainly learned how to negotiate it so that, ultimately, we all get the support we need.

Hence, yesterday was spent with family. We tidied Poppy’s little plot, laid flowers, talked to her and each other, remembered, wondered what might have been.

Today, in the peace and solitude of my home, I took down the little suitcase on my heart, and the little box of mementos from the wardrobe shelf.

I opened them up and unpacked the contents, running my fingers across physical and emotional memories.

I’ve chatted with my little one, and held her for a while.

As ever, I’ve offered up my gratitudes for all that I received from this tiny life.

I sat with all the feelings that arose, knowing I’d be ok. And I am.

I honour her life by not allowing it to be ‘a tragedy’ that broke me.

My baby was not a tragedy.

She was a brief, perfect presence, and I endeavour to take her purity into the world with me.

Today is for you Poppy.

Tomorrow I’ll step out of the memories, lift my head, and look to the future.

Right now though, my darling child, I want you to know that I love you, and I miss you still.

JP