Honeysuckle Lane

No baby should have a bath without ducks.

Three seconds, three seconds that’s all. That first second upon waking, everything’s okay, that blissful second when your brain shifts from sleep to waking, everything’s normal. The following second as the cogs turn, faltering back and forth not quite able to connect in their usual way; telling you something isn’t right, something’s off. BANG! That third second, that’s the one. Eyes spring open. Everything clicks into place. The moment they click into place they crumble; the demolition of a tower block. Our boy was gone. All that remained of our lives and hearts was broken bricks and and shattered dreams.

I squeezed my eyes shut in a vain attempt to protect myself from reality. When that failed I squeezed them even tighter, as if this would glue our lives back together and bring our boy back to life.

The next thing I felt were Day’s arms encapsulating me. And then I realised I was sobbing into my pillow, my mind so overwhelmed with sadness it was unaware of my body’s responses.

My ringing phone woke me some time later. Through bleary eyes I picked my phone up and answered to the ‘no caller I.D.’ I didn’t want to talk to anyone, but I knew I had to answer if we wanted to see Arlo. I was greeted by the kindest voice on the end of the line. Her name was Marie, and she was a bereavement nurse. She gently explained that as we had requested the day before, there would be a photographer coming from an organisation called ‘Remember My Baby’ to take our photographs. (This was not something we were sure we wanted to do, but one of the nurses had encouraged us, telling us that we may regret it if we didn’t get it done, so, even if we chose never to look at the photos we should have them taken. After all, we would be visiting Arlo anyway.) She also explained that we would need to come over for a debrief from the doctor in order to get Arlo’s death certificate. Death certificate. To certify the death of our baby.

I don’t know how we got up, got dressed and got ourselves to the hospital, but we did. Arlo was still our son, he was still Alfie’s brother, we were still his parents. We still wanted to spend time with him and be his parents, we still had things to do for him, as his parents. And above all, we still wanted to see him.

We made our way to the Honeysuckle Bereavement Room; a place we never knew existed, a place we wished we weren’t visiting.

We were greeted with open arms by the bereavement team and ushered into one of their little rooms to wait for the doctor. There was all manner of things laid out for us on the sofa and surrounding chairs. We were handed an ‘Aching Arms Bear’ it was your stereotypical teddy bear, but it’s defining feature was its green ribbon around its neck with a tag dangling from it. A tag like the evacuated children of the Second World War. It had a name on it, it was the name of a child who, like the evacuees, had been plucked from their family and brought elsewhere, but that child was not an evacuee, they were an angel baby. The teddy bear had been sponsored by the family of the baby, a family who had been through the same traumatic experience we had been through.

Again, the realisation hit me like a tonne of bricks. I clutched the teddy in my aching arms and stared vacantly until someone handed me a tissue and I realised once again that the tears had overflowed. I don’t think my eyes dried throughout the whole time we were in that little room. Dr Dewhurst came in to see us to complete Arlo’s death certificate. We discussed sending him for a post-mortem. Arlo hadn’t given us any answers in life, he had remained a complete mystery, so we decided to send him to find out. I couldn’t think of the logistics of it and what would happen to our boy, but we had so many unanswered questions we needed to know the answers to.

Dr Dewhurst spoke so fondly of Arlo, he had doted in him as if he was his own, along with all the other doctors and nurses. We felt comfort in his kindness and his heartfelt words. As heartbreaking as it was discussing Arlo’s death, we found it incredibly comforting and didn’t want it to end.

As it drew to as close I felt my anxiety build like the towering sand in an hourglass. What were we to do now? What was next? When could we see Arlo? Wasn’t there something about photographs to be taken? Death certificate? Would we fill that in here or when we got home? Home! Getting Arlo home to the Isle of Man? How would we go about that? It began to feel as if I couldn’t breathe, I went to open my mouth to try to get answers to my questions, but before I could get a word out, I choked. The words would not pass my lips. Sobs overtook, sobs overruled, sobs overran. There were too many questions to ask and too many answers to take onboard let alone comprehend. My son was dead and that was all-consuming, the long and short was that nothing else could be shoe-horned in.

The sobs slowed and, eyes still closed, I inhaled a deep breath, I felt a soft hand gently cup my arm. I opened my eyes to see Marie and her kind face looking at me with such empathy. “Sarah, we’ve booked you an appointment at the registry office upstairs, and then the photographer is coming this afternoon to take your pictures with Arlo.” With those few kind words, the overwhelming black sky remained, but a few dark clouds fell into some sort of order. Marie had sorted all those little things for us, but it meant the world, those were things that at that moment seemed so overwhelming for us. Marie also told us that because we had decided on a post-mortem for Arlo, she would now make enquiries with Alder Hey, where Arlo would be going, and she would contact their funeral care services. She asked if we would make enquires and decide on local funeral services and pass her their number so she could make arrangements with both on our behalf. The local funeral service we would use was an easy decision, they were family friends and we knew Arlo would be safe in their care. We were so unbelievably grateful that someone was doing this on our behalf and that we didn’t have to worry about it. We could continue being Arlo’s parents.

Returning to the registry office where we had registered Arlo’s birth, just 6 short weeks before, was heartbreaking. We had registered his life, we had confirmed he was a real living person, a much-valued member of our family, and much to his Manchester United supporting brother’s disgust- a little scouser! Now we were back to confirm that that light had been snuffed out. There was other family sat in the waiting room, so naive, so carefree. Clutching their precious bundle in their arms, staring dotingly at him/her, waiting for everyone in the room to comment on how gorgeous they were. I couldn’t look. Self-preservation was key. I couldn’t see that happy family unit as ours fell apart, I couldn’t look at them making their baby official, the joyous little bundle had their whole life ahead of them, while we were here to sign Arlo’s death certificate and confirm that he was no longer with us.

Expectation hung in the air, they awaited our affirmation of the beauty of their baby. I kept my eyes fixed to the floor, wishing I was strong enough to raise a small smile. I wasn’t. The door sprung open and my eyes leapt from the floor; pleading for it to be our turn. This baby was my kryptonite, or maybe it was the joy and hope for the future that the baby symbolised. Either way, I needed to escape from the situation, I was holding myself together with every ounce of my strength and it was exhausting. I wanted to scream at them that I had lost my baby and for them to stop thrusting their happiness in my face. None of which they were doing or were even vaguely aware of; too wrapped up in their bundle; their bubble of joy. And I didn’t want them to be aware of it, I didn’t want to ruin their day with the fact our lives had been ruined. That couple was us, with our new baby, Alfie’s new sibling. That couple was us with a small bud about to blossom into life. Making that newborn baby an official person. The naivety of happiness and excitement of what’s to come. That SHOULD have been us.

But it wasn’t.

It wasn’t their fault, I’d have been the same.

I needed out, as much as I didn’t want to do this, I needed to get this over with. I needed to see Arlo again.

We registered Arlo’s death with tears and tissues. Something no parent should ever have to do. I realised it was the same lady with whom we registered Arlo’s birth just a few weeks earlier. Cruelly those feelings returned. We were those parents in the waiting room in the sense that we had hope. Arlo had surpassed all expectations at that time and we couldn’t help have that glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, he would make it to come home with us. Now we were bringing him home, home to rest. His battle was over. His little life was over.

Leaving the office, the family we’re no longer there, the waiting room was empty. There was no need to shield our faces. We made our way back down to the Honeysuckle room. We needed to be with Arlo. Arlo was still under the care of the neonatal unit, so someone would have to come down and bring him to us. We learnt that this person today was Mary. One of Arlo’s favourite nurses. Mary made him the best nests and he was always the most comfortable when she was looking after him. Marie lead us down the corridor to ‘Honeysuckle Lane’ I’d seen the so many times before, it’s just last the main entrance. I’d always wondered what it was. Now, I knew its significance. It belonged to Honeysuckle Bereavement, it was one of those thing, if you knew- you knew. Now we knew and we wished we didn’t.

Marie opened the door into a beautiful sitting room: a comfortable sofa, pictures on the wall, a coffee table, the soft glow of a lamp, a wardrobe neatly hung with baby clothes, to the soundtrack of gentle nursery rhyme chimed from an iPod. It could have been any living room in the world. But in the corner stood a Moses basket, and without looking, I just knew he was in there. This could have been anyone’s living room anywhere in the world, but with Arlo here, it was ours.

It was just so sad. It was a beautiful, heartbreaking taste of what could have been; bittersweet to say the least. Sorrow hung heavily in the air. Mary appeared from around the corner and put her arms around me. I squeezed her so tight as if trying to absorb her every memory of Arlo. I held onto her because she knew Arlo had lived, she had shared some of the most precious memories of our boy. I didn’t want to let her go.

Day and I made our way over to Arlo, I breathed him in for a minute as silence fell in the room. He looked so peaceful, content; he was a baby sleeping in his Moses basket. You automatically whispered in case you disturbed him. Only there was no disturbing him, Arlo’s was a slumber he would never wake from. And that reality hit Day and I at the same time. We broke down at the same time, arms round each other, but eyes unmoving from our unmoving boy. I couldn’t take my eyes away, I yearned for Arlo to be in my Arms. I naturally looked around at Mary and Marie, I needed their go ahead to pick him up. I needed to know I was allowed, I was so used to fighting my maternal instinct all throughout his little life, even though it should have been, now was no different. Mary nodded encouragingly and in one swift movement I scooped him up into my arms and the cruelty of the situation weighed down on us. We were now free to pick up our boy and cuddle him at will, but that was only because he wasn’t really with us anymore. Everything felt so jumbled and confusing. Our hearts shattered all over again, and yet holding him stuck some of those pieces back together.

Arlo was cold, I could feel his cool skin through his clothes and the blanket he was wrapped in. No baby should ever be cold. My instinct was to wrap him up warm, but once again I had to fight my mother’s instinct. He was cold to preserve him which would enable us to spend more time with him.

The door opened slowly as photographer arrived, she was a lovely lady with a warm smile and lots of tattoos. She walked to us to coo over Arlo, she told us how beautiful he was. I know he was, but I wanted to tell her that it didn’t really look like him. Arlo was so full of life and fight, and so beautiful that his personality shone through. Despite being so premature and poorly, he gazed at the world with wide-eyed wonder, his eyes delved deep into your soul when he looked into them. This was only Arlo’s shell; his vessel. I could still feel him with us, but not in the same way. I can’t tell you how much we cried throughout this time; oceans would be an understatement. We had had our most-precious boy for 6 weeks and a day, his lively personality, his love, the joy he brought us, the light that shone through, all, without being able to hold him, pick him up and cuddle him. Now we could pick him up, cuddle him close whenever we wanted, but without his trademark spirit we had grown to know and loved every part of. We had everything we wanted, but it was segregated into two halves and they would never connect and it would never be more than this. We weren’t to grow together as parent and child should, learning from each other every step of the way. Arlo wasn’t going to grow by Alfie’s side, bickering, yet loving each other as siblings should. This was it.

The photographer took photos of us as a family. Some with Day holding him, some with me holding him and some with us both together. She asked us to take a photo of his bare feet framed by our hands making a heart-shape. The skin on his feet had been healing well after the swelling when he was first born, but not ell enough. Plus it would mean removing his babygro and I didn’t want to mess with him anymore. I wanted him to rest now. So she took the photo with his white booties on instead. We decided we would like this one for his order of service, so the lovely lady said she would send it to us ahead of the rest of them.

Before the photographer left, there was something I needed to do. I asked Mary if she would make Arlo comfortable one last time. I asked her to make him one of her trademark nests, which she gladly did for us. I needed to think of him being snuggled, nice and cosy as he had been in his incubator. The photographer snapped a couple of photos before quietly making her exit.

Marie informed us that she had spoken to Alder Hey and they would take Arlo for his post mortem when we were ready. That could be Monday or, if we wanted to spend more time with him we could more to a hospice nearby, bring Alfie over and then they would take him after that. She told us Arlo would be transported by one person in a van, who wouldn’t even put any music on, it would be completely silent out of respect. Once he had had his post mortem done he would have a bath, with some ducks, because no baby should have a bath without ducks.

The choice was up to us, but we decided that we wouldn’t bring Alfie over. If we were close to home it may have been different as we wanted to get home, but I’m not entirely sure it would have been. It was hard enough for us to see Arlo as he was, so we decided it was best if Alfie didn’t see him. There were many factors in our decision, if Alfie hadn’t met him alive then we would have brought him to meet him, but we didn’t want Alfie to remember Arlo like this, we wanted him to remember him alive and happy. There is no right or wrong answer as to introducing siblings or as to how long you stay with your baby, you have to do what is right for you. Some people leave the hospital immediately and never look back, others spend weeks with them and bring them home using a cuddle cot. It doesn’t mean you love your child any less, you have to decide what’s right for you as a family. We wanted to get home to Alfie. After all, what were we going to do tonight? The thought of spending a night in the flat that now seemed so alien filled me with dread. I was here for Arlo, now Arlo was gone we had no purpose. We were alone in a place that had been home for 9 weeks, but now we felt like outsiders. We decided we would leave the next day and get the boat home to be with Alfie, which meant having to say goodbye to Arlo tomorrow.

For now we laid him in his nest, we kissed him and told him we would see him tomorrow.

We walked out of the door and onto Honeysuckle Lane, as we made it through into the courtyard that lead across to the main entrance Marie showed us the tree full of padlocks and explained she had given us a leaflet should we want to get one done for Arlo. As I thanked her and turned to follow Day, anxiety starting to build. What were we going to do now? We couldn’t just go to the flat, if we were at home it would have been different, but it just didn’t feel right. I needed to do something. My thoughts were interrupted when I saw day stop on his tracks. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed in shock as he looked through the window of the main entrance. I followed his gaze and saw one of Day’s friends standing in the window clutching a cup of coffee. R.J. had sent Day a message earlier to see if we wanted him to come up and see us Day had said no because we wouldn’t be the best company, but here he was. Never doing as he was supposed to or what was expected of him, but he'd driven for 3 hours to be by our side when it counted. For this we couldn’t be more grateful.

I glanced back at Honeysuckle Lane, sending Arlo a kiss before we left. I knew now, I knew all about Honeysuckle Lane: A place we never knew existed, a place we wished didn’t have to exist, a place that we would be eternally grateful for.