Sometimes in a crowd you feel most alone. The cobbled streets of Liverpool city centre were starting to feel festive. And even though it was only the middle of the afternoon the golden glow from the shops against the washed-out grey sky added to the Christmassy feel. The shops bustled with busy shoppers dipping in and out of shops, excitedly chatting about the weekend’s plans. I felt like the wrong side of a magnet; repelling all excitement and joy. I felt like I was wearing a sandwich board saying, “ MY BABY JUST DIED!” Ignored, shunned, cast aside. Alone. Alone in the sea of excited faces because my face simply didn’t fit with the happy, smiley shoppers of Liverpool. I felt that by my face, my heart, my walk didn’t match theirs, and that somehow they knew. They knew my baby had died and they didn’t care. I plodded on and on, dragging my heavy legs, broken heart and empty arms.
I needed to go into two shops. That was it. I wanted a card for the incredible staff of Liverpool women’s neonatal unit, and a present for Lily. I found myself wandering and contemplating the days events so far. There had been a lot. As well as our debrief, death certificate, photographs and R.J. showing up I had seen some of other parents from the neonatal unit. They simply just wrapped their arms around me. There was nothing to say. Every single one of them was in complete shock. The last they had heard, Arlo was doing well and they were looking at changing him to CPAP, this was the last thing they expected, it was the last thing any of us expected!
I took great comfort in talking to Lorraine, she’s been there; she’s buried her George just a couple of months before. If anyone knew exactly how I felt, it was her. I listened to her words of comfort and advice, because to be honest I hadn’t a clue how to cope with losing Arlo. I had listened intently as she spoke, and I realised just how much she had been through. Not only had she lost her son, but she had also lost her dad. Their funerals were within days of each other. All the while she had a very poorly baby in Liverpool Women’s which was over an hour away from her home and her other son, Charlie. I looked at her in awe. She was still standing, she was still putting one foot in front of the other, she was surviving. Something that to me seemed unachievable right now. She was my true inspiration. She helped me see that I could survive too. It wouldn’t be easy, I didn’t expect it to be or want it to be, but she showed me I could, in time, rise from the ashes and keep going. One step at a time. One foot in front of the other, which was exactly what I was doing now, although, I was still meandering around in the ashes and would be for some time; that was a mountain yet to be climbed, but she had given me hope.
Eventually, I found myself in the card shop. I wanted a thank you card for the doctors and nurses. I stood for an age browsing the thousands of different ways to say ‘THANK YOU.’ Thank you with bees, thank you with flowers, thank you with champagne, thank you with elephants, thank you in holographic writing, thank you that pops out in the middle of the card. A million different ways to say thank you. All bigger and better than the last. The truth was, I didn’t want that, I didn’t need that because it wouldn’t be enough. Nothing was enough to thank them for what they had done for Arlo and for us as a family. In the end I chose the simplest card I could find, what counted was what I would write inside. I’d stood for so long glaring at the cards that the staff didn’t even try and make small-talk whole the served me. It must have been the sandwich board. After more meandering I eventually picked up a Little Mermaid doll for Lily, a little present from her good Dinosaur, Arlo. There was no question as to what I should get her, Lorraine had crocheted Lily the most gorgeous mermaid-tail blanket. She would always be Arlo’s little mermaid.
With the two jobs ticked off my list I felt helpless. I had no purpose. I was lost amongst the sea of happy shoppers once again. I had nothing else to get, no nappies, no breast pads, no baby to buy for. Anxiety clawed her way up. She’d been following, lurking, and now she took her chance and lunged at my throat, my eyes burned like hot lava. My boy was gone. Right now, without Alfie being here, without the safety net of our family and comfort of our home, what were we to do? Going back to the flat to sit on the practical, but uncomfortable sofa. The flat was what it was and it had served us amazingly well, the sofa summed up the whole flat; practical, yet uncomfortable. It didn’t need to be though, until now I was barely there. I slept there before dashing back to Arlo’s bedside. The thought of going back there filled me with dread. I already knew the seconds would drag by. The seconds would drag till I saw Alfie again, but all too quickly it would be the last time we saw Arlo.
That faulty pendulum of grief was at work again.
If we were at home it would have been so different, we could have hid under our covers and not faced the world.
My phone chimed away, pulling me up from the whirlpool of despair I was drowning in. It was Day, chasing the demons away. Giving me a purpose and some direction once again.
My extended excursion hadn’t gone unnoticed, and I wondered if it was because he had started to feel the same. We needed each other right now, the other half of me; as magnets we attracted each other right now, when everyone else repelled us. He explained where they were so I could go meet them and that his brother had messaged and we were meeting up with them for some food. I didn’t know how to feel really, I was glad that someone had made a decision for me and that we weren’t going to sit in the flat all night.
There was no expectation from us all evening, we didn’t have to pretend we were okay. Carl, Caitlin and R.J. wanted to make sure we ate and we weren’t alone. We weren’t expected to laugh and joke and be our happy selves, we ate with comfortable conversation and meaningful hugs upon our departure. They didn’t ask questions like, ‘Are you okay?’ because they knew we weren’t, they just stood beside us holding us up; the pillars supporting the crumbling temples. I never knew that I needed those friendly faces so much, but I truly did, it got us through what would have otherwise been an unbearable evening.
Opening the door of the flat I felt the back-draft of emotion hit me. We’d had our couple of hours, now it back to reality and practicality. I had to pack 9 weeks of my life, and all or Arlo’s little life away ready to leave tomorrow. I heard Day on the phone making arrangements, his mum and dad were coming to England for an event and we asked them to bring Day’s van over so we could load all our stuff into it. I heard his voice quiver and break as he asked for his van and for Arlo’s stuff not to be put in the back of his Dad’s van where bikes would be dragged in and out and Arlo’s memories would be destroyed. That’s when it hit; memories, that’s all we had left. That’s all we could cling to from Arlo’s short life. I tried to support him, but it had floored me too. The waves of emotion had been moderate for a few hours, but in all honesty they were just biding their time, building and building until the tsunami hit full force.
All too soon, yet not soon enough, the day was here. We were to see Arlo for the last time and we were to return home to Alfie.
We got up and went to see Arlo, it was more relaxed this time. We didn’t feel as overwhelmed, we were just spending time and being his parents. We even felt relaxed enough to sit more comfortably on the sofa and have a cup of tea. Passing him to and from each other. Day has spoken to his parents and (because they were coming to the hospital anyway) had asked them if they wanted to see Arlo. They decided they wanted to remember him as he was. That was completely fine with us, it was personal choice and to be honest, it was never something I thought I would have done either. We’d been thrust into this situation, but right now we couldn’t get enough of someone time with him.
I drank him in, every perfect centimetre of him. I felt relaxed with him in my arms, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. I tried to commit to memory his weight and how it felt for him to be in my arms. I hoped that when my arms so desperately ached I could remember this perfect moment. I wanted my muscles to remember way he fitted so perfectly, snuggled in the crook of my arm. I felt such overwhelming love and tried to push away the sadness, I didn’t want to see this moment through tears. I didn’t want it to blur my vision. I felt like the photo shoot yesterday was a mass of emotion, the rambling river that had burst it’s banks. I could feel Day observing us, and eventually he moved closer, putting his arm around me, heads touching. His other arm swooped underneath Arlo, and I knew then that he felt the same, he wanted to remember this moment. There were no (not many) tears here, just love.
The van was delivered to us with never-ending hugs from Day’s parents and close friends. They had all wondered if they should go to this event or not, but we reassured them that there was nothing they could do for us right night, coming to see us and delivering the van to us, enabling us to get home to Alfie was the best thing they could do. We were to be in limbo for the next couple of weeks while we waited for Arlo’s post mortem. We knew they were thinking of us and that was enough.
I poured my heart and soul, (snot and tears) into writing the card for the doctors and nurses. I focussed most of my attention on Mary and Molly because I truly don’t know what we’d have done without them. I wrote and re-wrote my words in draft before writing them in the card, I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted them so know how much they truly meant to us as a family. No words would ever be the perfect words, but I tried my hardest to show them.
Bringing the card with us we returned to the hospital to see Arlo for the final time. Standing outside the neonatal unit I felt like an intruder, Arlo wasn’t there anymore, what business did we have here? My finger hovered uncertainly over the button for nursery 7, unsure whether to press it. We no longer belonged, our neonatal journey had come to an end. I looked at Day, and pressed the button for the nurses station and when they answered, I said for the final time, “It’s Arlo’s mum and dad.”
We handed the card and said a quick goodbye, but the hugs said it all. I’d said all I wanted to in the card and I didn’t trust myself to speak for fear of breaking down completely. The tears silently spilled over and made tracks down my cheeks. This place had been Arlo’s home for all of his life and these incredible nurses and doctors had become part of our family. Their warmth and care was second to none. With that same warmth and care that has now turned to condolence, Mary brought us to our boy for the last time.
We opened that door again to find him in his Moses basket, something had shifted, I could feel it emanate from him. I picked him up for one last cuddle. This time the tears rained down relentlessly, this was to be our last cuddle. I couldn’t say goodbye,
Once again the word lodged in my throat. It was too final, it shouldn’t be this way. I don’t know how long I cuddled him for, but Day gently reminded me that we had to get going. He knew I’d have stayed here forever with him in my arms. How could I bring this to an end? How could I put him down? I brought him over to his Moses basket with the nest inside that Mary had made. It wasn’t goodbye, it was see you later. I placed him in ever-so gently, into his nest where he’d spend eternity. This would always be his bed, surrounded by his comfort blankets, snug and contained, safe. I’d asked that he remained in his nest no matter where he was moved to, even when he was placed in his tiny coffin, so I knew he’d always be comfortable. After the unthinkable unpleasantries he was about to endure, he could have his bath with his ducks, have his squishy-bum nappy put back on, get dressed and snuggle into his nest. I tucked the little bunny I had slept with since Arlo was born under the covers and paired him with the Pluto teddy Alfie had bought him. After a bad day, he could cuddle up in bed with his teddies and feel better. And that made me feel better.
It took my a while, but just as we were about to leave, I realised what was different and Day realised at the same time. We both commented on just looked incredibly peaceful he looked. All the fight had gone, he didn’t need to be tense and ready for battle anymore. He relaxed as peace washed over him. He was showing us that it was time for him to rest. We both bent over him for one last kiss and told him just how deeply we loved him and always would. He was showing that he had loved our cuddles, but he’d been poked and prodded all of his little life and now it was time for him to be at peace. As heartbreaking as it was and as impossible as it was to drag my heavy legs, broken heart and empty arms away and leave my baby alone, seeing him him so peaceful eased it ever so slightly. The blanket of peace floated down over us too, and seeing him relaxed in his Moses basket, a sound track of gentle nursery rhymes chimed in the background. We gently closed the door on that perfect living room, the comfortable sofa and the pictures on the wall, the coffee table, lamp and the neatly hung wardrobe. We closed the door on that living room that was ours because I’m out boy was inside, he was sleeping, but we’d see him soon. We still hoped to see him in the funeral home once he returned to us. It wasn’t goodbye, it was see you later, baby boy.
Packing the final bags into the van with extreme care and caution, I saw a penny on the ground. I knew instantly who it was from. My grandad had passed away 3 years previous and this was his calling card. It was as if to say, “we’ve got him, don’t worry, he’s safe with us now.” That’s why he was so peaceful, he’d truly gone.
Sitting in the van on the Princes’s Dock we watched the beautiful Bonfire Night fireworks explode, illuminating the sky and the Mersey river. It was stunningly beautiful, a true send-off for Arlo. Our little firework, illuminating the sky just as he’d illuminated our lives.
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