Dear Friends,
I’m really writing to other parents of precious babies who died suddenly, unexpectedly, like my wee son did from SIDS (or cot death as it is known in New Zealand). Reading in the last newsletter, Spring 1993, No 34 about the questionnaire, came to the question no 5 Future Topics and I added in, more poems, readers’ stories and suddenly it hit me, would I ever be prepared to share my story about my son, his death and my grieving process, with others.
So I decided to write now, before I lost courage again to share my feelings and thoughts. Where to begin?
We were living in Australia when my precious wee son Sheika was born, in the Adelaide Hills, in the country. The area we lived reminded me so much of New Zealand (which I was missing so much). It was winter when he was born, August 23, 1982. We had white frosts like we were used to, having come from the South Island. The mornings felt crisp and so clear, reminding me of home.
It felt so amazing to be carrying a baby at last to term, my 5th child, my first one to keep, to watch grow up (I hoped). His birth was funny, like a movie as he was almost born in our Kombi van on the way to the hospital, over a pot-holey dirt road for many miles, (we made it with not a great time to spare!). He had a LeBoyer bath soon after birth and floated around smiling at us, a big baby 9lbs.2oz.
We brought him home when he was 3 days old, to the farmhouse we were living in, a stone house, surrounded by cows, sheep and horses. He grew really well, a strong and healthy baby, fully breast-fed. He learned to roll over and grab hold of things (especially my long hair!). He cuddled into bed with us after his night time feeds. In the morning the three of us would lie there together just enjoying being with each other, us tickling him, laughing a lot. Such a gift to have him after so long.
My fears of losing him, that I’d dreamed of while pregnant with him, still at times intruded on my happiness. I felt this joy could not possibly last, something felt wrong. I tried to explain to friends, to my husband, to my doctor. All could not understand what I sensed and felt. They all thought I was just being emotional.
He grew so beautiful, my son, I loved just looking and being with him. The days passed, spring, daffodils in the garden, lambs, calves and foals being born, the feeling of new life everywhere, rain, and days of drying nappies and clothes over racks by the fire. September passed…October…
Our friend Jenny and he wee daughter Moana left and went back up to Queensland. Another New Zealander, Pam, come stopping off for a break on her way overland to Perth in Western Australia. We talked heaps, memories and laughter, it felt so good to be with her, a close friend from home.
One morning we sleep in, our baby does not awaken in the night, so we sleep. He in his own wee bed beside ours, sleeping on his stomach. He dies, 7 weeks 6 days old. Don awakens first. He tries to resuscitate our son, he is long dead, but he tries like all parents do and he awakens me from the dark dreams I had been having, our nightmare begins. Moments of that day stick in my memory. Pam coming in with the message from a friend who’d felt something was terribly wrong and he needed to ring us then (at the exact time when Don had awoken me and shown me our dead wee son). Friends coming with food, our doctor Ernst sitting in a chair trying to read an upside down book, totally shocked, his first cot death. Our baby all purply-blue and so stiff and so cold. Hushed voices talking, me? I do not know, the policeman and the coroner talking, asking questions that seemed so irrelevant. Our baby was dead, what more was needed to know. Our precious baby was dead, my breasts so sore, overly full of useless milk, our baby was dead. I felt such despair, I wanter to die too.
The moment of having to say good-bye forever comes. We, the parents, sit beside our son in his bed, handmade with love by Don, we sit there talking with him, stoking him, touching him, trying to comprehend this nightmare. It’s time to take him to the coroner’s van. I pick him up and kiss him good-bye. He’s so stiff, so cold. I hand him to Don knowing I’ll never feel his touch again or hear his cry, or see his smile. Don takes him, cuddling him gently next to his heart, we walk to the coroner’s van. Sheika’s golden hair shining brightly in the sun, it feels so unreal, is this all a dream, a horrible nightmare? Don lays him on the stretcher in the van, we stand looking, not wanting to say good-bye. I want to pick him up and hold him forever, this is our baby. He looks so tiny on the huge adult sized bed, so tiny, buba, so tiny, the bird has flown.
The van doors close and the coroner gets in and drives off. We stand watching it drive out of sight, our baby is dead.
The policeman goes, then Ernst, our doctor, some friends leave and soon only Pam and we two remain, trying to comprehend the day. I feel so empty, so alone.
Sheika’s funeral was so special. We wrote it ourselves and Pam read it for us. We had David Sun’s “Mothership” tape playing with New Zealand birdsongs and water flowing (along with music) in the background. Friends read poetry and shared from their hearts.
We sat in a semicircle around the coffin covered in flowers and his toys and photos. We had candles and incense. This day was to celebrate his life, our family of three, and acknowledge our deep sorrow and loss.
Contact with our families, so far away, is by phone calls, letters and tapes. Many friends from New Zealand write to us, sharing our grief, our deep sadness.
I am given a beautiful Chinese diary in which I write my thoughts, my deep pain, sometimes finding that only by writing what I am feeling can I cope one day to the next.
I cry a lot, sometimes I scream sometimes I feel just so angry, so full of rage. How dare this happen to me, to lose yet another child. Sometimes I feel such anguish, such pain, my arms physically ache, like my heart, with loneliness.
I choose to allow myself to grieve how I want to, this is the time of MY healing. Sometimes Don and I talk about life and things and the days and months pass by.
Another child conceived, 6 months pass by, I decide I don’t want this child born in Australia, so 7 months pregnant I fly back to New Zealand. Don follows two weeks later with all our belongings.
2 December 1983, another son is born, Eli, 10lbs, a big strong baby. He lives to grow up as does his brother, Rama, born exactly 3 years to the very day that Sheika died, 17/10/85. 3 more miscarriages and here I am now looking back to that time, thinking what helped me most, and what hindered my journey of my grief.
Living in South Australia, only a few hours from Adelaide, we were blessed to experience the compassionate support of Dr Susan Beal (who contacts all Cot Death parents as soon as possible after the child has died). She came and talked with us about what she had learnt about SIDS, easing our fears and our guilt and she added information about Sheika to her research notes.
The SIDS Group in Adelaide helped also. There we met Stephanie, her son David died the same day and the same time that Sheika died! (One of the 3 other babies we had been told by Dr Beal that had died that weekend around Adelaide). We feel such a link, and she and I know that even if we never meet again, that always on THAT day we will mentally link up and remember.
The Compassionate Friends group helped also. It felt so good to talk about Sheika and find times of laughter intermingling with our tears, it felt so important to talk about him. He did live! We had been his parents! It wasn’t our imagination.
I had one special friend who just let me talk and cry out my feelings and thoughts with her, and that was such a gift for me. Looking back, I wished we had gone to some counselling, before our deep grief put the strain on our marriage that contributed to our eventual break-up and divorce. It’s too hard for couples to go through such a traumatic experience alone.
Also, having subsequent children after experiencing a cot death can be traumatic. I don’t think I really relaxed for the whole of their babyhood. We choose to follow the advice of a doctor who felt it was best that we didn’t have a monitor. Looking back, I think having a monitor would have given us more sleep and less stress, as we used to check our babies so often every night, making sure they were still alive. Even now, sometimes I catch myself checking the children’s breathing at night (aged almost 10yrs and 8yrs!). It’s a subconscious thing.
I still find it hard to be around young babies, wanted to check if they are breathing or not, and I have to walk away if I see a baby lying on its stomach, it brings up too much pain for me, still!
Last year on Skeika’s 10th birthday, my ex-husband Don, the boys and I, at last put his ashes in the ground and we planted a beautiful magnolia campbell over them at a friends place. We had a special birthday for him and put some of the birthday cake in the hole and other things, it felt such a special day, we were ready at last.
Every birthday and death day anniversary we light a candle and look at his photos and talk about him (my children and I). I’ve always been very open and honest to the boys about their two brothers and the ones who didn’t make it.
I always do something special for myself on those days. Sometimes I draw or go for a walk into the bush, or create some way to have a special time for myself. Most of all I am very gentle with myself.
I also choose to have my son Rama’s birthday party on the day before or after his real birthday (with his agreement because I find it very hard to laugh and be with lots of people on a day that (still) holds so much trauma and sadness for me.
This year it was the first time that the days of the week were the same, A Monday, like on his real birthday, A Sunday like his actual death day and a Tuesday, like his funeral. I felt some things came to a level of completion, some things at last began to heal in me. I survived.
Now 11 years later I feel I am completing some aspects of that time. I am moving on a bit more, the past is healing.
On the photo wall in my living room, his photos look down on us, (as they always have). I still have a tiny pair of his booties, unworn since he last wore them. I have a couple of his soft toys. Sometimes tears come to my eyes, at odd unexpected times, as I remember. I feel I have grown up so much since he came into my life and left so suddenly. I know my life will never be the same again. I feel I have travelled millions of miles.
We are grateful to Rosie Grace-Webb of Nelson for this moving account of her tragedy
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