On March 20, 1997, my third child was born. He was a boy with blond hair, blue eyes and pale skin, and as my other children - James and Choshoni - have dark skin, hair and eyes, he was like a little angel. We named him Reihana.
The first four months with Reihana were hard. I was run down, tired and suffering postnatal depression. But in July, things picked up. My partner, Lee, changed jobs and we moved to a Hawkes Bay dairy farm. We were all really happy.
On Monday, October 20, at seven months old, Reihana learned to crawl. The kids and I clapped and cheered. Reihana just looked up at us as if to say, “What’s the big deal? I’m just crawling!”
On Thursday, Lee took two days off work and we both got to spend quality time alone with Reihana. These are now precious memories, because the next day we found our little boy had died of cot death.
We woke late that morning and Lee got up. I heard him screaming “No, No, No”. Late at night, I still hear those cries over and over in my mind. I knew something bad had happened but I never expected the worst. When I looked into the boys’ room, I saw Lee kneeling over Reihana, who was still and blue. I went into shock. A part of me knew Reihana was dead while another part thought this couldn’t be real.
I rang 111. The operator told me how to do CPR. I began to relay this to Lee, who swore and yelled at me, “It’s too late, he’s gone, he’s dead.” Hearing those words, something snapped in me. I began crying and didn’t stop for the next few weeks.
When I hung up, I rang my mother who lived one and a half hours away. My only words were, “Can you come now, Reihana’s died”. At that moment, I wanted my mother so badly. Next I rang Lee’s sister. She began saying again and again, “Not Reihana, not our baby, why him?”
The next hours are a mass of mixed images amongst suspended time. Lee carried Reihana into the lounge and started dressing him. I chose him clothes and got a nappy, then went to wait for the ambulance. When it arrived, the officers rushed past me with their bags. I thought to myself, “Why are they rushing? He’s dead.” They instantly slowed down when they saw Reihana. It was obvious it was too late. One of them quickly looked him over; Lee finished dressing him and went inside.
Linda, our boss, arrived. I will always be grateful to her for coming so fast and staying until our families arrived. It was devastating to see Reihana lying there, deserted in the middle of the floor, so still and quiet, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch him. I was thankful when Linda asked to hold him. I sat down beside her. When I eventually held him, he felt small, cold and lifeless. I never expected my first experience of death to be one of my children.
Lee and I were holding Reihana when Mum arrived. I suddenly realised she couldn’t make everything better, she couldn’t bring our baby back to us.
The ambulance officer rang the police and the funeral director. Although police attendance is standard when a death occurs at home, it didn’t make it any easier. So many questions were asked, it felt like they thought we had hurt him.
We didn’t object to an autopsy, although it’s against Maori custom, as we just wanted our baby back as soon as possible.
When Lee’s family arrived, I remember Shirley, Lee’s sister, holding me. It felt as though she shouldered my pain for those minutes, giving me a short break from its intensity.
The funeral director rang at 6pm. It was time to bring our son home.
Lee and I went on our own. This would be our last time alone with our baby. The funeral director told us we would need to handle Reihana’s head carefully and that his brain was still with him. Confusion washed over me, bit it was quickly replaced with near hysteria as he explained that the brain is removed during an autopsy and can not be replaced in the skull. In despair, I tried to comprehend that my baby had been mutilated; his brain was now in his chest cavity. I felt so angry, but I knew I had to stay calm. If I snapped, Lee would too, and would probably end up hitting the funeral director.
We were taken to our son, who was lying on a stainless steel trolley. It looked cold and clinical. His chest was taped up. A single drop of blood had seeped through his white T-shirt. His head had big stitches around it. Our poor baby. Lee dressed him and placed him in the tiny, white coffin. As Lee drove home, I sat in the back seat beside the coffin and stroked Reihana’s face, hair and hands. It was hard to believe that 24 hours before he had been crawling and laughing.
Later that night, I lifted my son from his coffin. As I held him, complete devastation overcame me. Although there were other people around, I was aware only of Reihana, my mother and me. I cried, “Why me? Why my baby? I want my baby back.” I desperately wanted to warm him up; he felt terribly cold. When I lay down beside Lee, I fell asleep cradling my Reihana in my arms. Mum lay awake, keeping watch on us, in case I woke up and freaked out.
Little James woke to see the empty coffin, and thought Reihana was all right again until he saw him in my arms, still lifeless.
On the last night before the funeral, Mum videoed Reihana. Although it is upsetting to watch, it is a beautiful piece of filming – Reihana laying in his coffin peacefully, surrounded by flowers; a small buttercup picked by James lying on his chest; a greenstone around his neck, given to him by his teenage cousin; a “Tickle-me Elmo” toy at his feet, a present his grandmother had bought him ready for Christmas.
As I picked him up for the last time, I was shocked by how stiff his body had become. I knew it was time to put him to rest.
Before Reihana’s death, I was not a very spiritual person, but now, as I held my son, I realised I couldn’t feel him anymore. Sometime that afternoon, his spirit had moved on. This realisation made it a little easier to accept that Reihana would be buried the next day. We had done all we could for our little boy by staying with him, holding him, stroking him and loving him.
The funeral was held at my parents’ house in their conservatory. Lee sat the coffin on a large chest, with all the flowers around it.
We chose two songs to play during the funeral, Tears in Heaven by Eric Clapton and Fly by Celine Dion. We handed out the words to this song because it is so beautiful. The last verse is especially touching: “Fly, fly little wing, Fly where only angels sing, Fly away, the time is right, Go now, find the light….
Too soon, it was time to say goodbye, to close the coffin lid, sealing our baby’s body in forever, I kissed him goodbye and tried to memorise his beautiful face. This kiss, this last touch, would be a memory that would have to last a lifetime. It was hard to stand back and watch the coffin lid being screwed down. I wanted to snatch Reihana up, hold him close and not let anyone take him from me.
Once again, I was sitting in the back seat beside the coffin, this time surrounded with flowers, unable to touch him. Instead, I traced the silver name plate on the coffin lid with my finger. Dad drove us to the cemetery in his vintage car, which meant a lot, as it was something only he could do for his grandson.
Another service was held for Reihana at Ratana Temple, and we buried him at the Ratana cemetery on top of his paternal grandparents. This was important to us; at least we knew they would take care of him for us. As I watched him being placed in the hole, I worried he would be cold, lonely and scared. The coffin looked tiny in the ground. This was when I started to feel the greatest sense of loss. I had lost my baby four days ago. Now I was losing the last part of him.
The following weeks were the most difficult of my life. When we came home, it was hard seeing Reihana’s things that he would never use again and an empty space where the cot had been. The house seemed empty and lifeless without his presence, his beautiful smiling face. The kids went back to Kohanga and Lee went back to work. I felt deserted. They had a routine to fall back into, something normal amongst the chaos. My routine had revolved around Reihana: feeding, playing, changing and sleep times. I felt lost and alone.
The police eventually rang to tell us we could pick up the autopsy report and Reihana’s bedding, mattress and clothing. I was terrified of reading the autopsy report, but when I did, I was surprised to find that it made me proud. My baby was perfect.
As the months have passed, the kids and I have noticed a lot of rainbows and spectacular sunsets. We believe this is a sign from our baby, telling us he’s happy.
There were many times we felt we couldn’t go on, but I knew I had to, because James and Shoni needed me more than ever.
The grief is ongoing; we will always feel the loss of Reihana in our hearts. There are still many times when we cry and feel angry and we need to go over and over what happened. But there are now days when we are all right and can look back on the short months we shared with Reihana and enjoy the good memories: the love, the smiles, the cuddles.
Reihana was regularly put to sleep on his back, but would roll over onto his tummy. His mattress was not wrapped. Jemima says she remembers being told about cot death and the various theories about prevention: “But I guess I didn’t really listen. You just think ‘that won’t happen to me’.” Jemima and Lee now live in Palmerston North. They would like to have another child. If they do, they plan to use a Safe T Sleep wrap to prevent rolling, and to wrap the mattress according to Sprott’s instructions.
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