What a Strange Way to Celebrate a Birthday

Glenda Baines

As the days approached I began to grow fearful. I was afraid to leave my children. If I left them, would they be there when I returned? I didn’t want to go. All the doubts and uncertainties began to flood back.

What if we are killed in a car accident? Who will be there to look after Tegan and Connor? I will ring up and withdraw. They won’t mind. Sydney is such a long way away and I can’t afford the time from school. Yes, perhaps staffing will refuse my leave. Please refuse my leave then I won’t have to go. I am too raw and frightened to leave my children.

The journey to Sydney was completed in stony silence. Words were not necessary. We knew what occupied our minds. We were not leaving our live children to meet the needs of our dead baby. She needed us. We were going to tackle our eternal guilt and the haunting question of “why? Why our baby? Why us?”

The taxi ride to Parliament House was stifling. I wasn’t sure if it was nerves or the humidity. I didn’t want to be with strangers. I was feeling too alone. I didn’t have the energy to focus on small talk or make polite conversation. My head ached. Take me home.

Behind the screen was a hum of animated noise. I sought the food and wine waiters. Anything to avoid facing these strangers. The sight of other familiar faces from Canberra was a welcome relief. These people knew us. We would be safe with them. Throughout the evening, our circle widened, accents varied but always the question was asked, “How long ago did your baby die?”. That sea of warm friendly faces were all carrying the same sorrow. They too had had their lives shattered. They had lost their baby.

The following days formed a blur of frantic rushing. Which session should you go to? What did you think of… Gosh look at the time, we have to get to this session. In ONE more day it’s her birthday. She would be one tomorrow. It’s just another day. A circle on a calendar. You can handle that. From the depths of my much needed sleep, I was woken by the thumping on our door. “Breakfast will be over in twenty minutes, get up!” Not today. I can’t share today with anyone. I can’t be sociable – not today. Leave me alone. I just want to sit here and cry.

A gentle knock at the door brought me back to reality. There stood a couple from New Zealand whom we barely knew. An all too familiar look of mournful understanding was written on their faces. “We want you to know we understand what today means to you.” They held in their hands a single red rose. These strangers had come to share her birthday. No greater present they could have given us. She hadn’t been forgotten and they gave me the opportunity to speak openly about my baby. I could tell them of my anger, my guilt and my fear. They had walked that same road before and their experience gave me comfort. They were patient and kind in a whimsical sort of way, and they had wanted to share her birthday.

The word had filtered down to others and as the day continued we were taken into the care of these strangers. They knew. It was her birthday and they didn’t forget. They held us and spoke gently. They looked me in the eyes and let me tell my sorrow. They let me share her birthday.

To the parents of the SIDSFI Conference who took the time to protect us, I thank you.

A birthday is a celebration. To us it was a nightmare. Yet with your understanding, we survived.

To me, she would feel pleased. They were the right ones to come to her first birthday.

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