No wonder the heavens were filled with celebratory fireworks as the New Year of 2012 arrived in Glasgow; the latest angel was on his way to join the choirs of Heaven. Not just any angel, but one of the most vocal; my son, Ethan. If he is anything like his elder brothers, then the peace of Heaven was surely shattered.
Only 36 minutes had passed of the New Year when he arrived, still and breathless. We held him and didn’t want to let him go, but we knew only his empty shell remained: his mischievous spirit was now enjoying his freedom as he chased the fireworks far into the New Years’ night sky.
I therefore know as much as anyone that the Christmas and New Year period is always difficult when your baby has died. This anguish is exacerbated if the baby died at this time of year; the bereaved parent’s longing is also coupled with the climax of grief when the anniversary finally comes around.
Ethan has not only shifted our Hogmanay by 36 minutes, but also changed what the New Year means. It is no longer a time of artificially hopeful anticipation. It is no longer a time for sending hollow messages that instruct friends to have a happy New Year. Instead we silently wait for the second hand of the clock to disclose that 36 minutes of the socially accepted New Year have passed.
Now, when hearing the celebrations as a New Year is ushered in for the third time as a bereaved parent, I realize there is still much to celebrate, despite this day also marking the death of my son. Not the kind of celebrations that others do; others who probably don’t even know what they are celebrating. Instead, I celebrate the existence of those who act as a beacon of hope towards those who are lost in their sea of grief.
I celebrate the care we received, during and immediately after Ethan’s birth. The genuinely upset midwives, despite their specialist training in stillbirth, proved that people thought Ethan mattered. The tear in the funeral directors eye, despite her making a living from death, was evidence that strangers are touched by the death of a child.
After Ethan’s birth, no one came to visiting a sleeping baby, warmly wrapped in the cot that was once his brothers’. Instead, Ethan’s first visitors watched in silence as a baby, in a bespoke white cot, was lowered into the freezing January mud. I celebrate that Ethan was so important that many made the effort to attend, many in difficult circumstances.
As any bereaved parent knows, there are many people who are simply disinterested in a story of a dead baby, but memories of acts of kindness shine like stars in a dark sky of nonchalance. I celebrate these memories that prove people do care.
Finally I celebrate in the knowledge that the premature death of a child does not result in silence. There are many bereaved parents willing to take on the persona of their child’s voice. Judging from the readership of articles written by bereaved parents, there are countless who want to hear the stories of our children.
{Your Thoughts}