I Ain't Missing You At All: The Day I Lost My Child

I never thought that I would be one of those parents. When other parents confessed that it had happened to them, I would always say that it could easily happen to me but I never actually believed it. Despite uttering all the right things, tilting my head at just the right angle to denote heart felt empathy and oozing compassion in the tone of my voice, I never truly considered that it might really happen to me.

Well today it did.

Today, I lost my child.

And the very, very worst thing about it was: I didn't even notice.

I had been out running errands in town on a solo parenting day and we had been having the best time. We don't often go into town as a trio because, let's face it, shopping with children is a nightmare. A vaccine to the thrill of retail therapy. If you suffer with the incurable habit of shopping take some children with you, it is an experience akin to having an incredibly heavy night imbibing [insert liquor of your choice here]; someone will be forcing you to do it and living through the consequences leaves you broken, bereft and never wanting to drink that particular tipple again. Well that is shopping with toddlers. Heaven forbid you had to cope with the aftermath of the former whilst doing the latter. It doesn't bear thinking about.

Shopping with Toddlers

This day, however, we had to throw caution to the wind as life admin was calling and it can only be postponed for so long. You may recall from my earlier posts that I lack the ability to "adult"? Well, I currently have a bank card which went through the tumble dryer 3 weeks ago so now resembles Flat Stanley with a severe stomach ache. Happily it still taps meaning I can spend liberally provided it's less than £30 in any one shop with a contactless pay terminal. Whilst this is great for the family economy drive it is becoming more than just a little infuriating. To cancel it would mean losing the tapping ability until a new one arrived so I defer but today, today was the day and I was going to go old school and ask a real life bank teller to hand me some cold hard cash while they were at it. So with that, and a series of other really unexciting tasks that i shall not bore you with (and that no teenager considers when they spout blind fury about not yet having come of age) we were committed.

My kids though, my kids were brilliant. We were a team; the three musketeers, all in it together. I was a shepherd with her flock. There was no great rush, I was merely herding my charges towards our destination at a leisurely pace. They were both on great form, delighting in the company of the kindly tram conductor who issued pretend tickets and bestowed upon them the great responsibility of opening the door when we pulled in to each stop. They were beside themselves with joy. They held hands and waved at passers by as they ambled along the pedastrianised streets whilst I brought up the rear (and the pram). It was delightful. The sun was shining and we were blessed in our mundanity.

Chums

We were accomplishing some of the more tedious tasks when my phone started to ring; with eyes still firmly glued on my offspring I answered and relayed to them the news that their beloved grandmother was minutes away. The whoops; the excitement! My two year old led the charge towards the door telling all in sundry that he was off to see his "Moomie" and I was close behind; a mere fingertip away whilst holding hands with the eldest as she gabbled about everything she had to tell her.

When my mother arrived we immediately had to divide and conquer as the excitement of having her favourite person within touching distance had had the predictable effect on the toddler's bladder. So whilst I took the eldest down several escalators into the bowels of the department store in search of a urination receptacle, my mother wrestled with an overenthusiastic toddler who was attempting to lick all the make up from her face. We each had our challenges.

Having emptied the toddler bladder and discussed everything from volcanos and evolution to school and fashion we regrouped at ladies wear. I briefly mentioned a need to purchase swimwear for our upcoming holiday and lifted a couple off the rail for half hearted inspection. The thing is, I could see him. I saw him at my mum's feet. He was there. I knew he was.

Going incognito

A split second later, a lovely lady with a kind face touched my arm and told me that my son was wandering around the shop floor. I shook my head. No, she must be mistaken. That cannot be my son. He is right there. As I turned to gesture back towards my mum's feet, I caught a glimpse of a small boy clutching the hand of another shop assistant looking uncertain and a little confused. It was my son. He wasn't with me. He was with her.

I pushed past, picked him up and held him to me. My thoughts ricocheted from sheer relief for a panic that I never had the chance to experience to incandescent rage that he had walked away from me. My daughter would never have done that. My daughter's nervous temperament means she fears her own shadow when cast in the wrong light. She never strays beyond where she can see me and she will check, regularly and often that I am nearby. I wasn't prepared. I had always thought it was something in my parenting prowess that had made her that way and therefore he would be the same but he is so far from being the same that I struggle to comprehend it at times. How could he walk away?

Easily distracted this one

The tears rose and the panic lodged despite the fact that the threat had passed. How could I not have known? How could I have let this happen? Why hadn't I locked him into the pram and ignored his protestations? He would have been safe. Mightily (and audibly) disgruntled but safe. It was because I was being selfish; I was looking at something for myself and distracted by adult conversation. I was too lenient when it came to locking him down. I should have known. I should have done better.

I had to get them home. Home and safe.

So we left. I carried him the entire mile and a half home, refusing to put him down or let him out of my embrace. He had rallied entirely but I was in need of reassurance. I had to feel his warm skin against my cheek and heaviness in my arms to dispel the sick feeling lodged in my chest. I was playing out the worst outcomes in my head whilst equally being unable to consider them in their entirety.

To the ladies of Marks & Spencer's I thank you. I thank you for delighting in my children when we initially navigated our way through your busy store and for waving back and asking them questions while we waited for the lift. I thank you for seeing him, reassuring him and bringing him back to me. Thank you for saying "these things happen" and "it doesn't matter because he is safe now". I thank you for not judging me as harshly as I judge myself.

Needless to say I do not have any plans to go shopping again anytime soon and I still have that bloody bank card.

Bloody bank card

The Forgotten Child....

I am beginning to realise that so far it reads as though I only have one child. Normally, being forgotten about falls to the first born; the initial pancake that is inevitably tossed to one side (or, in this house, bestowed upon the mother). But no, this mantle falls to my second child. The one who needs no medical intervention, who has been gifted with ten fingers and ten toes and whose limbs are symmetrical and equal in each way.

We eventually worked up the courage to "go again". The horror of the genetic investigations and the torment of the first pregnancy and all its uncertainties must have faded enough to allow a seed of optimism and hope to take root.

This time, we were armed. I now had a definitive diagnosis of type 1 diabetes (which was under control), I was on high dose folic acid and I was living the sort of ascetic lifestyle that would have made Gwyneth Paltrow proud. What could go wrong?

Nothing.

Nothing ACTUALLY went wrong but everyone (doctors included) were on such tenter hooks that I was scanned so often I could have picked my unborn baby out of a police line up. Although I suspect most people would be able to pick and unborn baby out of a police line up...

When my diabetes didn't behave as they were expecting I was admitted for "close observation" and spent half of my last trimester under the watchful eye of a suspicious medical team who were trying to decide whether my baby's blood supply was failing or whether I was injecting excess insulin between my toes.

At 37 weeks they called it quits and kick-started labour themselves. Aside from an initial dodgy trace and an epidural which set in just in time for the tea and toast (the universally recognised reward for bringing life into the world) the delivery was as positive an experience as pooping a cannonball can be.

This was my boy. My beautiful boy and I was besotted... 

The Birth Part: Take One

So, there I am with my Gestational Diabetes, my blood that won’t clot, two weeks until D-day, one week into maternity leave, three days into our new house (fools) and I am sitting up in bed drinking my (decaf) coffee when I spring a leak. Husband is sitting next to me but I don’t mention it straight away. Initially I have to work out exactly what the source was before I own up to it. Whilst there is no great air of mystery in our marriage, I feel that if a little wee had escaped I should probably keep that one to myself. So I gingerly sidle out of the bed and, with my best nonchalant face, stand up and release an almighty deluge. The air may no longer be mysterious but the floor is decidedly wet.

It is worth noting at this point that my previous years of medical experience had always contradicted the classic American sitcom conspiracy that the rupture of membranes is the first sign of labour and would undoubtedly be followed by the immediate onset of contractions. I knew what not to expect but improbably my contractions commenced directly. With my, now, rather high risk gravidity we phone the maternity triage directly and are advised to attend as soon as we “please” (genuinely). Rightly or wrongly, following an assessment, we are sent back to the ranch to wait things out. Phil and Holly are there (not literally in the room but through the medium of the TV) and we must last a solid 40mins before we are back in the car on the way to triage. Contractions are thick, fast and agonising, conversation is lacking and resentment is building. Husband decides to “distract” me from the excruciating “discomfort” by taking the scenic route to the hospital. This teaches me a few things:

1.  Cobbles are not the labouring woman’s ally

2. Husbands can be cruel task masters and an intense loathing for one’s spouse during labour is an entirely acceptable emotion

3. A pretty vista does not divert anyone’s attention from the impending cannonball thrust through the vagina situation happening elsewhere

Finally we make the car park and forty minutes later we have navigated the 200yards to the triage desk where I throw myself upon their mercy, begging for help. Obviously, I don’t actually do this as I seem to have become some sort of mute and can now only communicate through grunts, wild gesticulations and shakes of the head. We are put on the monitor and the ever understaffed NHS (do not get me started) employees run around, each trying to do the work of ten (highly trained) others. So it is perhaps unsurprising that the decelerations which are slow to recover are missed and presumed to be a loss of contact. Perhaps, they will forgive the husband for getting rather testy with them when he felt that our baby was in danger and not getting the attention that it required. I will admit that no Tiger Mum erupted at this time, it was all I could do to breathe and I do not mean deep, centred, hypnobirthing breaths but mere drawing of air into the most superficial of lung tissue. He had this, he would see this baby right.

Sure enough, the decelerations are confirmed and we are moved upstairs to labour ward. The midwife vacates the room for a mere ten minutes, abandoning a terrified looking student, before a prolonged deceleration is audible and the cannonball is threatening to burst its way out my nether regions. The ashen faced student springs into action and hauls in the first passer-by who happens to be a Consultant. Huzzah! Happy Day, I hear you cry! No. The truth is, if you want a baby delivered normally then you want a midwife. Doctors are thoroughly trained to deal with an infant who is struggling to traverse the birth canal; they will guide them towards the light (sunroof or otherwise) and reassemble you afterwards. No problem. However, ask them to deliver a child the way nature intended and you will see utter terror flash across their face. They aren’t used to it, they haven’t been trained for it and they are just not comfortable doing it. There is too much inactivity, too much reliance on nature and too few instruments required.

Thankfully, my cannonball needed very little assistance and following a brief period of my pelvis threatening to shatter into fragments; she was here.

Upon reflection, it was actually a rather speedy process in comparison to other birth stories that I have heard and despite the ever growing pile of manure that had accumulated during my pregnancy very little of it truly hit the fan at the climactic moment. The inability to have an epidural (due to dearth of the required platelets and therefore the increased risk of bleeding) and the fear that a caesarean section under general anaesthetic was my only alternative should I be unable to birth my baby under my own steam added an extra terror to the birthing process and I swore that should I ever have to repeat I would sign myself up for an elective section. Whether I did or not, is another story…