Cherub

On 20th June 2013 I became a daddy. This isn’t a fact known by many people, just those closest to me and my better half. The reason that no more than that know is that I wasn’t supposed to be a daddy for another six months, and I’m not a daddy now.

We found out that we were pregnant (meaning she - I’m progressive, but I have my limits) in April last year and were so excited by the prospect of becoming parents; it was something that both of us had wanted for a long time and here we were, in a loving relationship of two years with a very special stick with some pee on it. We didn’t believe it at first and waited a couple of excruciating days to take another test to confirm, which it duly did, and we felt the elation of possibility and the weight of responsibility take us in hand.

We jumped up and down a little, laughed and wept, and settled down to begin preparations for this tiny life. We visited our doctor and became part of the system, we arranged to meet a midwife and we told a few close friends and our parents, taking the stance that many do, that we would tell the world after our 12-week scan.

(Quick note: at the time, my partner and I were living in sin(!), which we still are, but we will be wed later this year, so for now she will be known as my nearly-wife.)

The weeks passed, during which we made plans around our work life and our home life, looked at the finances (and quickly looked away) and she became more tired and aware of the new being inside of her. Not knowing the gender the pre-bump area became known as Cherub - you can’t hold a conversation with someone if you don’t know their name - and life was good. We read the books, noted the changes and contented ourselves that all was as it should be. Nearly-wife was (and is) very fit and healthy, with a near pathological need for good eating, and was taking the right supplements throughout, while I busied myself with trying to make sure she didn’t lift anything heavier than a sock. We had been told that there couldn’t be a better environment for our little one and we were happy that this was so.

The 12-week scan came around and we were filled with excitement; we’d already planned telling the rest of my family our news at a get-together in a couple of days and we couldn’t wait to stop hiding it. We sat in the waiting area at the hospital for a short while and were called in to see the sonographer, who smothered nearly-wife’s belly in gel and began scanning.

There were a few clicks and beeps as she studied the screen, moving the probe, and I remember thinking that it just looked like a mass of black and white, how could anybody make sense of it? She asked us twice if it was our first scan, to which we replied yes, and then she excused herself and left the room. This should have been a warning sign, but we were new to this and knew no different; we sat and chatted, wanting to get that scan image that we could show to everybody again and again.

The door opened and the sonographer returned with another lady in tow. The first sign of a hollow pit formed in my stomach as she started talking and told us that we needed to look at the scan again as something didn’t quite look right.

What followed is a jumble of surreal disconnected memories; sitting in a ‘quiet room’ to talk, explanations of nuchal membranes, grave faces as we were told the outlook wasn’t good, but Cherub’s heart was beating strongly. We needed to prepare for the worst and seriously consider the options. We left that day with an appointment for the following week to see a senior consultant for another scan and a creeping numbness.

We were told that Cherub was alive, but early indications were of some very noticeable abnormalities that would cause severe disability, with the prospect of constant pain and suffering for our little one, if we carried to term at all. The consultant would give us a better idea.

We struggled through the next few days in a state of shock. My family get-together became a sea of hugs and tears, and through it all we had the knowledge that we may be asked to make the ultimate decision - what parents could face that and not suffer?

The next week saw us at the hospital again, meeting the consultant, ushered in via a different route so that we wouldn’t have to sit with the happy expectant mothers. He applied the gel and this time we got to see what he saw. We saw the tiny heart pumping furiously, and the extraordinarily large sac of fluid at the back of the head that confirmed our worst fears. Then we saw the lower body, twisted, at right angles to where it should be, and no real torso to speak of, with a mass of intestines outside of the place they should be. Our Cherub was not in a good way.

Through a daze we had the options explained to us again; continue on and, if full term was reached, commit our baby to excruciating pain for the short time it would survive out of the womb, or terminate. Cherub was too young to have a connected nervous system so would not be in any pain. Yet. The choice was ours at all times, we were the parents, but the eyes of everyone in the medical staff begged us to be merciful. We should go away and think about it.

On the way home we walked into a cemetery and both fell apart. I wept and nearly-wife screamed and howled; the sound broke something inside me and will haunt me to my grave.

We got home and we reached the only decision we could. I made the phone call to the hospital and gave our decision in a monotone. We were to attend another two times; once to sign paperwork and take some medication and then once more to deliver.

That’s right, deliver. This would be the safest option for nearly-wife as it didn’t require an anaesthetic.

We attended the maternity ward a week after our first scan, in a private room, so that she could be induced, and spent a whole day going through labour and the associated discomforts and indignities that go with it.

Finally, the moment arrived, and nearly-wife was magnificent - I have never been as proud of her as I was that day. She kept her composure throughout and insisted that she wanted to see and hold our baby. We became parents and held our poor little sleeping Cherub, a tiny figure no bigger than my hand. My clearest memory is of the perfectly formed hand, smaller than the nail on my pinky.

The doctors and nurses were wonderful to us. Empathic and respectful at every step they allowed us some time as a family before taking Cherub away, only pausing to take an imprint of a hand and a foot for us.

We had a funeral. Two weeks later there was a service at the crematorium, presided over by the hospital chaplain, a lovely lady full to the brim with compassion. I had written a poem for my little one (below) and she kindly offered to read it during the service. My parents and a few close friends joined us and to them I’ll be forever grateful for their support; just knowing they were behind me helped as I carried the tiny white coffin into the chapel. I had to carry it; nearly-wife carried our Cherub for the first few months, it was only right that I carry our baby those final steps.

It’s taken us some time, but we are past it, thinking about the future, wanting to try again, but Cherub will remain a part of us forever.

——

I had started writing a post earlier this week on an entirely different subject, but Friday was the one year anniversary of the day that Cherub was born and I carried a little melancholy with me. Then in my Twitter feed, via a convoluted route, appeared a link that seemed too appropriate to ignore: 

@leahmoore http://www.lifetimetv.co.uk/features/tiny-numbers-on-births-deaths-and-the-babies-that-almost-were

It’s a wonderful article and I urge you to read it. I did and it made me think of my little Cherub and all the other countless babies that didn’t get the chance, that missed out on the love that was waiting to be bestowed upon them. It made me think of the lives that had been altered, plans made, outlooks shifted, to accommodate a bundle of joy that was never to be.

I haven’t written this post for sympathy, more as a message of solidarity to all those people that go through similar experiences, or miscarriages, and suffer in silence. To say to all those couples, heart-broken expectant parents, that you’re not alone. It’s an all-too-common occurrence that we don’t want to share with others as it’s an intensely personal time, and consequently the perception is that the majority of pregnancies are successful. The statistics say that 1 in 3 pregnancies ends in miscarriage or does not make it to full term, but if the couples involved keep it private then the world at large is none the wiser. Some around them may notice an emotional change for a time, but apart from a few close friends and relatives nobody will know the truth of the burden that they carry.

The pain of losing the promise of the child to come is something that we don’t as a society talk about much. I’m not saying that it's the same heartbreak as losing a child you have met and raised, it’s not on the same scale, but we shouldn’t lose sight of the fact that for the prospective parents the entire world has changed already. If nothing else, the knowledge that your life for the next 18+ years will never be the same can be a radical paradigm shift. To the outside world it may only be a surprising bit of news that elicits momentary sympathy, but to the couple it is a huge shock to the system after months of getting used to the idea and planning accordingly.

I am not urging you to tell anyone if you have been through something like this in your life, if that’s not what you want to do. Sharing it with the world will not necessarily make it easier and sometimes a look of sympathy can have the opposite effect than that intended. It’s very easy to feel guilt that you could have done something differently. It can be difficult to pretend to those that don’t know what you’ve been through that everything is fine and normal. The pain does lessen, and the days become easier, but the memories never leave you. It is ok to grieve, but remember that we all grieve in different ways - be patient with each other and be there for each other. For myself and nearly-wife, our bond became stronger facing this pain and for that I am grateful.

I have no doubt that one day I will be blessed with a child (or two) to shower with love and affection, and I will be a doting, besotted father, but it will never take from me the memory of the day that I became a father and lost a child.

I hope that you are never affected by anything such as this, and if you have been I hope that you have/had the strength to try again. I hope that if you have children and have never known this sorrow that this post causes you to hold them that little bit tighter, realising how fragile and precious the process was that brought them to you.

I did ask the permission of my nearly-wife before I started this post. It is a sharing of a very sorrowful, personal time and without her blessing I could not, would not, have written it. Cherub is our child and our pain, not mine alone. As it is, this is one of the hardest things I’ve ever written, while at the same time flowing almost without my input. I hope that I have paid the subject due diligence and respect and I humbly offer my love and thanks for an amazing woman. We will be parents. Amazing, crazy, naïve, scared, keen, tired, loving parents. I can’t wait.

I leave you with the poem I wrote for Cherub’s funeral.

Cherub

I am a father. 

I am YOUR father, and it hurts me to my core

I want to show my anger, my desperation, my sorrow

But the pain is too fresh, this wound is too raw

You were taken from us too early

Before we ever got to meet

The only way I know you were here at all

Is an imprint of your hand and one of your tiny tiny feet

We don't even know what gender you are

My pretty princess, my brave little soldier 

I just wish I could hold you, my child

I wish I could watch you grow older

I'm sorry I can't tuck you in at night

Or chase the monsters away

But I'll be watching over you with all that I am

For the remainder of my days

Your mummy and I are grieving right now

For there's a hole in our lives that is you

It tears me up to see your mummy so sad

And know the pain that she's going through

You were smaller than my hand, little one

But the space now you're gone is so huge

We miss you, with each breath

We miss you, and there is no refuge

If there's a life that comes after this

Perhaps we can walk for a while 

So I can hear the sound of your laughter

And feel the warmth of your smile 

I'd like to wander beside you

So you can tell me your name 

I'll comfort you by holding you tight

And perhaps you'll do the same 

JV 26/06/2013