Mother and Father held babys hand

Thursday 20th July 2000

Yesterday I went back to the hospital to get Aarons records. Had to psyche myself up walking up the hill and into emergency, through the foyer, walked down to the place we had our antenatal classes, it was raining. Hard to get my breath, tears, trying to avoid people, turning in any direction to keep them from seeing how distressed I was. Didn't think I'd be able to ever go back there, convinced myself that it was all their fault, that it was the midwife, or the doctor, somebody. Everyone was giving us confusing information about the hospital, and about "what they should have done" and what they would have done if they had been there. So many people asked us about the monitor that I thought if only the midwife had used one then Aaron would have come home with us.

The hospital was very hard, a hurdle that I felt I had to be able to get over. Wanted to go into the rooms where he was born, where he struggled to live, to walk it through in the hospital instead of just going over and over it in my mind. Can't remember details, and I have to have every detail straight in my mind before I can get any sense of peace. I need to see it all again, I need to talk with the people that were there, I need to have every memory for myself. I was going to walk through the wards, but it was too difficult, people everywhere and I don't think I could have explained if anyone stopped me. I just choke up, I physically cannot talk, I panic at the thought of trying to talk to anyone, to try to explain what happened.

When getting Aarons records, I had to go to the cashier and pay, I guess I thought that the Freedom of Information officer would have looked at the files, would have known what an ordeal it was just to be there. I asked if they did Psychology there, and then couldn’t speak it overwhelmed me like a huge wave. She kept saying "Just go outside and I'll bring these to you" I felt like I was being an embarrassment, that she just wanted to get rid of me as fast as possible, she didn't know what to do. The psychologist bought out the records, said I could make an appointment to talk with her. I really shouldn't have been allowed to leave like that, distressed, crying, and clutching those records as if they held all the answers. I felt like everyone was staring at me, just wanted to get away as quickly as possible. Sitting in the car crying, deep crying, "Baby Burns" his heartbeats on a piece of paper, Sam and I spoken of as Mother and Father.

Mother and father held babys hand

All in black and white, his short life, every drug, every bit of pain written down in black and white. Facts.

I'll never be the same again. I'm not the same person that I was, everything about me has changed. Physically, emotionally, spiritually, older and wiser, I've joined the club. That's just how it feels, like I've joined some kind of secret horrible club. Only other members really see me now, everyone else sees the mask, the shell of Lisa that was. I talk, I function, but all the time I am somewhere else, thinking other thoughts, operating on auto pilot, not interested, couldn't care less, waiting for others to recognise the pain, friends, work mates, even family, don't see. Maybe they see and avoid my eyes at any cost. The cost is our friendship. Everyone gets judged on the pain scale. I can't help it. I feel such disappointment, that close friends and relatives find it easier to act like nothing has changed, to not even acknowledge Aaron living and dying. If they can't relate to him then surely they can relate to me, it's such a cop out to say, "I didn't call cause I didn't want to upset you".

I'm not supposed to get mad, it seems like I'm not meant to get angry with anyone or anything. I have to think about how they feel, they don't mean to hurt me, well they do! They do hurt me. Maybe they don't mean to but that doesn't mean I'm not feeling it. Sure it's hard to pick up that phone, but it was a hell of a lot harder for me to make those calls. To ring my mum in the middle of the night, after just giving birth, to tell her that our baby is going to die, my little boy, my sweetheart, to have to say that crossing my fingers is not going to make any difference, he is going to die. Trying to call Sams mum and then not being able to talk. Sam taking the phone to try to explain to his mum that our little boy is dying. I remember calling mum from a little office at the Childrens to tell her that Aaron had died, thank God she came, that she held him.

I left the news on Mums answering machine, and she had to go home and hear those words after leaving us at the hospital. Mum told me later that she couldn't erase that message. She listened over and over to my voice, to her daughter telling her the worst possible news, the most unexpected shocking news, not what she had been waiting to hear, not what I'd been dying to tell her right from my first contraction. From that first contraction I couldn't wait to ring everyone, to say we've had the baby. A BOY. We've called him Aaron Joseph, 9 pounds, he was born at 10.25pm, and on Easter Sunday as well. All the exciting things I thought I'd get to tell, all the calls, and visits, everyone having a hold, and saying how like Sam he is, staying in hospital, learning how to change nappies, holding his soft little body close, kisses and tickles, and Sam with the camera.
Tony got rid of the message when Mum was out in the back yard, and she told me that she was glad he'd done it because she couldn't.

All our plans, dreams, hopes wiped out in one cruel moment.