Hands from heaven – Bron K Jones
I am on the train going for an interview for a PhD that I think will allow me to start a new life. It is a surreal journey because I really don’t want to be here. It’s not that the man next to me is drinking beer at 11 in the morning as he anticipates a day out at the Cheltenham races. My head is elsewhere worrying about the impending anhillation that I feel will befall me at the inquest into my baby daughter, Bron’s death. God I miss her. Do they know that I wonder? Behind the smile and the brave power walk that belies the ‘career woman’ on the train is the Mother who has no child to hold, who dreads the approaching Mother’s Day as people rush about buying flowers, and placing the scribbles from the Little Lucy’s, the well fed Jack’s, into the sweet little card that has been prodded by chubby little fingers signalling to Dad or Nana that this is the card for Mummy. Mother’s Day is bittersweet. There is the ritual of the sunflowers (my daughter’s flower), placed on her grave, the candle that is lit next to her picture, the ever so sweet lullaby that is sung in the hope that by some miracle a tiny voice of pure innocence will sing back to her Mummy down here.
Sentiment you say? Yes that is right! sentiment – it is the one thing I have left. Oh yes and memories too, I have plenty of those, too many in fact, of voices, and echoes from the past that blame, that don’t like to give answers, those that belong to faces within systems that search for unexplainable facts. You see, I gave birth to a beautiful little girl, eighteen months ago. Her journey with me began as we ran together in woods when I did not know she was even a part of me. As she grew, and as I wondered, and spoke to her, and as we spoke to the bump called Bron, we whispered how special our little one was, how we loved, and laughed as tiny feet poked tip through a belly that had little room left. I told her she would be safe, that we would have fun, that despite the night time tiredness there was a whole world out there I wanted to show her, the moors, the fun walks with all the dogs that I knew and played alongside. I would show her the leaves in Autumn, the frost in winter, the birds in spring that signalled new life, and the experience of the warmth of the sun on your skin in summer, how it would mean long grass to run among, and warm blue waters to bathe in.
Those times were never to be. The day of birth drew nearer. We had chosen a home birth, a natural birth (with a few painkillers in the fridge just in case) The community midwives were pleased, they knew how I felt about ensuring my baby could be laboured for in a calm, safe and secure environment, a good start I thought would ensure a healthy and long lived beginning to childhood. A doula was hired for, during and after the birth, as Bron’s father worked overseas, and there were no guarantees he would be there. I needed the support and I wanted it. This was against the backdrop of NHS statistics that provided me with the stark reality that there were few options given the high caesarean rate and levels of intervention typified by the local hospital. As the time grew nearer, community midwives became more uneasy with the thought of a Doula. Threat maybe? I was not sure? Why didn’t these people work together? I had too much to concern myself with, like easing an aching back.
Dates passed, visits to hospital for blood pressure were made as I felt more wound up by midwife home visits, and would go to hospital arid return to calmness once I was left alone to stare at the bleak white walls. Scans followed and even visits which were described as lengthy by a registrar to discuss options but which were in fact a two minute interval in an otherwise busy day of a consultant used to seeing hundreds of women. Strange how time is indefinable to some.
Healthy vital signs were assured, and it was time to decide with days passing that we would need to seek induction after all, if Bron did not arrive. Another heartbeat scan and the machine did not read well. Was it Bron, or was it the machine? It had proved faulty on previous occasions with midwives embarrassingly changing machines over. I was informed to stay put. I became scared, and cried at the thought that something may be wrong. I told the registrar in no uncertain terms that I wanted a C- section if there was a problem. I was told to await events.
What follows is a 30 hour battle of supposition, of mixed facts, of struggle, of a sea of faces as the pain stayed and little respite achieved with an induced 24 hour labour, vomiting, a baby who had turned back to back, and a ventouse delivery that was obviously painful and only numbed by the shock of hearing the words – “1 and 2 and 3 and 4”, as she was delivered by the neo-natology army from SCBU who worked to revive the miracle that is my little Bron. I watched the silent tears roll down her father’s cheek as he watched and listened and told them her name so they too could encourage her.
As I lay with legs trembling from the pain of the needle pushing in and nut of delicate torn skin, I wished for angels, anyone, anything. For God’s sake let her live, I want to hold her NOW! It does not look good, I heard them say to her Father. This was against the Doula’s gentle words: ” She is beautiful, she has her Father’s nose, and has long limbs” I knew she was a girl, they had said ‘she’ hadn’t they? Yes that’s right, Bron, 7 pounds and 2.5 ounces, born at 4:35 pm.
Her father went up with her, to watch over his little girl. The homeopath was called for, I was in pain and was asked how are you? I mumbled: ” I don’t know” People spoke and I just stared at them. They took this to mean that I handled it well that I was calm. How wrong they were! 1 hoped and determined she would be OK, it would be a while, but we would go home, Mother and daughter. So with catheter in hand I was wheeled in by a dazed first time Dad to see our little one. God she was beautiful. I fell in love with her, and reached for her little hand. I wanted to push the Doctor out of the way and scream to leave her alone. Let her be, stop prodding her, she must be tired too now. My parents saw her and marvelled at how beautiful she was, and how like myself, as a baby she was.
The night wore on, hope faded to despair as vital signs diminished and we were informed in the morning after several neonatologists deduced: – “that she was no longer viable”. Phone calls followed, midwives not knowing what to do, provided the ‘stop the milk tablets’. Friends arrived to meet Bron, and to say goodbye to her. One by one they came, full of lost hope, tears, not knowing what to do, and some were angry.
Her Uncle finally came too, gathering enough strength to let his marital struggles subside for the time being. I moved in a trance like formation arranging a christening, and a blessing for her grandparents to attend (the local vicar could not wait for the grandparents to attend the christening – it was his day off) Her middle name was Eiri, a Welsh name I had always loved, followed by Gwenllian, after a Welsh warrior princess, who had fought battles in the area my ancestors had thrived in. How like a little warrior princess my little angel had become, never letting go, not yet anyway.
Finally, it was time to let her go, they were waiting for us, I did not want to go.. I hung on, watching and waiting with the clock, my heart was racing. Is this what waiting for someone to be executed was like? Surely there is some mistake, don’t babies make it, even when it is thought they won’t. “There has been one time, Kerry”, I was told, “but it won’t happen for Bron.”
So it was time to leave the softness of the bed in the parent’s room, and allow other people to hear witness to the beginning of this story. There they were, the Dr, and the Sister, (who would literally be a sister to us for a short time) As they watched our faces for signals of when and how, they placed our beautiful Bron, all wrapped in a shawl and bonnet in my arms, for her Mummy to cradle, to go to sleep, and to breathe the last out of her perfect little form. I watched in awe at this beauty, a precious little gift. Were there angels nearby I wondered, ready for her? I hope they were nice ones, otherwise there would be words! I knew only the kindest angels would take her now, the sweetest, the gentlest, and who would become her Mother for the time being at least. Twenty – five hours after she had arrived, Bron left us, my little Cariad was gone. I wished I had longer, why do you have to go Bron? Where and what now?.
Private time with our little one followed with a gentle bath, a massage of everlasting oils and the placing of her lifeless form into a lemon baby grow. I combed her soft hair, held her, kissed and stroked her soft sweet cheek, and told her how proud I was of her, that she was mine, and so brave to hang on and fight. I hung onto her as long as I could. I was sure I could feel a pulse as I lay next to her form, holding her tiny palm in mine, willing her back to life. Exhaustion set in but sleep would not come. I marvelled at the ability of men to sleep. As her Father slept in the parents room, I wrote and wrote on scraps of paper, letters and cards to friends, and colleagues. I filled in left over Winnie the Pooh cards (cards which I had prepared to announce Bron’s arrival) to give the midwives, and to the neo natal team to empathise with their pain at how difficult it must have been for them too, to lose a baby on their team. In reaching out I opened my heart to them. I would later learn never to do so again.
Milky coffee acted as the break in my night shifts as did the aimless wandering of the neo natal unit, and the hopeless maternal cord that was left undetached from the cot that had been Bron’s home. I wondered who occupied it now, and willed them to live, for their parent’s sake. I got in the car and despite the aching soreness, I drove around looking for the morgue, where had they taken her? I drove and drove in the early hours in between waking and speaking to my father trying to make sense of all of this. I just wanted to know she was OK, and to hang on as long as I could.
Kindly doctors who spoke of post mortem’s and who gently explained the facts as I sought pieces of information were replaced by stern obstetric pin stripe suited waifs who whispered words about the Coroner and an investigation. In my numbness, little did I realise at this juncture that the defensive walls were being raised and battle lines drawn, as questions were asked, and any shred of human decency was obliterated in the quest for facts. The Coroner’s officer came, and asked us to identify the body. I was reminded that this was an everyday occurrence.
She looked so beautiful in her bassinet despite the morgue attendant who hovered like a film extra from some horror movie, and who continued to bash the body doors as we tried to spend time with her. I spoke to her lovingly and tucked her in before leaving in a blur to make the first visit home. We drove in blinding sunlight along avenues, and through arcades of trees that welcomed only happy people – not those who returned empty handed. Our house was still and waiting for the cries of a newborn, of a cot to be filled, a pram to be pushed, and lullabies to be sung. We returned to Bron’s other home, the hospital, as it was where we felt we had left her, and it was where we wanted to be, with her.
The choosing of the plot, and the funeral service was deemed to be the last act of love we could engage in for her. Words and people to voice them were chosen carefully, distressed phone calls to vicars begging to let her be buried in the countryside were met with the rules and regulations of the parishioners. I bargained instead for a plot overlooking a country park, she was not going down the bottom! As her grave was dug, I was unprepared for the coffin that would fill it. But I watched as one by one we said goodbye in the sunlight as the vicar hurried through words not waiting for people to arrive from the church and to say their own private goodbye to a little angel who had melted the hardest hearts.
Life went on for others, but the numbness and grief swept in. Question’s were asked and were bounced back against doors, which were now firmly shut. Hospital notes arrived, they did not make sense, I re-read them, in a blur, in isolation with no-one believing. “They wouldn’t say that”, Bron’s father assured me from the North Sea. I retreated bewildered trying to make sense of it all. Not knowing what else to do, I needed someone to hear my story and so I sought help, it wasn’t to be the best but it would do for now.
I returned to work, my desk was exactly as I had left it. There would be no little picture with a sweet little face staring out from among the flowers, which greeted me. As ever a colleague my own guardian angel knew I would return alone, in the way I wanted too, to be left with thoughts until the intrusion of emails and phones disrupted any thoughts of Bron.
The numbness gradually subsided to grief, and to the rituals of Christmas, Mother’s Day, Easter, adopting animals in her memory, and of course, the 8th September, her own birthday, a day of bright yellow balloons released from a bridge. One returned, someone did not want to let her go, it was her Mamgi, (grandmother Jones), distraught, and not caring who saw, she sobbed as her heart ached. She missed her badly too.
And now you ask, what? Well another big day approaches – the inquest (with jury). I feel dread, I feel terror, anguish and like the lost little child who is dumped at the bus station with no destination, seek out a large reassuring hand to hold, but there isn’t one, or at least it feels like that. There is something else about me now too. I know I have a job to do for the few days of the inquest and the adrenaline pumps around as I try and envisage myself being brave among a bewildering mass of faces I have tried very hard and long to forget. Will I stumble over words? Probably. Will I cry I ask? Undoubtedly. Will I have the guts to stay with myself and speak what is truth? I hope so, although there is a part of me too exhausted to care, and too angry to bother answering ridiculous questions from people who know nothing about me. So as you ponder these words, forgive them if you have to, but don’t judge them until you have walked in my shoes, on my path, and in my pain, because in the end, it is about being with how you feel and honouring memories. It is what is left – thoughts of a sweet little angel girl, that is my daughter – Bron.
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