Address by David Simmonds at Torbay Hospital Baby Loss Service.

Fellowship Faith & Remembrance
– Address by David Simmonds at Torbay Hospital Baby Loss Service.

When Gordon (one of the two Torbay hospital chaplains) asked me to talk here today I was very honoured, but terrified of what to say. I hope you do not mind, but I have chosen to tell you of my wife’s and my personal experiences

From many articles and newsletters that I have read, I recognise that not many people find the strength to talk about not having, and losing children, until they finally have the family they long for.

Indeed, I do not think I would be brave enough to stand here today without having witnessed the healthy birth of our daughter Hannah this year.

The story of our family began 6 or 7 years ago.

My wife Linda and I were both over thirty, and had started trying for children but had not had any luck. We began some treatment, and almost immediately my wife suffered an ectopic pregnancy.

Having recovered, we picked ourselves up again, did some of our own research and then spent the following years undergoing endless rounds of IVF. This became almost an obsession, not drinking, trying to stay healthy, and ignoring friends and family whilst we focused entirely on the family that we were increasingly desperate to have.

Then, finally, having travelled to a Belgian clinic, on return to Devon in 2003, we found we were expecting twins. We were both frightened and elated. We knew we could get pregnant. We knew IVF twins might be more of a risk. But surely this was our lucky year. Linda had an early scare, but as we approached 20 weeks we started to relax and plan for the arrival of our children.

At 22 weeks, I returned home late one evening, just before Christmas to find Linda very upset and in some pain. I had stayed late for a Christmas drink, for the first time in many years. We immediately went to Torbay where the duty registrar patiently explained that there was no chance of saving our twins who were about to be born.

The raw emotions of that time are difficult to remember or describe. Many of you will have experienced the same. There was fear of losing our longed for children. There was fear of what they would look like and what would happen. I was in complete denial of what, to everyone else was inevitable. I can still see the shock on the faces of the hospital staff.

Our beautiful daughters Hope and Faith were born two days before Christmas on 23 December, too young to survive. Hope looked like her mummy and Faith had my nose and face. They were utterly beautiful and the feeling of immediate love as we held them in our arms was overpowering. The pain of their loss was magnified by their beauty.

When we arrived home, without them, for the first time in many months, I felt suffocated with grief. I could not bear my pain, but more, the pain my wife was suffering. I could not fix it. We constantly turned over in our minds what had happened. I know we both felt guilty for this or that reason, but we never blamed each other. We were afraid of how upset others would be. We were worried by what their reactions might be. There seemed to be too much pain already, without drawing others in.

Throughout we were comforted by our parents and good friends who were also devastated. Many of them knew how long we had been waiting for a family. I remember it being hardest to see my father and my brother in law, both of whom rarely express their feelings, breaking down in tears. Sometimes, it was easier to talk to friends on the phone or visit our parents than sit in silence in the home we had prepared for our family. At other times we just held each other and cried and cried.

We were guided through the following weeks by the wonderful midwives and other medical staff and chaplaincy here at Torbay. I know how upsetting this is for them too, and it is hard to express the gratitude we feel towards them. They gave us the space to hold and spend time with our daughters.

We held a funeral in our village with the great help of Gordon and a friend of ours who is ordained, who insisted on supporting us. Our village rector was equally supportive at this time and through the following months.

Suddenly life had become meaningless—but, as you know, these words do not convey the half of it. The light had gone from our world. We were unable to enjoy anything of beauty, without them. I remember travelling on a train with Linda to Glasgow through the lowlands and wishing only that they could have seen what we were seeing with their own eyes.

We felt resentful of other people being able to hold their children whilst we KNEW we loved our children more than anyone else, yet had held them only briefly. It became unbearable even to think. We tried to watching TV to distract us. We cried ourselves to sleep, but waking up was the most terrible. I could not bear to lie in bed.

Slowly, over the following months, our lives turned to a new normality.

I remember a close friend saying to us that our life had changed now for ever, and would never be the same as it was. That marked the change for me. There was no going back. There was only forward. We had to find a way of making sense and of remembering our daughters. We both returned to work. Neither of us could bear to be at home.

Just as we had coped before, we started to identify new things to look forward to. A consultation. A new round of IVF. Some other way to move forward but not forget. Gradually, some days became noticeably better than others. As a result we would feel guilty about forgetting them for a few minutes or for a few hours.

At first, we felt alone. Although we knew this must have happened to others, to you all, we didn’t really know anyone else it had happened to. Although when we thought again we realised we did. Two of our friends who had also been through fertility treatment had lost their son, at birth. Too cut up to speak to anyone they announced this shocking news through an email. Only now did we realise how they had suffered. Also, people around our village, and at work began coming up to us to say how sorry they were and that something similar had happened to them.

It was as though we had become members of a secret club. Yet the thing that we noticed was that for everyone who had suffered in this way, their children were fresh in their minds no matter what length of time had passed. A friend at work described to me how she has two sons, but only one with her on this Earth. He is due to start University, but his brother remains in her thoughts.

We find great comfort in remembering Hope and Faith and our little one who we lost earlier on. It is still comforting to talk to them and cry for them. To think that they can see what we can see. We have a place on Dartmoor where we go to think of them. We have their grave to visit. We know they are watching over us. They are with us.

They have names. Hope and Faith and our little one.

They were.

They are loved and always will be so.

All of our children are.

Remembrance of their brief lives is now part of our lives. No matter how much we miss them, we are grateful for their brief lives. And we know that it is not a matter of how long someone lives, but how much they were loved, wanted, and how they are loved and remembered.

They are our inspiration and gave us the strength to carry on living. They have made us better people and helped us support other good friends.

“Grief is not forever, but love is.”

No one person’s loss can be said to be greater, or less than any other persons. You may be here to remember individual daughters, sons, brothers, sisters, grandchildren. Or you may be here to support friends who have suffered loss. They may have been lost early on, or long after birth.

But all of us here have a bond with each other, for the rest of our lives. Only we can understand each other. I would not wish the pain that we have suffered on my worst enemy, but I am grateful for your company today. I know that Linda and I will be here at this service next year and for as long as we can.

I want to read you an extract from a poem that we included in our daughters funeral.

It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere;
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May.
Although it fall and die that night–
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.
Ben Jonson
(This is part of an ode to the memory of an adult friendship. But Ben Jonson and his wife Anne Lewis had two children, neither of whom survived childhood.)

Finally I would like to wish us all, whatever your beliefs, that we can find faith to keep us strong, that our fellowship will give us all comfort.
And that we remember our beautiful children with happiness and gratitude.