Monday

 Monday 

February 2024

Monday will always be the day I gave birth to you. It will be the day we met you. But we didn’t take you home with us and we never saw your smile.  

You were brought to us, in a little basket, wrapped beautifully in two blankets: the one I finished early for you and one donated to the hospital for babies like you.

Giving birth to you was one of the hardest things I have ever done. Giving birth to your sister wasn’t easy, but giving birth to you hurt me so much more. You arrived at 3:30 in the morning. I was holding your daddy’s hand and being looked after by a lovely woman called Alison. She told me I was brave. Your daddy told me he was proud of me. It was so hard for me, knowing that I had to stop growing you. I didn’t feel brave or strong. I wish I could have kept you growing in me.  

When we met you later that day, I’d had some sleep and a shower. I put on your daddy’s favourite dress. I wanted to look nice to meet you, even though your eyes were closed.  

Poppy, our midwife that day, brought you to us in a little basket, on a special cold cot. It was so strange to keep you cold, when we should have been cuddling you to keep you warm. You were tiny, and so delicate. I was scared to hold you in case I hurt you. Poppy turned away to give us privacy. We both cried and told you we loved you. I can’t say you were perfect because if you were, you would still be growing inside me, kicking me to remind me you were there. You weren’t perfect, sadly. My heart was doing what your heart couldn’t. It would have been very difficult for you if you’d made it to the end of our pregnancy. I wanted to keep growing you and I have no words to say for how much I wish you hadn’t been born that day, sleeping. I wish I could have kept growing you knowing you would have a fighting start to a healthy, easy life. But we didn’t know if you would.  

We just didn’t know. We didn’t know what your life would be like with such a poorly heart.  

You looked perfect. Your tiny face was just like your big sister’s. You had tiny cold little hands which I held. Your skin looked red because you were so small. Your eyes were closed and your little body looked perfect to us. I am so sorry that I couldn’t keep growing you, my baby girl. I am so sorry you didn’t meet your sister or all your family. I am so sorry you had to be so poorly. There was nothing we could do to change what happened. I wish I could have grown you and brought you into the world to meet everyone. I never wanted to say goodbye to you before I met you.  

We didn’t originally intend to meet you. I thought it would be too sad. We weren’t going to name you either. We didn’t know what we wanted to do, how can anyone know in this situation? Then I had you and we knew we needed to see you and we needed to name you, give you a life, an identity and a kiss, to send you on your way.  

We hadn’t planned to meet you, so we didn’t have a name ready for you. We had some ideas: something to represent you, our angel, not here with us, but in spirit. Your daddy thought of Laila, because you were born in the night. I wanted something connected to when you were born. We thought about flowers, natural phenomena and words with meaning, but above all a name unique to you, and only you. When I met you, it was clear what your name was. Laila was perfect for you; you came to us in the night. Then we chose Aurora, to light up our skies. Laila Aurora: you came to us in the night and will light up our sky forever. We will forever be grateful for the short time you had with us: 21 weeks and 6 days of carrying you which I will never forget. A fraught, painful night where you came to us, sleeping and peaceful, delivered in love and surrounded by support and respect for all that you were for us.  

Monday will always be the day we met you, Laila Aurora, and said goodbye to you on the same day. 

x 

 

Location: Exeter, UK

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