Of course, their families rallied round when it happened. Had opened their hearts and arms to try and take away the pain; did what they could, said what they needed to. But it was their loss also – their grief pouring out in endless salt torrents. We'd cried as well. Small, silent teardrops that squeezed themselves out at unexpected times, in unexpected places – catching us unawares, the only warning, a sudden plunge into sadness. But sometimes the tears would well up behind the floodgates of our lower lids, until with no room for more, a gush of warm wetness would wash down our cheeks. Not a lot else we could do – crying was all there was.
When Ginny was discharged from hospital, she hadn't wanted to go home. Not yet. Instead they'd spent a few days cocooned at her mother's. On the morning of the day they were due back, we'd filled their house with flowers. Tubs, vases, buckets – rammed with colour, and soothing perfume. It was something, a small thing; a gesture at least.
Naturally, they'd made plans; mapped out changes to their lives, minor adjustments, had everything ready. One of the upstairs rooms had been partitioned off to make a new room – a nursery. Freshly painted, and with all the nursery furniture and décor in place, the only thing missing was a baby.
* * *
The funeral was a private, 'family only' occasion. We were told when and where, and sent caring thoughts at the appropriate time. I couldn't think how I'd cope if it was me, what it would be like to say that sad goodbye. But everyone commented on how amazingly they were coping – how strong they were as a couple. How calm, and accepting.
Two weeks later, they'd organised a gathering for both friends and family, a chance to publicly mourn, and to celebrate their son. We all cried then. And hugged. And cried some more.
* * *
I thought my chest was going to burst when I saw the photograph. I'd never seen a picture of a dead baby before, and he was oh so beautiful. Pale as pale, with bluish-tinged lips, but perfectly formed and utterly serene. At peace. Alongside of it, another photo. This one of Ginny and Sam standing on a beach somewhere, arms wrapped around each other, and looking the happiest I have ever seen two people look. Ever. Beaming they were, and Ginny glowing in that late bloom of pregnancy, as only mothers-to-be can.
* * *
It was Liz who told me. We were about to sing with the choir and I caught sight of her stricken face – could see something was very wrong. We didn't even know each other that well, but we clung together like desperate lovers – needed to grip onto something real, feel the substance of another body to counteract the horror; quell the queasiness in our bellies, and the pounding disbelief in our heads.
Somehow we struggled through the songs, half-blinded by a sun that shouldn't have been shining. There wasn't a dry eye anywhere when we sang '...If I could sleep, forever'.
* * *
It's December, and I'm thinking now of the sad times ahead, at what would have been, their first family Christmas together. Thinking of the presents that won't be under the tree, the memories that will never be cherished – and of the Christmas's to come. And all because of the cruel twist of a chord wrapped around his neck.
In the end it was quite easy to find. Across the clearing was an oak sapling with crystals, chimes, and pretty things tied to its branches – the sweet tinkling sound in the breeze, peaceful. Angelic. And at the base of the tree, an inscribed granite slab:
'To our Beautiful Woodland Baby', with just the one, single, solitary date.
Start a family and live happily-ever-after. This tale shows nothing is that simple.
Babies aren't supposed to die. You want to start a family, so you ditch the contraception, eat well and take it easy for nine months, sort out the maternity leave, and count down the days until delivery. You wait, and the expectation is that after all that waiting, you'll have your precious baby - be a family. Sometimes though, things don't always end happily-ever-after.