by REBECCA SPARROW
I was in the kitchen last night buttering toast for my five-year-old daughter – when my husband gasped from behind his laptop.
I looked up.
He kept talking I think. But I didn’t hear anything else. I didn’t need to.
Ada Nicodemou’s baby was stillborn today.
That’s all I had to hear for my heart to feel like it was suddenly wafer thin and shedding layers. For September 2010 to come rushing back to me. For the moment I too found out that the baby I was carrying – my second daughter Georgie – had suddenly, inexplicably – died inside me at 36 and a half weeks.
And tears came to my eyes for a woman I do not know. For her husband. And for the excruciating road that lay ahead for them both. A road that I am still on.
This column I’m writing today is not for Ada and Chrys. Not now. Not yet. Today and in the days and weeks ahead they will be in their own protective bubble. Today, my guess, is that they will have disconnected from the world – both physically and emotionally – as they try to fathom the cruel hand they have just been dealt.
One minute my baby was here. Wasn’t she here? I felt a kick. And now. I don’t understand. She was just here. But we have the clothes. The cot. That new jumpsuit I bought on Monday. I don’t understand.
The raw primal pain. Collapsing in the shower screaming for my daughter. The numbness. The overwhelming desire to stop participating in the world. To just sink into my darkness only to be pulled out again by my two-year-old daughter Ava.