Four years ago I learned what a broken heart really meant. I found out what it felt like to have the wheels of life stop turning around you and the next step not be known of what to do. Four years ago my 6 week old baby died in my arms from SIDS.
My second born child was a little boy, giving me the matching boy and girl pair to the 2 year old little miss I already had. He was a healthy little boy who loved to sleep in his sling and besides for him having slight reflux we barely heard a sound from him and we all adored him.
On the 21st of September 2007 life as I knew it fell apart. At 5am my little boy was stirring, my little miss came in ready to start the day and I sent her back to bed insisting it was too early to get up. I often question myself what would have happened if I did not try and grasp another 5 minutes of sleep that morning.
At 5.45am I checked on my baby. Bailey didn’t stir. I stood up, suddenly wide awake and looked down at my son who looked peacefully asleep. I gently nudged him and called his name and got no response. I tried to wake him and got nothing. I panicked and my heart was racing. I called 000 and told them that my baby had stopped breathing. After running through the particulars and them dispatching an ambulance they instructed me on how to give mouth to mouth and CPR to my very still, tiny, little boy. My heart was breaking into shreads with every breath I blew into his tiny little mouth.
The ambulance turned up…actually 2 ambulances and a paramedic car. The whole time they were working on him on my lounge room floor I continued to think “It has been too long”. They raced him to the hospital and bundled me into another ambulance to get to the hospital. Strangely enough once there I instantly had a sense that everything would be ok, it was a hospital of course with all these machines and staff and they save premmie babies all the time! They asked me if I wanted to go in the same room and watch him being worked on, I declined as I didn’t want to be in their way. Moments later my husband arrived at the hospital and we sat waiting. A doctor came in and announced the news… They could not save my little boy.
I sat in shock. Shock, one of the many stages of grief. Along with anger and denial, guilt, pain, depression and eventually acceptance. Having to go through all of the police inquiries and the autopsy and explaining to my 2 year old, the funeral. It was all moments I spent in a blur. The first 12 months were the hardest, even more so when my marriage broke down months later. People often commend me for being so strong and ask me how I manage to keep going on, and to be honest I just do. I know that if I did not have little miss I would not have managed, although forcing myself to move on everyday was a chore I had to do it though, I had to get up everyday for my little girl and I am so thankful that her love helped to heal me.