My dearest Aoibh

Today you would have been 8! I almost can’t believe that much time has passed. Instead of celebrating your birthday I went to mass, thought of you, and lit a candle in your memory. Yesterday your brother and sister chatted about what they might be doing with you if you were here. Zoe would like to play Barbie’s with you, Liam would like to play Hide & Seek, both sounded wonderful.

I saw a photo on social media recently of a baby being transferred via ambulance to a hospital for specialist treatment. My first thought was of you, of your ambulance journey to the children’s hospital. A journey you went on without me or your Dad. They didn’t even know your name. In the midst of all the clinical handovers no one thought to hand over your name, maybe assumed that it hadn’t been chosen yet, you had been Aoibh for months.

Sometimes it’s still hard not to feel angry when I think of all the time I spent apart from you in those crucial two days. I think about the amount of time it took to get me discharged from the maternity hospital, hours sat waiting for a doctor to say I could go to you. I think about the ICU nurse phoning me ‘just to check when I would be over to visit’. I assume that that ICU nurse knew what I didn’t yet, that time was crucial. I suppose I wonder why that information wasn’t shared, not necessarily with me, but with each other, that getting me discharged was a priority, for me and you. Anyway, I know it doesn’t matter now, but sometimes it’s hard not to fall down that rabbit hole of thinking of all the hours I missed with you.

My social media algorithm has decided that I am keen to see lots of stories about baby loss. I’ll not lie, it’s a lot, a lot to see so much acute pain of others. The irony of me sharing your story on social media is also not lost on me. I did it then because I needed some way to processing my pain and letting others know of you, and I know why those other parents do it now. I know the want to share your story, to talk about you, to remind people of you, because I have realised 8 years on is that my greatest fear is forgetting you, the love of you, the touch of you, the pain of losing you. Yes, I worry about other people forgetting you, but honestly most of all it’s me. 

Life is busy, life is so full in so many ways, and in the midst of that I sometimes wonder, where are you? Am I keeping my promise to you to never forget or have I, in spite of myself, moved on? 

Are you somewhere keeping an eye, maybe you too find it hard to see the Aoibh shaped hole in our lives, that will be eternally present.

So I’ll just do the only thing I can do, keep talking about you, chatting to your brother, sisters and cousins about you, and every so often writing about you.

Anyway, that’s it really, just a note to let you know that we love you, miss you, and wish more than anything that you were here to blow out your own birthday candles.

love always,

Mum