Gone Back Again

I think this might be a bit of a “sharp-intake-of-breath” - type post and it may shock or offend some of you.

I usually think I'm very hard to shock, but an email I received recently did shock me – and, actually, offended me too. Though the people who sent it would be astonished to know that.

Some of you already know that in 1984 our first baby was born prematurely and lived for three weeks.

Slightly over a year ago, an ex-colleague of mine also gave birth to a premature baby, which had died in the womb at only slightly over half the usual gestation period of forty weeks.

Now she and her husband are planning to run workshops for other parents or relatives of dead babies, the aim being “story capture” - in other words – though rather trendily and, to me, annoyingly phrased - to write down everyone's story. They sent me an email to tell me this, and to ask me to publicise it.

I understand that this might help some people, though it would not be the kind of thing I'd be interested in.

What I really didn't like was that the email was signed by both parents - - and also by the dead baby. In other words – say the parents were called Peter and Alison, which they're not, and say the baby was called Edward, which he wasn't - the email was from “Peter, Alison and Edward”.

And the address to reply to was the equivalent of babyedward@hotmail (dot)co(dot)uk

Now, this couple clearly believe that their baby is still with them. But they sent this email to me. And they know that my baby died. And d'you know what, I don't believe that my baby's still with me: I believe he's dead, because that's what I believe. And I don't want other people's “our baby is still with us and yours is still with you” beliefs inflicted on me. No, I don't. No no no no no no no no NO.

In every previous century babies died all the time. The parents frequently didn't bother giving them a name for months, because babies often died before their first birthday anyway.

We've forgotten this. We've gone to the other extreme. We're trying to keep incredibly premature babies alive at all costs – physical damage, brain damage – because nowadays, if we have a baby, we expect him or her to live.

Exactly a hundred and twenty-one years and one month ago, things were different.

Look at the simple dignity of this letter, which starts:

My dear Papa

I am Glad to tell you Mama (h)as got it over, about three o'clock this afternoon. It was a little boy but it is gone back again. Mama is going on as well as you can expect.

The subject of the letter, John's great-grandmother, had eight children. Four grew up. Four went back again. Not unusual for the times.

In the context of those times, and of the religious beliefs of the letter's recipient, I find the letter very touching.

My baby's death has been a great tragedy to me and it's only recently that it's felt as though it happened the day before yesterday, rather than yesterday.

But I wish that we, as a society, could accept that babies die sometimes. Instead of dwelling on that “he's still with you” and “he's gone to a better place” - type sentiment, I wish that we could accept that people will die – and then, from that knowledge, let's treasure life and look after each other.

Very many thanks to John, who gave me permission to show you his great-grandmother's letter.