A Bereaved Father - Fionnuala's Story

Today we visited our daughter’s grave.

A short sentence. Only six words. Six words that no parent would ever hope to have to utter, but today it’s my reality. A few weeks before Christmas, my wife and I tragically lost our beautiful daughter, Fionnuala, at just 22 weeks.

I’ll never forget the sheer wave of excitement that washed over me the day Colleen told me she was pregnant. The unadulterated joy of new life, of unconditional love I felt that day was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Our love had created a new life and it took every ounce of willpower inside me not to walk out the door and tell every single soul I could find the good news.

That joy was only surpassed at our first scan, 13 weeks in. Seeing Fionnuala’s little heart beating and her tiny limbs waving around happily. For all the world it felt like a greeting, an excited ‘hello’ to her parents, who beamed from ear to ear at the sight. We have a scan photo where she is almost looking directly at us and it is something that we both treasure.

Friends and family were, of course, delighted at the news of our first child. There was hearty congratulations coupled with the usual tongue-in-cheek warnings of kissing goodbye to a decent sleep that accompany any new arrival. We were ecstatic.

This I’m sure is familiar to many people throughout the world. Babies are born every day and every single one is met with some degree of hope and joy.

Around the beginning of December, the US TV drama This is Us was broadcast for the first time in the UK. Intrigued, having watched a trailer, I tuned in. Colleen had already gone to bed as Fionnuala was already being a wee rascal and leaving her exhausted.

Out of the blue came a poignant scene, one of those pieces of art that leaves you in stunned silence at what you have just witnessed. The television equivalent of a piece of writing that makes you set the book down and sit in reverent silence for a moment or two.

A mother, expecting triplets, had tragically lost one of the children during labour. The distraught father was being counselled by the doctor, who himself had lost a child many years ago. I watched as the performance left me barely breathing and gripped with emotion.

I still don’t know why it gripped me so convincingly that night. Maybe it was the fact that we were expecting a child. Maybe it was the potency of the words used, or maybe it was just a powerful piece of acting. Its poignancy was not lost on me in the weeks that followed.

We arrived for our 20-week scan bursting with hope. Colleen, admittedly, had been worried, but I was trying to assure her that everything was going to be okay. I was still riding a wave of excitement, giddy with the highs of expectant fatherhood.

What was to follow was an erratic appointment. Our midwife was finding it difficult to get a good scan as Fionnuala was not assuming a convenient position. We joked that she was like her father, avoiding the camera, or like her mother, unable to sit still, but it was hard to shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Finally, the midwife was able to confirm a heartbeat and we could see her moving, but she was unable to ascertain all the information she required.

As we became more distressed, we were ushered into a room across the corridor where midwives with whom we were more familiar attempted to calm our rising fears. In our haste, we hadn’t been able to get any photos from the scan. They had not said that there was anything specific wrong, but we were anxious that she had been unable to get a good scan.

Perhaps seeing the confusion and worry etched on our faces, the midwife arranged an appointment for the Monday morning, just three days later. I reassured Colleen that everything would be fine. In hindsight, it was myself I was attempting to placate.

As I arrived at work for the afternoon, I was met with the inevitable well-meaning questions about how the appointment had gone. I had my lines well prepared, but could feel my voice shaking a little as I relayed the news that the midwife had been unable to confirm all that she needed to.

Everyone, to their credit, was quick to reassure me, some even retelling their own stories of having to return for an extra scan. This set my mind at ease a little and I was still upbeat as we returned to hospital on Monday morning.

I can still hear the words that the consultant uttered clearly in my head. I can hear the deafening silence descending on the room, the drawing of breath, the sudden change in tone.

“Guys, I have some bad news.”

I can only describe what I felt in the minutes that followed as magnified reality. The rumble of chatter from the waiting room faded far into the background. I could feel pressure on the back of my neck as my blood ran cold and the grip of Colleens hand in mine intensified as she explained the situation. Fionnuala’s heart had stopped. I remember the solitary word that I uttered as my heartbroken wife collapsed into my arms.

“How?”

We listened grimly to the consultant as she explained what was to follow and the choices we had to make. I listened to her as our hearts were breaking. I listened as Colleen broke down in tears beside me. I wrapped my arms around her and tried to reassure her that everything was going to be okay. An automatic reaction, futile words against the sheer desolation felt in that moment. Our beautiful daughter, who had known nothing but love, was gone.

We made our way to my parents’ house. We didn’t know what else to do. My mother dropped everything and drove home from Derry to be with us. We talked. We cried. The word gradually began to spread among our families. They were devastated. Seeing their grief was almost as heart-wrenching as losing Fionnuala in the first place.

By this stage, I had developed a coping mechanism. I internalised my grief, readied my script in my head. Friends and family rang to offer their condolences but I could only get a few words into the script before I felt my voice breaking in pain. Eventually I stopped answering and resorted to text. I decided I had to at least try and appear strong, hold it in, put Colleen first.

The few days before we returned to hospital to deliver our daughter are a blur of tears and visitors. Colleen’s mother and aunt drove from Fermanagh to be with us. Her mum stayed for a week, looking after us in the house. I will never forget both our families’ and friends’ acts of kindness and love.

There were, of course, brief moments of laughter. It was almost like a wake. We wondered out loud if the Irish found it possible to deal with death without some degree of levity.

I vividly remember the evening we went to the hospital. We were due to arrive at 7pm. Around 5 I pulled on my coat and walked to the shop. I needed a few minutes to clear my head. When I returned, the hospital had been in touch asking us not to attend until 9pm.

As I drove down the M2 towards the Royal, the tears were brimming my eyes. It was difficult to believe that this was an actual situation in which we found ourselves. The M2 leading into Belfast is one of my favourite stretches of road. On a bright, sunny day, the sun shimmers on Belfast Lough as it welcomes you in. On a clear evening, the moon repeats the beautiful imagery. This night, however, the sky was dark, overcast and moonless.

At 01:46am on December 15^th 2016, Fionnuala Tunney was born sleeping.

Following her birth, it felt like the whole world was contained in that little room in the Royal Victoria Hospital. Nothing else mattered.

Although it may seem strange to anyone who hasn't experienced it, at that moment we felt the emotions that all new parents feel. I felt the elation of becoming a father. We held our new-born child in our arms and we smiled. We held her close, wrapped in a blanket my grandmother had knitted. We cradled her head in the hat I had worn at my own baptism. We introduced Fionnuala to her grandparents and speculated wildly at who she resembled most closely.

The time we spent together as a family in that room was the most precious memory. We held each other. We held our daughter. We smiled together. We cried together. We kissed her and laid her resting in her cot.

Our incredible midwife brought us all that we needed. She helped us make hand and footprints for the memory box. She smiled with us and shared in our joy. She took pictures, marvelled at Fionnuala’s perfectly formed little hands, just like her mother’s, and allowed us to drink in every priceless memory of our beautiful angel.

After spending the night with Fionnuala at our sides, Colleen and I held each other tightly as the midwives brought her away. We returned to the blur of visitors, condolences and a steady stream of flowers at our door, all the while preparing for what would be the toughest day of all. Her funeral.

In the meantime, I went back to work.

When I phoned my principal to explain I wanted to come back in for the two and a half days we had left, he was taken aback. He asked if I was sure. I said that I was. I knew that being in school, around the children, would not only keep me busy, but would make me smile. Their joy and wonder at preparing for Christmas was enough to sweep me along and keep me smiling. The support of everyone at work and the parents in the school was really uplifting and greatly helped both Colleen and I in our grief.

The afternoon that we finished for Christmas, I went to the undertaker to make final arrangements for my daughter’s funeral. Colleen and I had collected up some things to place in Fionnuala’s coffin. A small teddy that had been with her throughout the evening she was born. A photo of her mummy and daddy. Her mum’s scarf to keep her warm.

The undertaker gave me a few moments alone with her. I stood with her, again feeling the magnified reality as the distant rumble of the traffic outside gave way to serenity. I kissed her gently on the forehead one last time. When I got back into my car, I wept.

I had never fully appreciated the meaning of the word ‘weep’ until that day. It had always been just a powerful verb I would teach to my class that they could use instead of ‘cry’. I sat there, my hands gripping the steering wheel in a car park in Kilrea, a car park I had been in dozens of times growing up, and I wept uncontrollably for the loss of my daughter.

The tears flowed out. It was as if someone had turned a tap. The hurt and heartbreak of the previous week came flooding out of me. I could see people walking up and down the street, oblivious to the grieving father in the car park.

The day Fionnuala was buried the rain and wind swept the graveyard. Dozens of people continued to arrive to pay their respects to a little girl who had been with us for such a short time. We were so humbled that so many took the time, particularly so close to Christmas, to come and sympathise with us in our time of sorrow.

The wind and rain howled an epitaph like the keeners of a forgotten time as we lowered the tiny white coffin next to my grandfather in Rasharkin. The weekend before Fionnuala was born I had come across a photograph of Granda nursing me as an infant on his knee, a wide smile on both our faces. I asked him quickly to pass on the same laughter and love to his great-granddaughter. I have no doubt he will.

The word ‘hero’ is greatly overused. Throughout this experience I have learned its true meaning and discovered a new hero. I have long known that my wife is an incredible person. Her heart quite simply bursts with love for those for whom she cares. Colleen, you are my hero. Your love, support and sheer courage throughout this time has made something unimaginably sad into a positive.

Our love created a person. We became parents. We met our daughter and spent time with her. We got to say goodbye. We have a bank of memories bursting at the seams. Our little girl will always live in our hearts. We will always be her mum and dad and I believe she will look after us.

Yesterday we visited our daughter’s grave. We will always love her.

Myself and my wife are currently fundraising for SANDS (Stillbirth and Neonatal Death charity) who do invaluable work with bereaved parents. You can donate via the JustGiving page:

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/fionnualatunney

Or alternatively text WEFI93 followed by the amount e.g. £2 to 70070.