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 15th 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.
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.
I'm sorry.
ReplyDeleteThanks for writing and sharing this.
Thank you. Appreciate it and thanks for reading.
DeleteLiam - just came across this. Thanks for sharing - it is a powerful piece.
ReplyDelete