Hamish

I tell half truths about my first-born baby boy. I tell friends who don’t know what actually happened that I had a baby who was still born at twenty-six weeks. I might add that he had a congenital heart defect and that we loved him very much but I wouldn’t explain why he was born in Liverpool while we were living in Ireland.  Friends visiting my house might notice the photo of the baby in a tiny blue knitted hat but don’t comment because he is clearly not my daughter. My daughter knows that she had an older brother who had a poorly heart and died before she was born. I wonder if she ever found his death certificate would she ask me what the word feticide meant. What would I say?  

I’d tell her that her brother was diagnosed with hypoplastic left heart syndrome and was considered to be a poor candidate for surgery. I’d tell her that we did not want to cause him suffering and that we did not think we would be able to manage with such a poorly baby, living miles away from our families and specialist heart services. I’d probably add that we made the best decision that we could and that while we were devastated at having been in that situation, we had over the years, come to accept that we had chosen to end our pregnancy.  

I would not share the despair and the thick and unrelenting grief that we felt or how in the first few months I could not drive as I did not trust myself not to drive into another car such was my rage and anger. Neither would I share how I felt that I had turned into a different person who was incapable of feeling anything other than a profound sense of loss and trauma.   

I would want my daughter to know that sometimes you have to make decisions that impact on who you are as a person or how others perceive you, but that only those who have shared your experiences can really understand why.