Since I’ve had my daughter I’ve been obsessed with taking photos. Every new outfit she wears requires a photo. Every time she does something for the first time, I need a photo of that. There are moments where I see her taking pleasure in little things like blowing bubbles in the garden, or playing at being a doctor with stuffed teddies- that needs a photo too. In fact, I have over 5000 photos of my daughter on my phone alone! I try to pass off the photo taking as a hobby, but really I know it’s bordering obsession. The walls in my house are slowly becoming a patchwork of memories. Inches of wall space are ordained with these priceless images I take of her. No need to worry about painting and decorating as you can barely see the hall way walls! I’m clearly a show off. I created this little miracle, and damn it, she’s mine to be proud of!
But the real truth is behind the camera phone there is a mother who’s terrified. Im a mother who wants to make sure she will remember every moment she has with her little girl. Im a mother who wants to capture every memory ‘just in case’. The threat of the unexpected; the fear of uncertainty; and the anxiety of the unknown permanently chips away at any optimism I have on any given day. This is how a mother who has lost a child behaves.
I don’t remember seeing Isaac for the first time. In fact, I think about 20 others, mainly doctors and nurses, saw him before I did. I wasn’t even conscious when he was born! I was fighting for my life like he was. We were both unaware of the trauma going on around us. I look back on that day and I feel cheated. It shouldn’t have been that way, and we have evidence of that now. Not only was I cheated out of that first unforgettable glimpse of my baby, but I actually don’t really remember what I saw when I eventually did lay eyes on Isaac. I was coming round from a general anaesthetic and heavily medicated. I had lost a lot of blood and I was in pain. All I remember seeing were wires. Lots of wires. I have no memory of his face, his hands, his tiny body. Just wires. The only reason I know he had fair hair and was perfectly formed was because of a photo I have of that moment. It’s a real memory that I can’t remember happening. And it was the start of my obsession with photos.
On the day Isaac was born he was taken away from me. I was left in that god forsaken hospital alone whilst he was being transferred to his final home at St.Thomas’. I didn’t understand what was happening. All around me strange, peculiar things you don’t expect to happen in a hospital were happening. Nurses were telling me they were praying for Isaac. Consultants were crying. Darren’s mum and brother suddenly appeared out of no where. My mum was being strangely quiet when normally she would take charge of any silliness like this. It all seemed nonsensical. I don’t remember having or seeing my son but I was told he was very unwell and now being transferred. I believe I was told this at least two times every five minutes. I was still confused and still quite heavily sedated. I question whether that was for pain management or to ‘manage’ me now. However, I was desperate to see him. I called Darren and he sent me the photo that was taken of me seeing him for the first time. I saw his face for the first time properly. He existed beneath those wires. He was real. I needed to get out of that hospital and be with him.
After eventually securing my escape nearly two days later, i was transferred to St.Thomas’ to be with Isaac. I saw my son properly in the flesh. Shock and horror set in as I reeled at NASA-like machinery and endless lines and tubes surrounding him. Underneath all that futuristic technology lay my baby dressed in his brain cooling suit, reminiscent of an astronaut ready for flight. Ironic really, seeing as he wasn’t much longer for this world. Looking past this macabre space age scene, his tiny body looked almost lifeless; his expression suspended. But I could see he was beautiful. I could see the fair hair and perfectly formed features. This was the first time I really saw my baby. And of course, I captured it on film. The photo of my first real sight of Isaac is now a canvas on my dining room wall.
With Isaac’s life hanging in the balance, I sat beside him wordless and in a daze. I rarely moved from that spot by his cot for the remaining four days I had with him. I had already lost two days with him whilst being held hostage in that other hospital, begging to be taken to St.Thomas’ who had already secured me a bed. I wasn’t going to sacrifice more time for pointless things like my own obs, or food, or sleep. I knew the reality: he wasn’t going to be with us for long. Beside me the whole time was Darren, and my phone. So, i took photos every time the nurses did something like change his nappy. I took photos of him when he had his hand held by Darren or other family members. I even took photos of him from different angles of the cot! Anything and everything just so I could keep that memory alive forever. I couldn’t forget. I wouldn’t forget.
We even have christening photos. He was four days old when we were told we should arrange a christening with the hospital chaplain, Mia, ‘just in case’. There are no smiles, fancy clothes or pretty church. Instead my son became part of God’s family in a intensive care ward with his mother in pjs and his father unshaven. All of this is etched in photos by the nurses: the divine moments of a celestial boy’s baptism. Another, ‘just in case’ moment captured to memory.
And then there’s the photo where Isaac clasped my fingers. It is my most treasured image of all. It’s full of life. It shows he lived. He was my earthly baby for a while. I look at that photo and I remember his little hand; the pressure of him squeezing my fingers and the hope it gave. There is nothing quite like your baby squeezing your fingers. It’s like they are silently telling you they are yours. They belong to you. Isaac was my baby. He knew I was his mummy. I have the evidence. I know he knew.
The real reason for my obsession with photos? Fear. If I can commit it to photo and it’s then taken away from me I still know it existed. If the worst happens I have an image of those happier times forever, even when my own memory fades. It is real. It happened. I have proof. Isaac was real. He was a fair haired baby, perfectly formed who loved his mummy and daddy. I have proof.
I now take beautiful shots of my daughter and feel proud. I’m proud of the little person she is and I want to show her off. But there is a tiny part of me that does it from fear. Fear of her leaving me too. I hate the fear. I despise it. I despise myself sometimes for even thinking that way. But my anxiety cannot always be tamed. My fear cannot be totally pacified. When the the worst has happened to you, the worry is always there, lurking in all you do. You see, I can take every precaution I can to keep my daughter safe. I can play the odds, take out insurance and plan for eventualities. But I can’t predict the future. I can’t keep what could happen at bay. Life may be wonderful for us in the future. It may not- and that’s the fear speaking- but at least I can keep my memories forever. I can take a photo of moments to be proud of; times we are happy; achievements and small joys. They may make me smile. They make me cry. But they are mine, always.
Simone
