Last month Darren and I were invited to attend a multidisciplinary meeting for neonatal staff at St Thomas’ Hospital. We were asked to tell Isaac’s story to a host of medical staff including doctors, consultants and nurses. As much as it was an honour to be involved, it was daunting to say the least. We would be speaking about Isaac to this group of professionals so they could gain some insight in to the way a parent feels when they loose a child. Ultimately, it was to help them better their practice when dealing with grieving families. So yes, daunting, but an opportunity to help make a difference in Isaac’s name.
The nerves took hold on the journey down and I couldn’t think of any good reason for putting myself through this. It wasn’t just about reliving what happened to us, it was also about speaking to a group of experienced practitioners who deal with child bereavement every day. Isaac’s story is just one of many. Why was it important they knew about it? Why would it be of interest to them? I’ve been on many CPD sessions over the years and I can honestly say by the afternoon I was more than ready to leave! I pictured bored individuals doodling on paper as we spoke about our precious son and decided I really didn’t want to go. Darren reassured me I didn’t need to speak if I didn’t want to. Instead I made a plan to assume the role of a nodding dog and go along with whatever he said.
We were met in the foyer by our child bereavement counsellor, Mollie, who had organised the programme for the day. As always, she was kind, calm and incredibly reassuring. She spoke to us about being honest, describing what happened and speaking about what could have been done to help us cope more easily- if that could ever have been possible! I explained how nervous I was; that I didn’t want to do this now. Give me a classroom full of rowdy teenagers to teach and I was fine! But this was something else. I didn’t want to expose myself or how I felt to a group of professionals who might think I was weak, irrelevant or unimportant. Honestly, who am I to tell them how they should do their job?
But I had forgotten how incredibly secure and safe Mollie could make me feel. In the weeks after Isaac’s death we felt like we were floating in some other dimensional abyss; lost and confused about what had happened to our baby. No one knew what to say or how to help us. We went from day to day with no purpose or energy. What was the point of life? Over time, Mollie helped change that feeling of irrelevance. Just having somewhere safe and private to talk about what happened helped. Her reassurance that it was okay to be angry, upset, vulnerable, lost, did help. What we had to say was valid and being able to talk about Isaac was important. We knew him. He was our baby. We had a right to feel the way we did. Looking back, Mollie saved us. That is no exaggeration. Without her we wouldn’t have been able to process what had happened to us and live again.
Mollie once again reassured us that the professionals in the room would all want to hear what we had to say. Her gentle manner and motherly approach was enough to convince me. So, off we went. I pushed Darren in front of me like a little school kid not wanting to go to class. I stumbled in, trying to not make eye contact, but we were led up the front of the room and sat in a circle with the group. I felt exposed to say the least, but I took a deep breath and remembered it was for my son; for other parents of loss; for us.
I won’t bore you with the details of the talk but needless to say, all my fears of being irrelevant or saying something silly were unfounded. In fact, in a way it was quite therapeutic. We got to speak openly about our son, something we rarely do. We were able to honestly explain the effect loosing a child has on a parent. We answered questions about what the hospital could do to help parents who were grieving. Much of what we said was praise for the staff we had met during Isaac’s care and after. To say we were lucky that Isaac was transferred to this hospital seems almost ridiculous because we still lost him. But, during his time at St Thomas’ he received the best possible care. And we were also cared for by them for a long time after- from the ongoing support from Mollie, to the expert care and advice from Isaac’s consultant, Alan, about his concerns to do with the hospital Isaac was born in. They kept us going; kept us sane. And even now we still speak to them. Not many consultants or nurses stay in touch with the parents of their patients. Ours have. Not long ago, Isaac’s consultant sent me a message thanking us for taking part in the day. Isaac’s nurse, Debbie, is one of the most compassionate and caring professionals I have ever met. She often still meets up with us when we are at the hospital and we message regularly. Again, this only proves how quite amazing and unique the staff at St Thomas’ are.
We sat in this meeting as the face of tragedy, but we showed there was more to Isaac’s story than grief. His life had a purpose that brought out the best in people. In terms of the staff at St Thomas we witnessed their care and compassion; their professionalism and expertise; and more than anything, their passion to help sick children and their parents. The professionals at the meeting were not only interested in hearing what we had to say but also in helping other parents through the trauma of loss. They showed empathy and understanding about how the whole experience has affected us. By the end, many of the group were in tears. Whether it was through sympathy or just picturing the horrors that befell us, it showed they cared. Isaac was important.
Seven years today we lost our boy. We hope Isaac’s memory continues to live on by helping others, whether it’s through fundraising for the hospital or helping to educate people on the subject of child loss. Never did we expect our son’s life to have such meaning and such an impact on others to do good. It shows Isaac was important, and still is.
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