Treasures? My vision goes a little blurry at the sight of them.
Oh my God.
My heart pounds faster, if that’s possible. I hold my breath and crouch over the box. On top of all the items in the box is a photograph. It’s not particularly in focus but it’s of a baby – a tiny, naked, baggy-skinned baby – lying in a clear plastic hospital cot. The baby is blue-grey-purple and has no nappy wrapped round its frog-like legs. A white plastic bracelet dwarfs its twiggy arm.
Someone has written in blue marker:
Charles Edward. Born prem at 22 wks. 20/9/07 to 24/9/07.
I lift the photo with freezing fingers. I’m shivering. Beneath it I find a tiny woollen hat, knitted in the finest and palest blue yarn. A bloodied yellow umbilical cord clip is nestled within the woolly folds. Then I see a strip of printed-out ultrasound scan photographs, already yellowing around the edges with age. I’ve seen these type of things on the telly and admit to taking a look at some on the internet, wondering what it would be like to have the doctor explain to me where each limb was, if it was a boy or a girl, showing me the flappy heartbeat as it lub-dubbed what little blood had so far formed around tiny veins.
The small digital print on the dark image reads
Claudia Brown
. They are her scan pictures then, but the date – 19/4/2003 – tells me they are not from this pregnancy. The womb is identifiable – a dark oval area – and within this space is a fuzzy white-grey blob. If it’s a foetus, it doesn’t look very big. I am staring inside Claudia’s womb. The thought makes me shake more. On the back, someone has written:
Baby Ella. 18 weeks. Stillborn.
Saliva pools in my mouth as if I’m about to be sick.
I continue my trawl of tragedy. The box is brimming with many similar mementos, each one a reminder of a baby lost. There are three further scan pictures, each from a different pregnancy taken around fourteen weeks’ gestation and all with the date of miscarriage written on the reverse. There are poems penned by a bereft mind –
My empty arms ache to hold you . . . The smallest fingers, the cutest nose . . . No woman as barren as me
– and a crumpled piece of paper bearing two footprints:
James Michael, passed 7/10/2008
.
‘These are the prints of a doll,’ I whisper, marvelling at the ten tiny perfect toes.
Claudia’s misery, her emptiness and self-loathing are apparent from the heartfelt poems. I’m assuming it was she who wrote them as my eyes drag over the grief they contain. How can one woman suffer such loss and yet still continue to try for a baby? I drop my hands to my lap. It makes me feel even more wretched about what I am going to do to this family. ‘But all this has made her strong,’ I say to myself, stroking the side of the keepsakes box, trying to lessen the guilt.
I stop dead still. Did I hear someone? There it is again.
I replace the lid on the box and shove it back inside the wardrobe. I dash out of the bedroom and run down the stairs. Someone is hammering on the door. When I get there, a delivery man is standing on the top step tapping his fingers on a large package leaning against his thigh. ‘Sign here, please,’ he says impatiently, handing me an electronic gadget and a stylus. I do this, and he passes over the box. He leaves without another word and I lug the delivery inside.
It’s addressed to Claudia, and one end is caved in and damaged. Through the open bit I can see something straw-like but wrapped in plastic. Don’t they say you should check delivered items immediately? Or is that just my inquisitiveness getting the better of me? Either way, I don’t want to get into trouble.
I drag the box through to the kitchen and snip the remaining tape. I peel back the cardboard and inside I find a straw Moses basket wrapped up in polythene. I slide it out of its wrapping and find a crisp set of white sheets and drapery to go on it. I arrange the bedding and set the crib on the white metal
Oh my God.
My heart pounds faster, if that’s possible. I hold my breath and crouch over the box. On top of all the items in the box is a photograph. It’s not particularly in focus but it’s of a baby – a tiny, naked, baggy-skinned baby – lying in a clear plastic hospital cot. The baby is blue-grey-purple and has no nappy wrapped round its frog-like legs. A white plastic bracelet dwarfs its twiggy arm.
Someone has written in blue marker:
Charles Edward. Born prem at 22 wks. 20/9/07 to 24/9/07.
I lift the photo with freezing fingers. I’m shivering. Beneath it I find a tiny woollen hat, knitted in the finest and palest blue yarn. A bloodied yellow umbilical cord clip is nestled within the woolly folds. Then I see a strip of printed-out ultrasound scan photographs, already yellowing around the edges with age. I’ve seen these type of things on the telly and admit to taking a look at some on the internet, wondering what it would be like to have the doctor explain to me where each limb was, if it was a boy or a girl, showing me the flappy heartbeat as it lub-dubbed what little blood had so far formed around tiny veins.
The small digital print on the dark image reads
Claudia Brown
. They are her scan pictures then, but the date – 19/4/2003 – tells me they are not from this pregnancy. The womb is identifiable – a dark oval area – and within this space is a fuzzy white-grey blob. If it’s a foetus, it doesn’t look very big. I am staring inside Claudia’s womb. The thought makes me shake more. On the back, someone has written:
Baby Ella. 18 weeks. Stillborn.
Saliva pools in my mouth as if I’m about to be sick.
I continue my trawl of tragedy. The box is brimming with many similar mementos, each one a reminder of a baby lost. There are three further scan pictures, each from a different pregnancy taken around fourteen weeks’ gestation and all with the date of miscarriage written on the reverse. There are poems penned by a bereft mind –
My empty arms ache to hold you . . . The smallest fingers, the cutest nose . . . No woman as barren as me
– and a crumpled piece of paper bearing two footprints:
James Michael, passed 7/10/2008
.
‘These are the prints of a doll,’ I whisper, marvelling at the ten tiny perfect toes.
Claudia’s misery, her emptiness and self-loathing are apparent from the heartfelt poems. I’m assuming it was she who wrote them as my eyes drag over the grief they contain. How can one woman suffer such loss and yet still continue to try for a baby? I drop my hands to my lap. It makes me feel even more wretched about what I am going to do to this family. ‘But all this has made her strong,’ I say to myself, stroking the side of the keepsakes box, trying to lessen the guilt.
I stop dead still. Did I hear someone? There it is again.
I replace the lid on the box and shove it back inside the wardrobe. I dash out of the bedroom and run down the stairs. Someone is hammering on the door. When I get there, a delivery man is standing on the top step tapping his fingers on a large package leaning against his thigh. ‘Sign here, please,’ he says impatiently, handing me an electronic gadget and a stylus. I do this, and he passes over the box. He leaves without another word and I lug the delivery inside.
It’s addressed to Claudia, and one end is caved in and damaged. Through the open bit I can see something straw-like but wrapped in plastic. Don’t they say you should check delivered items immediately? Or is that just my inquisitiveness getting the better of me? Either way, I don’t want to get into trouble.
I drag the box through to the kitchen and snip the remaining tape. I peel back the cardboard and inside I find a straw Moses basket wrapped up in polythene. I slide it out of its wrapping and find a crisp set of white sheets and drapery to go on it. I arrange the bedding and set the crib on the white metal
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