Every so often I will see something in a news article, on TV or on social media that makes me feel like I've been punched in the gut. Hard.
This week, a mother in a local mother's Facebook group I belong to posted a photo of a little boy, 4 months old with a caption that read something like, "my friend had to say goodbye to her beautiful baby boy. He died in his sleep. Please help as we raise some money to help out with the costs of this unexpected tragedy".
I stood there, frozen in my kitchen over the steamed broccoli I was preparing for Little L. My eyes went watery and I'm certain that if I'd spoken my voice would have cracked. Instantly thought of my own mother, 25 years ago.
This is the story of my baby sister.
Me, my dad and Phoebe. One of only two photos I have of her. Phoebe was born on 11 October 1988, just over 15 months after me. I have no memory of her. We do have some photos, home videos and stories from parents, grandparent, aunts and uncles. When Phoebe was born, she had a shock of long hair and it always stood up in a Mohawk-y fashion. Tiny and cute. Phoebe passed away when she was just 9 weeks old. That afternoon was apparently pretty typical. A woman frazzled from attending to a newborn baby as well as wrestling with the mighty toddler. After both babies went to bed and the house was quiet, my mum took herself to bed and fell deeply asleep. My dad is in the fire brigade and that week he was working the day shift. As was the norm, he came upstairs, checked on both of his daughters and went to bed. the rest of their story is vague, probably because it is just too painful to re-live. From what I can gather, my mum woke in the early hours of the morning, engorged and ready to feed Phoebe. She went in to find her still, cold body. The next few days were filled with police visits, an autopsy and a memorial service. In other words, utter, pure hell. My paternal grandmother said that I stopped speaking, and began biting, amongst other serious anti-social behaviours. Phoebe's death took a toll on our family that we could not come back from.
My mum and Hannah - Red Nose Day 1990. 14 months after Phoebe passed away, Hannah was born. Hannah was a beautiful, angelic, gentle soul and she still is to this very day. I can only imagine what it was like for my mum and dad back then. My uncle told me that they invested in a hospital grade sensor pad which probably cost an arm and a leg back in the 90's. Phoebe's death, took its toll on my parents marriage and, in my opinion lead to the breakdown of it. My mother never, ever recovered. Do I blame her? Not. One. Tiny. Bit.
I was the most paranoid pregnant woman. No hot baths or showers, no soft cheeses, no nothing. Now I have Little L, the first few months were spent holding my finger under her nose to check she was breathing. In the hospital I was afraid to fall asleep because I was so scared. If I could have wrapped her in cotton wool I would have. The initial anxiety has worn off, but I still check her several times a night.
I'm not telling this story to cast a morbid cloud on your day. I'm telling this story because I need to. I need to let the world know that my baby sister's short time on this earth has shaped me forever. I have no memory of her, but I still think about her all the time.
We know a lot more about SIDS (or cot death as it was known as back then). Sids and Kids provide education to parents and councelling for bereaved mother's and fathers. I thank them for that from the bottom of my heart. They caught my mother just in time and saved her from a truly dark place.
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