Your birth – 8^th November 2006

Your mum had gone into labour (in the early hours I think). I was on tenterhooks all day – waiting for the news. The message came through and I was delighted to share the news with my colleagues in the office. It wasn’t pure elation – there had been some complications with the placenta following the birth, and I was concerned about your mum’s health.

Still, I left work early to pick up a newspaper and the number one single for your birthday.  I had done this for Rakhi and wanted to continue the tradition. I actually had an imaginary conversation with your future self – in the conversation I would explain what CDs were, and that Fedde Le Grand’s ‘Put Your Hands Up For Detroit’ was number one when you were born and you would find it hilarious that your old masi used to go clubbing…I imagined a future where we were on a dancefloor dancing to this together while I told you that it’s our song!

Meeting you – 9^th November 2006

I couldn’t wait to meet you and hold you. I’m so glad I got to have those precious moments. You cried the whole time, and I have been haunted ever since with the hindsight that you might have been in pain. I hope you weren’t.

The worst 24 hours of my life – Late 10^th November-11^th November 2006

It was a Friday night. I’d been at the cinema with my best friend, Sarah. I was watching the Borat film and laughing so hard my stomach hurt (I know it hasn’t aged well!!). It often crosses my mind that I was laughing so hard while my sister and brother-in-law were going through the most unimaginable traumatic experience. It’s not guilt I feel as I couldn’t have known, but it’s a horribly unsettling feeling to know this and something I think of whenever I remember that night, or whenever I see the film pop up in my suggested viewing list (I haven’t wanted to watch it again).

I had loads of missed calls from Tiggi Masi (my and your mum’s eldest sister). She had left a voicemail saying that you had been taken into hospital and you were very ill. I called her back from the foyer of the cinema, holding down bile as I got the scant details that you were ill, and you had been rushed to A&E in an ambulance. The desperate hoping kicked in. It would be ok. You would be ok. This happens to other people not to us. You would be ok…

Sarah was an angel. She got me to the tube station and travelled most of the way with me. When the train came out of the tunnel at Golder’s Green I called Tiggi again. She said you were gone. She repeated it: ‘the baby’s gone; he died’. Probably because I didn’t speak. I was in shock when I hung up. I didn’t react. It was when I looked at Sarah and repeated Tiggi’s words, it was when I saw the tears roll down her cheeks that it sunk in. I still didn’t break down. I swallowed the pain and sobs down my throat and got through the motions of travelling towards family. Tiggi picked me up at the station and drove me to your house. All of us aunts and uncle were there. All wanting to be there to look over Rakhi who was sleeping upstairs and just to be together while our parents supported your parents at the hospital.

We sat for hours in silence and stared at a room that had all the hallmarks of a home overturned by the joyful welcoming of a newborn. Cards, flowers, toys, and a bouncer in the middle of the room. I stared at the bouncer for so long before moving it to the side of the room – I couldn’t bear to look at it knowing there was no baby. I later felt guilty that I had disrupted the room. It wouldn’t be how your parents left it.

Some time later a key turned in the door. Your dad walked in. We didn’t want to overwhelm him – he’s never been the biggest hugger, but I was struck by how formal he was. I looked over his shoulder and saw a police officer and I think a paramedic. They had to check the house for any signs of negligence or abuse – it wasn’t said but this is my understanding of why they were there. My heart broke so many times over this period but seeing your dad there, sombrely leading the police and paramedic upstairs is one of the worst points.

At some point the grandparents came home and we all hugged each other. Everyone was so tired and bewildered – yet it was comforting to connect in this way. We drove home and went to bed, though very little sleep came. This was the first night of many where when I did sleep, I fell asleep crying, and I woke up crying as soon as the memory that the worst had happened came back to me.

The next morning Nani came into mine and Tiggi’s room early. She was letting us know that she was going to your house where she had arranged to meet your dad and pack a hospital bag to bring for your mum. I jumped out of bed bleary-eyed. I was going with her. I needed to see my sister.

Other family members were already at yours when we got there. Your dad was answering their questions. Nani was getting frustrated. She wanted to get to your mum as soon as possible, as did I. Eventually I went up to pack the hospital bag myself. I was taking Rakhi upstairs with me, she was only 15 months old and adorable with big eyes, chubby cheeks and sticky out ears!

I’d been holding my tears in with everyone downstairs feeling a need to mirror your dad’s and my mum’s stoicism. But I couldn’t help but break down on the stairs. Rakhi was in front of me but noticed I had stopped for a moment. She stopped too – she turned to look at me and she wiped my tears and said ‘bas’ – the word we used when saying ‘stop your tears’ to her. It really is no wonder she is training to be a Nurse right now – her empathy in that moment and the comfort she bought over this whole time was incredible.

We got to the hospital. My mum and I so desperate to see your mum. We walked into the room, and she stood up from the bed. The way she looked in that moment is etched in my brain. She looked at our mum and just fell into her arms and she cried. She said something about producing milk and there’s no baby and my heart shattered into a million pieces. I didn’t cry in front of her. My jaw and throat hurt from holding back the tears, but I needed to be strong for your mum. I needed to hold it together so she could fall apart as much as she needed to.

The next few days are a blur. Going from celebrating a new baby to mourning one is such an unnatural and surreal experience. Calling relatives and family friends to break the news hammered home the reality. Calling work to say I would be taking a day off and hearing their reaction – all made it hit home a little more.

It was a time where cultural nuances created frustration. An Indian tendency to hide emotions but go through the motions of ritual and ceremony. A mindset that things have to be done in a certain way. Many weeks later I heard from your mum how kind and helpful Nana had been during this time. Guiding your parents to do what felt right for them. I’m so proud to have him as a father when I think of this. You looked so much like him when you were born. I wonder if you would have taken after him in other ways – your younger sister, Aisha, certainly does!

The goodbye – 15^th November 2006

Another day full of indelible memories. But I remember them in snippets:

Your dad walking into the house carrying your tiny white coffin. I want to hug him tight whenever I think of this memory. I don’t know how he got through that moment and all the others.

Your casket was open while we conducted the Hindu rituals. I just stared and stared at your tiny little face. I tried to catch your mum’s eye, to find some way to comfort her, but she had her eyes down for most of the day. I gave her space to be in the world however she needed that day. I thought of your parents washing and dressing you at the funeral directors that morning. Nani put new shoes and an outfit into your coffin. Relatives placed petals on your tiny body. One petal had fallen on your face. I brushed it away when it was my time to come up. Your skin was so soft, but it was so cold.

At the crematorium Naina Fai (dad’s sister) stood with me while I read a poem your mum had chosen. I should have swapped in with her and shared the reading. I should have read it more slowly.  I was too focussed on holding it together and getting through the day.

Learning to smile again, learning to dance again.

Everyone has a unique grief journey. Mine went from falling asleep and waking up crying every day for weeks and weeks on end, to one day realising I hadn’t cried first thing in the morning – and it was ok. And then a day came where I realised, I hadn’t cried at all. Then a day came where I didn’t cry, and I no longer felt a pang of guilt ‘for forgetting’. It went from not knowing how to smile and laugh and thinking I would never do these things again, to one day finding something amusing, and then another day laughing and then another laughing and not feeling guilty because you weren’t here.

It isn’t a linear journey though. Birthdays/anniversaries bring the pain and memories up all over again.  In the run up to anniversaries I would hide in the toilets at work and cry because the grief would come crushing in while the world around me kept going as if nothing had happened.

Your mum, Tiggi and I were already close but talking about the experience of your birth and death and our grief journeys since has brought us even closer. It’s not all we talk about, but we know we can be vulnerable and open with each other when we need to.  Sometimes when your mum talks about the actions she took to understand the cause of your death and the questions she still has, I think of the time she came over for a meal while she was pregnant with you. I had put out some washed grapes but after eating them she and Nani were ill. The thought that this could have somehow affected your health has always played on my mind.

When I sign cards from all the family, as I write out each name, my heart skips a beat as I don’t write your name between Rakhi and Aisha’s names. I always add a kiss for you at the bottom though. I’m not sure if anyone notices the number of kisses but I know.

My friend Amy’s niece was born two months after you – she shared the news at work and while I was so happy for her, I couldn’t contain my heartbreak. She recently showed me a picture of her niece now, looking all grown up. As lovely as it was to see my friend’s pride in her family, I had to look away a bit too quickly – the pain of not knowing what you would look like now flooding into the moment.

There are positives too. I started running to raise money for Sands – I needed something positive to focus on. I thought of you on so many of those runs and you got me through a fair few pain barriers.

Our song (Put Your Hands Up For Detroit) would come on when I eventually felt up to going out again. In the early days I would stop short on the dance floor as soon as the familiar intro kicked in. The tears would overflow, and my wonderful friends would come and hold me and comfort me. While I held it together for family, I cried as much as needed to with friends. I cannot thank them enough for the listening ears, hugs and support they gave me through this time.

In 2021 we went on a family trip to Tenby. Me, Jon Masa (you would have loved him), your mum, dad, sisters and Rio the dog, plus Nana and Nani. We were walking through the town and the familiar sound of Put Your Hands Up For Detroit drifted out of one of the bars. I stopped dead. I couldn’t believe that this, by now old, song was playing right there in that moment, on this family trip. I smiled at the thought that you had joined us on this trip in your own way, and I recalled the conversation we never got to have.

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