28 September, 6 months. James decided to dig deep into his wardrobe and have a clean out. A feat generally unheard of from a teenage boy! I didn’t realise he was even doing it until he emerged carrying a box. Apologising to me he handed me the box telling me he thought that in it were some birthday cards. James’ bedroom used to be Pippa’s before I moved her into a room close to mine. Close so I could hear her every breath every night. And then, later, I moved her even closer – right into my room. James was correct. In the box was a collection of birthday cards of Pippa’s. I knew this without lifting the lid. But lift the lid I did anyway. To my amazement sitting on the very top of some of her birthday cards from when she was a toddler were two ultrasound pictures. They were from twelve years ago to the day. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck, my heart stopped and I burst into tears.
Ten fingers and ten toes. As parents we all check and count with the same intensity of looking at a four leaf clover – making sure we’re counting correctly. We listen for the first cry – a sign of good, healthy lungs. We marvel at our newborn’s instinct to attach to the breast and suckle. They scrunch up their little bodies so used to being curled up in the womb and then time stands still when they first lock eyes with their mother. Perfect moments of bliss. Pippa was all that. Perfect in every way a tiny little newborn should be. Perfect in the way that all mothers want and hope that their newborns are. She was born at 39 weeks measuring 48cms and weighing 8 pounds 1 ounce. ‘Short and fat’ I remembered my brother calling her! She had an Apgar score of 9 at 1minute and 10 at 5minutes. She breastfed immediately. She slept perfectly. She rarely (in fact I could almost say never) cried. Pippa was utterly perfect. A blessing to James, Patrick and me. Utterly adored. A treasure we only had for eleven years.
Ten fingers, ten toes, a cute little button nose and a time bomb ticking inside her brain. I found myself wondering what if I had have known then? What if, at her 20 week ultrasound I knew what twelve years time was going to bring me? Of course I would have not done a thing. How could I not have a life full of Pippa for eleven years? How could Pippa not have a life of eleven years? Would have our lives been different if I had known what was going to happen? They most certainly would have. I know how I was for the 2 years I did know what was going to happen. A living hell every time I shut my eyes. I shudder at the thought of having to do that for 11 years. I’m grateful that twelve years ago I didn’t know what lay ahead. I would not have wanted that crystal ball.
I then found myself wondering about the next 12 years. What would the crystal ball show if Pippa hadn’t had a time bomb in her head? Would she grow up OK? Unscathed? The 6 o’clock news doesn’t give us much comfort for what lies ahead – fears for teenagers and young adults; and the fears for our daughters are possibly worse than those for our sons. I found myself asking what if I just accepted the time bomb and alleviated those fears? No was the very quick answer. I would take any fear that I could possibly ever have for the future if it meant that Pippa was still here. We can hold our children tightly and fear for their safety, their wellbeing and their future. But I can’t hold Pippa anymore. To be able to hold her, feel her, hear her, see her smile…far outweighs any fears that the newspapers and televisions can put in front of me.
Instead I have new fears. Fears for me, James and Patrick in a life and a future without Pippa. Fears for our wellbeing. Fears for the scars that Pippa’s brothers will forever carry. A tragic burden they should never have to endure. Heartache.
Count as we might, superstitions or not, it turns out that ten fingers and ten toes cannot guarantee us anything. Not life. Not happiness. Not health.
Pippa Rea 