Whilst most women that go into hospital to have their baby leave with a bundle of joy, there are parents out there like myself and Ian that don't. Instead they leave with a memory box. These memory boxes are often donated by charities; ours in particular came from 4Louis. The 4Louis charity was founded in 2009 by the family of a little boy who was stillborn at 38 weeks. They work across the country supporting people who have been affected by the death of their baby or child. On the outside of the box, the words "Sweet Dreams" are written, and inside there are items that inspire bereaved parents to gather keepsakes of their baby.
In the early hours of Saturday 26th May 2018, our lovely midwife Lucy carefully took hand and footprints from our beautiful baby girl, Tilly. This was the start of the memory box that I will now treasure forever. Two identical teddy bears, one of which we left with Tilly the day we said goodbye and one that we brought home were also part of the box along with other items too such as a blanket, a candle, a balloon and a book.
Most importantly I think, it was somewhere we could put items personal to us; us as a family. Somewhere we could put one of Tilly's hats, our hospital wristbands, and the newspaper cutting announcing her birth. Somewhere we could put a notebook to write letters to her on her birthdays, at Christmas or, just whenever we want. A safe place to put flowers dried from the day of her funeral.
What I also have in her box, which some people may find a bit strange, is a tub of body shop moisturiser. It's in there because I used it everyday after she was born and the smell of it reminds me of her. This to me, is a very precious thing to possess as the power of smell is really quite incredible. It can bring back such vivid, lovely memories even years down the line. Admittedly though, it can bring back some painful ones too, but in my opinion it's worth that risk.
Tilly's memory box has also become a place to put the photos we took moments after she was born and in the days that followed. In this day and age, where mobile phones are the new photo albums, it is still lovely to be able to sit and look through actual, physical photographs. Sometimes though, even looking through photos of Tilly is hard because I feel like the more I look at them, the more they will replace the memories I have of her. The memories I have of holding her and kissing her forehead, the memories of her little hands and feet, and the memories of her daddy picking her up and placing her on my chest. These are in my mind, far more precious than anything I physically have to hold but this I suppose, reflects the conflicted mind of a grieving mother.
There are of course the keepsakes I wish I had but don't. I wish I had videoed the image of her heart beating and her tiny hands moving on the scans. I wish I had recorded the sound of her heart on the doppler. I wish I had taken more photos of my growing bump. The fragility of life is now so apparent to me and I suppose on reflection, I hoped that I would never need these things. I always hoped that I would have a baby to take home, not a box of memories.
I have to admit that all too often, I struggle to open Tilly's memory box and look through the items in there because quite honestly, it is heart wrenching. But the fact is, I know it is there, and I know that in time it will be of great comfort.
Donations can be made to the charity, 4Louis at www.justgiving.com/4louis.
In the early hours of Saturday 26th May 2018, our lovely midwife Lucy carefully took hand and footprints from our beautiful baby girl, Tilly. This was the start of the memory box that I will now treasure forever. Two identical teddy bears, one of which we left with Tilly the day we said goodbye and one that we brought home were also part of the box along with other items too such as a blanket, a candle, a balloon and a book.Most importantly I think, it was somewhere we could put items personal to us; us as a family. Somewhere we could put one of Tilly's hats, our hospital wristbands, and the newspaper cutting announcing her birth. Somewhere we could put a notebook to write letters to her on her birthdays, at Christmas or, just whenever we want. A safe place to put flowers dried from the day of her funeral.
What I also have in her box, which some people may find a bit strange, is a tub of body shop moisturiser. It's in there because I used it everyday after she was born and the smell of it reminds me of her. This to me, is a very precious thing to possess as the power of smell is really quite incredible. It can bring back such vivid, lovely memories even years down the line. Admittedly though, it can bring back some painful ones too, but in my opinion it's worth that risk.
Tilly's memory box has also become a place to put the photos we took moments after she was born and in the days that followed. In this day and age, where mobile phones are the new photo albums, it is still lovely to be able to sit and look through actual, physical photographs. Sometimes though, even looking through photos of Tilly is hard because I feel like the more I look at them, the more they will replace the memories I have of her. The memories I have of holding her and kissing her forehead, the memories of her little hands and feet, and the memories of her daddy picking her up and placing her on my chest. These are in my mind, far more precious than anything I physically have to hold but this I suppose, reflects the conflicted mind of a grieving mother.
There are of course the keepsakes I wish I had but don't. I wish I had videoed the image of her heart beating and her tiny hands moving on the scans. I wish I had recorded the sound of her heart on the doppler. I wish I had taken more photos of my growing bump. The fragility of life is now so apparent to me and I suppose on reflection, I hoped that I would never need these things. I always hoped that I would have a baby to take home, not a box of memories.
I have to admit that all too often, I struggle to open Tilly's memory box and look through the items in there because quite honestly, it is heart wrenching. But the fact is, I know it is there, and I know that in time it will be of great comfort.
Comments
Post a Comment