I fractured a bone in my hand a few weeks ago. This morning I had a hand therapy appointment in a different hospital to the one I went to when it happened, and I was a little nervous. Ruairí was born in this hospital and although I’ve been here since he died (note he didn’t die in this hospital) it never feels easy. But all the other times I’ve been here it’s been for my older one Charlie, so I was distracted, my focus on him. On my own this morning I had time on my hands to think, to go back, to my sons birth, to all the times he was in this place, actually only once as an inpatient when he was 11 weeks old and when we learned for sure that ‘something’ was seriously wrong, then he was transferred to Evelina London Children’s hospital which is where all his other many inpatient stays were. All of his visits after that to this hospital except one were emergency trips, full of worry and often full of frustration. Most of the time I knew more than the doctors about him, they would look at him fearfully, a medically complex child, not your every day typical patient. The only other planned visit here was to meet his newly assigned local Paediatric Consultant, a lovely woman who terrified me as she spoke of Ruairí’s likely needs as he would get older. But he never did get much older and I never met her again.
Walking to the outpatients department this morning I kept my eyes forward careful to look only where I needed to, not wanting to see anything that might trigger a difficult memory. Sitting in the waiting room I thought to myself you’re doing okay. So far so good. When my name was called, the male voice pronounced it correctly which made me smile, so often people get it wrong (which I understand!). I met a wonderful physiotherapist who was kind and patient. I am grateful. I was reassured my hand is healing and I have a physio plan to get my hand moving a bit too!
I got a coffee in the little cafe in the waiting area on the way out. The train was not for another 30 minutes so I had time to pass. Walking along the corridor of the hospital towards the exit I saw the paediatrics entrance ahead, it’s impossible not to, double doors, difficult memories. Just as I was turning to the main exit a man turned the corner pushing a blue and green cot towards me, and as I saw it the air left the hallway it seemed and I saw my son laying in a cot just like that one in my mind. Tears filled my eyes and my breath caught, the speed of my step increased tenfold and I was so relieved when I met the fresh air on my face a few moments later.
I’m back home now, I almost made it out of there without seeing anything too difficult until the cot, but sitting here now remembering my gorgeous boy laying in one of those blue and green cots I am also remembering how much time he didn’t spend in those cots. How mostly he was in my arms, or my husband’s arms. Even at night time when he wouldn’t settle I would bring him into the tiny single beds they provide for parents and we would cuddle together.
So maybe I’m not sorry that I didn’t make it through the hospital without seeing that cot, it hurt so much I could barely breathe but it also brought back sweet memories too. I’ve not always been able to get to the sweet parts of memories, the overwhelming sadness has been too big. I’m glad I am learning, glad that I can. Maybe my nerves will handle the next appointment a little more easily.