Summer Ruby Dawson was born sleeping at 8:43am on Friday 4th January 2013 in Royal Shrewsbury Hospital. My account of the day before, the day my labour started, the day our precious baby fell asleep, is also on here. This, however, is my account as her Mummy of the day our beautiful baby girl was born fast asleep. From the moment we were told that our baby’s heart had stopped beating the hours that followed seem like a dream, no, a nightmare. Much of it to me is a blur, and I am so grateful for that. My poor Alan on the other hand has to live with a clear recollection of the further twelve hours of labour we endured together knowing our precious baby, our hopes and dreams, had died. He tells me often as we sit quietly and talk together and grieve for our baby girl that I was amazing, but I think it is he who was amazing that night, without him I could not have gotten through it. Without him I could not have gotten through any of this. My clear recollections come back to me at the pushing stage. The last dose of Pethidine that I had been given before that had been only a half-dose, as the midwife needed me to be able to feel everything and be able to focus on pushing, as I was going to have to do the job for both my baby and I. My poor baby couldn’t do her bit. I think the effects of the Pethidine must therefore have worn off by the time I started to push, as I recall every second of that stage as clear as day. I remember Alan telling me while I was pushing the head out that it had loads of hair, and I remember thinking how wonderful that was; it was just what I had hoped for. Alan was holding my left hand and was driving me on brilliantly, telling me all the time what was happening and how close I was to pushing the head out, and my Mum was holding my right hand and also guiding me to listen to the midwife and push in accordance with her instructions. I remember feeling so frustrated because just at the moment that the midwives and Alan would tell me ‘one more big push and the head will be out’, I kept losing my contraction and had to wait for the next one to push again, and of course the head would retreat back a little every time. I had to start all over again like this a few times, and each time I was getting more and more frustrated that my contraction would not stay quite long enough. Each time it came back I pushed harder and harder, determined to beat the contraction clock, and eventually I did. It felt like forever but I was only pushing for about three quarters of an hour. I remember Mum finally told me at one point that the worst part was now over, and I looked at her and asked ‘Does that mean the head is out?’ - it was, and the relief was unbelievable. I don’t believe in God as such, particularly at the moment I feel that if I were to believe I would be angry with him, but I do remember thanking him at that moment for ending my physical pain. One more big push and our baby was born, it’s funny how you expect that last part to hurt too, but it doesn’t. It’s like a sudden release as relief washes over you and consumes every atom of your being. I understand now why women cannot describe the pain of childbirth to others who have not experienced it, the sheer agony and the pure desperation for it to stop when you reach that critical ‘burn’ moment that you must push past, is absolutely indescribable. Much like the sheer agony and pure desperation of losing your baby could never be put into words; only those who have experienced it could ever even begin to understand, and even then, different people’s experiences of this type of loss are different, and people grieve in different ways. It’s a lonely place. Alan and I have lost our baby girl, and whilst we are thankfully tremendously strong together and are getting each other through this hell, we still are not able to fully understand what each other is going through. I am Summer Ruby’s Mummy, and Alan is her Daddy, and as such we both have very different roles, urges, and feelings. My job is to nurture her, Alan’s is to protect, and neither of us are able to do so. Anyway, I digress. Alan told me himself that our baby was a baby girl, and she was placed straight on to my chest and Alan cut the cord. It may not have been the waterbirth I had planned but in a way it was still all so perfect and natural, the speed at which I had laboured (initially anyway, before shock took hold of me), the natural way that I had delivered with no tears or cuts to speak of, the rush of pure unconditional love I felt as soon as I saw my baby girl, it was all perfect except for the tragic fact that my poor baby’s heart had stopped beating. Rebekkah, the wonderful midwife who delivered our baby girl, told Alan that I was made for childbirth, that I had laboured and given birth amazingly well and that my body was meant to do so. She said the way that I had listened to her and done exactly what I was asked, when I was asked, was incredible. Later in the day, when I was back in the land of the living, she told me the same thing. I have always known my whole life that I was meant to be a Mother, and so I have always expected that what Rebekkah said would be the case, but hearing it said stabbed at my heart and twisted the knife even further, because if it was all so perfect and I was obviously made to do it, why was my baby taken away? My pregnancy was perfect, I had no sickness, no heartburn despite the full head of thick dark hair that our baby girl was born with, no aches or pains, in fact no niggles whatsoever other than a foot in my ribs for the latter months, so how could it all go so tragically wrong? When our baby girl was placed on my chest and I held her close and kissed her, for a moment I forgot that she was gone, for a moment while Alan told me the sex and cut the cord it felt how it was meant to be. Then the realisation set in and the tears came, and the overwhelming grief wrapped itself around me like a thick black cloak trying to smother me and take away my air. I couldn’t breathe properly for much of the day, partly the effect of the drugs, partly the cloak of grief. I couldn’t accept what had happened and that it had happened to us, I was back on the outside looking in. The midwives were fantastic the night of my labour and the day of Summer Ruby’s birth. They did not take my baby away from me, they bathed her for me, and Alan put on her nappy and dressed her in my favourite sleepsuit, a tiny white one with little Thumper the rabbit pictures all over it. Over the top he put on her beautiful lemon knitted matinee jacket and matching knitted mittens and bootees. All the while the midwives were taking photographs for us as mementos of our Daughter’s birthday. They gave us a keepsake box that had two identical teddy bears in it, one for Summer, one for us. Amongst other things it also had a little angel, a candle, tiny keepsake boxes for her name band and a lock of her hair, a message from a wonderful couple who fund the boxes in memory of their own sleeping angel, and a card to make prints of her hands and feet in. The midwives helped Alan to make the prints with ink, and they also made plaster cast imprints of her hands and feet in a frame, which has a space on the opposite side for a photograph. They helped him to cut a lock of Summer Ruby’s hair. They did what they could to give us as many treasured memories of our baby girl as possible. Later that day Alan asked the midwives what happens next, and they told him that when I had been checked over and was well enough we could go home. He misunderstood. He thought they meant we could all go home, our baby girl included. I will be forever indebted to Alan for the rest of my life for that misunderstanding, because it meant that we ended up with a couple of days of Summer in the midst of our winter, that we would never have had otherwise. Alan asked the midwives what needed to be done in order to take Summer Ruby home, and whilst it was not the done thing, they moved heaven and earth to make it happen, and around 6pm that evening we brought our baby girl home. We had intended to arrange for the Funeral Director to collect her the following day, however they told us on the Saturday that it did not matter to them what time we were ready for her to be collected, and so given that she still looked so well and that we were not yet ready to let her go, we kept her with us another night and we took her to Frank Painter & Sons in Shrewsbury at 10:00am on the Sunday morning, 6th January 2013. During those days and nights that we had Summer Ruby at home with us, we did some of the things that we had been looking forward to doing, which is another story to be found on here. On the night of her birth though we simply cuddled her, kissed her, stroked her face, held her hand, talked about how beautiful she was, marvelled over how much hair she had, cried over her, watched her sleep throughout the night, and cuddled her some more.