Pete and Georgie’s Story

Pete and Georgie’s son, Sam, died on the 22nd June 2012 at 21 months

On the night of June 22nd 2012, I went to check on Sam before I went to bed as I always did. I was surprised to see him on his tummy in his cot as he had always slept on his back. When I tried to roll him over I knew straight away that he wasn’t OK. He let out a big gasp of air and didn’t wake. After turning on the light and seeing his colour, it was obvious that he was gone. I had never seen a dead person before but I knew this must be it. He was blue and not waking. I would have normally got my husband for anything medical with Sam, as he is an Ambulance Paramedic, but he was working that night. I called 000 and went through the typical questions, all the while thinking that my husband would most likely be the local ambulance called to this job. I was instructed through the CPR steps and carried them out with difficulty until help arrived. For a short time I thought Sam might be coming back as his typical colour was returning, but, in hindsight, I think it must have been because he was on his back now during the CPR.

There were multiple ambulance crews that arrived on that night. It seemed there were strangers everywhere. After it was confirmed that Sam had died, we were given some time with him in his room before being told we would have to take him to the hospital. I knew this meant that I would have to leave him there, which I couldn’t imagine doing. I thought ‘just go along with it for now and deal with that when you get there … throw a tantrum, cry uncontrollably or whatever it takes’.

We dressed Sam before going to the hospital because his pyjamas had been cut off by the paramedics. His body was starting to get cold and I can remember just wanting to dress him in more and more clothes to stop it happening.

There was some questioning at the hospital and I remember the Police requesting to see his body. They apologised for having to do so and told us it was part of the protocol. Pete undressed him and it was horrible to see his body starting to change already. I was shocked that my connection with his body was deteriorating as it changed so quickly. I felt betrayed and angry that he was leaving us. I felt mixed with confusion, shock, fear and the big WHY, that we will never really know the answer to.

The Police interview began when we returned home from the hospital. I was grateful that we didn’t have to go through that whilst still having our last moments with Sam at home. The Police were apologetic and respectful despite having to ask the confronting questions. The photographing of his room was something I will never forget. Despite having no doubts about the safety of his cot or sleeping environment, the interview and photographing seemed like something straight from a crime show on TV. As I was home alone with him I couldn’t help but feel responsible. Toddlers aren’t supposed to just die in their sleep. I knew about SIDS and had always followed the safe sleeping advice but thought that the risk of this was for newborns, not a boy approaching two years old.

The planning for Sam’s funeral was strange to say the least. We took it in ‘baby steps’ I suppose, and tackled each decision one at a time. We were stuck on the choice to bury or cremate. Pete wanted a cremation and I hated the thought of either. I remember my sister saying how she can understand my indecision. “They both suck! If only there was an option C, we would take that but, really, all we have to choose from is bury or cremate”.

We had the celebrant, who married us five years earlier, conduct Sam’s funeral. She did an incredible job and I will always be grateful that she could do this for us. We lit a candle for Sam at his funeral and decided that this would be something that we would have in our home and light at all the special occasions down the track to signify him being with us always. We got a hurricane glass vase to display the big candle in and surrounded the base inside with some sand from his sandpit. I love that we have this now forever and it always warms my heart to have it lit at home.

I knew there would be a great number of people there and felt desperate to collect any memories these people had of our boy. The celebrant asked everyone to write a memory they had of Sam on little cards that were handed around and leave them in his little backpack for us to keep. Knowing there would be no new memories of him, these are always something I’ll treasure. If I could add to this now I would have requested our friends and family to send us any photos or videos they have with Sam. A few people had sent a photo after a year or so, which made me feel so cheated that I hadn’t had it to cherish before then. Someone said they didn’t think I’d want their photos as it would upset me. Clearly this was an assumption, like many others for grieving families, that are so hurtful.

Surely there is no greater loss than losing your child. For me it felt like a double hit. I lost my boy and lost my role as a mother - no one to look after and care for, except each other. We were left with a quiet and empty home that was so lonely. There was much encouragement for us to go away and have a break together, which was all from well meaning family that cared for us. I didn’t want to go anywhere. Despite our quiet home being an obvious reminder of our loss, it was also the place that we had the strongest connection with our boy and all the memories that came with it.

The process with the Coroner’s investigation was lengthy and frustrating. Neither of us were expecting answers, although hopeful all the same. There was very little communication with us which made the waiting all the more difficult. I hated having to be the one to contact the Coroner for an update rather than it being the other way around. We were his parents after all! Unfortunately our experience seems to be similar to other families we have spoken to more recently. However, at the time, I felt as though our case had to be an exception to the norm.

We decided to have Sam’s body cremated and, after ten months, we felt ready to do something with the ashes. We had a special beach near home that we had taken Sam to regularly. We knew it would be a place that we would still go to as a family in the future so we decided to scatter his ashes there. Being a public place, our friends and family would always have access to it too. We had been mindful to include our immediate families in as much as possible after his death. When you’re clouded by your own hurt, it’s hard to imagine anyone else’s, but they had also lost. Lost their grandchild, lost their nephew, lost their cousin. Despite this we just wanted to release his ashes alone so we asked a good friend who is a photographer to capture it for us. I now love these photos and it meant we were able to share them with our closest friends and family and always have them to explain the events to Sam’s future siblings.

Sam’s death affected so many people. The support we received from family, friends and work colleagues was incredible. Even from people I didn’t really know. There were people who seemed more hurt than I would have expected but, looking back, it is obvious that his death brought out people’s own experiences with other losses. Often things I didn’t know about before. This brings people together and gives us a connection like no other. I spent a lot of time with my local mothers’ group with Sam, so understandably they were affected a great deal. It was hard in so many respects to continue seeing them when they still had their own children. I felt cheated, hard done by and awkward around their children. But, on the other hand, having their support outweighed the difficulty, especially down the track. After two years, I am so pleased that I pushed through and now have some close friends that share memories of the time we had with Sam and can still talk about things he would do with us and their children.

People say the death of someone close to you makes you see life differently. For me, one of the biggest things is perspective. Things that would have normally got me stressed, anxious or worried about now seem insignificant. In a way it is liberating to have a more fearless outlook and that perspective that will never make us sweat the small things. We have surely gone through the hardest event in our lives. We will always have this loss but we are still here and still together.

Reference: Same, D. & Bereaved Parents & Red Nose Grief and Loss Services. (2016). Your Child has Died: Some Answers To Your Questions: A Booklet for Bereaved Parents whose Young Child has Died Suddenly and Unexpectedly. Malvern, Vic.: Red Nose Grief and Loss Services.