'Baby Logan has saved us all'
Tuesday 9th June 2009
I carefully pressed my son Jack's tiny foot against the paper, making a perfect little print. 'There,' I smiled. 'That's a nice blue one for Thomas. Let's try a handprint next.' Almost 2, Jack was obsessed with Thomas the Tank Engine and, normally, just the mention of his favourite train's name would be enough to raise a smile. Today though, he didn't react as I chattered away about colours and trains. He didn't giggle as I covered his pudgy fingers in brightly coloured paint, instead his eyes stayed tightly shut as he lay in his hospital bed. It was just a day earlier, on 23 June 2008, that the headmistress at Round Oak School in Warwick, where I worked as a teaching assistant, had taken me aside. 'Can I have a word?' she said. It was only as we stepped out into the playground that I spotted the two policemen. 'There's been an accident…' one began. My first thought was that my husband, David, 47, a lorry driver, must have crashed. But… 'It's your son, Jack,' he said.
That morning, I'd dropped Jack off at my mum and dad's as I did every day before heading to work. My mum, Sue Shirley, 60, worked for the council so it was mainly my dad, Dave, 63, who looked after Jack during the day. Dad and Jack both loved every minute. They'd go to nearby Warwick Castle or to one of the local toddler groups. 'Pops', as Jack called him, worshipped the ground his grandson walked on. They could spend hours playing peekaboo or on their hands and knees with Jack's toy trains. 'We don't know any more details, except that the accident involved water,' one of the officers explained as we sped to Warwick Hospital in. I didn't think about what that meant, as I jabbed David's number into my phone. But straight away, he guessed what had happened. 'He's been in that pond…' he said.
Dad had a massive pond in the garden. Before Jack had come along, his fish had been his pride and joy, and Jack loved feeding them, with Dad supervising. The pond had a gate to it, which was bolted to keep Jack out. Had he got in somehow? At the hospital, Dad was in a side room, his clothes dripping wet. 'Sorry, sorry,' he said over and over. 'I have to go to Jack,' I said, shaking my head in shock. 'Your dad and Jack were making lunch,' a nurse explained, ushering me down the corridor. 'He must have wandered into the garden. Your dad waded into the pond and dragged him out, but…'
We reached the resuscitation room, where a team of doctors surrounded Jack's tiny body, trying to bring him back to life. 'Oh God,' I sobbed as I watched them inject Jack with adrenalin and pound on his heart. I felt numb, like it must be happening to someone else. Suddenly, a nurse looked up and saw me in the doorway. 'You're the most important person in this room,' she smiled, leading me to Jack's side. I held his cold little hand. His blond hair was wet and plastered to his head. I held back a scream. Be strong. 'Come on, love,' I pleaded. At that moment, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dad keel over. 'Dad!' I screamed, as he was whisked off with a suspected heart attack. Seeing his beloved grandson like this was too much for him.
I spent the next hour dashing between Jack and Dad. But then I got the worst news possible. After they had been working on Jack for two hours, a nurse came to see me. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'There's nothing more we can do.' 'No,' I begged. 'Please keep trying, please wait for my husband.' David was only five minutes away. Then I turned back to Jack. 'Jack, it's your birthday soon,' I babbled. 'If you open your eyes, you can have your presents now.' 'He's got a pulse,' the nurse said. Relief washed over me. His heart was beating. He'd be OK. Right?
David eventually burst into the room at 4pm. Tears filled his eyes at the sight of his lifeless little boy. 'We're going to have to transfer him to the Children's Intensive Care Unit at Leicester Royal Infirmary,' a doctor informed us an hour later. I went to say goodbye to Dad, still in a hospital bed himself. 'We're following Jack to Leicester,' I told him. Poor Dad looked destroyed. His face was the colour of grey slate and his eyes looked haunted. Mum was trying to be strong for him, but she was just as worried. We called in at home to collect Jack's favourite teddies, Jock and Iggle Piggle, and his cosiest pyjamas, so it was midnight when we arrived. 'Please open your eyes,' I begged Jack, stroking his head. The only response was the beep of the machines, and when the doctor came to see us the following afternoon, all hope was finally lost. 'I'm sorry, but Jack was starved of oxygen while he was unconscious,' he said. 'There's no brain activity. You need to decide when to withdraw life support.'
Tears streamed down my face. 'No, no, no,' I choked. This couldn't be happening. But it was. Here I was an hour later, taking foot and hand prints, snipping off a lock of golden hair, and chatting away as if my world wasn't ending. Afterwards, David and I washed Jack, dressed him in his pyjamas and gave the doctors permission to turn off the machines. At 6.32pm, the nurse removed his ventilator and placed him in my lap. Words can never sum up the emotion of holding my son in my arms for the last time. David and I took it in turns to hold Jack, as we watched his life ebb away. Then I laid him down, tucked him in for the last time, kissed his golden head and walked away. The woman that walked away from the bed was a changed person. My soul had been stolen. My heart shattered into tiny pieces. The little boy who clutched me so tightly when he hugged me, who laughed like a drain if I pulled a silly face, was gone. And I had lost the biggest love of my life.
Back in Warwick, Dad had heard the news. He was a broken man. 'I'm so sorry,' he sobbed over and over again. But neither David nor I blamed him. It had been a terrible accident. The day after Jack died, though, we found Dad sitting on the floor of his hospital room, in a ball, rocking, with a photo of Jack in his hand. 'You're not to blame,' I sobbed. It was two days later that I felt a funny feeling, I'd felt once before. I realised my period was late. I told David, but… 'I can't think about it now,' I said. I had to say goodbye to Jack before I could let myself consider the prospect of another baby.
We held Jack's funeral on 4 July last year, on what should have been his 2nd birthday. We played the Thomas the Tank Engine theme tune and we left the church to Bear Necessities from The Jungle Book, Jack's favourite film. We buried him surrounded by his favourite things. A dummy in each hand, photos of us and his beloved Thomas the Tank Engine. 'Jack would love this,' I smiled sadly, as we released 24 balloons, one for every month of his life. Like me, David and Mum, Dad was a mess. 'I'll never forgive myself,' he wept.
The following day, I steeled myself to do a pregnancy test. David and I had talked about another baby, but we hadn't actually been trying. When the test was positive, I felt overwhelmed by guilt. Would Jack think we were trying to replace him? Was I even strong enough to deal with a pregnancy? 'We have to be strong,' David said. We told people a lot sooner than we would have otherwise. First were David's two children from his first marriage, Jamie, 20 and Nick, 14. Then Mum and Dad. 'I'm having another baby for you to look after,' I told them as they both burst into tears. 'I'm so pleased,' Dad told us. Mum was thrilled. She'd been about to retire and had been looking forward to spending more time with Jack.
People didn't know how to react. 'Congratulations,' they'd stammer. 'Is that the right thing to say?' 'Yes,' I'd smile. 'It really is.' As my bump grew, it was a daily reminder that life goes on. But that was hard. Was it OK to smile when the baby kicked? I imagined what Jack would've said as he saw my tummy swelling, how I'd have explained about his little brother or sister. I gave birth to baby Logan on 9 March 2009 at Warwick Hospital. Since then, life's been frantic. As Logan grows, he's looking more and more like his brother. We still cry for Jack every day, but we have to stay strong for Logan. Coming along when he did, he couldn't help but give us hope. He's saved my life and I hope that he will save Dad's too. Because someday, he has to let the guilt go. Only then can he really grieve. I've chosen not to release a photo of Dad for this article. He's going through a really tough time, as I'm sure you understand, and I can't put him through any more. The misery has to end.