Dear Baby Ross,

THE fateful date was March 23, 1983, a date that is forever engraved in my memory, never to be erased. It was the date on which you were born, dead. The phone call from the hospital said it all. The doctor spoke abruptly and bluntly: “I’m sorry your baby was born dead. It was a baby boy. You can see the baby at any time you wish.” I was frozen to the phone with disappointment and grief.

When I arrived at the hospital I was shown into a small room off the main corridor to “see” you. The room was bare and cold and sparsely furnished with two dilapidated, tubular-steel chairs, relics of an earlier age. The room mirrored my mood. I sat down heavily, shaking all over and buried my head in my hands, feeling lost and bewildered. The wait seemed like an eternity. I wondered how I would react when I saw you.

The door opened and in walked a young nurse carrying a little, white bundle. My heart skipped a few beats, my breath came in short gasps and I jumped to my feet abruptly. “Sit down and relax sir,” said the nurse reassuringly. I sat down and she slowly and gently unveiled your little face.

“My God,” I exclaimed, “he’s the image of his brother.” But unlike your brother at birth, your tiny face was ashenwhite, drained of all colour. There was no sparkle in your eyes, no expression on your lips. You didn’t look at me, you didn’t cry, you didn’t move: just a small, lifeless, white bundle weighing seven pounds. You had a beautiful face.

“Do you want to see the rest of the baby?” inquired the nurse. I nodded and she unwrapped your tiny body. Your little hands hung limp by your sides and your small, thin legs dangled lifelessly from your pear-shaped trunk.

“He’s your own little angel in heaven” whispered the nurse sympathetically.

You were a beautiful baby and I wanted to smother you with love. However, I demurred because I couldn’t kiss you, hug you or cuddle you because you were just a tiny, motionless bundle draped in a white sheet.

After what seemed like a very short time, the nurse wrapped you up again in your white sheet and left the room. I’ll never forget the heartache and the pain I experienced as I saw her departing down the corridor with my little, lifeless bundle in her arms.

I arrived home well after midnight. The house was cold and empty and uninviting. I was drained physically and emotionally. I was overwhelmed by a terrible emptiness inside me which was compounded by the emptiness of the house.

The house would not be filled with the sounds and warmth of a new-born baby after all. There were reminders of your expected arrival everywhere in the house. The carry cot was on the landing waiting patiently for the journey to the hospital to collect the newest member of the family. There was a pile of baby clothes neatly stacked in the hot press.

I fell into bed exhausted and cried myself to sleep thinking of you and the tragic events of the day.

When it came to your burial arrangements, I accepted the hospital’s offer to bury you. How I have regretted that decision. I’ve had to live with remorse and guilt ever since. Even now I have nightmares about you being disposed of in a mass grave without the dignity and respect that is due to a small human being. The only official communication I received from the hospital about the whole tragic episode — your birth, death and burial — was a bill three weeks later containing the cryptic message, “burial fee”.

There was no reference to who was buried. There was no mention of the date or place of your burial. I found the insensitivity and callousness of the hospital appalling and hurtful.

You were buried all alone at a time and place unknown to your family; no Mam and Dad present at the graveside, no prayer, no blessing, no priest. Nobody, only the gravedigger.

Unfortunately, in the Ireland of the 1980s you didn’t exist. There was no Birth Certificate or Death Certificate for babies born dead then. Neither was there a Stillborn Certificate. I can get no official document of any kind to prove you ever existed. But you did exist however briefly.

I saw you fleetingly and held you in my arms. I have never forgotten you and I never will.

Your loving Dad

Brendan Cullen, Clane, Co Kildare