I’d like to start by saying that I think medical advances are wonderful. It’s really great that doctors can save the lives of so many premature babies. My cousin delivered a son, Matt, at 27 weeks: he was no bigger than his father’s hand. But Matt thrived, and today is a tall, healthy teenager.

As a survivor of early infant loss, I am also delighted that so many parents have been spared the emotional agony of losing a baby, thanks to medical science. But I’m writing today, nearly 6 years after having lost Cameron. I was not emotionally balanced at the time, as I am now. I felt no happiness for other parents; I only felt grief and sorrow.
My pregnancy with Cameron had been quite uneventful. He was born at full-term and he seemed to be doing okay, though he didn’t drink very much. He was my first baby, so I had nothing to compare this with. So I went to the pediatrician, who told me all seemed normal. (I don’t go to that doctor anymore).

When Cameron was 8 days old he worsened suddenly, so we raced to the hospital. At 9:02 pm that night, my beautiful boy who was a solid 9 lbs, 1 oz at birth – my darling Cameron passed away. He died due to a congenital heart defect.

When I thought back to my friend’s son, Matt, I also thought about the other premature babies I’d seen when I visited them in hospital. I could still picture them: they looked so underdeveloped: tiny and red-skinned, skinny. Mentally I couldn’t help but compare these tiny babies to Cameron: over the 8 precious days we had together, I had memorized every inch of his perfect little body.

You see, I thought about all of these tiny premature babies, whom I just knew would pull through. Yet my full-term baby didn’t. This just didn’t make sense. It may not sound logical to anyone who hasn’t ‘been there’, but I’m speaking truthfully about my experience.

I’ve written this because I wanted other bereaved parents to know that they are not alone if they feel this way. It’s probably quite normal. I’ve also written to offer hope: it really does get better (very slowly, but it does). Thank you for reading my story.