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Take me to heaven instead

Little Munroe was our long awaited pride and joy...


Published by: Jean Jollands
Published on: 25 October 2012

Things were going to kick off if I didn't interrupt soon. My daughters Caitlyn, seven, and Iona, five, were so desperate to hold their baby brother they were practically fighting over him!
‘Stop it!' I said, scooping Munroe, eight weeks, into my arms. ‘Come on Iona, you first.'
‘He's so cute,' Caitlyn grinned.
I couldn't blame my girls for fighting over Munroe - I didn't want to let go of him, either!
Me and my hubby Paul, 42, had been overjoyed when we'd discovered I was finally expecting a boy.
‘Our family's complete at last,' Paul had said, his eyes glistening. It hadn't been plain sailing though. Munroe was born six weeks early. He'd spent a few days in the special care unit when his blood sugar levels dropped.
Now, though, he was the picture of health.
Over the next few weeks, we marvelled at our little boy.
‘Thank god he's here,' Paul smiled as we watched him in his bouncer one day. ‘I was totally outnumbered by you females!'
Paul was a painter and decorator but had previously been in the army.
‘Maybe he'll join up one day, too,' he said wistfully.
‘Don't get too carried away!' I chuckled.
When Munroe was 11 weeks old, we took the kids away for a caravan holiday in Scarborough.
That night, I couldn't resist dressing Munroe in his Union Jack romper suit. ‘He's adorable,' I grinned to Paul as I took a photo. The next few days were a whirl of entertainment and, every night, we slumped into bed exhausted. One night, not long after my head hit the pillow, Munroe woke up for some milk.
‘I'll see to him,' Paul hushed, cradling him to sleep. He then popped him down just an arm's length away from our bed.
Two, maybe three, hours later, Paul's voice shook me from my slumber. I opened my eyes to see him cradling Munroe.
‘Marcia,' Paul croaked. His voice sounded so raw,
so broken...
‘Something made me wake up and check on him,' Paul stumbled.
I looked down at my little boy. He was lifeless, stiff. There was a trickle of blood coming from his nose.
‘Munroe!' I howled, reaching out. His body was still warm.
Frantic, I wrapped my mouth round his tiny lips, tried to breathe the life back into him.
I didn't know what I was doing, but every maternal instinct in my body told me I had to keep my precious child alive. But there was nothing...
The rest of the night was a blur. Someone ringing 999, giving our boy chest compressions, pulling back the caravan curtains so Iona wouldn't see us. But she did, and I was brought back to my senses by her face.
‘Is Munroe dead?' she gasped. She looked so innocent, so lost. When the paramedics arrived, they gently eased Munroe out of my arms. Dazed, I travelled in the front of the ambulance as they sped my boy to hospital.
Paul and Ian, a family friend, followed behind, while Paul's mum Jean, 75, looked after our terrified little girls.
Everything felt so surreal. Just days before, we'd left for our happy family holiday. How had it come to this?
At the hospital, I paced the corridors until the doctors ushered me aside.
‘We've had to stop working on Munroe,' they told me gently. ‘We can't find a pulse.'
I shook my head. No. He couldn't be telling me this...
But my boy was dead.
A nurse sat with me until Paul arrived. Somehow, I had to find the words to tell him.
‘He's gone,' I whispered, collapsing into his arms.
‘But his body was still warm,' Paul sobbed. ‘He must have slipped away just minutes before I woke up...'
Thinking back, it felt just like yesterday that we'd gone for my 20-week scan.
Paul had to work but made me promise to ring him the moment I found out the sex. ‘It's a boy!' I'd whooped down the phone. ‘Seriously?' he yelped, crying tears of happiness. Now, we were both sobbing so much I thought we'd never stop.
When we were taken into the resuscitation room to see our boy, we sat there for ages, just cuddling him.
A doctor told us he believed Munroe had died of cot death.
‘Sudden infant death syndrome,' he explained. ‘When a previously well baby suddenly dies.'
Numb, me and Paul returned to the caravan park. My tummy tightened as I spotted our caravan, now cordoned off
by yellow police tape.
Paul told the girls what had happened while I packed up our belongings to go home.
I couldn't stop crying as I packed Munroe's favourite blue teddy.
The post mortem proved inconclusive but, two weeks later, Munroe's body was finally released. I sat beside him at the funeral home every day.
Later, we buried him at Carlton Baby Cemetery in a tiny blue coffin, tucking him in with his blue teddy, along with pictures of me, Paul and the girls.
It wasn't until weeks later that I had the photos from our holiday developed. I crumpled when I saw the pictures of Munroe in his little Union Jack romper suit. Just five hours after those pictures were taken, my little boy was dead.
Lost in grief, I didn't know how I'd carry on. I was so grateful for the support from the Snowdrop Centre in Blackpool, which helps bereaved parents.
‘Mummy,' Caitlyn whispered to me just the other day. ‘I can go to heaven instead of Monroe.'
‘No,' I shushed, my heart breaking at her innocence. ‘I'm
so grateful to have you here.'
Four months on, an inquest into what happened still hasn't determined the cause of Munroe's death, but it almost doesn't matter... he's still gone.
It's just so devastating that our wonderful family holiday could end in such tragedy. My heart will be forever broken.
Marcia Hamilton, 34, North Shore, Blackpool