What covid took from us: number 458

I love looking at photographs of Ramona when she was tiny.

I mean, I love looking at photos of her at any age but there is something so warming to seeing her when she was tiny; when she’d look up at us and we had no idea what she was thinking but just paused and let her drink us in.

When I look at those images, I can feel her in my arms again; I remember the smell, how delicate her hair was and how weirdly strong she was.

I don’t see the tiredness or the fear or the anxiety. It’s just us and it’s perfect.

And then this morning I received photographs of a beautiful, perfect new baby being held by his grandparents. Once the absolute joy faded, I could feel sadness rising out of nowhere and I couldn’t understand why. So, I pushed it away, blamed tiredness and work stress for the bizarre response. 

But the more photos and videos I received, the sadness grew louder. Before I’d even realised it was happening, I was tearing up and had to put my phone down. 

What was so triggering? How could I be so delighted but also have this strange response - a grief that felt both selfish and misplaced?

Perhaps it was broodiness? Was I jealous? Ramona is far away from that sweet, quiet, more peaceful age; perhaps I missed it and hadn’t realised just how much?

But no, that didn’t feel right. 

I looked at the photos again, at the beatific smiles on the grandparents faces; at how dreamily they gazed down at this darling baby and it hit me: I have no photographs of Ramona and her grandparents in hospital. 

We don’t have photographs of my parents or Jack’s parents sitting next to my hospital bed, cradling Ramona and bathing her with that same love and adoration from the moment she was born. Because it never happened. Hospital was just me and Ramona - lockdown meant Jack had to leave the day after she was born (he came back the next day but they kicked him out again after maybe half an hour).

There are so many photographs taken in the hospital because I didn’t want Jack to miss a moment of it. Even though she was mostly just sleeping and gazing at me, that’s what I filmed. I was in pain and ill and exhausted and so, so sad but I had this driving desire to capture and share as much as I possibly could. 

In the first photographs with the grandparents, they’re either standing 6ft away from Jack and Ramona in our driveway or they’re wearing masks and holding her at arm’s length.

We’ve made it a priority to make up for that lost time and Ramona adores all of her grandparents now - does sleepovers with them and they’re part of our childcare routine so she has a unique bond and relationship with each of them. 

My response to these new photos does not undermine or change how I feel when I look at Ramona’s photographs from the first few days of her life. But they did trigger me in a way that I wasn’t expecting; uprooting a trauma that I hadn’t even really considered.

Covid has taken (and continues to take) so much from all of us. I lost the job I loved because of it. I lost a job I didn’t love because of it. Our parents missed the first 6 months of Ramona’s life. So many children are struggling socially because of all of the freedom that they were unable to enjoy for a crucial year of their lives. 

What I wasn’t expecting was the different ways that it affected me and that I can still be caught off-guard like this. 

I’m going to take the time to be kind to myself, give myself space to feel the loss and not chastise myself. Because there is a gorgeous little baby that I’m desperate to meet and a new mum that I want to hug and, right now, that’s the most important thing.

Nov 2022