I started writing this essay last year, around the time Heather and Mike Spohr lost their precious Maddie and Shana of Gorilla Buns lost her four-month-old baby Thalon to SIDS (Thank you to those of you who reminded me of her blog’s name.) I sent it to a few publications, all of whom rejected it (“too dark”), so I put it away for a while, then pulled it back out when my neighbor, a woman in her 50s, shared with me that her 13-month-old baby had choked to death in her care thirty years ago. Today, in the wake of Katie Granju’s loss of her oldest son Henry, I’ve pulled it out, done a bit of pruning, and am publishing it here. My heart goes out to all mothers who have lost children. As much as I’ve attempted to put myself in your shoes, I admit it is a place I’m not able to go to for long.
My mother gave birth to five children, but only four survived: her third child, Patrick, who would have been my older brother and the middle in our lineup, died in infancy of SIDS (then known as crib death). Bits and pieces of Patrick’s story came out throughout my childhood and early adulthood, via wine-soaked confessionals from my mother. He’d been a difficult birth; forceps were employed, and my mother had never felt he was quite “right”, she shared (considering my tender age, one might say she over-shared). As I got older, more bits of the story came out. She’d felt guilty because she had never really had a chance to enjoy him; she had three children ages four and under when he was born, and she was exhausted all the time.
The night before he died was a hot evening, she told me, and, as per the common wisdom at the time, Patrick was a bit overdressed for the weather. She’d taken him for a walk and when he’d fallen asleep in his pram, she decided to let him stay there for the night. (This being the early 70s, he was probably also sleeping on his belly with a few stuffed animals cushioning his face as my parents blew smoke rings in the living room).
Early in the morning, my mother told me, she heard a voice from somewhere in her subconscious say, “The baby’s died. It will be okay.” She slept a while longer, only to wake and find the unthinkable: the voice, wherever it came from, was right. The baby had died. And though it’s hard to imagine anything for my mother being “okay” again, she did live, she did go on to have two more children, she did laugh and dance at weddings and enjoyed the rest of her family and managed to have a full life in which she didn’t burst into tears every five minutes. Most days, anyway.
Since discovering mom blogs almost a decade ago, I’ve read countless online journals written by parents of sick, dying, or deceased children. Reading eulogies, looking at pictures of children as their conditions deteriorated, holding my breath through surgeries and efforts at treatment, I’ve cried over the unfairness of it all, felt cut deeply by grief for the bereaved parents. But it’s always felt like a safe kind of sorrow. I’d never felt like I could BE one of those parents…until a scare knocked me out of my delusion of having invincible children.
During my fifth pregnancy, my husband and I joked that we were really pushing the odds. After all, “getting away with” four uncomplicated births and healthy children was unlikely enough, we said: going at it a fifth time was like betting on the Cubs. When Clara, our first daughter, was born in March 2009 without complications, it appeared we’d had another round of good luck.
But when Clara was just over a day old, I noticed her lips looked darker than usual. And then as I watched, a dusky purple color crept up over her face and head. Rubbing her seemed to snap her out of it. Until she did it again.
In the space of a half-hour, Clara turned blue two more times. We called the pediatrician, the paramedics, (who came and found her looking pink and healthy) and finally, headed to the ER, where she turned an impressive shade of purple in front of the admitting doctor and sent the staff into a tizzy of activity.
As I sat helplessly on a chair watching nurses give her oxygen, a doctor was brought in from the pediatric floor to assess the situation. “Unfortunately, my best guess would be congenital heart disease,” she said over her shoulder.
My husband turned ashen, and I felt the world stop.
I imagined surgeries, a transplant list, a search for donors. A pale, weak child growing up in the hospital. Suddenly I realized that I could, in fact, be one of those parents with the blog about the sick baby. I could even be one of the ones whose story ends tragically. It really could happen to me.
Our NICU story turned out to be much happier than many. Soon after we arrived at the transport hospital, a neonatologist gave us some reassuring news: Clara’s blue spells were not caused by heart disease, but likely a minor seizure caused by a small amount of bleeding in her temporal lobe—treatable with medication, unlikely to happen again. Her hospital stay was uneventful; she had no more episodes, the medication they gave her appeared to work, and we went home ten days later with a healthy, hearty baby we all adore.
But since we came home from the hospital, I have found myself fixating on the potential deaths of my children in a way I never did before. I imagine all sorts of horrible accidents and diseases waiting to claim them, but one thing I can’t imagine is how I would possibly go on if the unthinkable happened. I can’t imagine going on to write lovely blog posts about my deceased child, take pleasure in the antics of my other kids, walk to raise money for research or start my own foundation. Frankly, I can’t even imagine getting out of bed again.
My mother died when I was 22, a mother myself, but still ruled by a sense of invincibility that extended to my children. It wasn’t until years later that I realized that, for all the times I’d heard about Patrick, I’d never asked my mom what it was like to find her baby dead (probably because I didn’t want to actually think about that part of the story). Did she notice instantly, or just think that he was sleeping soundly? Did she try to revive him, or understand right away that it was too late? Did she feel panic, dread, fear, revulsion? How did the moments unfold as they waited for the ambulance to arrive? And later, when she returned home from the hospital to an empty crib, when she made the horrible but necessary phone calls, when she buried his small body—how did she stay upright?
I may never have the answers to those questions, but as a mother of five who suddenly feels the weight of helplessness in the face of her children’s mortality, I want to know. I want to know what it’s like to see your child dead and yet to continue living. I want to know that should the unthinkable happen to me, I could also survive, instead of spontaneously combusting, or becoming instantly insane, or simply ceasing to exist, which are the only three possibilities I can imagine for myself in such a scenario.
If my mother were still alive, I would ask her: How? How do you go on? Because two of my children are getting so big, and so independent, and I can’t be with them all the time. And two of my children are so full of small-boy energy, so trusting of themselves and the word, that they’re constantly doing dumb and dangerous things. And one of them is still so small, still so delicate and young, and who knows what’s going on in that body of hers. And put all together, there are too many of them, too many for me to protect all on my own all the rest of my life. Please tell me how you live with the first-hand knowledge that sometimes children die…without dying yourself.
But really, what would it matter? If my mother was here, maybe she’d say, “You can’t.” Maybe she would tell me that part of her died and never came back to life. Maybe she’d tell me that any moment of happiness she appeared to experience was a sham; that her heart was always with her baby; that any slights her other children may have felt during childhood were because she was thinking not of them, those lucky children still on earth, but of the one who didn’t make it. Maybe she’d tell me that the nasty divorce and the vodka bottle in the underwear drawer and the desperate attempts to find religion and the alcoholic ranting was all, all because of what happened that day.
What then?
It’s too late, in any case. My children are here; I’ve allowed myself to love them wholly and without reserve. They are as familiar to me as my own skin. It’s likely I’ve got several decades left on this earth; our family will grow exponentially, and car accidents, diseases and other tragedies will always lurk in the wings, threatening to claim one of us.
There is no way to make peace with that awful reality. But in the meantime, there is nothing I can do but love them, love them, love them, as if tomorrow would always come.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
{ 27 comments… read them below or add one }
The name of the person you are looking for is Shana. Here is her blog: http://www.gorillabuns.typepad.com/ Here is the post about her son, Thalon: http://gorillabuns.typepad.com/my_weblog/2009/04/thalon-bruce-myers.html
My mother also lost a baby – 7 months old – in the late 50′s. I think it changed our family dynamic forever. Even though I wasn’t born until much later, it effected mt childhood too. I can’t imagine going on after losing a child. I can’t imagine losing one at all.
Lovely piece.
This was one of the most beautiful, poignant posts I’ve read in a long time. I have felt the same way after reading about Maddie and Thalon and Layla Grace and the other children taken from their families too soon. I, too, imagine horrible accidents and eulogies. But I’ve also hugged my kids a little longer and harder and been ever more dilligent about their respective, albeit relatively minor, health issues. I find something to be grateful about every day, even on their whiniest and most trying days. The moms who have lost and shared have given me that gift.
Every word of this resonated with me. It’s a terrifying unknown, how it must feel to have a child die. Thank you for this powerful piece.
You put into beautiful words what I feel, too, when I “meet” moms online who have lost children. My heart aches for all of them; thinking of Katie today.
Beautiful, Meagan. I wrestle with the same questions: how do you possibly, ever, go on? I wrote a bit about this in a post about spirituality and faith:
http://www.confessionsofameanmommy.com/having-faith-the-spiritual-education-of-mommy-part-ii/
But I was also thinking about it the other day, at my cousin’s house for her baby’s first birthday. Her husband lost his little brother at a very young age, in a house fire. His parents, now in their late 60s and with two surviving sons and three grandchildren, are still scarred; his dad bawled like a child when my cousin gave birth to her son and named him for the lost child. You go on, but you take a wildly different path. And my other cousin’s mother in law, I only found out recently, lost a child to chicken pox when he was 18 months old. She had five other children. In fact, in a tradition that is unthinkable to me, she “gave” another one of her sons to a sister who couldn’t have children (this was before the other baby died). She has strength I couldn’t imagine. But I see in her eyes when she’s playing with her newest grandson the same old pain.
We have strength we could not imagine having to call to action.
Denise
I swear, every time I read an article about a toddler who has died because he was left in a hot car, I almost throw up. That could have been my 3rd child, but for the lucky chance that my oldest left the car door open on his way out. And I’ve had enough experience with teens now to know that sometimes you cannot save them from themselves. Merely thinking of the tragedies that have almost occurred is so devastating that I too cannot imagine how I would have gone on if the worst had happened. As you put it, the world simply stops when I try to think of it. And our close brushes have taught me that none of us are immune, and none of us should sit in judgment of that suffering parent.
Compassion is a marvelous thing. And it costs us nothing.
I really don’t worry about drugs (for a few reasons I don’t care to elaborate on here). But that’s only one thing checked off the list. My teenager has a very cavalier attitude towards running across the street. As most teens probably do. She is a good responsible kid, but she drives, she crosses streets, she is FEMALE and thereby easy prey for all kinds of sickos in the world.
We’ve had our near misses we laugh about now, like the ten year old who cut his arm in the garage and we later found out he missed a major blood vessel by a fraction of an inch.
And worst of all: I rolled my car taking the youngest to school last November. Completely my fault. By some sheer bit of dumb luck, he and I both walked out of that car unscratched. But it could so easily have ended very differently.
Beautifully written, soulfully expressed… As a mother who almost lost her only child to a chronic disease, I often have the feeling that my child might be mine only for a time, and I do not know how I would survive her passing. Indeed, I’m quite sure I would not even want to, and my religious fervor is not such that it would keep me here.
I hope all such worries, for you and for me and for the parents of the world, remain hypothetical. Until then, the old adage rattles ’round my brain:
“The decision to have a child is the decision to forever have one’s heart wandering outside one’s body.”
“… love them, love them, love them, as if tomorrow would always come.” That is a perfect sentiment.
An old school friend and I had babies born within a day of each other. Last summer, she lost her daughter to congenital heart disease while my daughter continues to thrive. The loss of a baby so close to my heart is too dark a place for me to dwell for long. So, I don’t. And we shouldn’t, should we? All we can do is love.
In 2003, I had a premature baby that died when he was 9 days old. Looking back now, I didn’t really have a choice in waking up every day, I had 2 other children to feed, take to school, etc.
At one point, I wished the ground would just open up and swallow me whole. Fortunately, I had a wonderful OB that recognized my grief/PPD symptoms and wrote out a prescription for Zoloft. She had my husband promise that he would get it filled on the way home from the dr’s office. I fought taking the meds since I thought that they would numb my pain. And I felt entitled to that pain. But I ended up taking them. They didn’t take away any pain, they just helped me get through my day.
I think part of the healing came with my last child who was born 2 years after my son died. I don’t think a parent can completely heal, but the good days start outnumbering the bad. Now, 7 years later, I can look back at my son’s short time here on earth and not cry when I think of him.
Every mom I know ponders this question. There are a few women in town here how have lost children, and every single time I see them, I wonder, “How?” Thanks for putting into words what so many of us feel.
Jenny
My first baby was stillborn at 6 1/2 months of pregnancy, and even though that was almost 14 years ago I still think about her every day. It never leaves.
Since I know many people who’ve suffered more than one tragic loss, it doesn’t exempt me from losing another child. Maybe because of my loss, I really consciously cherish each moment I have with my two living children…I really do not take them for granted at all.
But thank you for reminding me to hug them just one more time today
Denise Schipani expressed it perfectly: “You go on, but you take a wildly different path.” If we are the sum total of our experiences – and losing a child is surely one of the most traumatic experiences I’ve ever witnessed – then what actually happens to parents in these circumstances is not only unknowable, it’s unimaginable.
I watched my parents deal with the accidental death of my younger brother (he drowned at the age of 19), through the months when they were literally sick with grief, and the eight years since. They (as am I) are forever changed by his death but not necessarily in a negative or even regrettable way. And that’s because (and I’m not sure how to say this right) it’s not only in death that we were changed: that change actually began with his life – the fact that he died is only one aspect of who he was, just as the fact that my mother is not just a person who lost a son, she is a person who HAD a son for 19 years. And after working (and it really WAS work) through their grief, my parents choose to go on living full and even healthier lives partly as a celebration of his life. They see it as his inheritance, as something he’s given back to them, a way to make sense of his death – it gives even more meaning to their lives, to their identities as parents (because you don’t stop being a parent when your child dies). I am incredibly proud of my parents for this: it is not only one of the bravest decisions they have ever taken, but it means that I have not lost them along with the future I would have had my brother.
Please add a “with” to that last line!
Sorry, I got a bit carried away – I also wanted to say I found your post really moving and thoughtful. Thanks!
i’ve been feeling so sad about katie’s son today. you lost your mom too too young. thank you for sharing this story. now is hard but later–when the rest of the world goes back to their every day lives–will be even harder for katie and her family. my heart hurts for them.
Thank you for all the comments…particularly to those mothers who shared their feelings about losing children. I’m so grateful to you for taking the time.
Michelle, that is a really beautiful tribute to your parents.
What a beautiful piece! Yes, dark, but so is the subject you expressed so eloquently. My twins were born at 28 weeks, so I know what its like to stand at the doorway between here and there. I was forced to consider the worst from the moment they were born, so that fear colors my entire experience as a parent. There was no “before”. Even though they are healthy now, I am constantly worried about losing my children, and wonder all the time how I could possibly go on. For me, it has never been “that could never happen to me,” but rather, “that almost happened to me.” Thanks again for sharing.
Meagan, wow! I have lived my life with the fear of losing my children. I have prayed to God each day to please take me first, take me instead. Then when I was in bible study years ago I asked the question, “If Heaven is so wonderful why wouldn’t I want my children to go there?” Was I doing them wrong by praying to God to take me first. (I haven’t got a clue) I was so naive about infant death. I started blogging around the time that Maddie passed and that changed my life. I had this idea years ago about passing out handkerchiefs to the mother’s who had children who died. See when my friend lost her 13 year old son to suicide 10 years ago I gave her a handkerchief telling her that it was for her tears. I had recently received some inheritance and knew what I wanted to to with it. I thought that maybe, just maybe I could do this with a blog. So I started my blog called “For Your Tears” and started visiting mothers who had commented on Heather’s blog. Then I went to other baby lost mothers from other comments on others blog. Almost a year later I have sent out over 220 handkerchiefs. I read their blogs daily and their journey is hard. These women are different, their lives have been changed forever yet to most people they think they have moved on. They don’t move on, they just learn to survive with the heartache and one of the sad things is that most people do not know how to talk with them so slowly they lose contact with family and friends. I heart these woman.
You can read more on my blog at http://wwwforyourtears.blogspot.com/
Would you ever let me link to this post?
Thanks for your article; very touching. I, too, worry frequently about losing my precious little ones and think what would happen after the fact. There are so many hypotheticals that come to mind. My heart truthfully goes out esp to the immediate family members and extended family and friends of anyone who loses anyone but especially to those who lose children at such a young age. I relish each moment with my children as much as possible. Please do the same to yours…
What a beautiful reminder.
This is a truly beautiful and poignant piece.
I can’t imagine the pain of losing a child. My heart goes out to those who have. And for now, all I can do is hope that I never have to know. There’s no way to protect myself from it, in any case.
Thank you for writing this, and sharing it with all of us. Beautiful, and so very important.
your blog really touched me. I am 17 years old. When i was 16 I got pregnant. In my ninth month of pregnancy I found out my baby had no heart beat..I was in such shock I really didn’t understand. I was like “ok so how are you going to make him all better now?” It wasn’t untill i heard the doctors office door slam from my sister running out of the room that i was slammed back into reality. I started screaming..”what! no! no!” thinking how in the hell could this be? a babys heart doesn’t just stop beating..does it? well sadly enough it happends everyday..infact that month there were more stillborn babies delivered than healthy new borns. I was sent back home..for FIVE days untill i was called back to be induced. In those five day..i can’t really remember much i think it was the lords way of helping numbing the pain for a little while. I went into that hospital..crying,smiling,scared,hurt,excited. 14 hours later I was holding my six pound lifeless baby boy in my arms…Aaden.Angel Aaden. I was in such shock i just sat there staring at him..no tears..not even during labor. As soon as my family walked into that room i was smiling..i was so happy i could show him off..so proud at how beautful he was..so scared..of the death i was holdng in my arms. I studied his hands and toes..held his hands for hours while i slept. The next day i had to leave the hospital..i had no insurance and my mom had other kids to go home and take care of. So many months i day dreamed about the day i would take him home..i walked to the mini van..empty armed. I didn’t say a word.I didn’t cry. A couple days later was his funeral. I didn’t know what to exspect walking in there. I didn’t even know before aaden that they had funerals for babys who never lived on earth. When i took my first step into the funeral home i about fainted. There not even ten feet away from me was a two foot long casket. After i regained air supply i took a seat in the front row of chairs..right in front of him. I just sat there stairing..rubbing my belly.i wanted him back in there so bad. I watched his father carry his casket to the hurse. We both looked at each other..as i passed by him.
From there is was on to the burial. I didn’t want to leave him there i felt like he had been ripped from me right out of my arms.
as the months have gone by i go out to visit him once or twice a month..and take pictures. It’s crazy how fast time has gone by you see it go from summer to winter so fast..and now its back to summer..next month he would be one.
your article touched me in a very deep way..you put everything i was feeling in it.
thank you.
Thank you for posting this. Ever since I was pregnant with my first everyday I tend to get paranoid about the what if’s of losing my child(ren). It pains me because I don’t know how I’d live my life if that happened. However, I don’t stop my life or not do something because of it. I was reading the previous comments and just don’t know how you can go on and then have more babies. More power to them. I think I’m just weak.
Have a great weekend
I just wanted to thank everyone who shared their fears here and especially thank those whose fears came true…the brave mamas who’ve shared about losing children.
Debby–your idea is a beautiful one. Of course you may link to my post.
Megan – another well-written post. Isn’t it something that our worlds change so much when we bring a little one into the world? My husband and I have 2 wonderful girls and we do think about losing them. At first, I thought it was sort of morbid but now, after reading your post, I think it’s just what parents do. I think we all know that many many things are beyond our control. I have to say that I hug my girls a bit longer than I need to. Sometimes it’s my way of wishing them well or pretending that a long hug will help protect them as they go out into the world.
Thank you for your caring and poignant words…
Meagan’s article is so accurate but more so, I want to thank Michelle P who commented on June 1st – your comments were incredible and truly hit home. I lost 2 little girls: Randee Marie in March 1971 shortly after birth, and then on July 31st 1972 our daughter Robin Marie passed away from SIDS – this past September 19th our 36 year old son Bobby passed away leaving a beautiful wife and 2 little boys 5 & 6 and I must admit I wasn’t sure I could go on.. But I am blessed with 2 beautiful sons – Randee’s twin Ric who will be 40 in March and Sean who just turned 30; my fantastic husband & best friend-who is my rock; 2 great step-sons, 4 awesome daughter-in-laws and the loves of my life-our 8 incredible grandchildren ranging in ages from 9 to 2… I miss Bobby so much it actually hurts, but I have always believed that happiness is a decision and despite all the tears and the pain, I also know that we need to live life to the fullest for our sakes (including our sanity) and for those around us who love us and whom we love – who are still here and deserve our time and full attention and yes – our happiness and to live the life that our children can no longer live.
So thank you Michelle P. for reminding me of how important that is – I felt your comments were so important I took the liberty of putting them on the Blog that I maintain (www.journeyfrommourning.blospot.com) for moms who’ve lost children in our hometown of Lake Havasu City, AZ – No, losing A child isn’t easy and the most unbearable pain imaginable – but it is survivable and sometimes the price we pay for being given these children to love…
{ 2 trackbacks }