Halloween – The dark and twisted time of year when blood and gore rules. When snakes, spiders and other creepy crawlies are considered festive holiday décor. When monsters, goblins, zombies and more stalk the streets in the name of fun.
I’ve never given much thought to haunted houses, walking dead or other traditional scary Halloween staples. Until last week when my 4-year-old started sobbing over a skeleton – a skeleton that reminded him of his deceased little brother.
I was making 3D paper coffins – cute black-and-green ones with big RIP letters on top. My second oldest son watched quietly with fascination as I used a machine to cut them out.
Then he started asking questions.
“What’s a coffin?” came first. I told him it was something that we use to bury dead people in.
He watched for a little while longer and helped me punch out the cuttings. Then I started cutting out the skeletons that I planned to put in the coffins. As we were punching those out he held one up and said, “Can we name this skeleton Luca?”
It caught me totally off guard that he wanted to name one of the skeletons after his baby brother who died two years ago.
How did he think of that? How did he make the connection between his brother and the 6-inch paper skeleton he held in his hand?
We decorated Luca’s headstone a couple of weeks ago for Halloween. After that my 4-year-old told me he wanted to see his brother. That he wanted us to get him out of his grave.
I tried to gently explain to him that his baby brother wouldn’t look like he used to. That he isn’t in his body anymore.
Maybe that’s where this skeleton thing came from.
No matter where it came from it made me sad. I told him that I didn’t want to name one of our paper skeletons after his brother; that I didn’t want to think of Luca as a skeleton.
And quite honestly I don’t. I hate to even think of my baby being in the ground. And as sick and twisted as it sounds, I have had thoughts of the state of his buried body before. Thoughts that I try to push from my mind the instant they arrive.
But kids are a lot more matter of fact. I am sure my 4-year-old has thought of his brother as a skeleton. He was innocently connecting his brother with the Halloween decoration we were making and wanted to name it the same.
When I told him no, he started sobbing. He kept saying, “I miss Luca,” over and over. It totally broke my heart.
It makes me sad to think that my children will grow up their whole lives looking at dead things differently than most children. When I was a kid, no one I knew had died. I was 17 years old before I first saw a close loved one pass away. My grandpa died my senior year of high school, and he was 90.
My sons have known someone who died since they were 3 and 1 years old.
Luckily, I have amazing pictures of our little Luca to remind us what he is really like. After my son was crying for his brother, I printed a small 3 by 5 inch portrait of Luca off for him from the computer. It’s his own personal copy now that he can carry around when he misses his little friend.
As for the skeletons, I finished my craft and stuffed the coffins with candy before giving them out as gifts.
I never thought I would feel sentimental about a skeleton, but I’ll never look at the bony skinny guys the same way again. Not even the smiling plastic glow-in-the-dark ones.
They’ll forever remind me of what they actually represent, former human lives.
Author’s note: I try not to write too frequently about my angel baby boy. Thoughts of him are constantly in the back of my mind exhausting my emotions. I don’t want to exhaust others with reading about him. But this week I found hope again in dealing with his loss. I know I wrote about him last week, but I had to share that hope without letting another week go by.
OK. Ill admit it. There have been times since the loss of my son that I have become frustrated with my religion. I have felt discouraged and disheartened as prayers and pleadings have failed to cure my broken heart.
This past weekend my faith in healing was renewed as I listened to a church leader, Elder Shayne M. Bowen, speak on the loss of his 8-month-old baby boy.
He spoke on Saturday, October 5, 2012, during The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, semi-annual conference. It was hands down the best talk I have ever heard on losing a child.
Unlike most leaders in the church, Bowen validated my loneliest thoughts as he spoke of his lost son, Tyson, who choked on a piece of chalk 22 years ago. He addressed his message to those parents who have lost a child and have found themselves asking, “Why me?”
For so long I have felt guilty for asking that question. I have felt guilty for questioning my beliefs.
Bowen’s words proved to me that I am not alone. He spoke of having similar feelings and thoughts. But not only did he speak about his grief and doubts, he shared ways that he worked through his grief and doubt.
Finally I have a strong example from a stalwart church leader to guide me on my path to healing my broken heart.
A lot of times members of my church attest to being thankful for their trials and the lessons those trials have taught them. I have felt alienated from my peers because I have never felt thankful for losing my son.
In his talk Bowen said he felt guilt, anger and self-pity after the death of his baby boy. He told about the doctor telling he and his wife that there was nothing they could do and then he wondered how he was going to tell his other children that their brother wasn’t coming home.
I have wondered the exact same thing.
He said others told him that they knew how he felt – but they knew nothing of how he felt.
I have heard similar comments.
After his son died he had many sleepless nights, some of them he spent wandering his house checking on his other children.
I have wandered a similar route.
It comforted me to hear that a spiritual giant from my same religious background experienced some of the same things as me – and that he too struggled with his testimony after losing his baby.
It made me feel “normal” for the first time in a long time.
My favorite part of his talk was near the end when he described how far he has come.
“Sometimes people will ask, ‘How long did it take you to get over it?’ The truth, is you will never completely get over it until you are together once again with your departed loved ones. I will never have a fullness of joy until we are reunited in the morning of the first resurrection.”
I couldn’t have said it better. I, like elder Bowen, may be able to be happy at times, but I will never find true, complete joy until I can hug my baby boy once again.
Bowen said that Tyson remains an important part of his family, and Luca is an important part of mine.
After feeling anger, self-pity and guilt, Bowen prayed that his heart would change.
He said that through very personal, spiritual experiences he was given a new heart and even though it was still lonely and painful, his whole outlook changed.
I feel like Elder Bowen is at the peak of his mountain of grief while I am still at the summit. I still have a long way to go to work through my sorrow. But knowing that others have crested over rough boulders and sharp slopes on their way to finding peace gives me hope, hope I haven’t had in a long, long time.
I am still waiting for my new heart, but now I believe it will actually come.
If you too are struggling while dealing with the loss of a child, listen to Bowen’s talk. Hopefully it can bring you peace and hope like it did me. If nothing else, it will show you that other people have been there and you are not alone.
I buried part of my innocence when I buried my baby boy.
I wish that I hadn’t.
Before Luca died two years ago, I was naively optimistic about the world. I was certain that nothing bad or difficult would come my way.
Boy, were my eyes opened the night I found out I would have to deliver him after he had already died. Bad things happen to good people, and I will never see the world the same again.
But I thought things were going better for me recently. That having a rainbow baby had once again instilled hope into my life.
I didn’t realize how scared I still was that something might go wrong again for me — until we tried having our new baby sleep in his crib, in a room down the hall.
I thought I was ready to move him, my two-and-a-half-month-old good night sleeper, into a bedroom with his two oldest brothers. But after a 2 a.m. panic attack the second night of having him out of my room, I knew it was too soon.
I pushed my husband out of bed, made him go grab our baby and bring him back to me. I was scared to death that something had happened to him.
Seriously? It’s crazy how much I still worry that something is going to happen to my living children. I have some major posttraumatic stress when it comes to my kids.
Having a new baby has given me hope, but that hope hasn’t quite extinguished all of my fear.
I guess I didn’t realize how many times a night I reach over his bassinet wall to feel the rise and fall of his chest, or lean over to brush my ear near his nose to hear the in and out of his breath. Having him near — close enough to physically feel that he is still alive — has comforted me more times than I realized.
So after one and a half nights in his crib, he is now back in the bassinet by the side of my bed. I know that eventually I am going to have to move him to the other room permanently — heaven knows he’s getting nearly too big for his little bed. But I don’t know how I am going to do it.
How am I going to put my mind at ease? How will I keep from waking and worrying a dozen times a night when he’s not next to me?
Gosh I hate that I have these feelings. I hate that anyone has to go through hard times. I wish I could go back to the days when I was positive that everything would work out the way I wanted it to.
But I don’t think I will ever be able to go back to those days. And I wouldn’t trade having Luca for anything. He may have died, but he is still, and will always be, my baby.
I just wish he were still here with me, and ultimately that his death hadn’t shattered my rose colored glasses and left me worrying about what big trial I am going to have to face next.
I wish I could have held onto my everything-in-the-world-is-amazing positive attitude a little bit longer. Then maybe I could sleep easier at night.
I called my son by the wrong name the other night. Which really isn’t a big deal for most parents. I honestly do it all the time with my oldest two boys. But I called my newborn son “Luca,” the name of my baby who passed away two years ago.
It really made me stop and think.
Having a rainbow baby has brought me so much joy, so much peace. Yet in a very small, strange way, it has also made me miss my angel son even more.
Taking care of our new baby has reminded me of some of the things I have missed not being able to raise my third son.
I never bathed him, never fed him, never patted his back to burp him or changed his stinky diaper. And I hate that I never locked eyes with him or saw him smile.
I’ve been reminded lately that I will never be able to replace my little Luca. Nor do I want to.
Deep down I will always wish I had him here, no matter how happy I have become. No matter how much healing I have experienced. No matter how many babies I have after him.
I took dinner to a friend recently whose husband died suddenly. When I got there, I said something I never should have.
The whole way there I kept telling myself, “Don’t say it. Don’t say it.” But the first three words that blurted out of my mouth when she opened the door to let me in were, “How are you?”
“How are you?” She just lost her husband, the father to her five children. I am sure she didn’t want to answer that question – even if she had an answer.
I felt like chucking the food tray up the stairs to her kitchen then running back to my car and driving off in shame. I was horrified, mortified.
I promised myself after Luca died that I wouldn’t ask anyone that question. It is one of the absolute worst things to say to someone who is mourning.
Yet I blurted it out to a friend robotically, without even thinking.
Unfortunately, our American society uses those three insincere words as a basic greeting. We all say it – all the time. But how often do we mean it? Do we really care how one another feels? Do we stop and let them respond?
Obviously I am guilty of speaking before thinking, but my most recent experience got me thinking about other stupid things we say.
I’ll never forget walking into the mortuary with a tiny white tuxedo to dress my lifeless little boy just four days after I had delivered him. A mortuary worker opened the door for my husband and I, saw the suit and said, “That’s a nice outfit, where is the baby?” All we could say was, “I hope you guys have him.”
Seriously? I don’t know how someone who works at a mortuary could have said something so stupid.
But we all make mistakes.
I’ve compiled a short list of phrases I hated to hear after Luca died. There are more, but these are the most common, ridiculous ones. Hopefully if I can focus really hard, I will avoid saying them to others who are grieving.
“He’s in a better place” – Really? Now I know it’s been at least 28 years since I was last in heaven, and it probably still is a pretty nice place, but is my home all that bad? Would living with me be the worst thing that would have happened to him?
“I know how you feel” – I have met several women who have had stillborn babies and although their stories are very similar to mine, I still have NO idea how they feel, nor do they know how I feel about my loss. So how can I expect someone who has never given birth to, then buried their deceased baby, to “know” how I feel? I think we say this way too often. We may have good intentions in trying to understand how others feel, and we may be able to relate, but we will never know how each other feels.
“I just keep thinking about all the missed opportunities you are going to have” – Thanks. I hadn’t actually thought about the life span of my deceased infant and all of the major life events I am going to miss out on. I needed the reminder that I won’t get to see him take his first steps, play his first t-ball game, walk into kindergarten for the first time, etc.
“I had a friend whose baby almost died…” – ALMOST died? I don’t even want to hear about it. For some reason there are a lot of people who when they hear about my experience, feel the need to relate by telling me of someone they know who almost had a baby die. I don’t want to hear about your acquaintance’s miracle baby. I don’t want to know how they too had a baby’s whose cord was knotted. I don’t care how awesome it was that their child is still alive. It makes me too bitter.
“At least you didn’t really know them.” – Right. I think not knowing them adds to my heartache. At what age would you chose for your child to die? None? That’s what I thought.
“Aren’t you going to hurry and have another one?” In case you didn’t notice, I just endured a 9-month pregnancy then delivery. I should probably pay off my hospital bills and let my body heal before working on having another baby. And who knows when my heart will feel ready to try again.
“At least he is safe from harm. Now you won’t have to worry about him as a teenager” – As crazy as it may sound, I would have loved to have worried about him as a teenager.
“You’ll get to raise them someday” – Now this one I honestly believe and I am completely looking forward to, but I still don’t like to hear it. I wanted to raise my son NOW. While he could play and wrestle with his brothers. While we were all in the same home. It’s hard to remember eternity with empty, aching arms.
Nothing. – As scary and uncomfortable as it may be to speak to someone who has recently lost a loved one, I think avoiding the death and pretending it never happened may be worse. It becomes a giant elephant in the room, threatening to stampede at times. If you can’t think of anything, “I’m so sorry,” is a good place to start.
Sometimes after a dark, cold storm, when the rain is done chilling you to the bone, when the wind is done taking your breath away, when the clouds disperse and the sky reappears, a burst of light shines from the heavens and colors bow over the earth.
And although you still feel dampness in the air, the rainbow’s color fills you with light and hope.
Last week I caught the first glimpse of my rainbow. After 9 very long months, my rainbow baby boy was born July 3. And he is beautiful.
The past couple of years have been filled with storms for my family and me. The rains started pouring April 22, 2010 when I delivered my third son stillborn.
At times during the past 2 years I have felt like a hurricane has swarmed around my house, like I was drowning in my trials. And no matter what I did I couldn’t shake the storm.
But now I feel like I am basking in the sunlight. For some reason, things have taken a turn for the better for me.
Some of you who have read my blog in the past know that it was difficult for me to get pregnant this time around. And still after a year of trying I was not only thrilled, but terrified that a new life was inside me.
This pregnancy was probably my easiest one physically. Aside from the usual heartburn and joint pain, I was actually quite comfortable.
But mentally I thought I was going to go crazy – especially the last month. I don’t know how many times a day I would do the 10-movements-in-2-hours kick count. I knew that if something went wrong, I would be the first to know and that stressed me right out.
At my 37-week appointment my doctor said he would be willing to induce my labor early, as long as my body was ready. I keep praying it would be ready. At 38 weeks I was dilated to a 1 and 50 percent effaced. That was enough to schedule the induction.
I hardly slept the night before I was so excited and anxious. My boys were excited too. They woke up at 5:30 in the morning.
Our dark-haired, chubby-cheeked little guy came just after 2 in the afternoon and I have never been so happy to hear a tiny baby cry. He was a week early, but was still a good 7 pounds 6 ounces.
And as much as I love our new little addition, his brothers may have me beat. I have never seen two little boys swarm around a baby like my oldest two boys swarm around our newborn. They are enamored by him and want to be right next to him all of the time.
The past week and a half has felt like a dream. I still can’t believe our baby is real, and that we got to bring him home.
I am sure there will be times when my storm will return, for I’ll never forget, nor ever be able to replace the beautiful baby I buried 2 years ago. And I will always feel saddened that my husband and I will never have all of our children together.
But for now I am going to bask in the colors of my rainbow and soak in his glow.
“Rainbow Babies” is the understanding that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of the storm. When a rainbow appears, it doesn’t mean the storm never happened or that the family is not still dealing with its aftermath. What it means is that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds. Storm clouds may still hover but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of color, energy and hope.
I am less than a month from my due date and feeling a little overwhelmed.
At times anxiety threatens to take over my every though and action. Other times the thought of actually bringing home a little baby boy stresses me to the max.
I have only written a few times during the past 37 weeks about what it has been like to carry a life after the last one I carried died. It is terrifying, exciting, hope inspiring, and stressful to say the least.
There are times when I feel absolutely fine. Almost like I am not even pregnant. I think my mind has naturally slightly detached itself from the baby my body is carrying. It has kept a safe distance – in order to protect itself in case of another tragedy.
A lot of times when I think about bringing a baby to my house I don’t even know what to do. I can’t wrap my mind around that. It has been a long time since I have nursed or diapered a little one. I have major feelings of inadequacy.
I don’t even know if I am ready to care for this baby.
There’s a small closet in my bathroom that is stocked chuck full of diapers, wipes, toiletries and other baby essentials. I am pretty sure I have everything you could possibly need or want for this baby. But that doesn’t mean I have it all out.
I bought a new dresser and filled it with clothes, but everything else is at bay. Until I bring my little bundle of joy home, I will not get out the car seat or stroller and you better believe I will not set up the bassinet or crib.
Those were the hardest things to take down after Luca died.
My mother-in-law bought me the cutest new diaper bag. I have halfway filled it. I know I should get it ready, in case there is a moment of panic, but I just can’t – yet.
There have been times during the past 8 months when I am sure my baby is going to die. The fact that I am the first one who will know if he stops moving has almost been too much to bear.
He is particularly still in the morning. But no matter how many times I tell myself that is normal for him, I still end up lying in fear on my side in my bed waiting, worrying.
There are times throughout the day when I try to remember the last time he moved. Sometimes I’ll stop everything I am doing and sit still on my couch for a long while until I feel him kick or wiggle.
If only he could move and squirm all of the time. Although it may be unsettling, at least I would know he is alive.
I am anywhere between 36-38 weeks pregnant – depending how you count. That means I have anywhere between 2-4 weeks to wait. Yet another reason why this control freak is stressing. Add my weekly shots that I was taking to stop my body from going into premature labor, and I have no idea when the little one will arrive.
Thank heavens the natural nesting instinct has kicked in, keeping me busy cleaning every nook and cranny in my home. It might be driving my husband crazy, but it helps with my anxiety and allows me to feel in control of something.
But I am running out of nooks and crannies. Hopefully I deliver soon. The anticipation is killing me.
Sometimes I want to scream out loud, “Am I really going to have a baby?” It still hasn’t sunk in.
At this point I know I am going to HAVE to deliver, but will I get to HAVE my baby?
I know of six different women who live within a half a mile from my home who are pregnant – and that’s not counting me. Not only is there something in my neighborhood’s water, it feels like dozens of my Facebook friends are expecting.
So needless to say I have heard a lot of excited “I’m-going-to-have-a-baby!” type announcements in the past several months.
The problem is, when someone tells me the news there’s an awkward pregnant pause.
Not because there’s a silent break that may lead to the “birth” of a grand announcement, like the pregnant-pause definition suggests, but because when someone tells me they are pregnant, I literally pause.
I have absolutely nothing to say. No words of encouragement or support. No, “I am so happy for you,” and “That is so exciting” phrases seem sincere.
And somehow phrases like, “Good luck,” “I hope your baby is OK,” and “Seriously?” don’t seem situational appropriate.
I feel horrible and yet I don’t know how to change. I’m afraid I have become the sharp pin that bursts every excited mother-to-be’s bubble.
But how can I be thrilled about something that brought me such horrible pain and sorrow? I cross my fingers and pray each day that no one I know will have pregnancy complications. But it still scares me to death.
I guess I am still working through my grief and the anxiety it has forced into my life.
I’m hoping that a safe delivery of my unborn son this summer will reclaim my enthusiasm in childbearing.
Until then, I am sure I’ll give birth to a lot more pauses.
It has been 728 days since I have held my baby boy. For me, that’s 728 days too many. Delivering him stillborn has forever changed me.
The past two years have been very long, filled with many ups and downs.
There are some things that have gotten better for me. I don’t have nearly as many nightmares as I used to and my arms don’t ache to hold him like they once did.
But no matter how far removed I get from his death I will always yearn to have him here.
I think I will always watch children his age with wonder. I will wonder what it would be like to have him. Would he be wrestling with his brothers? Would he be sleeping in a toddler bed? Would we be fighting him to give up his pacifier? Would he like to cuddle to his mom?
Sometimes I can’t help but feel bitter. Like when I see three brothers playing together at the McDonald’s play center or at the park. Why don’t my boys get to play with their little brother?
I’ve run into a strange phenomenon lately where new people have come into my life that do not know about my third son. It is so bizarre to me that there are people out there that don’t know about my most life-changing experience, my most heart-wrenching loss. And yet, how can I expect them to know?
Now that I am pregnant I get a lot of comments about having a “third” son. Most people laugh and tell me that I must be really good at “making boys.” They don’t quite know what to say when I tell them that this is actually my fourth son.
I hate that my family will never be all together – at least not in this life.
Sometimes I feel like the world is forgetting him – that his absence means nothing to anyone else. I feel like people must think I am crazy for missing someone who has been gone for two years. Especially when it’s someone I never got to know.
But that’s what people don’t understand – unless they too have buried their baby. Not getting to know Luca has been one of the hardest parts of the grieving process for me. I have no memories. No sounds. No smells. No happy moments. Only times filled with sorrow and loss.
On the other hand, sometimes I feel like I am actually defrosting. Like my sorrow is no longer crippling me and I am now only half numb.
Hopefully as time goes on I will continue to find my “normal” self again.
On Sunday, my family will celebrate Luca’s second birthday by floating wish lanterns to him in heaven – our Tangled-like tradition that I hope to continue until we find our lost prince.
In honor of Luca’s memory I am reposting his story:
My Angel’s Story
I was tired, I was huge and I was ready to have my baby boy. But not ready for the way it would all turn out. I would have happily carried him weeks beyond my due date if it meant he had a chance of being born alive.
Honestly? I wasn’t quite ready for a third child. I always wanted my kids close in age, but my two boys, ages 3 and 1, were a lot to handle. I was okay with waiting a while. But both my husband and I had strong impressions that we needed to try for another baby.
Despite those impressions, I was still extremely nervous about how I could be a good mom to three boys under the age of 3. Each day I grew, not only in circumference, but also in my confidence in being able to raise three tiny spirits.
On April 21, 2010 I had my 37-week check-up. Luca’s movement had been slowing down significantly for a while now and I was worried. I discussed my concerns with my doctor and we listened to his heartbeat, which appeared to be strong. So, my doctor and I decided that maybe little Luca was running out of room in my overcrowded womb.
The beginning of my pregnancy was a piece of cake. I felt better than I had with my other pregnancies and had virtually no morning sickness. But the end was pretty bad. I kept having sharp pains in my side and my muscles were aching.
Fearing the worst
My mother-in-law kept my other two boys while I went to my appointment so I decided to lie down and take a nap until she brought them home. That’s when I started panicking because I couldn’t remember the last time I felt Luca move.
I know what some of you are thinking? Why didn’t you rush to the hospital??? Knowing what I know now, my advice to any pregnant woman who is the least bit concerned about her baby, would be, GET TO THE HOSPITAL, NOW. Speed if you have to. What are they going to do? Tell you your baby’s fine and send you home? Hopefully. Laugh in your face about your unnecessary worries? Never. In all reality, even if I had been in labor and delivery when Luca’s heart stopped beating, they still wouldn’t have been able to save him. There wasn’t anything I could have done. I realize that now. But there are other reasons why babies stop moving. In my opinion it’s just better to get it checked out as soon as possible.
I literally worried all night about my Luca’s movement. I think the strong feelings and confirmations I had received that I was supposed to have another baby kept me waiting for his little legs to kick or his fists to punch. Luca’s pregnancy was my only pregnancy I haven’t run into problems conceiving. I thought that was a sure sign that this truly was meant to be. It was meant to be, just not in the way I hoped or expected.
I waited, and waited for him to move. Finally at about 2:30 a.m. I couldn’t take it any longer. I got up and sat in the bathtub for a long time. Travis came in and convinced me to go to the hospital. My mom came over to sit with my boys so we could run up to the hospital. When I got there, they hooked me up to a monitor and we found the baby’s heartbeat. Well, at least we thought we did — turns out the sound of my own heartbeat was reverberating back. We didn’t know that for sure until they hooked me up to a basic ultra sound machine and zoomed in on the heart. I knew immediately that my son had died. I looked at my husband and he knew it too. We had seen a number of live, beating hearts in ultrasounds. This one was still.
But the nurses said nothing. They tried to remain calm as they called my doctor and asked him to come in. He arrived at about 4 a.m. to confirm my baby’s death. We all cried — nurses included. He told me I could go home and come back later to deliver my baby or he could induce me right away.
The thought of leaving the hospital knowing that I was carrying my dead child made me cringe. I knew that having a stillborn was going to be the worst thing I had ever experienced. Delaying it wouldn’t change anything. They wheeled me into a corner room and posted a grieving sign on the door.
Shortly thereafter we started calling family members to let them know they were going to have to come in sometime that day to simultaneously tell Luca “hello” and “goodbye.”
Sharing the Heart-Breaking News
My poor mother. She was the first to hear of his death. And she had to take the news while watching over my other two little ones in my quiet, lonely home. I can’t imagine how alone she must have felt. She texted me awhile after I called to tell her he had died, asking what she should tell my other boys when they woke up. That literally broke my heart. What did I want her to tell them?
We didn’t want to tell him that their brother was “sleeping” or that he was “gone.” We decided to tell them the truth. That he had died. They were sad, but their grief was expressed differently than an adult. They didn’t cry much but they did throw more tantrums and asked to be held a lot more.
Telling people and hearing their reactions was one of the hardest things for me. I could handle the pain that I was going to have to bear, but having to inflict some of that pain on others made me so sad. It still makes me sad.
Our family members started gathering at the hospital and at our home waiting for the time when they would meet Luca. I knew we would only ever have a few short hours with him and so I prepared to face my nightmare with a smile on my face. This was the only time I was going to hold my baby. The only time I could take pictures of his beautiful face. I wasn’t going to let my grief overcome my ability to make the moments meaningful.
I don’t know if it’s all in my head, but I don’t think I had the full power of my epidural during his delivery. It was by far my most painful delivery. Not only emotionally, but physically. Maybe that’s because I didn’t have the anticipation of meeting my healthy baby to pull me through. With each painful push, I knew I was a step closer to meeting a baby I wouldn’t take home. I’ll never forget the shock in my doctor and nurses voices and faces as Luca was born. They all gasped in unison. He had suffered a cord accident that was visible the moment he was delivered. The cord was wrapped around his neck several times and it contained a true knot. Umbilical cord knots are extremely rare and knots resulting in a baby’s death are even more rare. Although I will never be grateful for what happened to my son, there is something I am extremely grateful for: The fact that we found out why he died.
He was born at 5:13 p.m. and weighed 5 pounds 13 ounces. He was beautiful with curly reddish brown hair and rosy red cheeks. We each took turns holding him and taking pictures. Utah Share came and casted molds of his hands and feet. Pat Wimpee came and took dozens of priceless photos of him and our family. I don’t know what I’d do without those photos. I think I would forget the details of his face. The wrinkles of his toes. The size of his tiny fingers. At times I stared at his little body, waiting for his chest to rise or his eyes to open. He literally was perfect.
We had Luca in our hospital room for five short hours. My legs were still numb from my epidural, so I was forced to watch everyone’s encounters with him from the comfort of my hospital bed. That was really hard for me. I wanted to hug and comfort everyone and yet I was stuck on the sidelines. I am sure that those who came to the hospital to meet him will forever be changed. There was such a special spirit in the room. It was a terribly sad, yet wonderfully peaceful experience.
The next several days were a blur. I left the hospital on a Friday morning. That afternoon I sat in the mortuary office preparing a funeral. We had a very small service on Monday, just four days after I delivered. Thank heavens for pain medications. Without those my traditional delivery pains coupled with the pain of my milk coming in, would have been unbearable. I buried my baby and part of my heart on April 26, 2010.
How am I dealing with his death?
I believe, as my religion teaches, that I will raise little Luca someday. Sometimes that thought brings great comfort, other times it is little solace for a grieving mother who longs to hold her angel infant now. Although he is in a better place, free from sorrow and sin, I wanted the challenge of raising him in this crazy world. Wanted to see him wrestle with his older brothers or hear him giggle as the three of them cooked up mischief. I hate that we don’t get to have him now.
I have experienced all of the traditional grief stages at least once. I have felt depressed, angry, honored, jealous, comforted, tired, rude, bitter, overwhelmed, out of control, anxious, stressed and unmotivated. There have been times I have sat on my couch, not wanting to do anything. Then other times that I feel an urgency to give back to others in honor of my son’s memory. I have yet to find a happy medium. I have heard people say that the first year is the hardest. I pray that’s true.
This past year has literally been the year from hell. Yet despite the darkness I have felt, there are a few things that have relieved my sorrows.
What do I do when the grief is too much to bear?
I take long soaks in the bathtub where I blast Pink on my radio and cry until my eyes are strawberry red.
I watch movies like Tangled and sob when I see Rapunzel reunited with her parents. I wish I only had to wait 18 years to meet my “lost” baby.
I take my boys fishing. Fresh air and the beauty of nature clear my head and remind me of my place in the world.
I lay by my other boys while they are sleeping. I put my hand on their chest to feel their heart beating and their lungs filling with air. That reminds me of the beautiful boys I do get to raise on Earth. I can’t let myself take them for granted.
I start finding something I can do for others. I know it sounds cheesy, but sometimes serving others has been my saving grace. I understand the need to be still and internalize my grief and emotions, but sometimes it’s overwhelming. I have to find a productive way to patch over my grief until my emotions settle and I’m able to digest them.
Finally, I write through my heartache. Writing has always been a way for me to work through life’s problems. I imagine I’ll write through this problem my entire life.
I just have to keep reminding myself that life is hard, life is good and life is necessary.
I think sometimes I could sit on my couch all day with my hands on my middle, enjoying the kicking, wiggling movements of my unborn son.
Each jab and nudge are a miracle to me. A miracle I tragically took for granted last time I was pregnant. I still can’t believe I am going to have another baby.
I wrote last year about how spring seemed like a slap in the face. The birds chirping, the flowers blooming, were all salt in my wound — reminding me of the son I buried in the spring of 2010.
This year my attitude is somewhat softened. Today, spring is a reminder to me of the miracle of life. I have come to know how close the line between life and death can be. How easily it can be crossed.
Something as simple as a little more water would have meant life to my poor pine tree. And a simple true knot in a vital life chain meant death for my third baby boy.
It’s crazy how fragile life is.
And although I still miss my Luca like crazy — last weekend I cried until I thought my eyes would melt as I thought about his loss and the changes it has forced into my life — I have been thinking more on the miracle of life than the tragedy of death.
With Easter coming I talked to my boys about the meaning of Easter eggs — how they can be a symbol of new life. Now whenever I see a colorful egg I can’t help but think of new life. And more specifically the new life that is growing inside me.
I guess I am kind of like a giant Easter egg. (We all know I am starting to look like one.) My round, bursting belly is a symbol of new life. A life I can’t wait to meet. No matter what happens.
And although I still take far too many things in this life for granted, this year I am trying to enjoy the warming of the Earth, the rebirth after winter.
Halloween – The dark and twisted time of year when blood and gore rules. When snakes, spiders and other creepy crawlies are considered festive holiday décor. When monsters, goblins, zombies and more stalk the streets in the name of fun.
Boogers on the Wall 