My oldest son leaving dinosaurs for his baby brother to play with Memorial Day weekend.
I stopped by the cemetery last Sunday to visit my son’s grave. But I honestly don’t know if I should have gone.
I’ve decided I don’t like going to the place where I buried the child I never got to meet. Every time I go there I leave with a very heavy, sad heart. It’s like the weight of his death comes back crashing down on me.
I have a number of friends who find peace and solace at their child’s resting place. Not me. I feel awkward going there. I don’t know how to act.
Am I supposed to talk to the air and hope he’s nearby listening? Because even if he’s able to visit different places on earth, I don’t know that he’s there all the time waiting for me to come.
Am I supposed to lay a blanket out and sit near his headstone while I reflect on his short life? Because I know I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that. I thought about taking a cake with me on his first birthday but I am pretty sure our cemetery has rules against picnicking on burial grounds.
Am I supposed to sob at the site, overwhelmed at his loss? Because I am at times overwhelmed, but I am not the kind to openly express my heartache by crying. Write about it? Yes. Break down in the middle of daylight at my son’s grave? Not my style.
So what should I do? I feel helpless when I go there. What can I possibly do for my angel son? I finally threw a plastic bucket and a couple of toothbrushes in the back of my van so we could scrub his headstone each time we visit. My boys love that and it makes me feel like I am at least performing one simple act of service for my lost baby.
I honestly feel bad that we don’t visit the cemetery more often. I feel bad that I don’t like going there. I’m hoping my feelings will change but right now it’s really hard for me. I feel like I gave that earth a piece of my soul the day we covered his tiny casket and it’s a very painful place.
I find myself asking the question, should I go or should I not go? I want to pay tribute to his memory and find a place where I can feel close to him, but I don’t know how or where. And then there’s another question that eats at me making me feel guilty for not visiting his gravesite more often: If I don’t go, does that mean I am letting him go?
I can’t tell you how many times I had to silently tell myself to smile and be grateful this past Mother’s Day. It has been a long month and a hard season of smiling through my tears.
I should naturally smile and be grateful for the two beautiful, charming boys I get the privilege of raising here on earth. They really are my whole world and I dedicate my entire life to them.
But Mother’s Day is hard now that I’m a mother to an angel. It’s painful to me that I completely failed at my most recent attempt at motherhood. It’s even more painful that since my child was stillborn, I can’t see him, hear him or hold him on a day that celebrates my relationship with him.
Instead I get to wear a pearl bracelet that has his name engraved on a silver heart at the end. I hang a heart-shaped locket filled with a tiny set of footprints and his birthstone around my neck. Then before it gets too dark I get to stop by the cemetery in the cold rain to leave a handful of tulips from my flowerbed on his headstone.
It’s just so hard to smile when I can’t be a mother to all of my children right now. I’ll admit it. I’m having a hard time with his death. Especially on days that celebrate motherhood.
Days where we have a Sunday school lesson on the shepherd who leaves his flock of 99 to tend for the one sheep who is lost. I feel like that shepherd. I love my flock — I wouldn’t trade my two- and four-year-olds for anything — but I still yearn to bring that one lost lamb back to my fold. Only no matter how much I search, my lamb isn’t coming back. Not right now.
I hate feeling down and gloomy. I hate feeling like I am ungrateful. I’ve got to figure out a way to focus on the positive impact Luca’s short life had. I’ve got to remember the tender mercies I’ve received since his death. The times I’ve felt him near. I have to stay focused on the future — the big day I get to hug him in heaven.
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 sprits.
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 HOSPTIAL, 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 a while 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 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 serving others has been my saving grace this month. I have sewn 20 baby blankets and crocheted a dozen beanies to give to other families whose babies die. 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.
Spring is here and I think I am having an emotional breakdown. My mind keeps drifting back to a year ago when I was excitedly awaiting the birth of my third son. With every day that passes it sinks in deeper that he’s never coming home.
It’s starting to hit me that I will deal with his death my entire life. It’s not just something that’s going to fade away.
Every time I see a pregnant woman I am going to worry a little for her baby’s well-being as well as envy her for the life she carries. When I see a tiny, newborn baby — alive and well — I’ll wonder what it would have been like to hold a healthy, happy Luca. And when I see a family with three or more kids in tow, I’ll think of what life would have been like with my third.
I feel stressed, nervous, anxious and physically ill when I remember how my perfect world turned to pure hell within a day’s time. I went from hearing my baby’s heartbeat at a routine doctor’s check up to delivering him stillborn within 24 short hours.
This spring is going to be a rough one. Ironically it’s the same time of year associated with new life and rebirth.
But I realize it’s all right if it’s rough. I need time to suffer through my sorrows. I’ve been through a tragic event that will forever change me and my outlook on life.
I saw an interview last week of a supermodel that survived the 2004 Tsunami in Indonesia. She survived but her boyfriend did not. A reporter asked her how long it takes to recover from an event like that. Her reply: You never fully recover.
I can relate to her grief. No, I didn’t experience a natural catastrophe of quite the same magnitude. But I did lose someone very close to me in a cruel and tragic way.
And I think she’s right. You never fully recover from something like that. Maybe you refer to it less frequently and tear up half as often, but the truth is, you have just learned how to better to conceal your broken heart.
A lot of times when interacting with others who have been through hard times, I think it makes all of us feel better to hear people say they have “recovered” from their tragedies. But I’m not sure we can ever fully recover. At least not me. Not yet.
If the topic of death makes you uncomfortable, skip this post and check back next week. If you do end up reading this post in its entirety you will probably smile at the irony of this warning.
I have a giant elephant in my living room. Unfortunately he doesn’t just stay there. My current elephant – the death and birth of my baby boy – haunts me wherever I go.
It finds me every time I meet someone new. They ask a simple, non-threatening question, “How many children do you have?” Then I coil back like someone just socked me in the stomach.
How many kids do I have? That’s an interesting question. The real answer – three. I have been blessed with three beautiful boys. But one of them is no longer with us. He was stillborn last spring.
That makes the answer more difficult to define. I never really know what to say to people.
I feel guilty saying I have three kids – especially to a mother I see wrestling three young children. I have three boys, but I definitely don’t have the responsibility of raising all three right now. I do not chase around a four-year-old, 2-year-old and a 10-month old.
Technically I only have two. But I will never forget my third, and heaven knows my body won’t either.
Yes I was pregnant for 37 weeks. Yes my ankles swelled up. Yes my back felt like it was going to break and my sciatic nerve sent jolts of pain down my thigh. Yes I fought my eyelids every afternoon as I sat on the couch with my three- and one-year -year-olds wondering how I was going to stay awake until 6 p.m. when dad got home. I was tired, I was sick to my stomach and I was dying to have a baby to bring home to make it all worth it.
But I was forced to come home empty-handed and brokenhearted.
So what to do?
My children aren’t afraid to talk about their brother. I’ve heard my four-year-old proudly exclaim that he has two brothers, but one’s in heaven. Then there’s my two-year-old. He’s always telling people his brother died and he wants to play with him.
If they aren’t embarrassed about their angel brother, why am I? Maybe it’s because I’ve seen several people shrink back horrified when I tell them my baby died.
It happened just last month when I went to renew our dinosaur park passes. I forgot that last year we listed “baby” on our pass because we didn’t know yet what we were having. This year when the worker updated my information she asked what our baby’s name was. When I told her he died she looked terrified, then replied something like, “That sucks, I’m sorry.”
Yeah, it does suck. And I’m glad that worker’s “sorry,” but it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t even my poor baby’s fault. His death was out of all of our control.
Another awkward issue associated with my baby’s death is his birth-death reversal. Yes my child died before he was born. What does that mean? It means he has no birth or death certificate. Basically, he never existed.
But believe me he did. I felt him kick every time one of my piano students played an upbeat song. I felt him go crazy when I’d lie down to sleep — turning somersaults and handsprings in my womb.
I heard his heartbeat the day he died. He was alive, and he was mine.
For now I will probably continue to address the awkward elephant that tromps into my life almost daily. I will probably make people uncomfortable as I tell them I have three boys — two on earth and one in heaven.
But I can’t forget my third child – no matter how short his life was.
Boogers on the Wall 