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 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.
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.
There’s something about the beach that draws me near to heaven and my little one who is waiting for me there.
Our family has been to San Clemente, California, three times since I buried my baby in April 2010, and each time I could have sworn he was right beside me sitting on the sand.
I can’t explain it and can’t put my finger on why it happens there.
I know it’s not the wetness of the water. I rarely dip my toes in. It’s always too cold and slimy for me. And it’s definitely not the sand. After an afternoon on the beach I’m crawling with the itchy stuff and can’t brush it off fast enough.
Maybe it’s the vastness of the ocean that makes me feel like a tiny speck on this planet and helps me put things into perspective. Or the cadence of the waves that methodically reminds me that my life here is but a small moment – a blink of an eye.
Both confirm to me the existence of a higher plan. That life is much more than my mortal journey.
Both help me find a tiny piece of comfort in the loss of my baby boy. The beach revives a sense of trust I have in my Maker and my commitment to him.
I’ve got to find a way to make it back to California regularly. The feeling is so peaceful there I wish I could bottle it up in a seashell and take it home with me.
I finally decided I had to know the bitter truth about my poor pine tree so I called in a professional. Dave from Tree Care Solutions in Kaysville, Utah, stopped by today to see if the tree was salvageable.
At first I knew it was bad. He took one look at the tree and shook his head. Who wouldn’t when looking at a naked pine?
But after digging the little tree out and lifting it up, he said that the roots actually looked all right. He told me not to give up hope, but if it didn’t have any new buds next spring, then it probably wasn’t going to come back.
I was extremely impressed by Dave and his professionalism. He was very kind and apologized for the dying tree, even though it was dying because of my lack of care – he said it was most likely a watering issue and the tree got too dry.
He didn’t even charge me for the consultation.
I’ll have to add him to the never-ending list of people who have shown us kindness and grace as we’ve been faced with this tragedy. There really are good people in the world.
I guess I’ll have to cross my fingers and wait a few more months to know the real fate of that poor tree. Meanwhile I’ll give it a fighting chance by keeping it watered and surrounding it with mulch.
My husband said that if it dies we will buy another one. I know it won’t have the same sentimental value as the first one given to us after Luca died, but since Luca’s birthday is on Earth Day, and Utah celebrates Arbor Day on the last Friday in April, and the state tree is the Blue Spruce, it might be fun to start a new tradition where we plant one each spring.
I am extremely emotional this week about the sun-scorched pine tree sitting on the side of my house. It’s ridiculous that I am being so dramatic about a plant, but I can’t help it.
The once beautiful, small blue spruce was given to our family by my husband’s coworkers after our son was stillborn in April 2010. I loved that gift. Loved it so much that I refused to plant it near a home we don’t plan to permanently stay in.
So I bought a giant pot to put it in last fall. But because I did that, it may end up dying and I might not have it anyway.
The cute little tree sat on my porch all winter, spring and summer. Things were going really well until a couple of weeks ago when I noticed that the pine needles on the outer branches were turning brownish orange. I called and spoke to an expert at a local garden center who told me that the intense heat hitting my west-facing porch had probably scorched the tree.
We immediately moved the poor thing to the shady north side of my house and started watering it daily. But moving the tree shook off nearly 90 percent of its dried-out decrepit needles. It is now officially the Clemens’s version of the Charlie Brown Christmas Tree.
I feel horrible. Horrible that it might die because I didn’t really know how to take care of it. Horrible that I am probably going to lose one of my favorite gifts – a gift that always served as a happy reminder of my cute little Luca. Horrible that if it dies, I can never replace it.
When I got it I realized I wouldn’t get to see my little boy grow up and mature, but I would always have the tree growing as a memorial to him.
I guess for now there is nothing I can do. I’ll keep watering it each day until next June when there is a slim possibility that new needles will sprout from its crispy branches. It’s out of my control now. And for those of you who really know me, you’ll know how hard that is for me to accept.
The hardest part will be waiting nine months to see if it lives. It reminds me of when we nearly lost our goldfish Nemo a few months ago. It was only a matter of time before he actually died.
I hate death. I hate change. I wish I could walk into my boys’ room and feed Nemo each night. I wish I could see my green baby pine on my porch each time I go to check my mail. But I can’t.
I know if the tree dies it really isn’t the end of the world. Believe me I’ve endured much worse. But I want it to live. I want it to grow. I want it to thrive.
One year ago I received a very unique birthday gift – the placement of my son’s headstone.
I don’t know exactly when it was set, but I had been checking regularly for weeks, waiting for the cemetery grounds workers to lay the granite slab. I went to the cemetery by myself early on my birthday, Aug. 3, and found it was finally there.
Now I have hundreds upon hundreds of photos of my oldest two sons first 18 months. But unfortunately I don’t have that many of Luca.
I am truly blessed and lucky to have beautiful, professional photos of my son’s perfect angelic face, but we really only got to see him twice – once at the hospital and once at the funeral home.
Therefore, most of the photos I have of Luca are not of Luca but of things that remind me of Luca. I thought I’d share those photos with you.
Most of the photos are of his little resting place. We try to go there on major holidays or special occasions.
Sometimes when I go I look around at his babyland neighbors and wish I had done more to decorate his tiny headstone. Some parents are so thoughtful and elaborate in their displays.
Other times I am super excited at the way we have remembered our youngest family member throughout the year. Like when we found the candy cane solar lights during the Christmas season.
Now I have written before about how I don’t completely enjoy visiting the cemetery, but despite my reservations, I still want to do something outward to remember him. My two oldest boys love to go too. They feel important as they scrub their brother’s headstone with toothbrushes. It’s a small gesture that makes us feel like we are serving him in some small, strange way.
Now I know that my handful of cemetery-decoration photos does not hold a candle to 18 month’s worth of baby’s-firsts photos, but they’re all I’ve got.
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.
Boogers on the Wall 