The gauntlet of grief

     It was a warm sunny day in June when I found out I was pregnant with our second child. We were elated. The pregnancy went very well. A few ultrasounds later, we found out that we were having another boy. The excitement grew.
     We weren't sure what to name him; boys names are hard, in my opinion at least. After months of discussion and debate, we decided to name him Wesley.
     As soon as I could feel him kicking, it was non stop. He was always moving around, doing acrobatics in my uterus. He always had his  foot up against my right rib. If I moved it away, he'd either kick me back harder, or he was determined to keep it in the same place. He had certainly claimed his territory. Even in utero, he had quite the personality.
     At nearly 35 weeks along he stopped kicking. That foot that always kicked against my right rib was stagnant now. I would push on it, like I had countless times before, but it remained in the same place. I had been very sick, so initially I attributed his lack of movement to my illness.  Confused and worried, I rushed to the hospital. They said my boy was fine. The doctors and nurses were extremely worried about me though. Without knowing it, I had become dangerously anemic. Close to death, I was told. Trusting the labor and delivery specialists around me, I relaxed and allowed myself to rest. After all, they had a hearbeat. Unfortunately, due to the circumstances with my health, it was my heart they were hearing and not his.
    The next morning I awoke in the hospital, groggy eyed but feeling better. I was hopeful that the six units of blood they gave me had helped, and I had seen the worst of things. Soon my attention was drawn to the ultrasound machine; an image of my motionless son was on the screen. Still, nothing registered.  As my sleepy fog lifted, I heard the doctor say, "I'm so sorry. He's gone."

     I was suddenly jolted awake, an awful, frightening, sickening feeling overcame me. What had he said? The night before I was told that my son was healthy. I was sick, but Wesley was just fine. And now, twelve hours later, despite having a labor and delivery nurse monitoring my son all night, he was gone.
     When they told me he passed away, I was alone. A desolate island of despair and fear. How do you deal with a nightmare like that? It was surreal. 

     My life became somewhat of a blur after that second. I was in complete and utter shock. I remember calling my husband first, then my parents, but I have little to no idea what I said on the phone. I became enraged. How? Why? Was I having a horrible dream? Intense tears fell freely onto my cheeks. In anguish, I screamed. It was a blood curdling scream, and I did not know I was capable of such an awful sound. I screamed and I cried. All of my hopes, dreams, everything was just gone. I pulled my knees to my chest, held on tightly to my precious baby and rocked back and forth in the fetal position.  I felt like I was in some cliche movie, playing the woman in an insane asylum.  I thew my ice water at the wall, as though some physical violence would be theraputic somehow. The phrase "wailing an knashing of teeth", is the only accurate desciption of what I went through that day. 

     My husband was quickly by my side. His heart was shattered. The light in his eyes had dissapeared. Tears were involuntary. It was as though someone had stolen the only sacred thing to us. Broken herted, we held each other. His face was weary, eyes red. I had never seen him like this. I kept apologizing to him, feeling that it was all my fault somehow. I could't do the one thing that a mother should be able to do; protect and save her baby. Guilt, anger and shame surrounded my soul.  Of course I knew that this wasn't my fault, but logic had lost all meaning. I wanted someone to blame, someone to be angry at. Even if that person was me.

     We were soon surrounded by our parents, church members, and other family members. Through our utter exhaustion and devestation, we tried to be as gracious to everyone as possible. The kindness each of them showed that day will never be forgotten. Each person saw a need, and without question decided to help us out in whichever way they possibly could. Our eldest son, a tender two year old, went with my cousin for the day. I was grateful for all the help, because I was in no shape to make desicions. 

     My heart broke once again thinking of the traumatic experience this must be for our firstborn. He didn't need to see this. I knew he understood everything. He was excited to meet Wesley, always kissing my ever growing belly. But all that was robbed from us now. 

     Justins parents, and my father were right beside us. Justins mom had a stillborn of her own nearly thirty years ago. I later discovered that when I called Justin that day, and his parents found out, she fell to the floor in horror and pain. Why would this happen to her son too? Pain radiated from every soul that was in my hospital room that fateful day. My father screamed loudly in anguish, "Not my daugher, Lord. Please, not my daugher." The pain was palpabale. When I called my mom, we both cried. She had some wise advice, as my grandmother had been through this too. She said, "Hold him. Hold him for as long as you can. Cherish what moments you have with him."
     I thought of the crib that was set up at home. The baby swing waiting to be used. The car seat wating for that little boy. Toys, bottles, you name it. Everything was empty now. And so was I.
     Finally it was time for the cesarean. I insisted on being put to sleep with general anesthetic. I couldn't fathom watching my precious son being pulled out of me already dead. I felt like I was still having a nightmare. Would I ever wake up?
    Afterwards, a photographer came to take pictures of my deceased son.  As I held his tiny, perfect body, I realized that I had a tiny piece of heaven resting on my chest. He is and was an angel. He looked a lot like our oldest boy, Liam. But with darker hair. He was beautiful. But he was cold. Turning purple, and sometimes blood came out his tiny nose. As I touched his hands, I realized how delicate and fragile he was. His skin would rub off as I touched him. My heart and soul had been destroyed. Nothing could bring comfort in this moment of pure hell. I was glad to hold him, and hold him I did. I never wanted to let him go. I longed to see his eyes open, his chest rise and fall with each breath. But there was no life in my precious little angel. And for the time being, there was no life left in me either.
     I think that true grief begins once the shock of it all dissipates. I shed more tears that day, and in the many days that followed, than I have my entire life. Exhausted from all the emotions of the day, I finally had to let Wesley go. I knew that I wouldn't ever hold him again in this life. This is what it looks like to lose a child. This is how it felt to lose my son.