Inconceivable (33 page)

“But it’s human nature to lay claim to our children almost as if they are a possession. I do it with my kids. Who are they if they are not our own?” I asked.

“Gibran would say that parents bring life into the world,” Kevin said. “Life’s longing to continue is manifest in the love and optimism of that act and in the daily attentions you pay to your children. But they are not really yours. They belong to the world. They belong to their own lives and to their destinies.”

“Carolyn and I having children is our contribution to life’s continuation,” I said, trying to express it in my own way. “Children are a gift from God, and children entering this world through us is not a continuation of us. Our time here is finite.”

“Yes, it is,” Kevin said. “Consider what you did for Logan in this light.”

Yes, we did this for Logan. In the beginning, we did it because we were people who wanted to be true to our values. As the pregnancy progressed and we fell in love with the baby Carolyn carried, our focus changed. We were doing this because we loved this child and we wished him the best life possible. Whether we were part of that life was something we couldn’t and shouldn’t cling to.

“Logan is the son of Life’s longing for itself in the truest sense,” I said. “We gave Logan life, and then we had to let him go. We had to release him completely, not knowing if he will ever come back. The loss is so powerful, but we take comfort in allowing Logan to make his way in this world and live out his destiny.”

“Exactly. This is a gift,” Kevin said. His eyes were grave and his manner was somber. “You gave a tremendous gift to the Morells. When you give a gift, you are not depleted by that generosity. It is a sign of the best aspects of who you are.”

I shut my eyes. Yes, Logan was a gift to the Morells, and I was proud of how we had handled his birth. But there was no denying how much both of us were hurting.

“Children are a gift from God,” I said with conviction. “Children are our gift to the world. Those who hold too tightly to their children will drive them away and be left broken-hearted,” I said. “Children need to be given independence. I believe children come from us with God’s grace and that we as parents have tremendous influence over their character and development, but that they need to be given freedom to make their own choices and find their place in this world.”

I thought of Drew, Ryan, and Mary Kate. Every day we had
with them they were slowly gaining independence. We were their protectors and their role models, but with every decision they made on their own they moved toward that separation. Over the course of the decades they lived with us, we could gradually let go. Logan had been with us for mere minutes.

As Carolyn and I left the session I was so thankful that we had welcomed Kevin into our lives. Not because he soothed away my grief. He didn’t. This loss was everywhere I looked, but Kevin’s counsel had opened this loss to the world. I felt it in my heart, but I could also feel some connection to the millions of other parents who have lost a child, holding that baby for only a brief moment or never having that opportunity before he was gone. So many people suffer devastating losses, and it seemed wrong to compare what Carolyn and I were going through to anyone else. Each is powerful in its own right. Instead, I felt connected to those experiencing loss, whatever it might be. Tapping into this well of grief from so many helped dissipate its power over me. I could pour this inexhaustible grief up into the sky. Kevin helped me see that our grief might never completely leave and that closure will not come. That did not mean there is no room for hope. Instead of seeking closure, we needed to turn our focus to a search for meaning. The search would take time, maybe a lifetime, but I believed it begins with sharing our experience in an effort to help others. The Jesuits believe the way to live is to become a “man for others,” and that is a worthy endeavor. If Carolyn and I can be of help to others, then in return we will be helped and meaning will be revealed.

CAROLYN

Only a few people knew we had a miscarriage, and I had never been so grateful in my life that I had kept my mouth shut about something. We didn’t have to make anyone feel any worse for us than they already did. Our family and friends already didn’t know
what to say to us. How would they even find the most rudimentary words to soothe us about another loss?

Jennifer had a dilation and curettage to remove what was left of her pregnancy ten days after Logan was born, and thankfully, she came through the surgery without complications. We had genetic testing done on the fetus in hopes of learning a cause, but regardless of what those results might tell us, the sting of our loss was tearing at our hearts. Later I learned that our baby had stopped developing the day I came home from the hospital, the night of my dream. Was it my baby that was drowning in the water?

You were connected to your child. You knew.

Things were pretty bleak, but one thing that kept our spirits lifted was the mail from well-wishers from around the world. There were so many letters that our mailman was bringing the mail to our door in tubs. Every night Sean and I would sift through letters from strangers who had been touched by what we did for Logan.

Dear Sean and Carolyn,

I’m just a granny from South Carolina, and I wanted to thank you for saving that babe. I can assure you, his granny is even more thankful than I am. God bless.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Savage,

I can only imagine the sadness you are feeling right now. Please know, that your story has touched me in a way that I cannot express. Thank you for your courage, and restoring faith in the power of the human spirit and the capacity for kindness. May your tribe increase.

Some envelopes were addressed simply “Sean and Carolyn Savage, the Mixed Up Embryo Couple,” but the U.S. Postal Service got it enough to get these messages of love and comfort to us. Every night when Sean came home from work, he marveled at the
heap of letters strewn across the kitchen table. Drew and Ryan, who kept track of the arrivals, said that we had heard from someone in about every state in the country. Interestingly, many of the writers said that they had never been compelled to write to a stranger before but we had inspired them to reach out. Thank goodness they did, because those bright sentiments saw us through the darkness of our days.

In addition to hearing from strangers, there was one day about a month after Logan’s birth when I received two packages. I carried them from the front porch to my kitchen, then opened the smaller one first.

“What is it, Mom?” Ryan was hoping it was candy.

“It’s not anything to eat. I’m sure it is something about Logan,” I said. I removed the treasure from the box and unfolded the tissue that surrounded it.

“What is it?”

It was from my friend Anne, who years ago lost a baby to a cord accident when she was thirty-nine weeks pregnant. We had talked about her baby, John, many times during my pregnancy. She had been a great adviser and helped prepare me for Logan’s loss.

“It’s from a friend” was all I said.

I smiled at Ryan, told him I needed a moment, and carried the gift into my office and shut the door.

Once I had some privacy, I picked up the package and stared at the silver picture frame engraved with the date of Logan’s birth.
September 24, 2009.
Anne understood that the moment of Logan’s birth was a moment to be treasured forever. I went to the pile of pictures we had snapped in the hospital and chose one of our entire family. For one glorious hour, on September 25, I had all of my babies together, and now I had a place to honor that moment. It was perfect.

“Mom!” Ryan yelled. “Are you going to open the next present?”

This one was larger, and I recognized the sender as one of my
sorority sisters, Beth, from my years at Miami University.

Styrofoam peanuts fell all over the counter as I lifted out another box that had been decorated by one of Beth’s kids and labeled “Carolyn’s Sunshine Box.” Inside were heaps of fun trinkets and pick-me-ups, a spa gift certificate, and…

“Yes! Chocolate!” Ryan said as he snatched the box of Godiva chocolates and ran to the family room. I chased him as I wrestled the box from him.

“I’ll share, child, but one thing you need to learn: never snatch chocolate from a hormonal woman. It is dangerous.”

After rationing Ryan a few pieces, I went back to the Sunshine Box and found a card. Apparently Beth had reached out via Facebook to over fifty sorority sisters of mine. Most of these women I hadn’t heard from in almost twenty years. The idea that they cared so much about me now, after all this time, overwhelmed me, and before I knew it I was curled up on my chair, in my office, with my Kleenex and what was left of the chocolates trying to pull myself together.

The truth was that I felt gutted, but stuffing that empty space with chocolate after chocolate wouldn’t fill it. The previous day, when I had been making salad for dinner, I stood over the sink with a cucumber in my hand. Standing up for long periods of time still caused me to ache, so I had to steady my forearms on the edge of the sink. I peeled the cucumber and sliced it in half lengthwise. With half of it in my left hand, I gutted it, scraping a spoon gently along the inside and loosening the seeds so they fell into the sink. When I picked up the other half, it hit me that that was exactly how I felt. I felt as though someone had scooped out my insides and thrown them in the trash. That image was so powerful to me that I shared it with Linda at my next appointment.

“What do you think it will take to feel like you haven’t been gutted?”

“I actually don’t know if I will ever feel like I wasn’t gutted.
I guess I’ll just learn to live with the feeling. Like it is part of me. I don’t think it will ever go away. There is a hole inside of me. A missing part. Logan is the missing part, and now I realize that there is not a circumstance in the world that will ever bring him back to me. Nothing.”

“Would a new baby make you feel better?”

“No. I could have more babies, but they won’t replace him. I’ll always feel like something is missing. I guess the part of me that is missing left with him.”

“That is grief. You know that, right?”

“I understand.”

I did understand. He was just gone from our lives, and no one could tell me how long it would take for me to recover. No one had an answer.

C
HAPTER
23

Godspeed

CAROLYN

E
VEN THOUGH OUR HEARTS
were wounded, Sean and I got out of bed every morning to tackle the day. There was some solace in that. Kevin said that people who suffer ambiguous loss are frozen in grief. But the world was moving on, and we needed to move with it. Nothing provided complete relief from my sorrow, though. I worried constantly about Logan. I knew that he was in Shannon’s capable hands, but didn’t he need me? If he needed me, I should be there. If he didn’t need me, that hurt too. One time I was on the phone with Shannon, and I heard a cry in the background and wondered,
Is that him? Is that a hungry cry? Is that a sleepy cry? Is that a diaper change cry?

I thought back to the days when I first brought my babies home and started trying to figure out what made them cry or what soothed them. I wondered what Logan was like in the morning. Was he a sunny little soul like MK? Or was he a cranky pants like Ryan, whose best hours were always in the afternoon?

I hesitated to ask Shannon for details. I didn’t want to intrude. Yet anytime my mind touched on Logan’s name, my image was of him resting on my chest at the hospital or the moment of bliss
when I heard his first cry. I had no other image to add to that. When Shannon had told me that she had professional photos taken of Logan in October, I’d asked her to please send me a copy, and I’d picked out a frame to put it in. I’d even started an album for Logan, but I hadn’t had anything to put in it since he left the hospital.

I checked my e-mail way too often, hoping always for a message from Shannon. I thought of pathetic reasons to reach out when I was desperate for some news. Once I e-mailed Shannon asking for toy recommendations for Mary Kate. Even a discussion about plastic versus wooden toy kitchens made me feel as though the connection between Logan and me was alive.

I longed for a newborn to cuddle, and I called the clinic in Atlanta to check on the last two embryos we’d stored there.

“You’re going to think I’m nuts, but I have to be sure,” I said. “Are my embryos really there?”

The nurse paused before answering my question.

“Of course they’re here,” she said. “They are in a straw in the tank in our lab.”

“Have you seen them? Can you check? Are you sure they are labeled correctly?” I asked. “I know this sounds crazy.”

“They are safe, Mrs. Savage,” the nurse said. “When we heard what happened to you and your family, we checked and double-checked our protocols for everyone.”

These were our last remaining embryos—our last chance, as we thought of them. Jennifer felt so bad about the miscarriage and was almost as eager as we were to try one more time. After I reconfirmed with the clinic our plan to move forward with a final transfer in January, I hung up and sat for a while in the study.

Carolyn, you must focus on the blessings in front of you.

Drew was nearing the end of his cross-country season, and Sean was working and coaching Ryan’s basketball team. MK and I were very busy too. I paused to thank God for my family. I felt grateful for how much was already in my life.

Even after I admonished myself to move on, I stayed somewhat stuck.

“It’s been two weeks since we heard anything,” I told Sean one night when he got home from work.

“Is Shannon back to work?”

“I don’t think so. Last I heard she was extending her leave until after Thanksgiving,” I said. “Don’t you wonder what color his eyes are?”