Three Minus One: Stories of Parents' Love and Loss (12 page)

“You are home, Bella.”

I look up at him and agree with a nod. But before I walk toward the people on the horizon, for the first time since I arrived here, I look back over my shoulder. My eyes dig into the street and beyond the grass. I strain to see her. And for a split second I get a glimpse.

There is Mommy, lying in the hospital bed. The caring man, Daddy, is sitting next to her, holding her. They are both crying. I can tell that the tears they are shedding are not of happiness, but from a broken heart. They’re crying because I’m not there.

I try to get their attention. I want to let them know I’m okay, that I am perfectly safe, and I call out—but they don’t seem to hear me. As I watch them hurt for me, I realize how much they love me, and I realize that maybe I was wrong; maybe they were waiting for me more than I was waiting for them. I want to cry, but instead a smile forms, because I remember what he told me: I will get to meet them. Our meeting is just going to be delayed a little bit longer, that’s all.

I blow them both a kiss and turn back toward my new family. With one step, I am instantly surrounded by the large group of people. Laughter, hugs, kissing, and smiles start, and to be honest, I don’t think they’ll ever stop.

I’m okay, Mommy. I’m okay, Daddy. I’m home.

“So Tell Me About Heaven…”
Bobby Richmond

Meagan Golec

“Y
our address book will change.”

In the aftermath of losing my first child at 38.5 weeks gestational age, this is one of the phrases that stuck out. My address book will change? Who cares? My baby just died and the last thing on my mind is how my social life will be affected.

I soon learned, however, that losing your child is only the first bad thing that happens. As awful as your child’s death is; it is. It is a complete act. Finished. There is nothing you or anyone else can do to change it. There are decisions about funerals to face, the physical act of delivering a stillborn child, the phone calls to make, the hearts to break, the hopes and dreams to destroy. And these acts are overwhelming in their unfairness. But your brain has its defense mechanisms in place that allow you to get through the next second, the next minute. You can function because you have to. And once the choices have been made and the arrangements have been set, it is then that the real work begins.

I could tell you all about my son. His name. That he seemed to like bean burritos and action movies. That he was beautiful and perfect. I could tell you about the fear when he stopped moving. That I convinced myself that he had just run out of room, that nothing could actually be wrong. I could tell you about lying in bed at night willing him to kick me. I could tell you about the sound the world makes when you hear the words “Your baby has no heartbeat.” How still everything gets. How you hear the ocean in your ears, only it
is not the ocean, it is your own heartbeat. I could tell you how you hate the sound of your heartbeat because it reminds you of the other heart that is not beating. I could tell you about the emptiness he left behind. The confusion about my identity as a bereaved mother. The tears. The physical pain of grief. The days that stretch out in front of you when your dreams for the future are shattered. And I could tell you about the day you allow yourself to smile or laugh, and the guilt you feel about finding anything beautiful in a world that killed your child. I love my son, and I am still figuring out what that means. I will likely be figuring that out for the rest of my life. But this is not what I want to tell you about.

What I want to tell you about is how your life changes in the ways you don’t anticipate. How you learn to navigate the world again. How support comes from some of the least-expected places. And how your address book really does change.

When we first lost Anderson, my husband and I were amazed at the response from our community. We both work for the same youth-services organization and were touched when the office closed early on the day of the funeral so our colleagues could attend. One friend immediately began a Facebook group where others could post messages of love and support; sixteen months later the group still has over two hundred members. We were loaded down with meals and offers to help paint the house we had bought for our growing family. We felt loved, even though we didn’t know how to feel anything through the shock.

The first indication I had that my social world would in fact change was a couple months after Anderson died. I was at a dear friend’s house. We had been close since college: we were in each other’s weddings, and I was her son’s godmother. She was the person I shared things with. And then the moment came when she looked me in the eyes and said, “I hope this doesn’t change you.”

I hope this doesn’t change you.

As if the death of a child is something that can leave you unchanged. Something you can get over, bounce back from. As if it
doesn’t completely redefine how you view the world, yourself, your relationships, morality, religion, family dynamics, ambition. As if the death of your child doesn’t tear you from where you were, rotate you ninety degrees, and put you back down, so you are looking at the same scenery but seeing it all so differently.

In retrospect, I think our friendship always had an expiration date. It was one of those unbalanced relationships that are amazing when you have the time and energy to put in the effort, but quickly fizzle when real life happens. Anderson’s death was just a catalyst, speeding us along to an inevitable ending. We tried for a while, but my lack of energy to reach out was interpreted as withdrawal. The resources I e-mailed and posted in social media about how to help grieving friends were not read. (I assume. We never discussed them, and future conversations led me to believe that she had not looked at them.) To be fair, she had many of her own worries to juggle (finishing school, starting a new job, raising a special-needs child). Neither of us had the capacity to be what the other needed.

I found this to be true in other areas of my life as well. My relationships shifted. Some faded into the background. Some went through painful seismic shifts, and I am still waiting for the dust to settle to see where I stand with those friends. Some sprouted up from the least-expected sources and became a soothing balm. The common thread determining the future of our relationship was the other person’s willingness to witness me going through the grief process without trying to interfere or tell me how I “should” feel. The people who asked me questions, let me talk about what Anderson was teaching me, did not assume they knew what I was going through—these were the people I craved. My tears may have made them uncomfortable, but they held me or handed me a tissue instead of turning away or changing the subject. They cried alongside me, letting me know they also grieved this little boy we were all robbed of knowing. They did not say “he’s in a better place” or “you can always have more children.” They understood that I wanted THIS child and that there is no better place for a baby than his mother’s arms. And they understood that
those phrases, no matter how well intended, tell a bereaved parent that there is no space here for their grief. When they did not know what to say, they said, “I don’t know what to say,” instead of offering Hallmark platitudes. They recognized that none of us are experts in this and that the process of working through grief is necessary. And healthy. And the only way I have left to honor my child. And they participated in honoring Anderson by holding space in their lives for him.

Now, sixteen months later and just five days before we hope to welcome Anderson’s little brother, I am reflecting on just how many of my relationships have changed. There are some that I mourn, a kind of secondary grief. Some I probably don’t even realize are gone. And some that I rejoice in. Losing my son clarified for me what is important and how I want to spend my time and energy. Anderson has taught me (and is still teaching me) about perspective, and about intentionality, and to see things for what they actually are instead of what I wish they were. In the strangest ways, losing my child has brought me peace that I never expected.

There are some amazing people who have come into my life since Anderson died, and there are some amazing people who no longer fit in my life. My address book changed when my son died, and the relationships that remain are the greatest gift from my little boy. I will forever be grateful to him for that.

Deborah C. Linker

S
uddenly I bent over, sweat dripped from my brow, and I tugged at the elastic on my pants as a wave of nausea hit me.
If I could just breathe
.
What did I eat?

As I sat on the concrete curb, I felt a little stronger. I took a deep breath and looked out on the construction of our new building—a place where my new office would be. I looked up to see my husband quickly surveying the building site. “I can’t believe these incompetent subcontractors,” he grumbled. “We are already behind, and now they’re giving me grief about laying down a sleeve for the electrical line. I’ll just do it myself. Can you help me?” He hurried off to find a shovel.

I managed to do what I could without a word that I was not feeling up to par.
Something is wrong. Maybe I am coming down with the flu. Maybe it’s just the stress of working full time while this building project is going on.

God knows, it was stressful enough just working with my husband. He was the boss, the owner of the company, and he never let me forget it.

Later in the week, I had lunch with a friend, who shared the excitement of her first pregnancy. “I know I am not showing yet, but my breasts are already so tender,” she explained. “My bladder is so active, I look constantly for a bathroom.”

As she talked, I thought to myself,
Wow, my breasts have been very sensitive lately, and I’ve been getting up several times in the night to go to the bathroom
.
Am I crazy? I must be having sympathy pains.

As I told my friend good-bye, I started to think about her symptoms, my symptoms, the tiredness, the nausea. I stopped at a drugstore on the way home and bought a pregnancy test.

Later that night I sat alone in the bathroom as I watched the little stick turn pink. I slipped silently into bed next to my husband. Adrenaline ran through my body.
I’m pregnant. I tried before, but nothing. Now with my new husband of just two years, I’m pregnant.

Several years before I was told by doctors that the chances of me having a baby were pretty much zero. I accepted the fact and went off birth control to avoid the nasty side effects. Little did I know the biggest side effect would be a baby.

The next day my ob-gyn confirmed my pregnancy of twelve weeks. “Do you hear that?” as he ran the ultrasound wand over my tight belly. “It’s the heartbeat of your baby.”

“Oh God, I am pregnant,” I said, shaking my head.

The nurse came back in the room. “We need to know which hospital you choose. Since you don’t have maternity insurance, we need a deposit. And do you think you will breast-feed or give the baby formula?”

What was she saying? How can I answer these questions?
My head was spinning as she led me in to sit in the doctor’s office.

“Mrs. Linker, due to your age of forty-one, we highly recommend amniocentesis to rule out genetic abnormalities. The test cannot be conducted until you are in your eighteenth week. This means that if there is a problem you need to make a decision immediately following the results.” Without missing a breath, my doctor asked, “If the results are positive, what is your decision? Would you want an abortion or would you want to have the baby?”

I knew what amniocentesis was, and I certainly knew what genetic abnormalities were. I have a master’s degree in speech-language pathology and had worked with numerous handicapped children. I also knew from my studies that when a woman is in her thirties, she has a one in nine hundred chance of having a Down syndrome baby, and when she is forty her chances increase to one in one hundred. I
looked at my doctor and said, “I cannot bring a mentally disabled child into this world.”

“Okay, then I’ll schedule the test,” he replied without further discussion.

When I announced the news to my husband, we both sat in disbelief. Then I asked the weighted question, “We don’t want to deliver a disabled baby, do we?”

He quickly responded as I knew he would: “Of course not.” Tom had a degree in special education and had worked with handicapped children many years ago. We both agreed that a disabled child brings heartbreak to all involved.

Over the next six weeks, we slowly grew used to the idea of a baby. We shared our news with friends and family, made plans, and chose the name Andre, as we were sure it was a boy.

During the amnio a small amount of amniotic fluid was extracted through a needle inserted into my navel. Then it was over. I went home, cooked dinner, and remained upbeat about my upcoming motherhood.

Then the doctor called and said those words I will never forget: “Trisomy 21, Down syndrome.” I took a deep breath and focused on what the doctor was saying, “Tomorrow morning, 7:30 a.m., Mount Sinai—elective abortion.”