Three Minus One: Stories of Parents' Love and Loss (6 page)

Your sister, your Da, and I all went to see you. The ultrasound technician entered the room all warm smiles and cool jelly, and there you were! Emerging from mists of visual static, my beautiful daughter. But we had no chance to celebrate you; two doctors came in all whispers and pointing. I perched on the edge of the bed, every muscle taut with anticipation. Did my mounting dread frighten you as my cortisol coursed through our binding cord? As the doctors spoke of abnormalities, perinatologists, trisomy 18, and “options,” you devolved from my “baby girl” to “the fetus.”

I drove us home as the bright-white light of the sun drained the color from the world around me and my mind buzzed with the beating of a million insect wings.

I hear the keening before I realize the sound is coming from me. I want to scream the earth open, tearing back turf and soil, rending a hole—a way to you—and letting the dirt collapse in behind me. Let it swallow me deeper and deeper into the comforting abyss next to you. But instead I lie here as an ever-growing number of insect feet send tingles across my skin.

You and I held on for fourteen more weeks, and during that time, I got up and made sure that your sister was bathed and fed and had a little fun every day while I tried to keep her from cutting the soles of her feet on the sharp shards of our grief. She and Da cast my belly all slippery fingers and scrunched noses as the plaster set. But there were times when she needed to be kept away. Your Da helped me find an outlet for my rage at the unfairness of your short life: we bought a cheap stack of dishes, and with a black marker, I covered the white surfaces with my anguish. Then I smashed them all to porcelain dust.

Did you hear me plead for forgiveness after I begged you to stop kicking? Every kick was a reminder of what we were to miss. Did I confuse you when I would then gulp glassfuls of orange juice to get you to move if you had been still for too long? I prayed that you would never stop kicking because I would never be ready to say good-bye.

I planned a funeral for you while you still grew in me.

A tickle on my cheek causes my eyes to twitch open. Dragonfly wings obscure my vision, and it’s as if I’m seeing the horizon through an oil-slicked puddle. More continue to descend upon me. Their tiny feet prickle my skin, causing gooseflesh despite the heat, as they vie for purchase. I can’t hear the cars or the wind or anything over the vibrant thrum of wings.

The funeral home called to tell me your casket had arrived and that it was the most beautiful casket they had ever seen. The esteem in which they held the casket gave me a twisted sense of comfort. I needed
to see it for myself, to be sure that it was right for you. My fingers glided along the handcrafted red oak and silk linings. Somehow, I knew it was right, but it was so small, so impossibly small. My throat constricted as tears filled my mouth with salty bitterness, and I could not swallow. The air went out of me in a rush, and I collapsed to my knees, clutching my stomach, and choking back the acrid taste of bile.

I felt you roll then, like that day in the pool so long ago, for the last time.

I cling to the grass as the dragonflies envelop me and begin to beat their wings in unison. I will my body to go limp, to resist the upward pull, anything to stop them from forcing my leave. My grip begins to slip; the wet grass too difficult to hold. Why can’t I stay? Why can’t I scrape out a hollow for myself here, over you? I could let time cover me in layers of leaf litter and grime until I become an indistinguishable part of the landscape.

At the hospital, Da and I were led into triage by a string of questions and chased by an ultrasound machine on a cart with a squeaky wheel. You appeared on the monitor and the only sound was the crinkle of plastic sheets as I leaned in toward the screen, scouring for the slightest flicker of movement. Your arms lay across your chest, a tiny fist resting on each shoulder, and your head was bowed. You were utterly still. My breath hissed through clenched teeth as I released the air I unwittingly held.

The hospital staff hung a paper dove on our door, a peaceful portent belying the agony lurking within our room. The doctor broke my water, and I rode waves of pain, ebbing and flowing but relentless. I resisted, but I had to push. The nurses tensed. Breech. Breathe.
Push. I couldn’t do it. Push. I panicked and pleaded. Push. It was too soon. Push. I wept. Push.

The inexorable pull of the dragonflies stirs me to motion, and I try to shake them free. Instead, I lose my stay on the grass. The glittering cloud lifts me to my knees when I hear a familiar tread. The dragonflies disperse in a frenzied roar of shimmering wings. I blink my eyes clear and see little feet. I raise my head, and immediately, I’m transfixed by your sister’s gray eyes. She giggles as a dragonfly dances from my hand to her cheek, sweeping delicate kisses across her freckled nose and finally flying away.

And then you were on my chest. Your silence ripped my heart asunder and I wondered if there existed enough sutures to mend those tears. Your sister came in to the room, and I dammed the bulk of my sorrow. She climbed into the bed, and I read her a story about water bugs and dragonflies as I cradled you between us. It was a story meant to instill a hope of seeing you again, and now I cannot see a dragonfly without thinking of you.