Let me start this by saying please don't post your best wishes and sympathy; that's not why I'm sharing this. I'm hoping that my loss and my resolve to remain quit will inspire at least one person during a future trial.
My son, Henry, died in the womb in his 16th week. This was Saturday, March 16. We checked in to the ER with our 2 year old daughter, Hazel, at 6:00am and at 6:45 my wife went into labor. Of course, Henry couldn't survive at such a young age. Unfortunately, the ER staff never considered to give us time with our son. In fact, we didn't even know he was a "he" when they threw him in a yellow medical waste tub and rushed him away. We saw him, but they seemed uneasy even letting us look at our son. We had to send someone later to the lab to check on the sex. My only reasoning is that they were trying to protect us - or they were trying to protect our daughter, who I was distracting with medical gloves. Mom is crying under a bloody sheet, and Hazel is giggling, working to fit an oversized glove on my hand while wearing two gloves herself. Kids are amazing.
Anyways, we were later dismissed form the ER with nothing. No death certificate. The line is 20 weeks. After that is a stillbirth with a death certificate; before that is nothing. A "spontaneous abortion". No pictures. We hadn't even taken a picture of Shannon's belly yet. She had a bad feeling from the start. We were crushed. I went to the library on Sunday to write a final essay for my Master's program. I went back to work on Monday. I had told co-workers for the first time on Friday that we were pregnant. It took until Thursday for me to say anything. And only after another teacher approached me stating that he was worried about me - that I had a glaze in my eyes. I teared up, but didn't come out with it because 18 year old kids were around. Gotta keep it together at work. I told what happened through an e-mail. The people who gave me hugs and shared their own losses and hurt were great support.
That same day, Thursday, Shannon and I attended a grief support group for people who had lost young children. We were afraid that everyone would have lost fully developed infants and our loss would somehow be overshadowed. Far from it. The group leader had lost a child at 19 weeks. She spoke of her daughter as if she were real. She bought her gifts and had shared memories. We shared our experience. I was the only guy there. The other husbands would "never attend something like this". I broke down. Saying that I felt as if our son had been treated like medical waste. I referred to him out loud by name for the first time to anyone besides my wife - Henry. This was a major realization for me. I'm glad I'm not manly tough.
My wife is amazing. Mother of the year.
She sought out the social worker/counselor at the Hospital where Henry was born. The hospital had no plans to follow up with us. Without her love and strength, we would have no record of his existence. Early Friday afternoon, we met with this wonderful woman on the labor and delivery floor who comforted us and gave us a basket that parents would normally receive with the death of a child. She wrote down all of our hospital related concerns and contacted the department where Henry was resting (who botched the paperwork concerning the test that may have determined what went wrong). She offered up a smock that a local company of volunteers had stitched. She shared and later updated the ER length/weight measurements which were grossly inaccurate. She offered to take photos of him in the smock and take footprints. She made arrangements with a trusted funeral home for cremation. She arranged for us to have time with him alone beforehand.
That bonding happened yesterday. Our friends watched our daughter while we went to the funeral home. They had set a room up for us and had his body - taped securely in the ER bucket - wrapped in a blue blanket and smock in a basket. We wanted to see him. To spend time with him. We had to ask for a pair of scissors to cut through the tape. I held Henry. Dropped tears on him. Held him to my forehead. Told him we loved him. That he had a big sister. That he is part of our family. At 16 weeks development, dead for a week, he looked just like Hazel in profile. We told him we were sorry. After what seemed like 15 minutes, our hour was over. We wrapped him in a blanket that my wife sewed the night before. Hugged him for the last time.
Yesterday?
Today, I was steamrolled. It wasn't until noon until I was able to function like a human being. I mowed the lawn for the first time this Spring. I cooked cheeseburgers and sweet potato fries for my family. I hugged my wife and daughter. I played soccer with my friends. I wrote this post. Tomorrow we will receive his ashes to scatter at a place of our choosing.
You think chew will make it all better? You're wrong. Henry's father is stronger. Every chew is a slap in the face to yourself and the people you love. Be stronger.
