One Year
I struggled to sleep knowing that sometime in the night was one year since you died. My subconscious wrestled with the trauma that has become so ingrained in me. I replayed the night before my appointment. I so vividly remember how you moved. I was excited because you were more active than normal. I kept showing off my wiggling belly and I remember one big flip that amazed me. I wish I could remember my last moments with you alive with a sweet nostalgia but my anxiety grips me. Were your last moments happy? Were your movements what caused the amniotic band, or worse, were they a sign you were suffering? Doctors have reassured me that you would have just fallen asleep and passed away peacefully from the lack of blood flow, but I can’t help but wonder “What if they’re wrong?”
A photo from Nolan’s newborn photo shoot. The photographer perfectly captured his smirk.
Your baby brother, Nolan, was born at 36 weeks. I lost you at 39 weeks, and when I held him in my arms at what would have been his 39th week, my grief grew. What I lost was no longer this abstract idea of a baby. It had been so long since I held a baby in my arms that I don’t think I fully grasped what I was missing. Nolan had emotions, wants and needs. He could yawn and sneeze and hiccup and make facial expressions. He found ways to communicate with his cries and constantly sought the warmth and love of his mommy holding him. I didn’t just lose a pregnancy, I lost a child. A real living child who never got to take a breath. My child who felt emotions, had dreams, and did life’s monotonous things like yawning had died without me looking into his eyes.
That appointment haunts me. Walking in so naively hoping I’d be going into labor soon. Counting down until I got to bring you home, thinking about all the cute outfits you would wear, and preparing to breastfeed again. I never imagined being asked over and over as they searched for your heartbeat “Have you felt him move at all?” “When was the last time he moved?” I was so unaware that I hadn’t felt a single movement that morning. Losing you was so far out of the realm of possibility that I wasn’t kick counting that day. You were never very active during the day so I did my counts at night. I didn’t stop to pay attention to the fact that I hadn’t felt you at all. I can’t say I wasn’t concerned that morning by your lack of movements because I didn’t even notice you weren’t moving. It wasn’t until I was sitting in the doctor’s office being asked those questions that my mind replayed the entire morning. It felt like reality was folding in on itself and crashing over me. The stillness inside me became overwhelming. I was suddenly so acutely tuned into my womb, waiting for a signal from you letting me know you were okay, that this was all just a nightmare. My sign never came, my nightmare was reality.
“ So today I will grieve your loss and mourn one year since you died. I’m going to pity myself and panic at every weird noise your brother makes or any shadow that makes his coloring odd. I’m going to try to keep my cool in front of your sister and have multiple people step in when I can’t. Tomorrow, I will celebrate your birthday. We are going to have “Calvin’s Day” as a family. ”
Calvin’s face looks to peaceful in this photo.
If there is one thing I am proud of, it is that we properly celebrated you. We cheered and cried when you were born. I snuggled you and your daddy wrapped you in your blanket. I could not stop kissing your head and inspecting every inch of you. I remember the funny little dark hairs on your body. I remember your black bundle of hair and little button nose. I remember your chubby cheeks and little lips. Oh Calvin, I am so thankful that I get to see glimpses of you in your baby brother. Your beautiful face. Every person that took care of you, celebrated with us. You have touched so many lives and I hope you can continue to touch lives while I share our story. But know, even if you never touch another life, know that you will forever be a part of mine. You were still born and are still loved.
On this one year anniversary I am struck again with the duality of stillbirth. I have to grieve your loss and celebrate your birth and the two can never be fully separated. So today I will grieve your loss and mourn one year since you died. I’m going to pity myself and panic at every weird noise your brother makes or any shadow that makes his coloring odd. I’m going to try to keep my cool in front of your sister and have multiple people step in when I can’t. Tomorrow, I will celebrate your birthday. We are going to have “Calvin’s Day” as a family. We’re going eat yummy food and go out somewhere fun. We are going to buy you a birthday cake and enjoy honoring the love we all have for you. I hope every life you touched uses tomorrow to be with their family, to celebrate the love they have in their life, and do something kind for their loved ones. I hope they use it as an opportunity to reach out to someone in their life that has experienced loss. There are so many of us out there. Too many of us who should never have had to feel this way. I hope you’re watching over us because I want you to see how loved and how missed you are.