Birth and death
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Christine, our guest writer today, comes to us from a neighbouring territory of grief. Her 8 year-old son Levi died in an accident in April, 2018. “I am endlessly curious about the grace that opens when we start to lovingly shine light on our woundedness,” she writes. “I am not technically a babylost mother, but I am so grateful for the women who consciously choose to speak truth from the heart.”
I had it all planned out. I did all the things. Switched from an OB to a Midwife. Hired a Doula. Went to acupuncture. Ate the preggo pizza that is known to induce labor. I wrote the redemption story in my head. My body would not fail me this time. My first birth ended in an emergency c-section after a 36-hour induction that began two weeks after my due date. At the start of my second pregnancy, I sensed that my womanhood was on the line. I would have my VBAC. Naive. Forgivable.
I went into labor with you at home the day before your due date. July 30, 2009. Your contractions were painful but manageable. Everything was progressing according to my plan. When we arrived at the hospital, I was 9 centimetres dilated. Three hours later, when I received an epidural, I was 9.5 centimetres dilated. I pushed for almost four hours before making the call. I imagined your health might be in jeopardy. This was no longer my birth. This was our birth. You were born via c-section while our midwife compassionately stroked away my tears and held my hand. In recovery, I cried for hours. Hours. When I finally got to hold you, all was ok. You were stunning. You started nursing right away. I was full of you. We spent the next five days together in the hospital. You and me. I had lost a lot of blood and my iron was low, but I didn’t care. I was busy with loving you.
My body recovered. You drank a lot of milk. I was tired but content.
You grew. You were busy. You had a love/hate with your older brother. It felt chaotic at times and it all felt so normal. I wrote another story: I would joyfully watch my two healthy boys grow into adulthood. Life would always feel this way. Chaotic and normal. Myopic. Forgivable.
All my stories came crashing down on April 22, 2018. On the day of your accident.
You were diagnosed with a severe traumatic brain injury. You were eight years old at the time. I can still taste the visceral reaction I had seeing you hooked up to a ventilator. I try not to go there too often these days. You survived the injury but never regained consciousness. We made the crushing decision to let you go three months later.
We celebrated your ninth birthday at the George Mark Children’s House, the pediatric palliative care facility where you would die five days later.
Is this even real? How is this happening? Can I die with you? Will you please, please let me come with you? If I can’t come with you, will you please, please show me how to live in this skin without you here?
Inch by inch, mommy.
I imagine that’s your voice talking to me. I imagine I’m taking direction from you now. That you are my parent and I am your child. Is that weird? Who cares? Whatever works on any given day. I miss you, Levi. I can’t see you now but I trust that you are here.
How has the grief of others — different kinds, perhaps adjacent to infant loss — added to your perspective, your processing, or your sense of communion?