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Ben's first daughter, Elowyn, was born unresponsive in March 2021, after an otherwise normal full-term pregnancy and labor. She was resuscitated but suffered catastrophic brain damage during the time her heart was stopped. She died six days later. Ben is astounded and awed by the way that everything can change in a moment. Ben and his wife have a second daughter, Juniper. They make sure that everyone knows they are a family of four.
They showed us a lot of containers, a dozen maybe, or maybe two dozen, but only two were sized for you. I remember that the others were made of wood and metal and stone and ceramic. Nothing specific. They all flashed by too fast to leave a mark, anything clear at least. Just underexposed, shapeless ghosts against the burned-in background of the display wall. They showed us all of the containers even though they knew we only needed to see the small ones. I don’t remember what the other small one looked like, either, only the fact of its existence, but of course I know the one we chose: the small stone box, the gray-brown, hollow rectangular prism flecked with veins of dark ore, veins that reminded me then of wisps of smoke, crystallized smoke, the smoke of a burned-out candle. Smoke rising from a chimney. Its eight subtly beveled exterior corners, straight lines marking out its shape, setting it apart from the rest of the universe. Its eight smaller corners, sharper, raw, at the top of the base and the bottom of the lid, meant to be imperceptible if the lid is lined up perfectly, which it isn’t. Its hard, smooth sides, polished, almost glassy. Its smallness. We chose the box because we liked it better than the other small one. Those were our choices. We were grateful, then, not to have too many choices. We didn’t take the box with us when we left. It was empty. They had to put you in there first.
That was the day after you died, I think, or maybe two days after. The days flashed by, blinding me, leaving me blinking. I only held you once, on the last day, after they disconnected you from the machines, after they left, after they gave us the room. The room where the other NICU parents slept, before they brought the other babies home. It was square, the room. Smaller, much smaller than the NICU. Shrinking. Private. You were ours only. On the queen bed I held you, and I smelled you, and I felt your weight, and I felt your skin, your softness, your fingers and your toes. My thumb and finger encircled your arm. Your head so round, your hair so wild. I gently stroked your back, its curve. I sang. You were soft. You didn’t have corners.
I next saw the box a week later, or maybe two weeks. It felt like a lifetime. Six days! We had waited so long for you, so many months. We expected you early but you came late. We buried my father waiting for you, we chose his box, and we received his box, and then we chose your box, and then we received your box, it was empty and then it was full. It was so light. Why was it so light? Why was it so short? How could carrying something so light make me so tired? Is that just how it works? It couldn’t be, it wasn’t right, none of it was right, and nonetheless it was, right or not, it was. Your mother changed shape, too, she was full and then she was empty. When I tried to imagine that it wasn’t, her shape, her visible emptiness, was an inescapable reminder that it was. That it is, that it will be. I was learning so many things. Everything was changing so fast, everything happened so fast, everything was irreversible, everything spun. Even the ground seemed to shift, unsteady, a temblor-in-waiting with every step. I carried the box to the car, I slid my thumb up and down the vein, feeling for cracks in the polish, feeling for some kind of texture, anything organic, a handhold, a crag, an eyelash, a branch to grab onto before I collapsed onto the spinning asphalt, a soft cheek, fingers, toes. I smelled the box. It had no smell.
My father-in-law had put the car seat away for us, put it in a box so that we wouldn’t have to. I don’t remember which one of us drove and who held the box. I don’t know whether it was your mother or me that kept the box safe in the car, squeezed it until the hard corners left angular impressions in our palms.
I remember clearly the agony of choosing an urn for my baby and it was something I talked to other babyloss parents about frequently. What about you? Did you find something you didn’t hate? Did you make something? How did you manage?