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Child Loss

When a Baby Dies

By KarenPublished 5 years ago 4 min read
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Nearly two years ago, after a successful, stress free pregnancy, which was greatly received, after two miscarriages before that. Knowing that I’d passed the three month danger zone, the rest would be a breeze. Turning off the podcasts that had been about miscarriages and baby loss—I didn’t need to listen to anything like this, as if my baby would die now that the danger zone had passed. I allowed myself the freedom of having a glass of wine on the weekend, as my baby kicked away in my belly. I allowed myself to completely relax and unwind, all felt so well. I allowed myself to look for names for the baby, buy a few things for the little one for when it arrived. I wouldn’t find out the sex, as I wanted that to be a surprise, deep down I knew he was a boy though. The last few hours he had been really kicking, doing a final dance in my belly, before coming out into the world.

Then it all changed. The jig that had been going on in my stomach had come to a stand still. Where I had been kept up all night for the last few months, had all suddenly gone quiet. We left the house in the morning. The birthing pool was sitting in our dining room, waiting to be filled for the Homebirth we were expecting.

On the way to the hospital I just needed some movement, and in that moment I got a little dig in my stomach. It gave me a glimmer of hope. I still wasn’t sure what was going on, but that little kick gave me hope.

In the hospital I was told to go home. I was in pain by this time. There was no time to get home. I thought of my birthing pool, waiting to be filled up, and realized this wasn’t going to happen. A hospital birth it is. Labour was quick and my little boy was born in about two hours. Aiden was rushed away and time stood still for an eternity. The doctors came, the look on their faces said it all. Our baby wouldn’t survive. He was brain damaged from lack of oxygen. The room was heavy with silence. I was in shock, and numb. This couldn’t be happening, but it was. I watched my son in the incubator, surrounded by premature babies no bigger than your hand, and then there was our baby all 9.4 pounds of him.

He flickered his eyes when he heard my voice, then the tubes that were keeping him alive were turned off, and as the nurse lifted him out of the incubator his soul left his little body, in that instant and he was gone.

I held my baby for so long, I stroked his blonde hair, and I dressed him in his romper suit. I cried and I cried. I cried so hard, for days on end. I couldn’t leave the house. When I did I put my head down and walked without purpose. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. I felt so vulnerable, I felt like everyone knew what had happened, and that made me feel guilty, and I don’t know why. Everyday I questioned what had happened. I blamed everyone from the hospital, to myself, and then I cried some more. I was so numb from the pain and sadness. I didn’t listen to any music for months. I couldn’t allow myself to feel the music. Pretty much every song on my playlist was a strong reminder of the child I’d lost. It bought me to tears.

My boy Jake was my saving grace, if it wasn’t for him who knows where I would have gone. I didn’t want him to know that though. I didn’t want him to take on this burden, for him to feel inadequate, or anything that would make him feel he was not enough because his little brother had died.

After many months the grief went through its natural state of transition, like it said it would in every book I had read about losing a child. My head started to rise, and my walk came back to a purpose filled stride. I started to listen to music again. I started to feel again, laugh again, live again.

My little Aiden, who I think of most days. I see another child the same age and my heart skips a beat, but I look at that child with pure love and devotion. I wonder what Aiden would be like, but that is all I can do; wonder.

When tragedies happen in our life, it is a our chance to grow, it is the way we move from one level to the next. I believe we come here to learn something. We made a pact with our soul before being born into this life. I’m still trying to find out what my lesson is from losing my baby like this. I think though it is to help others who have also gone through this. My life is transforming in so many ways, and by writing out our stories, we can all help ourselves transform into something magnificent.

grief
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