I had this thought today that I should start a blog. I have always enjoyed writing; when I was a kid and a teenager I used to win awards for writing essays, poetry, prose, etc. My highest grades were always in English, English Lit., and Language Arts. I was told when I was in college that I had a “way with words”. But in the face of this tragedy, I lost my words. Or rather I lost my way with words. I had lots to say, but no one wanted to hear them. Or no one encouraged me to talk.
You see, I am a bereaved parent. I am “the lady whose baby died”. I am the sad sad story. I am the story that no one wants to think about, I am the one to avoid.
August 12th, 2012, my husband of 6 years Marcus, and I along with our 5 year old Nataliya welcomed Marcus Hillkiah. He was 9.25lbs, and 23″. He was born in our home in a beautiful water-birth. We were so excited; I felt he completed our family, a boy and a girl. Nataliya was ecstatic. I remember her giggling when she saw him, her little face alight with joy. Marcus was so proud of his little son. I had to have surgery to repair a massive tear, and during my recovery, Marcus walked around with his new little boy proudly. I remember when I pushed Hilly out, Marcus caught him and placed him in my arms. He had known only Mama all that time, and the first hands to greet him were his Daddy’s. He was so special to us. And to me he was perfect in every way. So imagine my shock when after a night of fussiness, I awoke on my 31st birthday to find our little boy not breathing.
It hurts me now so much to think of it. I screamed to Marcus “He’s not breathing, he’s not breathing!” Since I had stayed up practically all night long because Hilly was fussing so much, crying and the only thing that consoled him was me rocking him, kissing him, holding him, till he went back to sleep. In the wee hours of the morning, sometime just after sunrise, I handed him over to Marcus so I could get a bit of sleep. The day before he’d had jaundice and the pediatrician had made an appointment for us to come back in to see her around 10/11am. I had been waiting for a good amount of sun to expose him to, but the sun wasn’t in a good position for our apartment building at the time, so I figured waking again when he wanted to try nursing again (which he didnt seem to be taking to too well) would put the sun at a better position.
Marcus reclined a bit with Hilly on his chest and the two fell fast asleep. I did too, but something woke me up; right now I can’t be sure of the time exactly, maybe it was half an hour or an hour later, I am not sure. But I just remember looking over at them so beautiful and peaceful, and I thought how sweet they looked. But I also noticed that my son didn’t seem to be breathing as heavily… and then wait, it seemed like maybe he wasn’t breathing at all. I jumped up from the couch where I was laying and put my fingers to his back. He was very warm but quite still. This is when I started screaming. I woke up Marcus and our daughter with my cries. Marcus groggily told me Hilly was breathing but I KNEW. I grabbed him from Marcus, and laid him on the floor, checking again to see if he was breathing, then I started to perform CPR. But I felt like I couldn’t do it right (though I had been CPR certified, I just never had to USE this skill before). I was crying and making these animal-like screaming moaning sounds. Just thinking of it now hurts me to my soul.
We lived right next to a hospital so I screamed to Marcus to run with Hilly to the hospital, and I threw some clothes on me and Tally and ran after them. As I took each step, I screamed and screamed, praying “Please don’t take him! Please”. I ran so fast I left Nataliya on the stairs, and had to stop when I heard her crying “Mommy! Mommy!” As I waited for her I jumped up and down, screaming not caring that the neighbors saw me and were wondering what was happening.
I kind of don’t feel like going into the hospital thing. You get the end result. He died. They couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save him. A beautiful, perfect little boy gone in just 3 days. I shake my head now, but I really just want to curse and scream again.
So here I sit, 11 days before his 1st birthday, with just a few locks of soft dark brown curls, some clothes, footprints and hand-prints and a little blanket. I have a son buried 7000 miles away. During my pregnancy and Hilly’s short short life, we lived in Egypt, and stayed there another 10 months afterward. I couldn’t leave at first. He’s buried there. I hate that so much. I also hate that I have no concrete explanation to his death. No autopsy, though at the time I couldn’t BEAR to let anyone cut into him. Perhaps I felt at the time he might come back and to let them autopsy him would somehow ruin that possibility. I still feel like Hilly coming back could be possible if ONLY… That if only is so open, so expansive. If only… I pray hard enough. If only God stops punishing me. If only if only if only. So far, the ONLY thing that has happened is my family and I moved back to the States. In another post I will talk about how THAT has been. But I will say this now. I just want him back. No one and nothing can replace him. He was my sweetheart. That’s all I could keep saying in the hours and days and weeks following his passing; and kissing his picture on my monitor, rubbing his clothes against my face, imagining how I used to sing to him in my belly and to calm him when he was born… and how I liked to rub my nose against his nose and press my cheeks to his cheeks, because it felt like love.