Losing a baby

A friend of mine very recently lost her baby girl and it has brought memories flooding back to me of when I lost my baby son Teagan.

I have been thinking of the hours and days spent in bed praying for sleep to give me a few hours to forget. I remember wanting to drown out the pain by stuffing myself full of Xanax but being scared to death that if i did that, I would need the pills forever. I constantly laid there thinking that this whole mess couldn't possibly be real. I said over and over, "I am not even 30 years old and I am planning a funeral for my baby." I sobbed and sobbed until there literally were no more tears. I then lay there cursing God for my loss then the next breath begging for forgiveness fearful that I wouldn't get to heaven to meet up with my baby boy again. How do you face the rest of your life when you can't bear to face the next hour?

I remember feeling guilty because I didn't have the energy to get out of bed to care for my two living children who still needed me. I loved my husband more than anything because he was the only other person in the world who loved that child as much as I did, but hated him if he didn't cry enough or if he cried too much, or if he didn't have the energy to console me.

As my breasts filled with milk that was made especially for Teagan, I got no relief as he lay in the NICU while everyone prayed for a miracle. My stomach no longer protruded with an active baby boy who kept me awake half the night with his kicking and rolling. Instead, my baby boy lay there lifeless while I laid in my hospital bed feeling empty and hollow.

I still feel angry that my husband can't/won't go to the cemetery to visit our son because the pain is still too much for him to bear. I resent that I have to go alone but then am happy to be alone when I am there. It is my special spot to tend to, nurture, decorate and feel peace. I think now that if he decided to go I would feel like he was intruding on my special place with my son. Then I feel selfish for thinking that. After all, Teagan is his son too!

I absolutely loved every single person who sent cards, attended his funeral and was there for my family and me during that time. My son's step-mom sent me the most beautifully worded card that said something to the effect of, "As the phone calls and cards have slowly started to dwindle, know that you are still thought of daily and prayed for." That was music to my ears because as the days turned to weeks and weeks to months, I realized that the world kept turning, people went about their lives and seemed to forget Teagan.

It still bothers me that he is not a part of our families everyday conversation because not an hour goes by that I don't think about him. It warms my heart that the person who talks about him most or brings him up the most is my son Taylor. Children are supposed to be selfish and self-centered and for the most part Taylor is, but he loved that baby that he never got to know. When he counts out or lists all his brothers and sisters, Teagan is never forgotten. Sometimes as he counts them, I count in my head and am confused at his number, until I realize that he didn't forget Teagan.

People never know what to say to people when they lose someone, especially when that someone is their baby. I found myself struggling with that when I heard of my friends loss. A few things stick out to me that people said.

"You can always try again"

"I know what you're going thru."

"You can have another baby"

"He is in a better place."

While all of those things may be true they are the absolute last thing a grieving parent wants to hear. I have had another baby, and she is beautiful and amazing, I wouldn't trade her for the world. But I still yearn for Teagan. As she reaches her milestones I wonder what Teagan would have been like. Would he prefer chocolate or strawberry milk? Would he have stayed chunky like when he was born or would he have gotten skinny? Would he love coloring or hot wheels? What would he have wanted to be when he grew up?

He definitely is in a better place, nothing is better than heaven, but he never got to experience this life! He never sneezed, he will never get butterfiles in his stomach when he kisses his first girlfriend. He will never experience the smell of the ocean, the thrill of a rollercoaster or the joy of watching his babies be born.

What will he be like when I get to heaven? Will he still be a baby? Will I get to hear his toddler giggles? Will he be a little boy full of wonder? Will he be a man full of wisdom? Will he recognize me?

I know that each person deals with loss and grief differently. Me? I love talking about Teagan. I live for people asking me questions about him. Is it painful? YES! But it keeps his memory alive. It helps me heal. Hopefully, my talking about my loss will help someone else in a similar situation.

Thunderstorm

If you have ever spent a summer in Wisconsin, you know that we have some amazing thunderstorms. This particular thunderstorm wasn’t over-the-top; it didn’t make national news. While this thunderstorm was pretty average as far as thunderstorms go, it will be forever etched in my memory; it left a permanent imprint on my heart.

It started out as a typical day. Well, maybe not typical, but as typical as typical could be just a few short months after losing your infant son. I stayed in bed as long as I possibly could. I guilted myself into getting out of bed by telling myself, “Just because you have a dead child doesn’t mean that you can stay in bed all the time. You have two children who are very much alive and need their mom.” I decided that two seven-year-olds fending for themselves for breakfast every morning wasn’t going to earn me any Mother-of-the-Year awards. I got up, got dressed and trudged down the hall to the kitchen and said a semi-cheerful “good morning” to my sons.

The day was hot, as many summer days in Wisconsin are. Even at ten o’clock in the morning, the sun, still fairly low in the eastern sky, made it too unbearable not to run the central air. The dogs, two disobedient beagles named Howard and Stella, lay on the ceramic tile to try to keep cool. The boys were alternating between video games and cartoons for most of the hot, humid day. I spent my day staring out the window watching the field corn grow that surrounded our home, alternating between trying to hide my anguish from my sons and crying freely, my face drenched from my tears. I couldn’t see our neighbor’s homes once the corn got high enough. That feeling of isolation was both welcome and irritating at the same time.

The plethora of emotions I felt over the previous months since losing my son ranged from one end of the spectrum to the other. Early on, I felt empty, hollow. Where my belly used to protrude, stretched to the limit with a healthy baby boy, it now was flat. The only reminder that a baby used to call my stomach home, were the purplish gray stretch marks that marred my skin. A few days after Teagan’s birth and subsequent death, my breasts filled with special milk that was meant specifically for him, to nourish him and help him fight disease for the first few years of his life. While my breasts ached with unshed milk, a deeper ache in my chest took hold. Heartbreak truly is a physical pain.

Some days I would curse God; I would scream at him for putting me thru what I have now labeled as the worst thing that has ever happened to me. “Haven’t I been thru enough in my life? Haven’t I been a good enough Christian? I don’t deserve this! Why me? Lord, I HATE you for doing this to me!” Other days I would beg him for forgiveness, petrified that I wouldn’t get to Heaven and be reunited with my son.

That August day I felt a dull ache somewhere deep inside me that I had grown quite accustomed to. As I sat there, staring out the window, I decided that I would drive out to the cemetery to visit my Teagan. Lower Weston Cemetery is fairly small compared to some cemeteries I have seen. It is located in the lush, green hills of Weston, southwest of Menomonie. The cemetery is surrounded by rolling farm fields, this particular year, soy beans were planted creating a picturesque green landscape. As I turned onto the dead-end road that the cemetery is located on, I noticed the large herd of cows along the fence that are always there to greet the mourners going to visit the graves of their loved ones. It is almost like they can feel your grief as they look at you with their big, sad, black eyes. There are many generations of Teagan’s family buried in the Lower Weston Cemetery dating back as early as the late 1700’s.

I parked along the back side of the cemetery along the road that encircles it. I walked past my husband’s grandfathers grave, blew him a kiss and whispered, “Hello Papa.” Papa passed away one month to the day after Teagan died. He took Teagan’s death very hard and I suspect he died of heartache. As I kneeled down in front of Teagan’s grave, I started my labor of love washing his tombstone, rearranging the many small statues I had previously placed there and pulling the grass that had grown too long.

Just as I started to talk to him, the sky above us opened up into a torrential downpour. The wind started to howl blowing the leaves on the trees in every direction. The tall evergreen bushes that dotted the cemetery were bending in half from the force of the wind. A huge branch from a tall oak tree snapped off the tree and fell to the earth below about 20 feet from where I stood, dumbfounded. I ran to my car as I saw a bright flash of lightening and heard the loud clap of thunder followed by a deep rumble. The sky had a greenish hue to it that I always relate to tornadoes.

Safe in my car, I surveyed the scene as it played out around me. I decided the conditions were not safe enough for me to start the twenty minute drive home. As I sat there soaking wet in my car, a seething anger overtook me. I felt hot and cold at the same time; cold from the cool rain that had soaked my clothes and hair, hot from the anger inside of me. I started sobbing; uncontrollable, deep sobs wracked my body. Large, hot tears rolled down my face dripping onto my shirt that was already drenched from the rain. I started screaming at God, cursing his name for putting me thru so much pain in my life. He knew how it felt to watch his son die, only unlike me, he was able to hold him afterwards, stroke his face and know that they would never be separated again. How could he be so cruel to me, his loving servant who had shared his word with so many?

I was eventually able to get myself under control. At about the same time the storm started to dwindle, turning the rain into a light mist. By this time, I did not have the energy to get back out of the car and return to my son’s grave; I was spent. I turned the key in the ignition, put the car into drive and slowly made my way down the wet, muddy cemetery road. Exhaustion! I could feel it in every muscle of my body. I turned off of the dead-end road onto the farm road that marked the first part of my trek back home. As I crested the first hill, the sight before me took my breath away. I pulled over to the side of the road.

The skies had turned into a beautiful blue; there were white, puffy clouds off in the distance. The most beautiful, vibrant rainbow I had ever seen stretched across the sky, its arc perfectly laid out before me. It looked like I would be driving right thru the center of the rainbow. I thought back to the story of Noah in the Bible. The rainbow signified God’s covenant to Noah that he would never flood the earth again, killing all of mankind. The rainbow took on a different meaning to me that day. I felt as if that particular rainbow signified that God had heard my cries; he both felt and understood my anguish.

I also like to think that Teagan played a special part in putting that rainbow in front of me. It was his way of letting me know that he is happy in heaven, watching over his family back on earth. He knew I went to the cemetery that day to visit him and the rainbow was his way of acknowledging my presence and thanking me for my devotion to him.

I don’t know why my son was taken from me in such a tragic way. Is my purpose in life to help others deal with such a horrendous loss? Is my purpose to become a Midwife to help be an advocate for expectant parents during their prenatal care? Is my purpose in life even related at all to the death of my special baby Teagan? At this point in my life, I don’t know the answers to those questions; I may never know the answers! However, the storm that ranged around me that hot August day reminded me that I am a child of God. He hears our prayers and feels our pain. If I stay a faithful servant to my Lord and Savior, I will be rewarded with the gift of eternal life. I will be reunited with my perfect beautiful son. What more could I possibly ask for?