The Pain Of Losing An Infant Never Leaves You
My husband Brian and I entered the room amidst feelings of both shock and devastation. It was our first time here. The mood was very solemn: a bunch of young men and women speaking in hushed tones. We quickly found a table with our new friend; someone whom we had met only hours earlier. One by one, grief stricken individuals rose to light a candle. They also spoke a name. Soon it would be our turn. ”Liam Jude Sullivan,” my husband said full of obvious despair. It was still very raw. We were at our very first bereavement meeting. It also happened to be Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance month. If you have never heard of that month, you are not alone. Neither had we, until we had to do the unthinkable. Until we had to bury our firstborn son.
Besides that church basement, Brian and I hadn’t really been getting out much. Liam had died just a month earlier due to a severe congenital heart defect. He was only nine days old. It was October of 2008 and Halloween was on its way. It should have been a happy time. Instead, we set up a couple of little pumpkins and a ghost at Liam’s grave. We had been spending a lot of time at the cemetery. In fact, friends and family would probably argue that we were there too much. We didn’t care. It was what we needed at the time. It was the only way we could parent a child that was no longer with us physically. Besides, what did they know? They were all blessed with beautiful children and families. We, on the other hand, were in hell.
As autumn inevitably turned into winter, I realized just how much the anger and bitterness was eating me alive. I had very little contact with anyone besides my husband. Everyone around us thought it unhealthy that we were isolating ourselves. The truth was, it was just too hard for us to be around others and their happy families. It reminded us of what we didn’t have. By this point I had stopped working, so I just stayed home. Most days were spent looking at Liam’s pictures and crying. I also went through the memory box that the hospital gave me. I wasn’t living, but merely existing. I didn’t think I was going to be able to go on. I didn’t think I would survive. At times, I wished I was dead myself.
A funny thing happened one day at the cemetery. Brian and I were arranging some flowers when we noticed another couple nearby. They put down a blanket. ”Noah”, the woman said. I assumed it was the name of her deceased loved one. Trying not to be nosy, I turned back to our grave. A couple of seconds later, as if by magic, I noticed a beautiful baby boy had joined them. I became quite emotional at this; crying both happy and sad tears. Little brother was visiting his big brother’s grave. Yes, I thought to myself. As sad and heartbroken as we are in this very moment, there were smiles to be had again in the form of another baby. A second little baby to love. Someone to make us laugh despite our tears. It would happen. One day.
One day was sooner than we expected, and we found out we were expecting that February. Our baby would be born the following October; just a month after the first birthday of his/her sibling. We were thrilled, but sad just the same. Our new little one would never take the place of Liam. Our family would forever be incomplete. That would never change. We would just have some happiness to go along with our sadness.
Liam would have been six-years-old this year and starting first grade. I still think about him every day. We were very fortunate in having not just a daughter, but another son as well. Most people think of me as a mom of two adorable kids when in reality, I am a mom of three. I have also been told I have ”the perfect family.” As much as I would love to agree, they are wrong. It will never be perfect. Not without Liam. It is bittersweet indeed.
In travelling such a difficult journey, we often felt alone. Friends and family tried to help but felt powerless. Instead, we sought comfort in our ”adoptive” family: our fellow bereaved parents. They were the people whose shoulders we chose to cry on. They never judged; they were just there. Because they were going through the same nightmare. It is not an exaggeration when I say it is because of these wonderful people that we are here today. They were our strength. They still are.
In 1988, President Ronald Reagan designated the month of October ‘National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance’ month. While the times have changed, the taboo that is present with such a horrific and unnatural loss has not. Upon Liam’s loss, I wanted to do something in his memory. In awe of all those who had helped me, I hoped to pay it forward one day. I wanted support those who had also suffered the loss of a baby. Unsure of how to do this, I took a pen to paper and wrote about it.
Even after six years, I am often unsure of how to comfort someone who has lost a child. There really are no words and there never will be. Many times, we just need that shoulder for support. We want to speak their name. We want others to speak their name. We want them remembered. I know people are sometimes afraid to bring up Liam for fear that it will upset me. However, is more upsetting for me to not have anyone mention Liam’s name as all.
Robyn Bear, also a bereaved mom, knows all too well. She created www.october15th.com with the sole purpose of designating a day for all of us to remember our babies. On October 15th at 7PM in all times zones moms, dads, family and friends are asked to light a candle in honor of their loved ones. With everyone’s participation, an international ”Wave of Light” will be formed.
When I light my candle this year, I will not only think of Liam, but all of the babies gone too soon. I will also think about all the moms and dads who suffer along with us. For some, it is a new journey. For others, many years have gone by. For all of us, we remember. Always.
