Tuesday, September 7, 2010

12:44 am, 20 months later.

In one hour it will be 20 months since I gave birth to our still born baby boy, Kai. I still wonder how a perfectly healthy, strong baby can suddenly die two weeks before his due date. I do understand that he suffocated and his heart stopped beating because the umbilical cord "broke" off from the placenta. His life line "broke". But no one can tell me why or what might have caused the cord to detach from the placenta. No clots (that might have explained the withered look of the cord where it was supposed to be attached to the placenta). Nothing abnormal. He was a healthy 7 pounds when he was still born. When he was born his colouring was purpl-ish. His lips were a bright deep red. In my mind I see him all pink-ish with rosebud pink lips. The black and white photos I have of him that were taken by a NILMDTS photographer barely hint at the fact that he was born without breath. He looks like a healthy baby in a timeless black and white baby photo.

How have 20 months gone by? When I gave birth to him I just wanted to die. I wished I could die. I couldn't imagine going past that moment. For days and says and weeks and weeks I wanted to die - unable to understand how I managed to still be physically alive each moment upon moment when all that was going through my mind was that I had somehow failed my baby and I deserved to die. Needed to die...
" My older daughter would be fine with her dad looking after her. Kai would be out there without a parent. I could be there with him. Did he even know how much we love him? Did he know that his death was so unbearable that sometimes I thought it wasn't true? Was he feeling abandoned? I definitely felt I was abandoning him when I had to leave the hospital without him - but what could I do? I needed to know that he knew we love him. I needed to take care of him; keep him warm, cuddle him, sing to him, love him."

Twenty months later I still sometimes have the urge to be with him, holding him out in the universe. All those moments have turned into almost two years. I still love him. The memory of Kai still hurts to my core, but it isn't as acute and desperate anymore. I don't think of the pain I feel when I remember him as a bad thing anymore either. As I explained to my daughter, "The pain you feel when you miss someone is a positive thing. It reminds you that you love that person and that you want to see them again - that you will take notice of their absence and look forward to being with them again."

We miss you and love you every day, Kai.

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