cw: Loss of a child
Ten years ago, I just gave birth to my second child, peewhen I received an email from my cousin.
My cousin Haley was in the Peace Corps at the time, working in a clinic in a remote village in West Africa. One of her jobs was to help weigh and measure children. She'd record their measurements in a notebook, and if they needed a little boost, she'd recommend moms attend a demonstration she co-led on how to make a rich porridge.
I imagined her there. I have gone to the nearest city to access the internet. I gave birth to my son, pee, who was full term and stillborn. I was at the beginning of a new life, which meant the harshness of my old life but without him in it.
Reading her email in those early days, it struck me for the first time — there were so many people he'd never known. He will never know to her. One of her lines caught my eye and stayed with me: "If he were here, I would fight to be the one to weigh him." His arrival weight, his ultimate fighting weight. I hope she's the one. Show me how to make porridge too.
You learn to make small adjustments along the way in the way you think about your child who has passed. You are not moving forward, but you are moving. His little life story has been well done but it is far from over. There were periods of impossible darkness. joys and heart pies. Laughter and boring life. There is no way to draw a straight line from his birth to today. Even though you've been there - you've given birth to him and you've carried him - sometimes the experience feels unbelievable. Like what happened to someone you know, yet you're living with this messy knot of feelings.
In those early days after losing him, the pain was so intense she wanted nothing more than to launch him far into the future because the only balm imaginable was distance. But here you are now, a decade later, and you find yourself longing for a few minutes in that hospital room working or holding it, the burning pain bringing you both together. Instead, your hands are tied for the time being; You live 10 years later and have two more children to take care of. Inexplicably, you end up going weeks without thinking about it at all. Then there are a few days when everything is colored. And you can't explain it either.
Shortly after Paul was born, it dawned on me that I was going to write a book about this experience. What I didn't know then was how long it would take, how it would haunt me, and how much the process would simulate the struggles and lessons that came into my 48 hours of work, delivery, and goodbye. I wanted to hurry, I thought sooner meant better, I thought this was a story with a straightforward beginning and end. I didn't trust time or myself.
For many of those years I felt lagged behind—behind a child in statistics, late in life, late in writing; The timer always works. But in the past year, I've started pulling strings and asking questions I'd once been afraid to ask. Even though it really scared me, I deleted most of the first draft of the work and turned off the timer. I thought the day I met him would be the closest he had ever been. Now I see his birth as a delivery. He gave me a portal, a gift, a shape chart, a map to take in. My role is to build the rest. He said, You can write me your way.
I started doing interviews and research, integrating more people's voices, going back in time and facing the future. The project has turned into something more complete and expansive. Part medical mystery, part memoir, and part elegy, this strange little book has actually become something richer, better, and bigger than I am. Nine, eight, seven years ago I couldn't see that. I wasn't ready.
My cousin Haley got married this summer. At the wedding, my youngest daughter ran up to me as we were about to take our seats for dinner. She pulled at my dress and said, “Mom! Paul is on our table!” Smiling to match her excitement but a little confused, I asked her who Paul was. “Mom. Dead Paul, Paulsna!!” She is seven years old and is his little sister. She grabbed my hand and pulled me to our table, and sure enough, we were there: Kate, Jamie, June, Paul, Diana. The caterers had mistakenly served him a salad. I turned to find my cousin and pulled her into a silent hug. Ten years later, this is how the points are added to his planet. His name is on a piece of sea glass at a wedding when you least expect it. An empty seat at a table. The story continues apace.
Happy birthday, Paul. Here's everything to come in the next ten.
Kate Sodes He tries to break your heart. Her writings appeared on cup of joe, Romper, HuffPost, NAILED Magazine, Human Parts, Noteworthy and more. Her work explores sadness and longing in different forms. Kate is currently working on writing her first book about her stillborn son, pee. Lives in New Haven, Connecticut. You can find it on Instagram And the Twitterif you like.
note Kate's first article is about her stillborn sonAnd the 17 reader comments on grief.
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