This day. This one. The worst of them all... I remember vividly.
Right around midnight, my mom talked me into the epidural. She told me I was dragging this on longer than I had to because I was fighting the contractions. "The epidural will relax you. You can sleep." Sleep sounded good, but it came in increments of 10 minutes.
It was 2:00 a.m. and something didn't feel right. I tried to wake my mom.
"Mom. Mom. Mom... MOM... JANICE!"
As she rolled over, Dave stirred.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
I think I was delirious with grief because I replied with, "Either he's coming or I'm going to poop on this bed."
My mom pushed the call button and both she and David were wide awake. The nurse came in and we told her we thought he was coming. She raised the blanket, lowered it, and said she'd be right back.
Less than a minute later, nurses pile in. One nurse pulls a tray with little blankets, some metal instruments, and who know what else, but definitely no bassinet.. because why would we need one?
He came out without any problems, he was moved to the tray to be cleaned as I was tended to. I waited... this time to hear him cry, for them to all be wrong. I waited, hoped, for a cry that never came.
I ordered an autopsy of everything, including the placenta, so they kept everything.
As they cleaned him, I shook vigorously in my bed, fighting tears, and full of a pain I can't begin to describe.
"She's shaking. Nurse, she's shaking really bad. Lisa, are you cold? What's wrong with her?" My mom was panicking.
"She's in shock. It's okay given the situation. We'll give her something to calm her down."
Another nurse walked over to me with a small wad of blanket. "Would you like to hold your son?"
I could only nod my head and reach for him. He fit perfectly in my two hands held together. He had some swelling that was from the delivery, so I was told, and his skin was reddish in color because all the layers hadn't developed yet.
I couldn't cry anymore. It was true; he was dead and there was no denying it anymore. His tiny, perfect little hands that barely covered my thumb nail were as still as my breath. I uncovered him to reveal a tiny body and ten of the tiniest toes imaginable. Legs bent at perfect, little, knobby knees just as still as the hand I held.
What happened to you? I am so, so sorry, baby. I let you down. I didn't protect you.
I looked to David, "You want to hold him?" He hesitated and reached for him. This is the only time I've ever seen David cry. Ever. Did I let him down, too?
We spent the next hour with him and when the nurse asked if we'd like a few hours with him, we said no. We said no because we knew it would only hurt. It was only more time to blame myself, more time to see his perfections and painfully wonder why this perfection was a facade.
I didn't hold him again until the day of his funeral. After everyone left, I held him. But I never said good bye, I couldn't. I can't.
Today, he sits in a teddy bear-shaped urn atop a shelf made by my dad and me. He's surrounded by knick-knack-style gifts I've bought for him over the years. A tiny, knit hat sits on the bear's head. He wore that hat. A hat that's too small to cover a small porcelain bear; a hat that fit his little head perfectly.
Today, I tell you to treasure your child, treasure your pregnancy.
Today, I say... I love you, Kalob Guy. I love you, and wait for me.
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