Isaac died April 8th. The morning of April 9th Andrew and I made the decision that by 8am, we would call the mortician to come for the baby. I remember feeling very angry when I spoke to the nurse about hospital protocol. She told me that Andrew and I would have to call the mortician to take IT away, that we would have to decide what time was best. I remember clutching Isaac to my chest and thinking how dare she call my baby an IT. She wouldn't be calling a LIVE baby an IT. What a bitch. I hurt too badly to do anything about it.
I had spent the night before beating myself up for being so tired. I was so frustrated with myself because I wanted to spend every second with Isaac that I could. I counted the hours down. I kept telling myself... I can hold him 8 more hours... then 5 more hours.... then two, then one. Then the moment came when Isaac was taken from my arms. Nothing has ever hurt me more. How could this be? How could this be that my baby was dead? That I was in these shoes? Not me. This was not for me. The craziness, where my mind went, the rocking back and forth until I fell against my pillow not being able to fight anymore. That. Was. Not. Me. Yet it was.
I asked the doctor to let me leave. I was able to the next morning. Lisa spent the night with me, Andrew was with the kids. All I could think about was how I was going to get the hell out of the hospital. Being stuck in that room. Listening to other new born babies cry. My baby was lieing dead and cold on some metal slab. I was stuck on the Mother Baby floor of the hospital like some sick joke.
Andrew came to take me home. I walked in like a zombie. Home. Not pregnant. No baby. Easter was a few days away. I phoned the funeral home, they could squeeze us in to dress the baby for burial. We had a 2 hour slot. I remember how fortunate I felt that we had 2 WHOLE hours. That seemed worth it's weight in gold. So off we went - Andrew, the children, and I. We walked in the small little room, and there Isaac lay, and he looked so perfect. He's beautiful, I told the mortician. The man that had cared for Isaac had done such a lovely job. He looked perfect. We took the children out, so that I could change Isaac's hat. We didn't want the children to see Isaac's missing head, and I was touched to see that the mortician had constructed the missing part of Isaac's head out of some sturdy material, so that his hat would fit nicely. We hadn't even asked for that. I was very touched by that gesture. Hannah and Ian wanted to help dress him, so I allowed that. We sat and held the baby, and Andrew took the children back to the car so that I could have a minute alone.
I laid Isaac on the table and fiddled with his blanket. He looked perfect to me. And yet there he was, lieing next to his casket. I picked him back up and held him close to my face and whispered to him how much I loved him. The man slipped back into the room, and asked if I wanted pictures with the baby. He took a couple. Sweet man.
I walked out of the room, in pain from my surgery, and stumbled to the car. Headed back home. Still no baby. Still empty arms. Still broken-hearted.
I relive that day still. Sometimes every day. It's still not me. How can this broken-hearted mother still be me?
16 comments:
all I can say is thank you... please know I pray for you and your family, I am uplifted by your words. I am at such a low point with trying to get pregnant that I have felt so very alone and hopeless. I read your words and feel a connection so thank you. I know Isaac lives by the side of Jesus and our Father is watching over you and your family and while a new baby will not ever replace the loss in your heart it will mean fufilling your purpose as a mother. you are in my heart and prayers
I can't believe that nurse called Isaac 'it'. How cruel!! Babies are not 'its'....ever.
Your mortician sounds like he was very kind and caring and I'm glad you had someone like that during that difficult time.
I LOVE YOU, MISTY and prayers to God every day for you
Oh, Misty!
I sit here in tears for you and tears of understanding in my own small way.
Thank-you for openning up and sharing your grief.
I am praying for you and your family.
I am understaning perfectly the surreal feeling of "It's not me." "This can't be happening to me." I feel the same way with my divorce. Our circumstances are completely different yet I can so relate.
Oh, Misty, I have never met you, but I feel such a love and connection for you.
I know the pain will ease with time, although it will never go away. Yet, right now...it is so very real.
I love a song by Hillary Weeks called, "Just Let Me Cry." If you haven't heard it, you should listen to it. She actually wrote it about a mother that lost a child.
Sorry, long post. Love ya.
You will always be this broken-hearted mother.
But in time, I think the sharpness of the pain will fade little by little until it doesn't hurt quite as much.
Until then, feel what you feel.
It is so impossible to imagine how you go through those steps. The pictures are so sad yet I am so glad that you have them. My heart aches for you and your family. I pray for your comfort. ((HUGS))
I'm so very sorry. Anything else I try to form in my head just seems to fall so flat. You and your family are in my prayers. Still.
Misty, I still can't believe it so for me, it is completely understandable that you should feel somehow distanced from yourself, as if it were all a horrid nightmare.
I can't even imagine the pain but my heart hurts for you daily and I pray for healing to whatever extent is possible. If only that would somehow lessen your burden. I know it doesn't but that doesn't stop me from wishing it so.
Sending you much love, my friend. Always.
The day after we gave our Jacob to the mortuary, I woke up in a panic. "Where is my baby? He needs me! We have to go to him!" I was crying and nobody was moving fast enough as we drove to the mortuary to tuck him in to his coffin. We got there, and some idiot brought him to us in a blanket bundled up like a santa bag. He held the blanket in one hand, out away from his body. Like he was handing us a bag of trash. I was SO angry I snached my precious baby from him and told him to get out and leave us alone. After that, we found the peace and sacredness of that day again, and spent two hours holding him and taking pictures. Just mom, dad, and Jake. I remember Bryan crying and saying, "Can't we please jsut take him home?" It was so hard to leave him. But we had a closed casket service, so at least we got to tuck him in and say good bye, then leave him in an open casket for the mortician to close up for us after we left. I wish you could have had that, Misty. When we got to the graveside, it was just a box. A box that represented him. I never had to see his face diappear beneath the lid. OH! How I look forward to their return! Our two boys! Our angels!
What mortuary did you go through? That was an amazing act of kindness.
I see the healing you are going through in your post. Nothing will ever replace your baby boy. You may never actually "get past" this. It isn't really possible. It is possible to go on living and that you have done. I'm sure your angel Issac is watching down over you daily.
My brother and his wife lost a baby, who lived just about 24 hours. He would be 8 years old. We all keep track of him.
You are not alone in this trial, and although everyone's circumstances are different, there are parts of loss that are universal.
They were recently blessed with a healthy baby after all these years. It was a pregnancy of worry and what-if's-.
I wish you peace-
How I weep for you, how I wish I had the power to "fix" it somehow, someway. All I can do is love you, pray for you, miss you. I simply just LOVE YOU!
I have no words that could do this post justice.
Your heart is broken . . . there is no timetable for grief.
Just keep holding your beautiful children close to you--keep loving on them. And, take care of you, mama.
Love to you . . .
I'm just so sorry. My heart hurts. Sending you my love and my light.
I am in tears reading this. It reminded me of going to the funeral home when our babies were cremated. It hurt so much and I was so grateful to the funeral director for his kindness.
Thinking of you...
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