When the gales of November came early

Five years ago today, I was facing the reality of losing my son, my baby, my infant child not yet ready to live outside of me.

Every year on this sad anniversary, I take the day off, have a quiet, gentle day, and write in a journal dedicated to Eroll. I write what I wish I could tell him, I write about the ways I remembered him this year, and the things I did in the last year, the ways I've changed, the feelings I've felt.

This year hit me hard. Years 3 and 4 seemed easier somehow, but this year it was so hard. Yesterday, I woke up feeling anxious and depressed. I went to work, only to spend the day on the verge of tears the entire time I was there. That ball of grief welled up in my throat threateningly. A few times, I couldn't stop the tears. The second time I started crying, my boss sent me home.

I realized then that I was remembering not the day that Eroll was born, but the day before that. The day my water broke and I went into labor. The horrible feelings of knowing what was happening and not wanting to accept it. And in the triage area, seeing my son on the ultrasound - the last time I saw him alive. All the membranes had ruptured and he would not survive inside me - and was too little to survive outside of me. No one said, but I knew he would die.

It was an awful, stormy, windy night - as they induced labor, we waited, tried to sleep some, but the sleet hitting the window of the hospital room kept waking me up, not that I was able to sleep too soundly anyway. I keep thinking about all the feelings - the horror of knowing I was losing him, and then having to make decisions - would we want to see the baby? Name him? Baptize him? And through all of it, I just wanted them to knock me out and wake me when it was over. But I had to go through labor - 18 hours later, our tiny son was born dead at 9:32am on Thursday, November 13. I sometimes wonder, at what point did he die? Did he suffer?

We did see him. We held him and looked at his tiny fingers and toes. We named him Eroll. And we had him baptized.

As soon as the epidural wore off, I was moved to another room to spend the night. I'll never forget the emptiness I felt. I was alone that night - more alone than I have ever felt. I had pain all night, and just getting to the bathroom was a chore. By the next morning, I was able to get up and sit in a chair. I'll always remember just sitting there, looking out the window and not knowing how I could go on living. What was I supposed to do with myself now? That night, that day, and days later, I don't remember any color. Just gray. Everything was gray.

The emptiness was a heavy weight that sometimes comes back to me when I least expect it, like yesterday and today. Crying is a release, but I know there's a scar within me that will always ache. The sharpest pain has ebbed, my body has healed, I no longer feel his phantom kicks that I felt for months after losing him. And we have some answers now - that Eroll was perfect genetically, but the loss was because I have incompetent cervix - my body could not hold him in any longer. Sadly, most women have to go through a loss like this before they know they have incompetent cervix.

I'm blessed by the people who understand and care. Those who remember my son. It means so much to me that he is not forgotten, that people still know my pain and that it will always be a part of me, even though I'm healing.

November is a difficult month for so many. One of my closest friends experienced an ectopic pregnancy and loss in November a couple of years ago, and a subsequent loss this month. A new friend lost her son at 20 weeks in November, too. It made me wonder about tragedies this month. I'm compiling that for a future post.

For the full blog entry about my experience of loss, go to: This is My Story, This is My Son