A friend, who is a nurse midwife, called me last week.
A two day-old baby had just died. Would I go to the hospital with her to
help the parents? Of course. I grabbed a copy of Roses in December
and a “Memory Box,” lined in satin and filled with little mementos to help
parents gather fleeting memories of their precious child.
We were greeted by the distraught father as we entered the
Emergency Room, and he quickly took us to Mama. I looked into that tiny
little room and I saw a lovely young woman holding a tiny little baby and
gently weeping. My mind leaped back 32 years ago when my 10 day-old baby
died in a hospital. But that was the only similarity in the scenes. This
woman had family huddled all around her. Glen and I were alone with our
doctor. This woman was having everything explained to her by doctors,
nurses, policemen, and the coroner. We had received hugs from some of the
staff, but then we were sent home . . . alone. But, most of all, this
young woman was holding her baby. She had time alone with him after he
died. She watched as the coroner made footprints. She and her husband were
able to say goodbye to their baby.
Besides all of the professional and family support, they had
me! I read a quote recently, “Our lives are defined by those we
have lost.” My life has certainly been defined by those I have lost.
Nathan, Jimmy, and Ethan. It is because I never got to hold Ethan while he
was dying that I am now almost eager to stand beside a parent whose child
has died. I know what to do because of Ethan. As I entered that room, I
knelt next to Mama and said, “Please tell me your baby’s name. Tell me
about him.” Then I was able to offer very simple advice: “Always remember,
you are this baby’s mama. We are around you to support you in whatever
decisions you make, but you are his mother.”
It is because the funeral director 34 years ago suggested that
I not watch as he carried my seven week-old baby, Jimmy, from our home
forever, that I now know how important it is for mothers and fathers to
walk every step of the death route with their child. When this young
couple went to the mortuary, they were able to take more footprints. They
were able to dress their baby. They were able to take lots of pictures.
They still had final say when it came to decisions about their baby.
My life has truly been defined by those I have lost in some
positive ways. However, there have been some negative influences also.
When I call my children’s homes several times over a span of a few hours
and there is no answer, I start to panic. Where are they? Why haven’t I
heard from them? Then the panic can turn into major fear. Maybe
their car has crashed and no one has found them. Perhaps someone has
broken into their home and they have all been killed. Often that fear
can move my thinking into a pseudo reality. We will have to plan their
funerals. How long will it take for someone to find them? How will I react
when I receive the call?
I believe, after a child dies, most bereaved parents have
fleeting moments of the kind of thoughts that I have just described. So
how do we deal with them? Do we give into them and enter into a form of
mental illness that moves us out of reality into insanity? Most definitely
not. It is not unusual for us to have such fears; however, we need to be
prepared to face the fears and do everything we can to dispel them.
I have learned it is better to take the chance of waking
someone up out of a deep sleep to make sure they arrived home safely than
it is to spend a sleepless night in which we conjure up all sorts of
horrible things that might have happened to our family. As a family, we
have made ourselves accessible to each other, no matter what time it is.
We carry cell phones, we try very hard to remember to call, and we
recognize that our efforts can bring peace of mind to our loved ones.
Many years ago, I heard Dr. Robert Schuller state that we
should Face our fears, Trace our
fears, and Erase our fears. I recommend this three
step plan to every bereaved person.
Face them: Sometimes we are afraid to admit our
fears, so we hold them inside ourselves, believing that if we ignore them,
they will go away. That is seldom true. Rather than going away, holding
our fears inside our mind generally causes the fears to grow. Example: My
daughter and her husband are driving to their home in the Sacramento area
today. The trip takes about nine hours. When they left us this morning, I
said, “If you remember, please call me when you get home.” So what are my
choices if the expected time of arrival has passed and they have not
called me? I could spend the entire evening worrying about them, fearing
they had an accident, or becoming angry because they didn’t call. Or I
could call them and say, “I’m sure you forgot that I asked you to call, so
I decided I would call you and make sure all is well so that we can all
have a good night’s sleep.” I have learned that we need to take whatever
steps possible to alleviate our fears rather than trying to be a martyr
and suffering in silence (By the way, my daughter did remember to call,
and they were fine. But a sign of real growth was that I got so busy with
my schedule of the day, I forgot to worry!).
Trace them: For a bereaved parent, it usually
isn’t hard to trace our fears. We notice a lump or a limp, and we
immediately fear the person has cancer. Or we learn that one of our
children or grandchildren is going to a swim party or riding in a car with
a friend. My first thought is not ‘Oh, isn’t it wonderful that they are
old enough to swim or to go out in a car with a friend?’ My first
thought is ‘we must make sure they don’t drown or have an accident in a
car.’ I have always had an innate fear of water, so I can trace my
concern back to my childhood. My son, Nathan, was killed in a car crash,
so it’s not too hard to figure out why I worry when my kids are traveling
by car. When my grandkids first started swimming, I checked with their
parents to see how waterproof they felt their kids were. I asked if the
little ones would be wearing life jackets, and I asked who would be
supervising the party. The next step for me is to whisper a prayer,
‘Dear God, I’ve asked the right questions and I’ve checked everything out.
Now I’m going to trust You in this situation.’
Erase them: It is impossible to erase the terrible
traumas we have experienced because our child died. However, we do now
have the opportunity to control our fears and face them head-on. Don’t be
afraid to ask questions and gather as much information as possible. We
don’t have to be worry-warts, but it would be silly not to act responsibly
when potential danger stares us in the face.
Several years ago, a friend called to say she was having a
hard time waking her newborn, and that his extremities appeared to be a
“little blue.” My first thoughts were ‘Jimmy looked that way. This
little boy could be a SIDS or apnea baby.’ I immediately told her to
take the baby to the hospital and I would meet her there. On the way to
the hospital, my friend told me she was thinking, ‘do we know the
Heavilins because we are going to lose a baby?’ However, at the
hospital, she realized I knew the right questions to ask; I recognized
potential danger; and the doctors listened to me because I spoke
confidentially from past experience. The baby’s breathing was checked and
he was placed on a monitor immediately because he was definitely an apnea
baby. The doctors also discovered this baby had pneumonia even though he
had few symptoms. My friend related after she was able to take the baby
home that she now realized ‘we know the Heavilins so that they could
help us save a baby!’
I read a statement recently in Mourning and Mitzvah.
“Fully engaging in mourning means that you will be a different person from
the one you were before you began.” After the death of a child, we are
different people than we were before. However, we can take control of the
changes or let the changes take control of us. There is no doubt, we lose
our innocence. But we can choose whatever whether that loss of innocence
causes us to be a “nervous Nellie,” or whether that loss of innocence
causes us to be alert to danger, but not immobilized by fear.
