The gravity of my grief pulls. It pulls me down towards the surface of the Earth. I want to lie prone on the ground, press my ear to the dirt over his grave, hear him speak to me. Hear him tell me that we did our best for him, and he knows that.

Today marks a week. One week without my sweet baby. Five months was not enough. Five years would not have been enough. No amount of time would have been enough. Days flow into nights and then into days again. Time has no meaning, no sense. All I know is that my bed is empty of his presence at night, my arms ache for a baby that I cannot hold.

I did not pause to mark the time as 1:12pm came and went. I’m not sure why. Today, I was embroiled in a frantic rush to mail out medical supplies to other trisomy parents. Pulse oximeter cords, suction tips, feeding tubes, anything that someone else could use for their sweet babe, I placed in a box and addressed it. This frenetic activity somehow kept my mind occupied and yet not occupied. James’s angelic face, his bright eyes, were always there, hovering like a mirage in front of me.

I hope we did our best. Today, I do not feel that we did. Today, I feel like we gave up on him. It’s a terrible feeling – to feel that you failed your child. I feel like our love failed him at the moment that it meant the most. We were exhausted, we were scared. Our son was struggling. I question our medical decisions. I question the doctors that examined him, the recommendations, the treatments. Why did we make the decisions that we did?

Jim says that this questioning only means that we wish things could have been different. Maybe that’s true. Maybe I am only wishing for the things that could have been. We will never know.

What I know is that my breasts weep milk for a baby that is gone, my eyes weep tears with no baby to christen. I feel like I’m suffocating in sorrow. How can he really be gone? I see pictures, videos, and I cannot believe it’s true. He is gone where I cannot reach him, and we are left here to try and live with this gaping hole in the middle of our lives.

How do we go on?


3 thoughts on “Gravity

  1. My daughter was 5 days old when we lost her. We decided she had suffered enough and choose to remove the machines, I have days I feel like I failed her and that I gave up to soon. It was 10yrs ago this year and I still think about it. I was only 20 years old myself. I love that you are helping other families with supplies. As a mother who has been there, the pain fades slowly but does rear its head at unexpected times, you don’t get over it-it’s something you live with, there is an emptiness and the feeling that someone in your family is missing will be present! I will pray for you, your family, and your precious boy!


  2. My heart aches for you and Jim and your family. Thank you for sharing these words. You capture so well the feelings of a mother’s heart who has lost her child. I wish I didn’t know those feelings myself. I can only tell you that it is good to feel this grief, the heaviness. It is a natural response to the most unnatural experience you will likely ever face. It will move through you and rear its ugly head when it seems to be a better day without any notice. So many offered the advice after the loss of our daughter that time would help heal the hole in my heart. I didn’t believe it, but it did give me some hope to see others who had experienced the loss of a child actually functioning, appearing to live a normal life. So, while the words “time will help heal” seem so inadequate, please let it give you some hope -that maybe not today, tomorrow, next week, month or maybe year, you will be okay. And you have done enough. And James was so fortunate you were chosen to be his mother. Keeping all of you in my prayers.


  3. You did not fail him. You moved mountains for this miracle boy. At the moment that mattered the most, you were there doing the most important thing, holding him as his soul moved on.

    From the trenches


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