You

When Ellie said to me, “I suppose it’s too late to do anything about it,” I replied, “I don’t want to do anything about my baby.” No, I didn’t want to kill you. I could never have done that.

You were about five or six months old when Ellie noticed my round shape. I guess she was trying to be sympathetic. Maybe she didn’t want me to face the pain of giving birth to you and then watching you die. Why spend months waiting for the inevitable to happen? Isn’t it better to avoid the pain?

Those months before you were born were certainly full of pain. I was very frightened. I prayed constantly. If I filled up my prayer bucket, would God grant me a miracle? I knew He could heal you. I so much wanted to bring you home. The thought of burying you was unbearable. I told God I was far too weak to do that.

By the time you were ready to be born into this world, I was ready too. I knew you were safe in the womb, but I also knew you couldn’t stay there forever. And despite everything, I just wanted to meet you. To see you. To hold you in my arms.

You were born on a Tuesday morning. I didn’t get to see you properly or hold you. The doctors immediately wheeled you away to the NICU where there was a ventilator waiting.

The next time I saw you, there were all kinds of tubes and equipment obscuring your tiny body. Your eyes were closed. Only your chest was moving. I reached out a finger to touch your pale newborn skin, and a nurse cried, “Don’t touch! Any contact will be traumatic for him. Touch the table he’s lying on instead.”

I wonder if you knew I was standing next to you. Did you hear my voice? Did you hear my tears? Did you need my mother’s touch? Did you yearn for me like I yearned for you?

All day, Dad and I kept vigil by your side. That evening, Dad rushed home to see your brothers and sisters. When he’d made sure they were okay, he returned to the hospital. He sat next to you all through the night while I tried to sleep. I’m glad you didn’t spend your only night alone.

As dawn broke on the second day of your life, a nurse came to fetch me. Things weren’t looking good. You were struggling. So I asked the priest to baptise and confirm you, and you were filled with God’s grace, ready for whatever was ahead.

For a while, you looked stronger. My hopes rose. Your brothers and sisters arrived at the hospital. They were excited and couldn’t wait to meet you. We were told that as soon as the doctors had done their latest assessment of your condition, we could visit you in the NICU. I began to think: It’ll be okay. Maybe we’ll go home together after all. 

And then we shot down that emotional roller coaster that we’d been riding, and we hit the bottom as we heard the words we feared: “Your baby is no longer responding to treatment. I’m sorry, there’s no more we can do.”

The doctor took away all the tubes that were connected to your tiny body. Only the ventilator remained. Then you were placed carefully in my arms for the first time, and I held you close to my heart and soaked up your warmth and your precious baby sweetness. After several minutes, although I didn’t want to let you go, I handed you to Dad because, of course, he also wanted a few special moments with you. Your brothers and sisters got to meet you properly as well.

And then the end. You were back in my arms when the doctor pointed to a monitor and, in his soft gentle way, said, “Your baby’s heart is no longer beating.” The ventilator was still inhaling and exhaling, but you weren’t. You had slipped silently away at 3 o’clock on a grey Wednesday afternoon. You left us behind to bear the pain. Our tears rained down upon you.

You never saw me or Dad. You were taken away before we could look upon each other. You didn’t see your siblings either. But we saw you.

I held you in my arms as you died. Did you feel safe?
I kissed you goodbye. Did you feel my lips on your skin?
I whispered “I love you” in your ear. Did you hear?

I was there to the very end.

All the pain? Thomas, you are worth everything.

I took this photo a few years ago at Thomas’ grave on his birthday.