As I sat at my desk at work, helping a patient, she looked up at my bulletin board and asked the one question I had been dreading to hear. I knew one day this would happen. One day, someone observant enough was going to ask me about my boy.. and I was going to have to handle it. I would be alone, and no one would be there to answer that question for me.
She looked up at my bulletin board where my most recent ultrasounds were proudly displayed for the last eight months. This space was now empty. I recall my first day back at work, taking my last ultrasound picture down before I began my day, with tears in my eyes. I placed that ultrasound picture in my calendar and haven’t had the nerve to look at it since.
I remember how much excitement it brought me, when patients would notice my little peanuts picture. They would ask me about him, and I would speak of my boy with such joy. No one has ever loved anything like I loved my Skylar.
I knew one day someone I didn’t know well enough would ask, and I would have to handle it. I saw her look up, and my heart stopped. She looked at me and said “awe, you took your ultrasound picture down”. My stomach leapt into my throat so quickly, I thought I might vomit. The bitter taste in my mouth made it difficult to speak.
Here it was, I knew this moment would come, but nothing prepared me for it. I had been through much worse at that point, I had been told my son was gone, given birth to him, and then had to say goodbye. However, at those times, it was acceptable for me to behave however I saw fit. I could weep to my hearts content, I could ignore people if I couldn’t handle what they said, I could walk away even, if I thought it would help me. At work, behaving this way was something you simply cannot do.
My lack of response and obvious facial expression must have given me away. Rather than seeing my hurt, and leaving it at that, or consoling me somehow, she instead asked another question I was not prepared for. “Oh, did you loose the baby?” At this point, I decided the printer needed checking, and rose from my seat to do so.
I do understand that this woman was simply trying to care for me, but in such an abrasive manner. As I checked the printer that was just fine, I jiggled the drawer to make it convincing. I simply just needed a moment, it gave me the strength to speak. As I returned to my desk, she asked of his name and mine, so she could pray for us. I did appreciate the gesture, and I felt relieved that I had made it through the situation I had been dreading for weeks. It had finally happened, and I had made it through it.
As she left, I realized how much her words did not set well with me. “Did you loose the baby?” I did not loose my baby. I didn’t put him down and forget where he was. I didn’t fall asleep and notice he was gone. I didn’t misplace my son. The word loss is not one that should be used in this type of situation. A mother should never be asked if her child she never got to meet was something she had lost.
He was taken from me. I was not allowed to keep him. Every dream I ever had for him has been erased. My entire future must now be rewritten, because every dream I had for the rest of my life involved my son. It’s as if he had been dangled in front of me. How close I had been to raising the most beautiful boy on the planet. He was taken from my grasp at the worst time possible.
My son was not lost. I knew exactly where he was, and loved him more than life itself. If it were up to me, he would have never left my sight. I would have held him every moment of my life. I would have loved him more deeply than I’ve ever loved before.
I couldn’t keep him. Something happened that warranted him leaving this world before he ever laid eyes on it.
My baby boy was not lost. A baby is never lost. We don’t get to keep them.