Lovelier of lovely things are they

On this earth that soonest pass away.

The rose that lives its little hour

is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

– William C. Bryant

* {I have removed the images of the documents}*

This might be the last time that I will write about our little angel Liam. It’s not that I have stopped mourning for him — I believe mothers, in general, do not really get over the loss of a child. Nor do I want to forget about him — memories are all I have, why would I want to be rid of them? But sad as I am about what happened, I have accepted that it happened according to God’s plan and eventually I have to get out of the grieving phase and move on with my life. And I believe that’s what he wants me to do, as well.

Our sweet angel Liam will always be in my heart and I will never stop loving and missing him.

When people ask why I didn’t take a picture of Liam, I tell them that I don’t want to be reminded of how he struggled for his life at the NICU and what he looked like with all the machines connected to him. And I certainly don’t want to take a picture of him after he died.

So the only “pictures” that I have of him are these ultrasound scans that were taken when he was still inside me. At least in these photos, he was well and alive.

*{For some reasons, I couldn’t find the scanned ultrasound images. But I still have the original prints with me. Just too lazy to scan them and upload here.}*

These are the only visual proof I have that show that for 39 weeks, however short that may seem, I became a mother. I miss you so much Baby Liam.

Today, our angel Liam would’ve been a month old already and I can’t help but think about all the “would’ve been’s” that we would’ve been doing or would’ve done if he was with us. Maybe, if he was with us, I would be too busy taking care of him and wouldn’t have the time to write this post.

But as life would have it, I have so much time on my hands right now. And often, I don’t know what to do with it. A few months back, I was preparing myself for a life of breastfeeding, diapering and sleepless nights; all my plans had been about what to do when baby is here. It didn’t cross my mind that I would need a plan on what to do when there is no baby.

What to do to ease the pain? What to do to fill in this huge void that suddenly grew at the core of my being? What to do with more than 9 months worth of memories? What to do with the longing? with the questions? with the days when I couldn’t understand why things happened the way they did?

Last night, someone shared this poem and I just broke down reading it. I could imagine our baby Liam talking to me through the words in this poem. And it made me  realize how much I miss him and how badly I’m longing for him.

What Makes a Mother?

I thought of you and closed my eyes
And prayed to God today
I asked “What makes a Mother?”
And I know I heard him say

A Mother has a baby
This we know is true

But, God, can you be a mother
When your baby’s not with you?

“Yes, you can”, he replied
With confidence in his voice
“I give many women babies
When they leave it is not their choice
Some I send for a lifetime
And others for the day
And some I send to feel your womb
But there’s no need to stay.”

I just don’t understand this God
I want my baby here

He took a breath
and cleared his throat
And then I saw a tear
I wish I could show you
What your child is doing today
If you could see your child smile
With other children and say

“We go to earth to learn our lessons
of love and life and fear
My mommy loved me so much
I got to come straight here
I feel so lucky to have a Mom who had so much love for me
I learned my lessons very quickly
My mommy set me free.

I miss my mommy oh so much
But I visit her each day
When she goes to sleep
On her pillows where I lay
I stroke her hair and kiss her cheek
And whisper in her ear
Mommy don’t be sad today
I’m your baby and I am here”

So you see my dear sweet one
Your children are okay
Your babies are here in My home
And this is where they’ll stay
They’ll wait for you with Me
Until your lessons are through
And on the day you come home
they’ll be at the gates for you

So now you see
What makes a Mother
It’s the feeling in your heart
It’s the love you had so much of
Right from the very start
Though some on earth
May not realize
Until their time is done
Remember all the love you have
And know that you are
A Special Mom

– Author Unknown

During my entire pregnancy, I endured a number of pains. Physical pain, mental anguish, emotional stress – I experienced them all in various forms and levels. But if given a chance, I’ll gladly go through it again, even bear twice as much pain — if I only can ensure that at the end of my pregnancy, I will have my baby boy with me. Because nothing can compare to the kind of pain I felt when I lost him.

Now, I understand how giving birth to a child feels like growing another limb on your body. And when the child dies, the limb becomes severed and the part where it was once will ache forever. It is a tormenting ache, a longing ache that reeks in your waking hours and seeps in your dreams. It won’t let you go.

The first time I saw Liam, he was in a bassinet at the farthest side of the NICU. Two machines were connected to his body through his mouth and left hand, and an IV drip on his right foot. He was sedated so he wouldn’t be agitated and resist the ventilator connected through his mouth. He looked normal, healthy and plump, except for the labored and mechanical heaving of his chest. He got my lips, my nose, my complexion. D, who saw him right after he was born, said he got my eyes, too.

Although a turmoil was raging inside me, I was weeping quietly. I thought to myself how painful it is to finally see Liam but not be able to cradle him in my arms. I wanted to remove all the contraptions on his body and hold him. I wanted to believe that a mother’s touch has magical healing powers and will be able to ease his pain. But all I could do was watch him and whisper a prayer to God to save his life.

The second time I saw him was more intense. It was after his Neonatologist told us that his condition has worsened. We rushed to the NICU at 6 a.m. to see him. The doctor gave me the permission to touch him for the first time and said that I should talk to him. His skin felt so soft and smooth to my touch it was breaking my heart into tiny pieces. In between sobs, I tried to talk to him, to tell him that we [mama and papa] love him and asked him if he can fight some more because we are waiting for him. I also said sorry — sorry for everything, sorry for his suffering, sorry that we can’t do anything about it. Then, in my silent prayer, I lifted him up to God and told Him that I’m letting go and letting Him take over – Thy will be done.

Before we left, I told Liam that we’ll be back to see him again. But I didn’t know that that would be the last time we will see him alive.

The third time I saw him was a few minutes after his death. This time his body was already free of machines. He looked like he was still sleeping, but there’s something lifeless about him. I was afraid to touch him at first, afraid that he’d feel cold and dead to my touch. But every sinew in my body was yearning to hold him so I did what I’ve been wanting to do since they shouted “baby out” at the operating room: I cradled him in my arms for the first time.

The feeling was overwhelming yet very, very painful. It felt surreal to hold him, to kiss his forehead, to gently squeeze his tiny hands. Maybe my wits had gone out of me for a moment, because I still hoped that his eyes would open, even for just a second, to look at me; or he would cry, because I didn’t hear him cry when I gave birth to him.

I didn’t know how long our mother-son bonding lasted. When D told me it’s enough and he was taking Liam from me, I refused to let go. I wanted to hold him until the warmth of his body give way to the coldness of death. I wanted to hold him. Just hold him.

The fourth and last time I saw him, he was on the other side of the viewing glass at the crematorium.

December 19, 2011

4:30 a.m.

I was on epidural but awake as they performed a C-section operation on me to deliver my baby. I heard somebody, probably my OB, said, ”baby’s out”. The anesthesiologist beside me told me the same, that I’ve officially given birth to a baby boy at 4:30 a.m.

I wasn’t sure if it was mother’s instinct or the effect of the anesthesia or the tension of learning that my baby has passed meconium while still inside me, but I started saying out loud, “I want to hold my baby.” They were saying something but I didn’t seem to hear it. I just kept saying, “I want to hold my baby.” Over and over again that they decided to put me to sleep because I seemed delirious.

Now, I know it was mother’s instinct. Subconsciously, I knew something was wrong with my baby and I wanted to be able to hold him while he’s still alive.

It was D’s birthday when we found out that we were going to have a baby boy. D, naturally, became a beaming expectant father.

During the whole ordeal at the hospital where I gave birth, D was constantly on his feet, answering to every errand the doctors and other hospital staff asked him to do. I was, for the most part, lying in bed, still recovering from my C-section operation, while Liam was at the NICU, fighting for his dear life.

Nothing inconvenienced D; he didn’t mind going back and forth, to and fro, or running up and down the flight of stairs when the elevator was taking too long; he would promptly jump from his sleep even at the wee hours of the morning; he would skip eating. All these in an effort to help keep our little boy alive.

He would also spend time beside me, making sure that I was okay and that I had everything I need.

Sometimes, he would rest his tired feet, straighten his aching back and doze off so he would have another round of energy when the doctors beckon him.

But D’s shinning moment, which reflected how he would have become a great father, was when it was time for Liam’s remains to be brought to the morgue. The morgue’s custodian placed his small precious body (wrapped in cloth like a mummy), inside an uncovered box and was about to march down to the morgue when D stopped him. He couldn’t bear to see his son being carried down like a dead dog. He ran back to my room and asked if I have anything that he can use as a cover. I gave him the hooded blanket that we were supposed to use to receive Liam.

He initially intended to just cover the box, but a father’s heart was aching inside his chest, telling him that his child’s body should be handled with love and respect. So with the blanket, he wrapped Liam’s body and very gently, he held his head, placed it close to his shoulder and carried him as if he were alive.

They passed by alleys with people looking at him with different reactions. Some were scared and mortified knowing he was carrying a dead body. Some were shocked. But there were some who were symphatetic and looked at him admiringly because they understood why he was doing what he was doing. He didn’t care what they were thinking of.

“It’s one of the very few things I can do for him now that he’s gone,” he said “to show him that I’m his father and that I love him very much, even if it means carrying his body to the morgue.” He added that at that moment, he felt every inch a father.