Here is my speech.
Love you, Nicholas.
Hospital Talk - 2015
Good Afternoon, Everyone and welcome,
I am honoured to be here and I would like to thank Kemayla
for inviting me to share our story with all of you today. Thank you to all of you as well. I am sure you have had a long, emotionally
draining day. I appreciate your time and
your willingness to engage and learn about a subject that is often thought of
as taboo or too difficult to deal with in a compassionate way.
As this date approached I felt a little uneasy. For obvious reasons, of course, but the more
I examined my heightened anxiety I realized the date.
7 years ago tomorrow.
I was 35 weeks pregnant with our third son.
October 28, 2008
The day our world stopped. The day we were told that part of our baby boy's brain had not formed. The day we had to make the most unimaginable decision of our lives.
The day our world stopped. The day we were told that part of our baby boy's brain had not formed. The day we had to make the most unimaginable decision of our lives.
This time of year marks the most tortures, unforgiving emotional
ride as we re- live the days leading up to meeting our baby boy. The
grief thickens. It’s deep. It’s raw.
We are desperate for just one more glimpse. We ache for one more touch. We imagine
his face at each family gathering. We
feel him in our souls.
Our journey through grief began 7 years ago when our
youngest son, Nicholas passed away .
This is our story…..
Seven years ago my
husband and I received the most devastating, unbearable and confusing news any
parent can hear. Our third son, the baby
we had planned. The baby we grew with,
the baby we loved… was in a desperately grave condition. We were forced to face any parents worst
torture ~ the unfathomable reality that our beloved child was unable to survive
outside of the womb. The fact that our
son’s ultimate fate was death – even before he drew his first breath.
My pregnancy was eventful. At almost 20 weeks I was rushed to the
hospital and had emergency surgery to remove an 8 cm cyst that had twisted my
ovary. Life-saving surgery for both
myself and baby. Several doctor’s,
nurses and technicians assured us that our baby boy was just fine. Safe, healthy and totally oblivious to the
pain mommy was experiencing. I remember
constantly thanking God for that. I
gladly took every ounce of pain just knowing that our baby was thriving. As much as his strong kicks hurt my
incisions, the tears I shed were those of gratitude. I remember every kick …. Every hiccup and I
rejoiced in the fact that we had survived such a life threatening event.
I was released from the hospital and went home to rest. Quite a few weeks later, during a routine
scan, my OB requested I be seen by a high risk doctor to rule out any possible
problems with our baby’s ventricles in the brain. My OB was fairly certain everything was fine,
but with everything we went through to get there, he wanted to be sure. I wasn’t worried. I hardly thought about it. Just an over cautious doctor, which I was
grateful for.
In just a few short weeks our lives changed from anxiously expecting
another beautiful, healthy son very shortly to living a nightmare in which we
would never wake from.
The high risk doctor confirmed that our baby’s ventricles
were indeed enlarged. Grossly
enlarged…. She immediately sent us to
Mt. Sinai hospital where we endured many questions, tests and long, agonizing
waits.
I don’t remember much about that day, especially the latter
half. I remember being escorted into an
office. There were pictures of African
animals everywhere…. A trip the owner of the office had taken, no doubt. Pictures of smiling children, happy families…
seemingly taunting us. I remember my
eyes being glazed over like they have never been before. I remember holding my husband’s hand so
tightly.. for fear I would melt to the floor.
We sat and we listened through the sobs to the doctors talking about our
baby. Our perfect little boy. The baby who we were told was perfectly fine
just a week ago. We listened as they
told us that his sweet little brain had ceased to develop or it had recessed
after my attack, my surgery. All that
continued to run through my head was that I deprived my own child the very
oxygen and blood necessary to grow…. I
failed him. I failed my husband, I
failed his brothers who were so desperately awaiting his arrival. I failed his grandparents…his Aunts, his
Uncles….. I failed myself.
A week later, at 35 weeks pregnant, I was induced and our
beautiful baby boy was born….. sound asleep.
I will always remember that overwhelming feeling, just moments after I
felt him leave my body, of hoping beyond hope for a cry… that somehow the
doctor’s were wrong… that he fought through… I prayed for some kind of miracle
as the primal screams of desperation escaped me.
We were able to spend so much precious, memorable time with
our boy. We named him Nicholas Warren
and he was perfect. He’s still as
perfect as ever. He has such a strong
presence in our lives. Nicholas is
loved, remembered and honoured every single day in our home.
Fast forward to today.
I wish I could say that this all makes sense now. That there is some greater purpose of forever
walking this road of missing our baby boy.
I’m not ready to say that. I’ll
never be ready to say that. Today, none
of what happened makes any sense to me.
I will never accept that our baby had to die for a reason or that God
has another plan for him. I don’t
believe that. I certainly don’t embrace
it. What I do know is that somewhere along my
journey I made a promise to myself, my family and especially to Nicholas. I promised that the anguish that resides in
my heart over losing him will not define me, but rather, the gratitude and
distinct honour of being chosen to be his mommy will soar above all else.
As a baby loss mom the message I try to convey today to
others facing this devastating tragedy is that after surviving the
unimaginable, there is hope. There are
lighter and brighter days down the road.
No matter how far along we are in this journey we must remember to be
gentle on ourselves. Be patient. Be kind.
Remember. Love and be loved. The sadness, the desperation, the anger…
these feelings are all a part of the process.
Let yourself go to those dark places, but please, remember the light
too. As difficult as it is to accept
that time marches on while our world has seemingly come to a crashing halt….
time is our ally. Time softens the
pain. Time allows us to remember the good
and not always the bad.
I know that I will always physically ache for Nicholas. For his body in my body, his soul in my
soul. A mother’s love is endless.
No one
else will ever know the strength of
my love for you, buddy. After all,
you're the only one who knows what my heart sounds
like from the inside. ...
As much as I long to have Nicholas here, playing among his
older brothers and protecting his baby sister, I feel like the“ache” has transformed. I have learned to allow joy and grief to cohabitate
in my heart. It never ceases to amaze me
how such definitive opposites can co-mingle so gracefully.
A very old friend once said to me; “I am not a religious
person, however I have always believed in Guardian Angels. How bittersweet that you got to meet
yours”… what a truly beautiful
perspective. It’s an image that speaks
to my heart.
I can’t say that my personal journey has always been
graceful or kind. And I can most
definitely say that it hasn’t been easy.
Some days are just plain hard, cruel and messy, but others are full of
hope, joy and an abundance of love. I
suppose it will always be that way. One feeling trying to overpower the
other. Two completely different sets of
emotions delicately balancing in my heart.
Four years we had a very special vision to celebrate and
honour Nicholas on his birthday. Our
family, along with some very generous friends and family, have created some
special Hospital Memory/Comfort Boxes for the labour and delivery ward at Southlake
Regional Health Center. Although my feelings are mixed (I wish these types of
boxes weren’t needed at all) the donation of the Comfort Boxes has become a tradition
on Nicholas’ birthday… as well as if there is a need. It is my understanding and my experience that
not too much exists in terms of tangible care and support when you are forced
to leave the hospital with empty arms.
It is our hope to provide items in these packages to newly
bereaved parents that may help in memorializing their babies. When parents are forced to face the
unimaginable; saying goodbye to their children, tangible things such as
pictures and hand/footprints aren’t often thought about until it’s too
late. Our goal is to offer comforting
options... options that are not typically thought of in the fresh stages of
grief.
I was told years ago that one of the first boxes had to be
gifted…. What an intrinsically bittersweet moment that was. I only hope that the family knows how
genuinely and incredibly sorry I am that they now find themselves on this
journey… one where I have walked and wept.
I
desire that knowing others have walked through this anguish gives them hope…
that they know that they are not alone in what often feels like a very lonely
journey. I hope that they can feel my
arms around them as I weep with them.
We have gone from deep, deep despair
and sadness to feeling a sense of strength for enduring such heartache. We have
gone from utter hopelessness to hopefulness in bringing a new baby home to our
family. We have gone from missing our baby boy so intensely in the ravages of
new grief to remembering him, talking about him and including him in our family
every chance we get.
The past seven years have been intense,
unpredictable and full of unimaginable grief, but they have also been filled
with hope, inspiration and an incredible amount of healing. Although it is painful to not have Nicholas
here with us, his spirit and his legacy have infused our family with
indomitable strength and immeasurable love over the past 7 years. We remember him often, we honour him daily,
we love him unconditionally. He is
forever a part of our hearts and our souls.
I believe that our loved
ones are never too far away. They are in
the whispers of the wind, the first spring bloom of the season… the fluffy,
white snowflakes that melt on our nose…they are in the crimson sunsets and
marshmallow clouds…they are flying on butterfly wings and they are in the
ladybug that lands and decides to stay for a while. They with us always… holding our hearts tight
and offering sweet comfort as we remember and pay tribute…. They are in the light of our flames as we light our candles… they are in the tears
that fall and they are in the embraces we receive. Where ever you choose to “see” your Angel is
the perfect spot… embrace those moments… there are always more to come.
I can only imagine that when
faced with such shock and sadness ,your job, as health professionals, becomes a
very difficult one. One that most do not
want to face. One that most feel
incredibly uncomfortable with. I hope
that today has been gentle on all of you.
I hope today’s training and our sharing has provided some encouragement
of how to approach such profound loss… it is never easy, nor should it be. Being in the positions that you are in , you
already have a special and compassionate heart…. Trust that heart. Feel it.
Connect. Be present. Love.
“Bereaved parents never forget the understanding, respect, and genuine
warmth they received from caregivers, which can become as lasting and important
as any other memories of their lost pregnancy or their baby’s brief life.”
This is also, of course, true for the flip side. I can honestly say that we experienced both
extremes. From inconsiderate platitudes,
accusations and utter lack of compassion to above and beyond care for our baby
and our hearts…
I will forever be grateful for both perspectives. They allow me to appreciate the human spirit
in a beautiful light…
Thank you for taking the time to share in Nicholas’ story.
You are apprecitated.
