Tomorrow marks the day last year that we announced our pregnancy with Elliott. I waited until after our morphology scan because in our minds that ‘safe’ period of 12 weeks had moved forward to the mid term scan due to recent experiences of others we knew. I waited because i was terrified of becoming a statistic like our close friends and customers who shared with us had. I thought that if something was to happen, it should be kept quiet and I wouldn’t want to talk about it, an assumption I was given from the culture of silence that surrounds Pregnancy and Infant loss. The reality for us now is that I want to scream my sons name from the mountain top and share his beautiful face with the world. The reality is I wish I publicly celebrated him (not just privately with our family) the whole 21 weeks we had him with us.
The reality is there was no safe period.
I knew I wasn’t immune, I knew there was nothing special about us that would exempt us from tragedy. We saw good, wonderful parents suffer the unthinkable which made us reassess our security in pregnancy. We waited anxiously for the scan that gave our friends and other people we knew such heartbreaking news. Then we sighed a huge breath of relief when we saw our perfectly healthy baby boy at 19+ weeks gestation on the ultrasound. We thought from that moment that everything was going to be ok.
That afternoon we made the announcement.
A little more magic is coming our way, expected to arrive early March
Emma and Ashton were thrilled to pose for the photo, proudly wearing their matching outfits. We were overwhelmed with congratulations and love being sent by more people than those who have interacted with any post made about our beautiful son after his death.
2 weeks after that announcement I gave birth to our beautiful baby boy after my membranes prematurely ruptured. He was healthy, strong and perfect (as all babies no matter what are) but he did not breathe.
He did not open his eyes.
He did not move.
He did not make a sound.
He had passed away sometime during my labour in the last two hours before making his entrance into the world.
I still feel trauma when I think of the labour but I feel warmth and love when I think of the time we had with him after. When our silent baby was born his death wasn’t what we felt, it was his life. We smiled and were filled with the same amazing overwhelming protective love that we felt when our other two babies were born crying. We breathed him in and were in complete awe at how truly perfect and beautiful he was. He looked just like his big brother. It was just like he was peacefully sleeping. Our perfect, beautiful, sleeping baby. He weighed a tiny 450grams but the weight of our love filled the world.
Seeing him was magic.
He was magic.
Holding him and touching him was magic.
Spending 3 days with him was magic.
12 months ago when we made our announcement we couldn’t be happier. Now at nearly 12 months since losing him we are still struggling to work out a way to live with our broken pieces inside.
To live as a family that will never be complete again.
To live without one of our sons, and our other two children to live without their brother.
To live with our hearts that are full but completely shattered in a way that will never, no matter what or how long, will ever be completely fixed again.
A little magic did come our way. It came to us the moment we saw those two pink lines. It will stay with us for the rest of our lives. Our magic didn’t continue the way we wanted but regardless he will always be magic to us and he’ll always bring magic to us.
Seeing this photo is both painful and warming. It hurts like a dagger to the heart that he’ll never wear that onesie, he’ll never have a photo smiling next to his siblings, we’ll never get to watch him grow. Yet it comforts and warms me as it reminds me of his LIFE and how truly cherished and loved he was by all of us from the moment we knew of his existence and will continue to be for the rest of time.
I wish I could revisit that time when the photo was taken and feel that excitement we had, feel his kicks and watch him move.
I wish I could revisit the three days after he was born because while he was sleeping, we still had him, in our arms to kiss and feel him on our skin.
I wish I could wake up from this godawful nightmare and just have him here with us, because there is NO better place, NONE whatsoever, that he could be than in our loving arms.
Instead we hold onto the photos we do have. We hold onto being able to continue to love and cherish him, being grateful for his life and being able to meet him. We hold onto the memories, his memories, that are imprinted on our souls.
Everyday we think of him and hope a little magic will send our love up to him, wherever he is.