There was a certain amount of peace that came from knowing what would happen now... Samuel would likely live to term and he would likely die shortly after birth. So our job was to use whatever time he was part of our family to infuse him with love and to learn from him. Samuel's middle name - Meir - means light or illuminate. Indeed, he was shining light into corners of our own spirits. To love and to lose one of my children was not an experience I would ever have asked for but, now that it was here, I wanted to be open to the teachings of this journey.
One of the very dear people in my circle lost her son when he was 14. She took me by both hands one day, looked into my eyes and said, "I want you to know this. If the worst happens and he goes, there will be an incredible void left in you. But the light will come. The light will show up and fill the void. And it will not feel like that could be true so I want you to know that the light is coming." One of the ways that Samuel has offered me light is by connecting me to these blessings from all around, often from unexpected places.
One day at the playground a woman asked me if I was expecting another and somehow I ended up telling this complete stranger about our story. It turns out that the beautiful healthy-looking 2 year old playing behind her had been in the hospital for the first 6 months of her life for a rare heart defect. We ended up crying and sharing experiences before we had even shared our names. The resonance of those types of meetings was so powerful to me, knowing that someone had been here, knew this angst without me trying to find words for it.
I joined a pre-natal yoga class and found a place to go be a "normal" pregnant woman for an hour and a half each week. I sometimes cried in restorative poses, letting the waves of grief roll through me as I connected with my body and my baby. One of the women in the class approached me afterwards and we ended up talking in the hallway. She'd had her struggles with infertility and now her baby was due at Christmas time. She listened to my story without platitude or fixing and we cried together. Sharing tears was sometimes the only thing that helped me feel less alone; there really were no words.
In early November, we met with Dr. Anne Tierney, a Neonatologist from the NICU at Foothills Hospital. She offered us a picture of what would happen when Samuel was born and we discussed philosophy of care - what we wanted for him and what they could and would do for him. It was an instant connection and we felt entirely heard and respected. She would be the most important person in helping us negotiate our baby's early life and here she was, referring to Samuel by name, answering difficult questions in the clearest, kindest possible way, and giving us every confidence that we would be accompanied. This was a day that I saw my husband's beautiful unending hope build a cautioned wall, where he let in the possibility that everything might not be alright. It was Dr. Tierney's gentleness that was able to do that without crushing us.
A couple of days later, I flew to Denver to be with six of my mum friends from around the U.S.. This group of 13 women were among my most constant support through this; when I couldn't talk about what was happening, I could email my mamas in the middle of the night and their messages of love would trickle in and buoy me. One of the mamas had lost a baby at 25 weeks and our connection held a wordless depth. At the end of our weekend together, I asked them if they would put their hands on my belly and say a blessing for Samuel. We stood in a circle, their 12 hands covering my belly, my hands on my heart, saying nothing and crying together. I felt a surge of peace go through me to my baby, that peace that comes only of knowing love. It was amazing and it seeped into me over the days beyond.
By November, it was getting harder to hide my pregnancy. Every day I dealt with the questions, people asking the typical, reasonable questions about when was I due, was it a boy or a girl, how exciting! Sometimes I was able to smile and answer and move on. But there was always a dilemma in that; unless it was a grocery store acquaintance that I would likely never see again, these types of painful conversations would continue and I would have to say something eventually. I couldn't imagine returning to work or picking up my boys from school to people asking me with smiles how my new baby was and me telling them then that he had died. So I let them know that he was sick and we weren`t sure how he would do after birth. I was stronger now and able to deal with their responses. It was okay. But somedays I did this over and over again and went home heartbroken and exhausted.
Hardest here was with my counselling clients. I needed them to know that I was still able to look after them and yet there were clients I had known for a long time, who were deeply intuitive, or who were seeing me for issues not far off of my current experience. They sometimes read in my face that there was more to this story and I measured authenticity against professionalism again and again. Still, the blessings came in finding out that even some of the people who I cared for deeply in my work and in my spirit were also holding out care to me.
My friends showed up each in their own ways. Lori listened and prayed and put to use her formidable organizing skills to help me plan for his birth and possible death. Jennifer listened to me and was able to make me laugh even when things seemed darkest. They both cried with me and I felt held. Roshni and Alison were newer friends, mums I knew through playschool, and they took me out for coffee, told me that the support started any time I was ready and had no end, that there would be meals and school pick-ups and whatever else I needed. I was aware that everyone had a different way of responding to what was happening to us and a different way of showing up. With few exceptions, I felt support starting to flow all around me.
Another friend of mine organized a meeting for Chris and I with her colleague, Dr. Ian Mitchell, a pediatric respirologist and bioethicist at Children's Hospital. That visit provided us with an invaluable opportunity to understand the lifespan challenges that our baby might face if he lived, as well as to talk about the balance between prizing life and accepting peaceful death.
As we were walking out and discussing what a blessing Dr. Mitchell's wisdom was, Chris met and struck up a conversation with a Hutterite woman who was there for an appointment with her son. Marta asked why we were there, and then she put her hands on mine over top of my belly and told us she would pray for Samuel. She hand-made us socks and warm hats for the boys and has continued to call with reminders of her prayers.
There are many more of these moments from friends and family and strangers - words, looks, cookies, prayers, cards, emails, playdates, open ears and soft hearts. They are part of Samuel's light in and of themselves. But they have been extra illuminating for me. I am used to being the giver, helper, listener - capable, independent, busy. This experience has brought me to my knees in many ways and I have learned what it is like to let people look after me... I may even possibly kind of get good at believing in it as a way of living. One of my mentors told me once that I was standing near the river of love, that I could even build a bridge over it so I could look down upon it, and that someday he hoped I could sit down in the cool water and feel it flow over me. I think I might be there, Jon, thanks to my Samuel.
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