Goodbye, my sweet Colin

Dear Colin, I loved you from the minute I imagined you joining our family. I imagined you completing our trio of little boys, me being forever a boy mom. I imagined you as a third, smaller boy in my pack of small children with a mop of blonde hair, following behind your brothers. I imagined holding you to sleep each night, snuggled onto my chest. I imagined feeding you your first foods and your wobbly first steps. I imagined that with Calvin, your adventurous oldest bother and Conor, the cautious (don’t touch me!) older brother, you would balance the pack with your big heart and enthusiasm. I imagined your wedding day, my last baby to fly the nest, proud to be your mama and happy to see my baby happy.

Yesterday was so hard. I was not ready to say goodbye to you. It was hard for me, your dad, Calvin and even Conor sensed there was something going on. He brought me the cutest handful of little yellow flowers and asked me to put them in a cup to place with the other flowers that friends and family have sent to comfort us.

Deciding how to say goodbye to you was the hardest thing we’ve ever done. The Drs offered an induction or D & E procedure. For the first, I would have a full labor, just like Calvin’s – there would be lots of unknowns including how long it would take, needing an epidural (which I don’t handle well), and potentially needing a D & C after delivery for retained placenta. With Calvin, born full term, I had to have a D & C after delivery and well, Calvin’s was a very traumatic birth. While I would have loved to meet you and hold you and properly say goodbye, I was also cautioned that seeing a baby that small, after a couple weeks since demise could also be traumatic. The D & E on the other hand is a surgical procedure that you can sleep through from beginning to end. Knowing myself, my traumatic birth experience with Calvin and not wanting to leave Calvin and Conor overnight, we chose the D & E. We were fortunate to get a teeny tiny footprint to keep.

All day yesterday I awaited what the afternoon had in store for me. Even though I only felt you move one time, I knew exactly where your body lay, low in my belly. Sleeping. Or at least, I imagine you sleeping. I was not ready to let go, but I knew I had too. It was not really my choice. When the time came, your dad and I drove to the hospital. We parked, we walked to surgery, checked in and waited. Then the nurse prepped me- clothes off, IV in, wait for anesthesia and Doctor. Cry. Keep crying, Doctor stuck in last procedure. I tried to keep it all in, but I couldn’t. I cried, awaiting a procedure I both didn’t want and needed. Then, at last, anesthesia put in the meds and all I remember is starting to leave pre-op and I was out. Then I awoke to Oye (sp?). A kind nurse telling me that everything was all done and I just needed to rest and wakeup. Gingerale? Yes, please. I spent the next hour not really speaking, just waking up. Your dad went to get the car, I sat in silence as they helped me dress. I felt your absence in my belly and I cried. Oye told me it was OK to be sad, to cry, to grieve with my family. She said to focus on the positives right now and that everything would be OK. She gave me one of the best hugs of my life. She wrapped me in her arms and comforted my soul.

When I came home, there was nothing to do but love your brothers. They were hurting too, well, at least Calvin was. When bedtime came, he fell asleep asking me why this happened, why he couldn’t meet you, if we could bury you in the front yard by our tree that we love to play around. He doesn’t understand any more than I do how to make sense of this. I will always think of you as my baby, the one I never got to meet, but knew and love completely.