Using Our Spiritual Gifts to Glorify God
April 25
Tomorrow -- just a little over 24 hours from now, in fact -- it will be April 25th. This is one of the days I dread each year. I didn't always dread that day. In fact, in 1999, it was one of the happiest days of my life. On that day in 1999, my son was born at 4:28 a.m. Now, however, it's bittersweet. It's a reminder that I don't have a son. I think his birthday hits me even harder than the day of his death. The feelings build longer, and seem to grow more.
It's hard to describe the feelings. It's like a series of feelings washes over me in waves the closer it gets to his birthday. And with them came a rush of memories mingled with a rush of "what if's" and "if only's." If only. He'd be almost nine. Nine! Good God, has it really been that long? What if? Would he be tall, and skinny? Short and sturdy? It's hard to say, now, what he would look like. Hell, it's hard to tell when they're little what they'll be like in nine years, though you can't help but try to imagine without even thinking about it.
You plan. You don't realize it, it just happens. It's like you start planning immediately.
When he was born, and he didn't want to breathe at first, and they kept tapping him on the bottom of his feet, and rubbing him, over and over again, rubbing and tapping and tapping and rubbing and "come on, baby, let's get busy," until finally I said, sharply, "his name is Samuel." A nurse turned, startled, then met my eyes. She nodded. Turned back. "Come on, Samuel, let's get busy, little man. Come on Sammy, you can do it." I was briefly irritated at her again. It was only fleeting though. I hadn't thought to call him Sammy. My Samuel was going to be a "Sam." I had nicknames picked out for all of my children, planned when I picked their names.
~~~~~
Anna Michelle would be "Anna." No Ann, and especially not Annie. Anna.
Margaret Nicole would be "Maggie." Not Margaret, Peggy, Meg, Marge or Margie. Maggie.
Neither of them named for their father's grandmothers, yet both of them were believed to be by the family. So, when I was pregnant with Amanda and we were choosing names, I asked to name her after two women on *my* side of the family that meant the world to me, my Mom and her Mom/my grandma. I figured it was fair, since both of the girls were believed to have been named for his grandmothers. He agreed, but only to a point.
Amanda Yvonne would be "Amy." I wanted to name her Amelia, she was named for my Mom (Yvonne Annette) and her Mom (Willis Amelia) but Bob wouldn't hear of Amelia. Amanda was our compromise. She calls herself "Mandy" now. She was born on our 9th anniversary. She would turn 6 three months after the divorce was final. Three months before what would have been our 15th anniversary.
When Missy was born, Darin and I named her Melissa Rachael, intending her to be a "Lissa." Later, this was also "Lissy" and even "Liss." But *not* Missy. Not till the summer of 1999, when Missy suddenly declared herself Missy. "I don't want to be called 'Lissy' anymore. Call me Missy."
But I digress.
~~~~~
The nurse called him Sammy, while they were tapping his feet, and rubbing his arms, his legs, his body. Sammy. I remember I turned it over in my mind a few times. Even whispered it. "Sammy." Sammy was a good name, I decided. Sammy Sosa had just the year previously set his record 66 home runs in a season. Sammy Sosa had tenacity and kept on trying. My Sammy would too.
Planning: just take a breath. That's it, now another. Come on, Sammy, take another breath. Please God, please, let him breathe.
Those first few days were a blur. Specialists kept coming in, giving us the results of tests. Most of them were perfectly fine, only a couple that were of concern. I listened when I had to. Prayed the rest of the time. Please God, just let him be okay. He had a small hole in his heart. One kidney. Possible hearing loss. Extremely low blood sugar.
(I had just the opposite problem, just a few weeks before he was born, they'd diagnosed me with diabetes and told me that while it *could* be gestational, they'd be very surprised if it wasn't lifelong. There was to be no surprise, I am still diabetic nine years later, and taking twice daily insulin injections to boot.)
As for Sam: no down syndrome, nothing bad, nothing that would require surgery. Nothing life threatening. I could handle this. Thank you, God.
Suddenly he was three days old and they were telling me I was going home but not Sam. Sam couldn't come yet. And I wasn't leaving without him. They let me stay, though I did go home to shower and just get out of there a while. As long as no one else needed the room, they said they'd let me stay, with patient privileges rather than confining me to visitation hours. One of the nurses got all pissed off at me and ordered me out of the nursery in the wee hours one morning, she said I was spending too much time with him and too much stimulation wasn't a good thing. Oh, how I wanted to tell her off. I didn't. I was afraid they'd delay letting him come home or something. Two days later, they let him come home. I intended to write a letter of complaint about the nurse. Never got around to it. He was home, and suddenly it wasn't all that important anymore.
More unconscious plans. I can hardly wait for him to sit. Crawl. Walk. I take the small stuff, knowing the big stuff will come along soon enough. Determined to enjoy him and his accomplishments, to bask in what would be my last baby, for sure. Accomplishments. Events. We spent his first few days home in a whirlwind of appointments and readjustment. We suddenly had a baby -- a baby we hadn't even learned we were going to have until two months before he was born.
(It's a long story. Short version: I was still having the ol' curse and hadn't gained any weight, so I had no idea. Then one day I felt life. I felt it and thought "damn, that sure feels like a baby moving around." The next day, Anna called home to tell me she'd just found out she was pregnant, she had no idea, and the wedding was being moved up so it happened before the arrival of the kid, which an ultrasound would reveal to be a boy. I kept feeling movement. I told Darin. On Valentine's Day, the baby got the hiccups. I knew that feeling. I bought a test kit that night and called Anna the next day saying "you're not going to believe this." My oldest daughter married on March 19 and I couldn't travel because the doctor wouldn't hear of it, so I couldn't attend. Sam was born April 25. My grandson was born on May 8.)
Memorial Day. Anna and Peter came to visit, bringing their infant son -- my first grandbaby! -- with them. We got a bunch of pictures of Andy and his 13 day older Uncle Sam together. Anna would come back home for a visit on 4th of July weekend. She and the baby would stay with her father and his wife, and come to visit at our house, as her father had more room. On that second visit, we would get one picture, taken on July 7. There was plenty of time. Hell, we hadn't been able to go see my parents all that much, even though they just lived across town. My dad hadn't even really held Sam yet. There was all the time in the world, and Dad likes babies when they're older and a little more responsive.
It turned out to be a fairly warm summer. We were walking distance from the community pool. We had a membership. First swimming trip. He loved the sun. Hated the cold water. Loved warm baths. Loved the sun. Man, that kid was like a cat in a sunbeam. HATED the heat, however. He wanted to be slightly cool with a warm sunbeam. The only time he really cried all that much was when he got overheated.
June 28.
Darin went and had a vasectomy. I was relieved. I'd always wanted a boy, I now had one. No more babies for me. Thank you, God. While we're at the hospital, waiting for them to say Darin can go ahead and leave, a hosptial chaplain comes in. He smiles, ooh's over the baby and asks if he can say a prayer. I nod, realizing he reminds me of my friend, Robert Buford, the most perfect Christian gentleman I know, married to the most perfect Christian wife. People who are so secure in their faith they don't need to flaunt it or put on airs, it's just a part of them. The minister says his prayer, annoits Sam with a drop or two of oil. A brief thought crosses my mind -- he's practically just been baptized. I am secretly pleased, though I'm not sure why.
Later, I will try to track this chaplain down to see if he will perform Sam's memorial. I am told they have no black chaplain who was on duty that day. I insist they do, I describe him. They tell me I must be mistaken. I remember he wore a name tag, can't remember the name, but describe the tag. They agree that sounds like their badges, but insist I am mistaken because there is no such person.
Fourth of July.
Sam was miserable. Inconsolable. Cried all day. We were at my Mom's, the whole family, so it was crowded, the doors were open, the air conditioner was ineffective at best. Everyone was roasting. Sam cried, and cried, wouldn't stop. We got home, walked in the door of our climate controlled 72° environment and he literally sighed audibly in relief. Crying stopped. A half hour later he was smiling, cooing, in a wonderful mood. Only then did it hit us what the problem had been all day: the heat. I felt so guilty, when I finally figured out the problem. Especially guilty later on, when I thought of how unhappy the normally happy baby was those last few days of his life. If I'd known, I'd have done things differently. If only.
July 5.
Our anniversary. We're too tired and broke to really celebrate, but it's a happy day. Sam's happy.
July 8.
Trip to the pediatrician. Shots. Two needles, four medications. Such a lot to do to a little bitty baby, isn't it? Relax, we do this all the time. He's fine. He's got a hernia. If it gets much worse, we're going to have to do surgery. I don't want him to have surgery. Surgery is risky. What if something happens? I'm not sure I'm going to agree to this, even though the pediatrician seems to take it as a given that we'll capitulate.
July 9.
Cranky, miserable. In a foul mood, but not inconsolable, he's easily distracted and coerced into smiling, into making that peculiar little gurgle noise of his, the one that sounds like he's trying to say something. Breakfast. Sitting at the table, Maggie suddenly takes a picture of me holding Sam, playing with him while "The Wiggle Song" is playing. Missy (Lissy, at the time, still) was beside us, looking on, participating in helping wiggle him. Sam is laughing, but you can't see his face. I get pissed -- I'm in a grey t-shirt nightgown, my hair is unbrushed, my face devoid of makeup, I look like a hag. I didn't know better.
That afternoon, my Mom and I go grocery shopping. Sam and Missy come with us. Sam's cranky and irritable. He refuses to sleep. It's like he's fighting sleep. Did he know?
Late that night, near midnight, Maggie and I get into an argument. I have asked her to watch Sam for just a little while so I can get some work done. She and Jessie, her best friend who is spending the night, want to go out riding around with a friend of theirs. I get pissed off and tell her no, she gets pissed off back and tells me she's going out.
July 10.
Around 3 a.m., Maggie and Jessie come back. Maggie apologizes for being such a bitch, offers to hold the baby. He has no interest in going to her, when she takes him he just cries louder. She gives him back and the three of us sit and talk while I hold him. He's only happy when I'm holding him. He keeps starting up at me with those impossibly large eyes of his, very solemnly. God, did he know?
4 a.m. I have to be up by 11:00 a.m. Sam *still* won't go to sleep. He's cranky, I've even given him motrin drops, they say the injection sites are probably painful. Since that's both legs, I can understand his irritation.
Darin's out cold on the sofa, Missy's not wanting to go to bed alone, she wants me to come up with her, and let her sleep in my bed. I decide to leave Darin on the sofa with a blanket, and the three of us go upstairs.
Close Amanda's and Missy's bedroom door, Amanda's out cold, Missy's bunk will be empty tonite. Close Maggie's bedroom door, Maggie and Jessie, her best friend, are both crashed, despite having insisted they were staying up all nite watching television. Into bed we go. Nurse Sam. Missy dozes off. Sam dozes, but keeps waking up. He's clingy, holding my fingers and gazing at me. Quiet only if I sit and talk to him. Still fighting sleep. Dear God in Heaven, did he know?
5 a.m.
"Sam, please, just go to sleep for a couple hours. Come on, honey, go to sleep ... "
6 a.m.
"Sam, come on, just sleep a little while."
7 a.m.
"God, will this kid EVER go to sleep?" How I want to take those words back.
7:30 a.m
"God, please just let him sleep for a couple hours, I have got to get a couple hours of sleep. PLEASE."
8 a.m.
Sometime around 8, Sam dozed off. I'm not entirely sure when it happened, but when I wake up at 11:15 I realize I've been asleep. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
10 a.m.
I'm asleep. Maggie and Jessie have gotten back up after having grabbed a few hours sleep, they're on their way back downstairs to watch the Saturday morning cartoons. That's what 16 year olds do: watch Saturday morning cartoons. They stop in my room on their way downstairs, and Maggie picks up Sam, who is awake and slightly fussy. She talks to him, snuggles him close and he starts to doze off. She gently lays him back down, on my queen sized bed. I'm in the middle, Missy on one side, Sam on the other. He grumbles a bit, but I never stir and he dozes back off, almost instantly. Maggie and Jessie tiptoe out and go downstairs. At the time she didn't know it, but she has just become the last person to hold him while he was alive.
10:30 a.m.
Darin comes upstairs, sees we're all still asleep. He moves Missy off the bed onto a toddler bed we kept in our room for her when she wanted to sleep near to us and we were both in bed. He sits back and starts watching television. I incorporate the television into my dream and continue sleeping.
11:15 a.m.
Darin realizes I'd said something about needing up by 11:00 a.m. so he wakes me up. I feel amazingly refreshed, and even though irritated at oversleeping, I still have time. I get up and comment that I hadn't bothered setting the alarm because I figured this one (gesturing at Sam) would have me up soon enough.
I am in the process of rising off the bed carefully so as not to awaken Sam, on my way to the bathroom, when Darin suddenly cries "I don't think he's breathing!" I started to laugh, saying "of course he--"
He's not.
I pick him up, barking orders at Darin like a drill sergeant: "Call 911! NOW! Get an ambulance!"
I start breathing into him, rubbing his heart, trying to sense some sort of reaction. He's warm. He looks like he's sleeping. He's not purple or blue or hard or stiff or cold or how the hell ever a corpse is supposed to be so he's not dead. I refuse to accept it. I'm breathing into him, stubborn, determined. My son will NOT die, dammit. Darin is on the phone. He's asking me stupid questions. "Is his chest moving?" How the fuck can I tell, I'm shaking too much to tell, leave me alone, I'm breathing, I'm trying to make him breathe.
I stand, and run down the stairs. Missy is wide awake and crying. Amanda is downstairs, when she hears me running, she comes around the corner to see what's going on. My only thought is I must get him to the ambulance. I don't want them to have to run upstairs, or waste precious seconds trying to find us. I must be right here, so they can get right to him.
Amanda takes one look at my face and gasps. She starts to sob. I meet her eye and speak two words. "NOT NOW." She gulps down the sob and stops, nodding as she stares at me. "I can't have it right now, Amanda, please." Trying to explain between breaths. She doesn't need it, she understands. She grabs Missy and they cling to each other, sobbing quietly. Confused. Helpless.
I still refuse to accept his death. I'm still breathing but nothing is happening. In the movies they're always gasping by now, coming around, it's a miracle, they're saved, thank God the parents knew CPR!
Maggie and Jessie have come into the room, they've heard enough to know what's going on. They're frightened, crying. Helpless. Darin is behind me again, asking more questions on behalf of 911. Questions I can't answer because I am using my breath to try to save Sam. I yell at him: "Breathe into him, don't you let him die!" and grab the phone.
Scared. Pissed. Desperate. Helpless. I watch a Moment as Darin picks up where I left off. There's still no reaction from Sam. I can't watch. If I don't watch, it isn't so. I am talking to the 911 lady. It feels as if hours have passed, in reality its been minutes. I am trying to explain that they must hurry, explaining to her over and over again that he's only a little baby. I repeat it, like a mantra, once, twice, probably a dozen or more times. Trying to convince God. No, you can't take him, I insist, because: "he's only a little baby."
I'm out the front door with the phone, on the lawn, in my bare feet with the stupid cockle burrs from the tree all over the yard. I am wearing that same grey t-shirt nightgown. Like the previous morning, my hair is uncombed. Today, I don't care. I am telling the lady on 911 they are not there yet, she must hurry them up, he's just a little baby, where is the ambulance?
Sirens. I hear sirens. They're close. She asks me "can you hear the sirens?" I confirm I can. A flash of red between the houses at the corner. Suddenly a firetruck rounds the corner. I groan in frustration. I scream at her: "NO! It's a firetruck!" Irrationally, I am thinking "someone has a fire and my baby is dying! God help us both!" She says yes, it's them, they're coming to us. I scream again: "I don't need a fucking firetruck, I need an ambulance!" She doesn't take offense. She tells me the ambulance is right behind it. I look, waiting. Here it comes. Finally.
They pull up, I'm showing them where he is, on the sofa, Darin is telling them what happened, I'm telling the lady on 911 that they're there. She says she's going to let me go now. Irrational, again. "NO!" I scream. She can't hang up. I don't know why. I need her. She's become my anchor. The police arrive. I never even heard them. She's promising not to hang up. I have her on the home phone and have picked up Darin's work phone and am calling my Mom. My son is not breathing. I am a Mom, but I need my Mom. The 911 lady listens to my half of the conversation, soon realizes I am not talking to her. She doesn't hang up.
Sometime in the midst of the conversation, I finally let the 911 lady go. She asks to talk to one of the cops. I give over the phone and talk to my Mom. Simultaneously to all this, they're taking Sam to Children's Hospital. Darin is going in the ambulance with them. I am talking to my Mom, and telliing her to get over here, I think Sam is dead. She cries out once, a wordless keening sound, not quite a "no!" A heartbeat. Then, "what happened?!" I tell her I don't know. I tell her I can't drive. I have to get to Children's Hospital. They're taking him in the ambulance and I have to go. She'll be here in 20 minutes she tells me. It is a 25 minute ride in optimum conditions. She makes it in about 15.
In the meantime, I'm gathering my clothing so I can start getting dressed. I finally remember I need to pee. Suddenly the urge is overpowering. There's this cop, he's standing in the hallway, watching me. I feel awkward closing the bathroom door in his face, but I can't wait. I need to get into my clothes and I need to pee. I wonder why this cop is apparently monitoring everything we say and do. Later, I learn why: Susan Smith. No longer do the cops believe you when you tell them your child has disappeared, or stopped breathing and you don't know anything about it. Now they investigate.
Missy and Amy are dressed, though I have no idea who helped them find clothes or if they did it on their own. We're going to Children's Hospital. Maggie and Jessie must stay here, the cops have to have someone from the home present. It's not fair to Maggie, but she'll have to stay, they won't let me give Jessica that authority, she's not my child. I don't know what they think they're going to find in my house, but I don't care. Search it, do whatever you want, just get out of my way, I have to get to Children's Hospital.
My Mom gets there. I am dressed. I go to toss my nightgown on the chair and Missy stops in front of me, picking up a penny from the floor. Find a penny. Irrational, again. "Yes," I say, nodding at her in approval, while the cop watches on curiously. "Pick it up, we need it." He blinks. I realize he's flabbergasted. "Find a penny, pick it up, all day long you'll have good luck," I explain. He nods, but his eyes are still wary. The penny is important. I don't know that yet. It's a story for another nite.
I suddenly remember why I had to be up at 11:00. I have an event to run online for what my ex-husband calls my "pretend job." The job he told my children was for a "cult." He doesn't understand and I don't waste my time trying to enlighten him.
Because of my commitment, I can't just leave. I have to call someone and tell them. I call Janie, tell her I can't be there, that they've taken Sam to Children's Hospital, that he wasn't breathing, that I think he's dead. She's crying. "No, Kate, he'll be fine, he'll be fine. You call me, they can do wonderful things, call me when you know for sure. He'll be fine." She's lying. She knows it. I know it. She knows I know. We don't mention it. The cop watches it all, curious. How can I explain, that just because my son has died, doesn't mean I can just waltz out the door and leave a thousand people hanging -- a thousand people were promised an event in their virtual fantasy world and it's my responsibility to give it to them. And since I can't run it, I can at least call someone and tell them where everything is so they can run it. My Mom understands. Even though she thinks I'm nuts ("you know, people get paid for this kind of work") she understands the work ethic because she and my father instilled it in me. It doesn't matter if the work is volunteer or salaried. It's the commitment that matters. The cop seems vaguely disapproving. I can't bother to care.
My Mom goes out the front door. I send Amy and Missy with her. I give Maggie instructions: let them do whatever they want, give them anything they ask for. I go out the door, start to get in my Mom's car, which is behind the fire truck. I am vaguely surprised they're still there, I figured they'd left when the ambulance left. As I enter the car, my Mom says "why are they here?" "Who?" I ask, thinking she can't possibly really be asking me why the cops are here. She isn't.
"Them," she says, gesturing at a news truck. The reporter is coming across the lawn toward the car, microphone in her extended hand. I get out of the car and shoot her a venomous look. She stops, staring. I storm back into my house, corner the cop, demand he do something about the reporters. He can't, he explains. As long as they stay off my property and on the public street and sidewalks, there's nothing he can do about it.
"They're just doing their job," he says, gently. He follows me onto the porch as I head back for the car. The reporter is trying to thrust a microphone into the backseat of the car asking the girls their names. I turn to the cop and ask, in a scathing voice, "is that part of their jobs too?" I'm pissed, taking it out on him. He's supposed to protect and serve. Public servant and public protector and all that. Protect me. Get those bastards away from my family, away from my house. He looks sorrowful and does what he can. We leave.
The reporter follows in her newstruck.
Not even half-past noon. July 10, 1999.
Children's Hospital. As we park, Darin comes across the lot with two women, one a nurse, one a hospital chaplain. He shakes his head. I cling to him in the parking lot, wordless. I am stunned. The kids and my Mom sob quietly behind me, clinging to each other. I know I should comfort my children, but I can't. I let my Mom.
We all walk across the parking lot. A penny lies on the sparkling floor just inside the doorway. I bend down, pick it up, without thinking. Drop it into my pocket. Into the hospital. Down the hall. Following the chaplain lady into a little room, made to look like a living room. The bereavement room, I guess. Everything is gentle in this room. Subtle. Calming. Elsewhere in the hospital, there are gaily decorated walls, even in the emergency room. Everything is made with cheery eyed animals and bright colors. This room is drab by comparison. But comfortable. Calming. She leaves us for a few Moments. I am stunned. This morning I had a son. This afternoon, I do not.
Some doctor comes in. He says something, I remember him. I can't remember hardly anything he said, except one thing. He tells me that there will be cotton wadding in Sam's nose when I see him, that this is there to stop the flow of fluids that come from the body after death. I understand. I even understand that my baby is dead. But this cotton thing makes me uneasy.
The chaplain comes back, tells us we can come see him now if we want to. I want to take him home, I don't want to just "see" him. We go back down the hall. Halfway down the hall, we're stopped. A pair of cops, plainclothes. One hispanic, one black. I remember them. Not their names.
They have already spoken to Darin a little, but they want to speak to me. And Darin again. Seperately. Me first. I want to see my son. Darin goes to see him instead, he and the chaplain walk off. I go with the hispanic cop. He takes me to a room where there is another man, another black man. They sit with me. It's later, in the hall, when I realize who he is. He's the coroner, I realize, as he's explaining that if it's SIDS, he's not going to be able to tell me what happened or why. I understand, but I don't like it. He seems to sense my disapproval, apologizes. I listen as he tries to explain why he may not be able to tell me, and suddenly realize I don't care. It really just doesn't matter, the only thing that matters is: my son is dead and nothing can change that.
They want to ask me questions. I try to understand what they want, but all I want is my baby. My breasts are leaking, sore. The questions start. I find a penny on the vinyl seat beside me. I think it is the one I had in my pocket, but when I go to slip it back in, the other is still there. Odd, I think, but the thought is quickly buried. The cop is talking, I must listen. He's trying to be kind, I can tell. I don't like him.
Any chance I rolled over on him? I almost laugh. I point out that I am a full grown adult. My son is a 10 pound infant. I ask the cop if he has children, and he looks surprised. Admits he does. I tell him then you know why I know I didn't roll over on him. You're a parent. You know. Maybe if it's your first child or something, but not your fifth, for God's sake. You know. You can *feel* them in your sleep. You can't roll onto them, your mind, even asleep, won't let you. If I had rolled over on him, I try to explain, (a) I would have felt it and rolled right back off before I ever got even part way on him and (b) if I had actually fully rolled on him I would have crushed him. He wouldn't be laying there looking like he was about to wake up. He nods.
The coroner doesn't say anything, just listens. Suddenly the cop leans forward. Had I ever shaken him? I gape at him, stunned he could ask such a thing. He apologizes, explains he's just doing his job. Explains that this other gentleman will be able to tell if I have, so they hope I will just admit it now if it's so. I assure them I have not. I dislike him more.
Why was Darin sleeping on the sofa? Had we had a fight? The unasked question hovers in the tone, the climate, the mood: did one of us kill the baby to punish the other one?
More questions. Probing, seeking answers I don't have. Ignoring my questions, unable to answer me any more than I can answer them. I begin to wonder if I will ever get to see my son again. He asks me if I wanted my son. I gaze at him and feel a single tear roll down the side of my nose. I tell him I wanted my son. I tell him I still want my son. I tell him if God would be so kind as to step down from Heaven at this very instant and offer to let me die instead, and give Sam back his life, I would apologize to my other children for leaving them, and die in Sam's place. The coroner turns his head. He is weeping. The cop presses on. I begin to hate him.
Later a nurse tells me the cop had been crying before he talked to me. At that time, I remember that his eyes were red when he was talking to me. At that time, I will finally understand why. I will hate him a little less.
We go thru everything I know. He asks me about Sam's health problems. Mentions the hole in Sam's heart. I stare at him again, unnerved. I had no idea there was a hole in Sam's heart. I tell him so. He looks surprised, but carries on. I tell him about the single kidney, and how Sam's umbilical cord had only one vein instead of two. Tell him everything I can remember. Tell him about the nurse tapping his heels. And how Sam shrank an inch because he was so puffy with fluids when he was born that a week later when he wasn't puffy any more he was actually shorter than he had been at birth.
Finally, the cop cuts me off, he's done. The coroner practically leaps to his feet. We progress into the hallway, where the conversation takes place about whether the coroner will ever be able to tell me what happened. I finally figure out who he is. I wonder how such a nice man could do such a miserable job.
Later, when I tell Darin about the hole in the heart question, ask where the cop got such an idea, Darin reminds me that the heart specialist had told us about it. I suddenly remember the conversation. Remember being relieved when I learned it wasn't anything would ever require surgery. And apparently put it out of my mind entirely.
In the hallway, the pediatrician's partner, a woman, has arrived. I learn our pediatrician is out of town. It hardly mattters, since his patient is dead. She looks like she's been crying too. She tells me I'm responding properly. I briefly wonder what the hell that means, but decide I don't care.
A baby cries down the hall. For a Moment, irrationally, insanely, hope flashes. My mind screams "SAM!" and just as quickly I realize it's not his cry. Following the first realization, a second: I realize it couldn't be his cry. He's dead. He's not coming back. Grief washes over me. Crushing, smothering. I straighten my shoulders and ignore my body's response to the cry: increased leaking. A few feet further down the hall, a nurse hands me some pads and points me at a bathroom door. I realize the entire front of my shirt is wet.
I want to see my son. I come out of the bathroom and the chaplain is back, ready to take me to him. My Mom is with her. Mom shakes her head at my inquiring look. Apologizes as she explains she just can't bear to see him like that. I understand. I didn't expect she would want to, I know my Mom. I have to, though.
Finally, they let me see Sam. His little white onesie sleeper with the black outlined cows and red words ("Moo!") is gone, he's in an ugly peach colored gown with teddy bears and blocks on it. A nurse explains to me that they had to give his sleeper to the cops. I don't care about that either. They quickly strip him out of it, wrap him up in a blanket. She hands me the gown, tells me I can keep it, since it was the last thing he wore. I think: no it's not, he was dead already when he wore this. I don't want it, but I take it because it seems impolite not to.
He lies on an impossibly large bed, with Amy and Missy leaning on either side of him, still crying quietly. They sit me in a rocker, and hand him to me.
The cotton in his nose is unnerving. I want to pull it out.
He still looks like he's sleeping, but now he's cold. So cold. He looks like if I could just get him warm enough, he'd be just fine, he'd be able to wake up. I try to articulate that to the women watching me. Darin is there, Amy and Missy are there, the chaplain lady is there, and so are three nurses plus the pediatrician's partner, who is again assuring me that my reactions are just right. I still can't bother to care what the hell she's babbling about. Later, I am told that I looked so stunned and lost that she didn't know what to say, so she told me the only thing she could think of: you're doing what you're supposed to do, I don't know how to help you, other than to tell you this is what you should be feeling like and it will eventually get better.
Amy and Missy touch him, stroke his cheeks, leave to go sit in the calm room with my Mom. I ask Darin if he wants to hold him too. He doesn't. Again I understand. I still have to. I gaze down at him in my arms, my finger itches to tease the cotton from his nostrils.
One of the nurses asks me something, I don't remember what. I lean forward toward her, and automatically readjust Sam to lie against my shoulder, second nature, so as to support him more steadily as I leaned forward. Realized as I did it that supporting him didn't much matter. Awkwardly, I put him back in cradle position and start to cry. I explain again that I must get him warmed up, that it almost seems if I can just get him warm, he'll be fine. I manage to stop crying.
I almost pull the cotton from his nose. Stop myself.
Finally, I know I must hand him over. I know that when I hand him back, it will be over. I will never again have a son. Images flash in my mind. A little boy, strawberry blonde hair like his sister, running into the house with a scruffed knee. A little boy holding up a newly lost tooth. First day of kindergarten. First date. Graduation. Marriage. His own child. A lifetime, condensed into a minute or three. I sit there, stupidly counting up days. 76 days. He was 76 days old when he died. I wonder why he was born for just a second, wonder why God gave hiim to me only to take him away 76 days later, almost regret that I'd ever had him in the first place.
Finally, I explain that I must give him back and give him back now, because if I don't, I will never be able to give him back and I know I have to. They nod, all of them sobbing quietly now. I hand him over. I stand up. I walk out, without looking back. Back to the calm room. I am anything but calm.
The cop comes back to get Darin, they want to talk to him some more. Another irrational thought races through my mind: we can't even try again, have another baby and know about it in time to get proper prenatal care and have a child as healthy as Missy had been, because he had that vasectomy. I briefly wonder if it's "taken" yet, they said you're not safe for four weeks. I wonder if we can make another baby before it takes. There would be no surprises on that line, either, there would be no more babies for me.
My Mom decides to take the girls home, and then come back for Darin and me. She has a small car, trying to fit four of us (because we'd now have Darin) was going to be cramped. We walk down the hall and outside. Along the way, a nurse promises me she will tell Darin where I am. The chaplain lady comes with us. A tall black man stops me. I realize he's a cop, remember I've met him. I kiss the girls and my Mom, tell them I'll be home in a while, please be good. They start across the parking lot, the chaplain, the cop and I all watch. As they get halfway across, the reporter is suddenly jumping out of her truck and running toward my Mom and my children, microphone in hand, yelling:
"Can I talk to you for just a minute? Can you tell me your relationship to the baby that died? Can you tell me how you feel?"
I look at the cop briefly. His eyes flicker, his nostrils flare. He's incensed. My Mom hands Amanda the keys, tells her "get your sister in the car," and turns on the reporter. The cop and the reporter realize the reporter is in trouble at the same instant. She starts to back away and the cop sprints across the parking lot as my Mom starts screaming at the "callous bitch" and going after her. "You stay away from my family! How dare you! How can you torment those children whose brother just died?!" From fifteen feet away, I can see my Mom trembling. I realize I don't have my contacts in.
The cop steps between them, stopping my Mom. Barks an order at the reporter: "get the hell out of here." The reporter, shaken, nods like a fool and scurries across the lot. Scurrying, like a cockroach.
My Mom, all five feet three inches of her, turns on the cop and threatens to deck him, having no idea who the hell he is, but ready to hurt someone. He explains he's a cop. My Mom tells him she doesn't give a shit who he is, he needs to go do his job or something and turns away, stomping off to her car. I feel compelled to offer an explanation. He says no apology is needed. I don't bother pointing out I wasn't apologizing, just explaining that Mom didn't know who he was.
I sat down outside the door, smoking. The chaplain tries to talk to me for a while, but I rudely ignore them. I know I am being rude and I don't care. I want them to leave me alone. Finally, she and the cop wander inside. They watch me, but speak in private behind the automatic doors. I realize I don't much care what they're talking about. Wonder if I should. A lady comes along, and says "darlin', you look like shit. Are you okay?" I look at her and without realizing what I am going to say, reply "no, I'm not actually. My baby just died a little while ago." She stops, taken aback, and offers an awkward apology, then beats a hasty retreat inside.
I didn't know it at the time, but that would become a commonplace reaction for a while. No one knows what to say, so they get away from you.
Snatches come to me now. The rest of the day is blurry. Its like the adrenaline wore off or something. Numb is a good word. We went back home eventually. Without our son. My sister and her family were there. My Mom. Us. The cops.
The cops had more questions. Cindy got me aside for a Moment and whispered to me that the cops had asked a bunch of questions about a "switch" they'd found in the bedroom on the floor between our bed and the toddler bed where Missy slept. Did she know what it was? Did she think that her sister or her brother in law used it to spank the children?
I explained to the cops that the "switch" was actually a jousting stick Missy had found in the yard and which she used to go "en garde" which was then a favorite pasttime. When Missy confirmed it, I thought that would end it. They took it with them along with the other "evidence" they removed. (Bedding from my bed, from Sam's bed -- which made no sense, he didn't die in his bed -- my nightgown, Sam's pacifier, a soiled diaper I'd had laying on the floor beside the bed to toss away in the morning.) Missy cried when she realized they'd taken her "perfect" stick. I realize she's not really crying over the stick.
I keep thinking about the shots. Sam had just gotten all those shots. Had it been too much? Was it SIDS? Was there something wrong with the motrin drops? I keep getting in the diaper bag. First I give them the 4 papers from the shots. The "information" sheets, where they tell you how the shots almost never bother anyone, but if your kid is one of the unlikely ones it does bother, it could be really bad. Then I give them the motrin drops. They keep giving them back. I finally press them into the hands of one detective, insist that he take them, check those drops. Read those sheets. Give them to the coroner, because that coroner told me he would do his best. And that's what I want. The best. His best, so that I would know why. He nods, taking them, patting my shoulder awkwardly. Later I would find he'd put them back when I wasn't looking.
After the cops left, Cindy and my Mom quietly went around the house and put all of Sam's stuff up, put it in his room. Shut the door behind them. I left it shut for weeks. It had been close to a month before I even opened the door. Walked in, looked around, and turned around and walked out. The door would stay shut for three more months.
I sat in the backyard and called Janie, told her what had happened. I needed to be a in a sunbeam. It was hot. I couldn't get warm.
I called Anna at her father's. Tried to tell her, couldn't barely get the words out. When I finally did, she got so upset that Bob took the phone from her and asked what the hell was going on. I explained as best as I could. He brought Anna over to the house so we could be together.
Sunday nite, we all sat down at the dining room table. Had the conversation we needed to have. Should we bury him? Cremate him? Missy didn't want to put him in a box. Amanda said "I don't want my baby brother stuck in a box and planted in the ground." Maggie nodded. Darin and I looked at each other. We didn't want him planted in the ground either.
We chose cremation, even though it would incense Anna, who vehemently disagreed with the decision when I called her to tell her.
"He needs his body!" she insisted.
"What about people that get killed and mutilated? Burned in fires?" I demanded.
"God gives them a new body because they lost theirs through no fault of their own," she replied reasonably.
"Then he can give Sam a new body if he needs one," I declared, just as reasonably.
She refused to attend the memorial.
The arrangements are hard. The man at the funeral parlor is so polite, so quiet, so sincere and compassionate. His sincerity comes across as cloying, almost a cariacature. When discussing the details, he asks if we want to have a viewing. I can't imagine anything more distasteful, than to have to see my son on display in a little box. I know how Darin feels, but the man looks vaguely startled when I speak up, firmly. "No. There will be no viewing." He looks to Darin for confirmation, not sure if he should. Darin nods, explains we've already discussed it.
When he comes to the part they say they have to read to you to be sure you really understand (these days of lawsuits for mental trauma), the part about how the cremation happens and the pulverization procress, I have to leave the room. I stand up, abruptly, and tell him "give me that pen." He's slightly startled. I take the pen and flip the document to the final page. I sign. He says "you'll need to initial here, too," pointing to a spot right by the word "pulverize." I initial. Drop the pen, pick up my cigarettes and walk out. I won't listen. Darin and the man come find me when the papers are done being signed. When he tells us to be sure to bring a hat for Sam's final outfit, I am briefly confused. Later, I understand.
Darin's Mom comes for her visit (planned for that fall) early. Instead of coming to meet her new grandson, she is coming to tell him goodbye. By the time she arrives, he is already cremated. I know she is suffering, I feel oddly guilty for her pain. Before she leaves to return home, she will thank us for letting her share in it with us. I am shocked, amazed that she would ever doubt her welcome (what a strangely appropriate word).
I remember only a few things about the service. The minister who presides (unknown to us until that morning) is uncomfortable. He tries to say things for a baby who hadn't yet done anything "noteworthy" to anyone but his family. My friend Sam shows up for the funeral, even though it's a four hour drive. He explains that this was too close to home, he had to come. He is young, this Sam, almost young enough to be my child. Too young to want to worry about facing death. He faces it bravely, but by the end of the service he's almost more shaken than I am. The other thing that struck me was how many people came. People who work with Darin, friends of ours, friends of the kids', our family.
Later, an odd coincidence will be revealed: signed in the guest book are a total of 76 names. Sam lived for 76 days.
~~~~~
The night he brought Anna over, the very night Anna's brother, my son, had died, my ex-husband called Children's Services to report that he was reasonably certain we'd killed Sam, either by design, accident or neglect. Maybe even a combination of all three. We were terrible people and he should be given custody of the two remaining minors at home (Amanda and Maggie -- Anna was already over 18 and married, and Missy is not Bob's child, she's Darin's, as was Sam).
Children's Services, who had been entertaining this man's reports for more than five years at that point, did a cursory examination, put us under 6 months supervision because it involved a death and then cut us loose a month early. A second representative of Children's Services informed my ex and his wife that if they filed one more false report, they would seek legal remedy. They'd been informed of that two years previously, but they'd taken their chances when they learned I was pregnant with Sam. They reported me for no prenatal care despite the fact that they knew I hadn't learned I was pregnant until I was more than six months along.
~~~~~
We gathered up all the pictures we'd taken for a couple of photo montages of Sam for the memorial. An entire life reduced to two posterboards of photos. He didn't even have a favorite toy yet.
We played music at his memorial. Sam loved music. Loved to listen, especially to country music. We put together a CD of tunes that meant something to us. Jessie asked us to include "Carrying your love with me" on her behalf.
The first song was one that we'd heard only once before -- on television one day when flipping channels, we passed some show with a boy band on. They were singing a song that got Sam's attention. We'd listened that day, watched Sam as he listened. The day after he died, I heard that song again, flipping channels trying to find something to amuse Missy, on the Rosie O'Donnell show. I missed who it was by. I wound up searching the internet and making posts all over creation, till I learned it was BoyZone, singing "No matter what."
That was the first song on the cd. The second was "The Wiggle Song." There were ten others, including "Carrying your love with me."
About a week after the memorial, I found that picture that Maggie had taken the morning before, just about 24 hours before he'd died. There he was, arm reaching, Missy and I leaning over him, laughing and smiling. I remembered how angry I'd been at Maggie for taking the picture when I looked like that. Now, I didn't care. I hung the picture up with the others. I still don't care. It still hangs in my living room to this day.
For weeks after his death, I'd come across something of his shoved in some out of the way place. Laundry from the pile. A sock between the sofa cushions. A bottle in the cupboard. The extra pacifier beside my bed. Coupons were hard. We kept getting samples and coupons and free gifts and offers in the mail. And development information, even in email. "Your baby is starting to roll this month!" Later, I realized that Darin suddenly became very vigilant about the mail. He'd become vigilant so he could remove anything I wouldn't want to see.
Sometimes he comes to me, Sammy does. Usually with my Grandma up until my Mom died, since then every time he's come he's been with Mom (sometimes with Grandma and Luna (my Great Grandma) too). Like Mom, like Grandma, like the others, I don't actually see them -- sometimes if they come in dreams, I am able to see them as they are in my memory, but when I am not asleep, I don't see their bodies. I see colors, like auras with nothing at the core but more brilliant color. I recognize them, each of them is unique.
I don't talk about that part of it much. Most people don't understand. A few friends even think I'm half nuts. I'm not. Someday, they'll know that. Until then, I just keep quiet about it.
And I write.
It's hard to describe the feelings. It's like a series of feelings washes over me in waves the closer it gets to his birthday. And with them came a rush of memories mingled with a rush of "what if's" and "if only's." If only. He'd be almost nine. Nine! Good God, has it really been that long? What if? Would he be tall, and skinny? Short and sturdy? It's hard to say, now, what he would look like. Hell, it's hard to tell when they're little what they'll be like in nine years, though you can't help but try to imagine without even thinking about it.
You plan. You don't realize it, it just happens. It's like you start planning immediately.
When he was born, and he didn't want to breathe at first, and they kept tapping him on the bottom of his feet, and rubbing him, over and over again, rubbing and tapping and tapping and rubbing and "come on, baby, let's get busy," until finally I said, sharply, "his name is Samuel." A nurse turned, startled, then met my eyes. She nodded. Turned back. "Come on, Samuel, let's get busy, little man. Come on Sammy, you can do it." I was briefly irritated at her again. It was only fleeting though. I hadn't thought to call him Sammy. My Samuel was going to be a "Sam." I had nicknames picked out for all of my children, planned when I picked their names.
~~~~~
Anna Michelle would be "Anna." No Ann, and especially not Annie. Anna.
Margaret Nicole would be "Maggie." Not Margaret, Peggy, Meg, Marge or Margie. Maggie.
Neither of them named for their father's grandmothers, yet both of them were believed to be by the family. So, when I was pregnant with Amanda and we were choosing names, I asked to name her after two women on *my* side of the family that meant the world to me, my Mom and her Mom/my grandma. I figured it was fair, since both of the girls were believed to have been named for his grandmothers. He agreed, but only to a point.
Amanda Yvonne would be "Amy." I wanted to name her Amelia, she was named for my Mom (Yvonne Annette) and her Mom (Willis Amelia) but Bob wouldn't hear of Amelia. Amanda was our compromise. She calls herself "Mandy" now. She was born on our 9th anniversary. She would turn 6 three months after the divorce was final. Three months before what would have been our 15th anniversary.
When Missy was born, Darin and I named her Melissa Rachael, intending her to be a "Lissa." Later, this was also "Lissy" and even "Liss." But *not* Missy. Not till the summer of 1999, when Missy suddenly declared herself Missy. "I don't want to be called 'Lissy' anymore. Call me Missy."
But I digress.
~~~~~
The nurse called him Sammy, while they were tapping his feet, and rubbing his arms, his legs, his body. Sammy. I remember I turned it over in my mind a few times. Even whispered it. "Sammy." Sammy was a good name, I decided. Sammy Sosa had just the year previously set his record 66 home runs in a season. Sammy Sosa had tenacity and kept on trying. My Sammy would too.
Planning: just take a breath. That's it, now another. Come on, Sammy, take another breath. Please God, please, let him breathe.
Those first few days were a blur. Specialists kept coming in, giving us the results of tests. Most of them were perfectly fine, only a couple that were of concern. I listened when I had to. Prayed the rest of the time. Please God, just let him be okay. He had a small hole in his heart. One kidney. Possible hearing loss. Extremely low blood sugar.
(I had just the opposite problem, just a few weeks before he was born, they'd diagnosed me with diabetes and told me that while it *could* be gestational, they'd be very surprised if it wasn't lifelong. There was to be no surprise, I am still diabetic nine years later, and taking twice daily insulin injections to boot.)
As for Sam: no down syndrome, nothing bad, nothing that would require surgery. Nothing life threatening. I could handle this. Thank you, God.
Suddenly he was three days old and they were telling me I was going home but not Sam. Sam couldn't come yet. And I wasn't leaving without him. They let me stay, though I did go home to shower and just get out of there a while. As long as no one else needed the room, they said they'd let me stay, with patient privileges rather than confining me to visitation hours. One of the nurses got all pissed off at me and ordered me out of the nursery in the wee hours one morning, she said I was spending too much time with him and too much stimulation wasn't a good thing. Oh, how I wanted to tell her off. I didn't. I was afraid they'd delay letting him come home or something. Two days later, they let him come home. I intended to write a letter of complaint about the nurse. Never got around to it. He was home, and suddenly it wasn't all that important anymore.
More unconscious plans. I can hardly wait for him to sit. Crawl. Walk. I take the small stuff, knowing the big stuff will come along soon enough. Determined to enjoy him and his accomplishments, to bask in what would be my last baby, for sure. Accomplishments. Events. We spent his first few days home in a whirlwind of appointments and readjustment. We suddenly had a baby -- a baby we hadn't even learned we were going to have until two months before he was born.
(It's a long story. Short version: I was still having the ol' curse and hadn't gained any weight, so I had no idea. Then one day I felt life. I felt it and thought "damn, that sure feels like a baby moving around." The next day, Anna called home to tell me she'd just found out she was pregnant, she had no idea, and the wedding was being moved up so it happened before the arrival of the kid, which an ultrasound would reveal to be a boy. I kept feeling movement. I told Darin. On Valentine's Day, the baby got the hiccups. I knew that feeling. I bought a test kit that night and called Anna the next day saying "you're not going to believe this." My oldest daughter married on March 19 and I couldn't travel because the doctor wouldn't hear of it, so I couldn't attend. Sam was born April 25. My grandson was born on May 8.)
Memorial Day. Anna and Peter came to visit, bringing their infant son -- my first grandbaby! -- with them. We got a bunch of pictures of Andy and his 13 day older Uncle Sam together. Anna would come back home for a visit on 4th of July weekend. She and the baby would stay with her father and his wife, and come to visit at our house, as her father had more room. On that second visit, we would get one picture, taken on July 7. There was plenty of time. Hell, we hadn't been able to go see my parents all that much, even though they just lived across town. My dad hadn't even really held Sam yet. There was all the time in the world, and Dad likes babies when they're older and a little more responsive.
It turned out to be a fairly warm summer. We were walking distance from the community pool. We had a membership. First swimming trip. He loved the sun. Hated the cold water. Loved warm baths. Loved the sun. Man, that kid was like a cat in a sunbeam. HATED the heat, however. He wanted to be slightly cool with a warm sunbeam. The only time he really cried all that much was when he got overheated.
June 28.
Darin went and had a vasectomy. I was relieved. I'd always wanted a boy, I now had one. No more babies for me. Thank you, God. While we're at the hospital, waiting for them to say Darin can go ahead and leave, a hosptial chaplain comes in. He smiles, ooh's over the baby and asks if he can say a prayer. I nod, realizing he reminds me of my friend, Robert Buford, the most perfect Christian gentleman I know, married to the most perfect Christian wife. People who are so secure in their faith they don't need to flaunt it or put on airs, it's just a part of them. The minister says his prayer, annoits Sam with a drop or two of oil. A brief thought crosses my mind -- he's practically just been baptized. I am secretly pleased, though I'm not sure why.
Later, I will try to track this chaplain down to see if he will perform Sam's memorial. I am told they have no black chaplain who was on duty that day. I insist they do, I describe him. They tell me I must be mistaken. I remember he wore a name tag, can't remember the name, but describe the tag. They agree that sounds like their badges, but insist I am mistaken because there is no such person.
Fourth of July.
Sam was miserable. Inconsolable. Cried all day. We were at my Mom's, the whole family, so it was crowded, the doors were open, the air conditioner was ineffective at best. Everyone was roasting. Sam cried, and cried, wouldn't stop. We got home, walked in the door of our climate controlled 72° environment and he literally sighed audibly in relief. Crying stopped. A half hour later he was smiling, cooing, in a wonderful mood. Only then did it hit us what the problem had been all day: the heat. I felt so guilty, when I finally figured out the problem. Especially guilty later on, when I thought of how unhappy the normally happy baby was those last few days of his life. If I'd known, I'd have done things differently. If only.
July 5.
Our anniversary. We're too tired and broke to really celebrate, but it's a happy day. Sam's happy.
July 8.
Trip to the pediatrician. Shots. Two needles, four medications. Such a lot to do to a little bitty baby, isn't it? Relax, we do this all the time. He's fine. He's got a hernia. If it gets much worse, we're going to have to do surgery. I don't want him to have surgery. Surgery is risky. What if something happens? I'm not sure I'm going to agree to this, even though the pediatrician seems to take it as a given that we'll capitulate.
July 9.
Cranky, miserable. In a foul mood, but not inconsolable, he's easily distracted and coerced into smiling, into making that peculiar little gurgle noise of his, the one that sounds like he's trying to say something. Breakfast. Sitting at the table, Maggie suddenly takes a picture of me holding Sam, playing with him while "The Wiggle Song" is playing. Missy (Lissy, at the time, still) was beside us, looking on, participating in helping wiggle him. Sam is laughing, but you can't see his face. I get pissed -- I'm in a grey t-shirt nightgown, my hair is unbrushed, my face devoid of makeup, I look like a hag. I didn't know better.
That afternoon, my Mom and I go grocery shopping. Sam and Missy come with us. Sam's cranky and irritable. He refuses to sleep. It's like he's fighting sleep. Did he know?
Late that night, near midnight, Maggie and I get into an argument. I have asked her to watch Sam for just a little while so I can get some work done. She and Jessie, her best friend who is spending the night, want to go out riding around with a friend of theirs. I get pissed off and tell her no, she gets pissed off back and tells me she's going out.
July 10.
Around 3 a.m., Maggie and Jessie come back. Maggie apologizes for being such a bitch, offers to hold the baby. He has no interest in going to her, when she takes him he just cries louder. She gives him back and the three of us sit and talk while I hold him. He's only happy when I'm holding him. He keeps starting up at me with those impossibly large eyes of his, very solemnly. God, did he know?
4 a.m. I have to be up by 11:00 a.m. Sam *still* won't go to sleep. He's cranky, I've even given him motrin drops, they say the injection sites are probably painful. Since that's both legs, I can understand his irritation.
Darin's out cold on the sofa, Missy's not wanting to go to bed alone, she wants me to come up with her, and let her sleep in my bed. I decide to leave Darin on the sofa with a blanket, and the three of us go upstairs.
Close Amanda's and Missy's bedroom door, Amanda's out cold, Missy's bunk will be empty tonite. Close Maggie's bedroom door, Maggie and Jessie, her best friend, are both crashed, despite having insisted they were staying up all nite watching television. Into bed we go. Nurse Sam. Missy dozes off. Sam dozes, but keeps waking up. He's clingy, holding my fingers and gazing at me. Quiet only if I sit and talk to him. Still fighting sleep. Dear God in Heaven, did he know?
5 a.m.
"Sam, please, just go to sleep for a couple hours. Come on, honey, go to sleep ... "
6 a.m.
"Sam, come on, just sleep a little while."
7 a.m.
"God, will this kid EVER go to sleep?" How I want to take those words back.
7:30 a.m
"God, please just let him sleep for a couple hours, I have got to get a couple hours of sleep. PLEASE."
8 a.m.
Sometime around 8, Sam dozed off. I'm not entirely sure when it happened, but when I wake up at 11:15 I realize I've been asleep. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
10 a.m.
I'm asleep. Maggie and Jessie have gotten back up after having grabbed a few hours sleep, they're on their way back downstairs to watch the Saturday morning cartoons. That's what 16 year olds do: watch Saturday morning cartoons. They stop in my room on their way downstairs, and Maggie picks up Sam, who is awake and slightly fussy. She talks to him, snuggles him close and he starts to doze off. She gently lays him back down, on my queen sized bed. I'm in the middle, Missy on one side, Sam on the other. He grumbles a bit, but I never stir and he dozes back off, almost instantly. Maggie and Jessie tiptoe out and go downstairs. At the time she didn't know it, but she has just become the last person to hold him while he was alive.
10:30 a.m.
Darin comes upstairs, sees we're all still asleep. He moves Missy off the bed onto a toddler bed we kept in our room for her when she wanted to sleep near to us and we were both in bed. He sits back and starts watching television. I incorporate the television into my dream and continue sleeping.
11:15 a.m.
Darin realizes I'd said something about needing up by 11:00 a.m. so he wakes me up. I feel amazingly refreshed, and even though irritated at oversleeping, I still have time. I get up and comment that I hadn't bothered setting the alarm because I figured this one (gesturing at Sam) would have me up soon enough.
I am in the process of rising off the bed carefully so as not to awaken Sam, on my way to the bathroom, when Darin suddenly cries "I don't think he's breathing!" I started to laugh, saying "of course he--"
He's not.
I pick him up, barking orders at Darin like a drill sergeant: "Call 911! NOW! Get an ambulance!"
I start breathing into him, rubbing his heart, trying to sense some sort of reaction. He's warm. He looks like he's sleeping. He's not purple or blue or hard or stiff or cold or how the hell ever a corpse is supposed to be so he's not dead. I refuse to accept it. I'm breathing into him, stubborn, determined. My son will NOT die, dammit. Darin is on the phone. He's asking me stupid questions. "Is his chest moving?" How the fuck can I tell, I'm shaking too much to tell, leave me alone, I'm breathing, I'm trying to make him breathe.
I stand, and run down the stairs. Missy is wide awake and crying. Amanda is downstairs, when she hears me running, she comes around the corner to see what's going on. My only thought is I must get him to the ambulance. I don't want them to have to run upstairs, or waste precious seconds trying to find us. I must be right here, so they can get right to him.
Amanda takes one look at my face and gasps. She starts to sob. I meet her eye and speak two words. "NOT NOW." She gulps down the sob and stops, nodding as she stares at me. "I can't have it right now, Amanda, please." Trying to explain between breaths. She doesn't need it, she understands. She grabs Missy and they cling to each other, sobbing quietly. Confused. Helpless.
I still refuse to accept his death. I'm still breathing but nothing is happening. In the movies they're always gasping by now, coming around, it's a miracle, they're saved, thank God the parents knew CPR!
Maggie and Jessie have come into the room, they've heard enough to know what's going on. They're frightened, crying. Helpless. Darin is behind me again, asking more questions on behalf of 911. Questions I can't answer because I am using my breath to try to save Sam. I yell at him: "Breathe into him, don't you let him die!" and grab the phone.
Scared. Pissed. Desperate. Helpless. I watch a Moment as Darin picks up where I left off. There's still no reaction from Sam. I can't watch. If I don't watch, it isn't so. I am talking to the 911 lady. It feels as if hours have passed, in reality its been minutes. I am trying to explain that they must hurry, explaining to her over and over again that he's only a little baby. I repeat it, like a mantra, once, twice, probably a dozen or more times. Trying to convince God. No, you can't take him, I insist, because: "he's only a little baby."
I'm out the front door with the phone, on the lawn, in my bare feet with the stupid cockle burrs from the tree all over the yard. I am wearing that same grey t-shirt nightgown. Like the previous morning, my hair is uncombed. Today, I don't care. I am telling the lady on 911 they are not there yet, she must hurry them up, he's just a little baby, where is the ambulance?
Sirens. I hear sirens. They're close. She asks me "can you hear the sirens?" I confirm I can. A flash of red between the houses at the corner. Suddenly a firetruck rounds the corner. I groan in frustration. I scream at her: "NO! It's a firetruck!" Irrationally, I am thinking "someone has a fire and my baby is dying! God help us both!" She says yes, it's them, they're coming to us. I scream again: "I don't need a fucking firetruck, I need an ambulance!" She doesn't take offense. She tells me the ambulance is right behind it. I look, waiting. Here it comes. Finally.
They pull up, I'm showing them where he is, on the sofa, Darin is telling them what happened, I'm telling the lady on 911 that they're there. She says she's going to let me go now. Irrational, again. "NO!" I scream. She can't hang up. I don't know why. I need her. She's become my anchor. The police arrive. I never even heard them. She's promising not to hang up. I have her on the home phone and have picked up Darin's work phone and am calling my Mom. My son is not breathing. I am a Mom, but I need my Mom. The 911 lady listens to my half of the conversation, soon realizes I am not talking to her. She doesn't hang up.
Sometime in the midst of the conversation, I finally let the 911 lady go. She asks to talk to one of the cops. I give over the phone and talk to my Mom. Simultaneously to all this, they're taking Sam to Children's Hospital. Darin is going in the ambulance with them. I am talking to my Mom, and telliing her to get over here, I think Sam is dead. She cries out once, a wordless keening sound, not quite a "no!" A heartbeat. Then, "what happened?!" I tell her I don't know. I tell her I can't drive. I have to get to Children's Hospital. They're taking him in the ambulance and I have to go. She'll be here in 20 minutes she tells me. It is a 25 minute ride in optimum conditions. She makes it in about 15.
In the meantime, I'm gathering my clothing so I can start getting dressed. I finally remember I need to pee. Suddenly the urge is overpowering. There's this cop, he's standing in the hallway, watching me. I feel awkward closing the bathroom door in his face, but I can't wait. I need to get into my clothes and I need to pee. I wonder why this cop is apparently monitoring everything we say and do. Later, I learn why: Susan Smith. No longer do the cops believe you when you tell them your child has disappeared, or stopped breathing and you don't know anything about it. Now they investigate.
Missy and Amy are dressed, though I have no idea who helped them find clothes or if they did it on their own. We're going to Children's Hospital. Maggie and Jessie must stay here, the cops have to have someone from the home present. It's not fair to Maggie, but she'll have to stay, they won't let me give Jessica that authority, she's not my child. I don't know what they think they're going to find in my house, but I don't care. Search it, do whatever you want, just get out of my way, I have to get to Children's Hospital.
My Mom gets there. I am dressed. I go to toss my nightgown on the chair and Missy stops in front of me, picking up a penny from the floor. Find a penny. Irrational, again. "Yes," I say, nodding at her in approval, while the cop watches on curiously. "Pick it up, we need it." He blinks. I realize he's flabbergasted. "Find a penny, pick it up, all day long you'll have good luck," I explain. He nods, but his eyes are still wary. The penny is important. I don't know that yet. It's a story for another nite.
I suddenly remember why I had to be up at 11:00. I have an event to run online for what my ex-husband calls my "pretend job." The job he told my children was for a "cult." He doesn't understand and I don't waste my time trying to enlighten him.
Because of my commitment, I can't just leave. I have to call someone and tell them. I call Janie, tell her I can't be there, that they've taken Sam to Children's Hospital, that he wasn't breathing, that I think he's dead. She's crying. "No, Kate, he'll be fine, he'll be fine. You call me, they can do wonderful things, call me when you know for sure. He'll be fine." She's lying. She knows it. I know it. She knows I know. We don't mention it. The cop watches it all, curious. How can I explain, that just because my son has died, doesn't mean I can just waltz out the door and leave a thousand people hanging -- a thousand people were promised an event in their virtual fantasy world and it's my responsibility to give it to them. And since I can't run it, I can at least call someone and tell them where everything is so they can run it. My Mom understands. Even though she thinks I'm nuts ("you know, people get paid for this kind of work") she understands the work ethic because she and my father instilled it in me. It doesn't matter if the work is volunteer or salaried. It's the commitment that matters. The cop seems vaguely disapproving. I can't bother to care.
My Mom goes out the front door. I send Amy and Missy with her. I give Maggie instructions: let them do whatever they want, give them anything they ask for. I go out the door, start to get in my Mom's car, which is behind the fire truck. I am vaguely surprised they're still there, I figured they'd left when the ambulance left. As I enter the car, my Mom says "why are they here?" "Who?" I ask, thinking she can't possibly really be asking me why the cops are here. She isn't.
"Them," she says, gesturing at a news truck. The reporter is coming across the lawn toward the car, microphone in her extended hand. I get out of the car and shoot her a venomous look. She stops, staring. I storm back into my house, corner the cop, demand he do something about the reporters. He can't, he explains. As long as they stay off my property and on the public street and sidewalks, there's nothing he can do about it.
"They're just doing their job," he says, gently. He follows me onto the porch as I head back for the car. The reporter is trying to thrust a microphone into the backseat of the car asking the girls their names. I turn to the cop and ask, in a scathing voice, "is that part of their jobs too?" I'm pissed, taking it out on him. He's supposed to protect and serve. Public servant and public protector and all that. Protect me. Get those bastards away from my family, away from my house. He looks sorrowful and does what he can. We leave.
The reporter follows in her newstruck.
Not even half-past noon. July 10, 1999.
Children's Hospital. As we park, Darin comes across the lot with two women, one a nurse, one a hospital chaplain. He shakes his head. I cling to him in the parking lot, wordless. I am stunned. The kids and my Mom sob quietly behind me, clinging to each other. I know I should comfort my children, but I can't. I let my Mom.
We all walk across the parking lot. A penny lies on the sparkling floor just inside the doorway. I bend down, pick it up, without thinking. Drop it into my pocket. Into the hospital. Down the hall. Following the chaplain lady into a little room, made to look like a living room. The bereavement room, I guess. Everything is gentle in this room. Subtle. Calming. Elsewhere in the hospital, there are gaily decorated walls, even in the emergency room. Everything is made with cheery eyed animals and bright colors. This room is drab by comparison. But comfortable. Calming. She leaves us for a few Moments. I am stunned. This morning I had a son. This afternoon, I do not.
Some doctor comes in. He says something, I remember him. I can't remember hardly anything he said, except one thing. He tells me that there will be cotton wadding in Sam's nose when I see him, that this is there to stop the flow of fluids that come from the body after death. I understand. I even understand that my baby is dead. But this cotton thing makes me uneasy.
The chaplain comes back, tells us we can come see him now if we want to. I want to take him home, I don't want to just "see" him. We go back down the hall. Halfway down the hall, we're stopped. A pair of cops, plainclothes. One hispanic, one black. I remember them. Not their names.
They have already spoken to Darin a little, but they want to speak to me. And Darin again. Seperately. Me first. I want to see my son. Darin goes to see him instead, he and the chaplain walk off. I go with the hispanic cop. He takes me to a room where there is another man, another black man. They sit with me. It's later, in the hall, when I realize who he is. He's the coroner, I realize, as he's explaining that if it's SIDS, he's not going to be able to tell me what happened or why. I understand, but I don't like it. He seems to sense my disapproval, apologizes. I listen as he tries to explain why he may not be able to tell me, and suddenly realize I don't care. It really just doesn't matter, the only thing that matters is: my son is dead and nothing can change that.
They want to ask me questions. I try to understand what they want, but all I want is my baby. My breasts are leaking, sore. The questions start. I find a penny on the vinyl seat beside me. I think it is the one I had in my pocket, but when I go to slip it back in, the other is still there. Odd, I think, but the thought is quickly buried. The cop is talking, I must listen. He's trying to be kind, I can tell. I don't like him.
Any chance I rolled over on him? I almost laugh. I point out that I am a full grown adult. My son is a 10 pound infant. I ask the cop if he has children, and he looks surprised. Admits he does. I tell him then you know why I know I didn't roll over on him. You're a parent. You know. Maybe if it's your first child or something, but not your fifth, for God's sake. You know. You can *feel* them in your sleep. You can't roll onto them, your mind, even asleep, won't let you. If I had rolled over on him, I try to explain, (a) I would have felt it and rolled right back off before I ever got even part way on him and (b) if I had actually fully rolled on him I would have crushed him. He wouldn't be laying there looking like he was about to wake up. He nods.
The coroner doesn't say anything, just listens. Suddenly the cop leans forward. Had I ever shaken him? I gape at him, stunned he could ask such a thing. He apologizes, explains he's just doing his job. Explains that this other gentleman will be able to tell if I have, so they hope I will just admit it now if it's so. I assure them I have not. I dislike him more.
Why was Darin sleeping on the sofa? Had we had a fight? The unasked question hovers in the tone, the climate, the mood: did one of us kill the baby to punish the other one?
More questions. Probing, seeking answers I don't have. Ignoring my questions, unable to answer me any more than I can answer them. I begin to wonder if I will ever get to see my son again. He asks me if I wanted my son. I gaze at him and feel a single tear roll down the side of my nose. I tell him I wanted my son. I tell him I still want my son. I tell him if God would be so kind as to step down from Heaven at this very instant and offer to let me die instead, and give Sam back his life, I would apologize to my other children for leaving them, and die in Sam's place. The coroner turns his head. He is weeping. The cop presses on. I begin to hate him.
Later a nurse tells me the cop had been crying before he talked to me. At that time, I remember that his eyes were red when he was talking to me. At that time, I will finally understand why. I will hate him a little less.
We go thru everything I know. He asks me about Sam's health problems. Mentions the hole in Sam's heart. I stare at him again, unnerved. I had no idea there was a hole in Sam's heart. I tell him so. He looks surprised, but carries on. I tell him about the single kidney, and how Sam's umbilical cord had only one vein instead of two. Tell him everything I can remember. Tell him about the nurse tapping his heels. And how Sam shrank an inch because he was so puffy with fluids when he was born that a week later when he wasn't puffy any more he was actually shorter than he had been at birth.
Finally, the cop cuts me off, he's done. The coroner practically leaps to his feet. We progress into the hallway, where the conversation takes place about whether the coroner will ever be able to tell me what happened. I finally figure out who he is. I wonder how such a nice man could do such a miserable job.
Later, when I tell Darin about the hole in the heart question, ask where the cop got such an idea, Darin reminds me that the heart specialist had told us about it. I suddenly remember the conversation. Remember being relieved when I learned it wasn't anything would ever require surgery. And apparently put it out of my mind entirely.
In the hallway, the pediatrician's partner, a woman, has arrived. I learn our pediatrician is out of town. It hardly mattters, since his patient is dead. She looks like she's been crying too. She tells me I'm responding properly. I briefly wonder what the hell that means, but decide I don't care.
A baby cries down the hall. For a Moment, irrationally, insanely, hope flashes. My mind screams "SAM!" and just as quickly I realize it's not his cry. Following the first realization, a second: I realize it couldn't be his cry. He's dead. He's not coming back. Grief washes over me. Crushing, smothering. I straighten my shoulders and ignore my body's response to the cry: increased leaking. A few feet further down the hall, a nurse hands me some pads and points me at a bathroom door. I realize the entire front of my shirt is wet.
I want to see my son. I come out of the bathroom and the chaplain is back, ready to take me to him. My Mom is with her. Mom shakes her head at my inquiring look. Apologizes as she explains she just can't bear to see him like that. I understand. I didn't expect she would want to, I know my Mom. I have to, though.
Finally, they let me see Sam. His little white onesie sleeper with the black outlined cows and red words ("Moo!") is gone, he's in an ugly peach colored gown with teddy bears and blocks on it. A nurse explains to me that they had to give his sleeper to the cops. I don't care about that either. They quickly strip him out of it, wrap him up in a blanket. She hands me the gown, tells me I can keep it, since it was the last thing he wore. I think: no it's not, he was dead already when he wore this. I don't want it, but I take it because it seems impolite not to.
He lies on an impossibly large bed, with Amy and Missy leaning on either side of him, still crying quietly. They sit me in a rocker, and hand him to me.
The cotton in his nose is unnerving. I want to pull it out.
He still looks like he's sleeping, but now he's cold. So cold. He looks like if I could just get him warm enough, he'd be just fine, he'd be able to wake up. I try to articulate that to the women watching me. Darin is there, Amy and Missy are there, the chaplain lady is there, and so are three nurses plus the pediatrician's partner, who is again assuring me that my reactions are just right. I still can't bother to care what the hell she's babbling about. Later, I am told that I looked so stunned and lost that she didn't know what to say, so she told me the only thing she could think of: you're doing what you're supposed to do, I don't know how to help you, other than to tell you this is what you should be feeling like and it will eventually get better.
Amy and Missy touch him, stroke his cheeks, leave to go sit in the calm room with my Mom. I ask Darin if he wants to hold him too. He doesn't. Again I understand. I still have to. I gaze down at him in my arms, my finger itches to tease the cotton from his nostrils.
One of the nurses asks me something, I don't remember what. I lean forward toward her, and automatically readjust Sam to lie against my shoulder, second nature, so as to support him more steadily as I leaned forward. Realized as I did it that supporting him didn't much matter. Awkwardly, I put him back in cradle position and start to cry. I explain again that I must get him warmed up, that it almost seems if I can just get him warm, he'll be fine. I manage to stop crying.
I almost pull the cotton from his nose. Stop myself.
Finally, I know I must hand him over. I know that when I hand him back, it will be over. I will never again have a son. Images flash in my mind. A little boy, strawberry blonde hair like his sister, running into the house with a scruffed knee. A little boy holding up a newly lost tooth. First day of kindergarten. First date. Graduation. Marriage. His own child. A lifetime, condensed into a minute or three. I sit there, stupidly counting up days. 76 days. He was 76 days old when he died. I wonder why he was born for just a second, wonder why God gave hiim to me only to take him away 76 days later, almost regret that I'd ever had him in the first place.
Finally, I explain that I must give him back and give him back now, because if I don't, I will never be able to give him back and I know I have to. They nod, all of them sobbing quietly now. I hand him over. I stand up. I walk out, without looking back. Back to the calm room. I am anything but calm.
The cop comes back to get Darin, they want to talk to him some more. Another irrational thought races through my mind: we can't even try again, have another baby and know about it in time to get proper prenatal care and have a child as healthy as Missy had been, because he had that vasectomy. I briefly wonder if it's "taken" yet, they said you're not safe for four weeks. I wonder if we can make another baby before it takes. There would be no surprises on that line, either, there would be no more babies for me.
My Mom decides to take the girls home, and then come back for Darin and me. She has a small car, trying to fit four of us (because we'd now have Darin) was going to be cramped. We walk down the hall and outside. Along the way, a nurse promises me she will tell Darin where I am. The chaplain lady comes with us. A tall black man stops me. I realize he's a cop, remember I've met him. I kiss the girls and my Mom, tell them I'll be home in a while, please be good. They start across the parking lot, the chaplain, the cop and I all watch. As they get halfway across, the reporter is suddenly jumping out of her truck and running toward my Mom and my children, microphone in hand, yelling:
"Can I talk to you for just a minute? Can you tell me your relationship to the baby that died? Can you tell me how you feel?"
I look at the cop briefly. His eyes flicker, his nostrils flare. He's incensed. My Mom hands Amanda the keys, tells her "get your sister in the car," and turns on the reporter. The cop and the reporter realize the reporter is in trouble at the same instant. She starts to back away and the cop sprints across the parking lot as my Mom starts screaming at the "callous bitch" and going after her. "You stay away from my family! How dare you! How can you torment those children whose brother just died?!" From fifteen feet away, I can see my Mom trembling. I realize I don't have my contacts in.
The cop steps between them, stopping my Mom. Barks an order at the reporter: "get the hell out of here." The reporter, shaken, nods like a fool and scurries across the lot. Scurrying, like a cockroach.
My Mom, all five feet three inches of her, turns on the cop and threatens to deck him, having no idea who the hell he is, but ready to hurt someone. He explains he's a cop. My Mom tells him she doesn't give a shit who he is, he needs to go do his job or something and turns away, stomping off to her car. I feel compelled to offer an explanation. He says no apology is needed. I don't bother pointing out I wasn't apologizing, just explaining that Mom didn't know who he was.
I sat down outside the door, smoking. The chaplain tries to talk to me for a while, but I rudely ignore them. I know I am being rude and I don't care. I want them to leave me alone. Finally, she and the cop wander inside. They watch me, but speak in private behind the automatic doors. I realize I don't much care what they're talking about. Wonder if I should. A lady comes along, and says "darlin', you look like shit. Are you okay?" I look at her and without realizing what I am going to say, reply "no, I'm not actually. My baby just died a little while ago." She stops, taken aback, and offers an awkward apology, then beats a hasty retreat inside.
I didn't know it at the time, but that would become a commonplace reaction for a while. No one knows what to say, so they get away from you.
Snatches come to me now. The rest of the day is blurry. Its like the adrenaline wore off or something. Numb is a good word. We went back home eventually. Without our son. My sister and her family were there. My Mom. Us. The cops.
The cops had more questions. Cindy got me aside for a Moment and whispered to me that the cops had asked a bunch of questions about a "switch" they'd found in the bedroom on the floor between our bed and the toddler bed where Missy slept. Did she know what it was? Did she think that her sister or her brother in law used it to spank the children?
I explained to the cops that the "switch" was actually a jousting stick Missy had found in the yard and which she used to go "en garde" which was then a favorite pasttime. When Missy confirmed it, I thought that would end it. They took it with them along with the other "evidence" they removed. (Bedding from my bed, from Sam's bed -- which made no sense, he didn't die in his bed -- my nightgown, Sam's pacifier, a soiled diaper I'd had laying on the floor beside the bed to toss away in the morning.) Missy cried when she realized they'd taken her "perfect" stick. I realize she's not really crying over the stick.
I keep thinking about the shots. Sam had just gotten all those shots. Had it been too much? Was it SIDS? Was there something wrong with the motrin drops? I keep getting in the diaper bag. First I give them the 4 papers from the shots. The "information" sheets, where they tell you how the shots almost never bother anyone, but if your kid is one of the unlikely ones it does bother, it could be really bad. Then I give them the motrin drops. They keep giving them back. I finally press them into the hands of one detective, insist that he take them, check those drops. Read those sheets. Give them to the coroner, because that coroner told me he would do his best. And that's what I want. The best. His best, so that I would know why. He nods, taking them, patting my shoulder awkwardly. Later I would find he'd put them back when I wasn't looking.
After the cops left, Cindy and my Mom quietly went around the house and put all of Sam's stuff up, put it in his room. Shut the door behind them. I left it shut for weeks. It had been close to a month before I even opened the door. Walked in, looked around, and turned around and walked out. The door would stay shut for three more months.
I sat in the backyard and called Janie, told her what had happened. I needed to be a in a sunbeam. It was hot. I couldn't get warm.
I called Anna at her father's. Tried to tell her, couldn't barely get the words out. When I finally did, she got so upset that Bob took the phone from her and asked what the hell was going on. I explained as best as I could. He brought Anna over to the house so we could be together.
Sunday nite, we all sat down at the dining room table. Had the conversation we needed to have. Should we bury him? Cremate him? Missy didn't want to put him in a box. Amanda said "I don't want my baby brother stuck in a box and planted in the ground." Maggie nodded. Darin and I looked at each other. We didn't want him planted in the ground either.
We chose cremation, even though it would incense Anna, who vehemently disagreed with the decision when I called her to tell her.
"He needs his body!" she insisted.
"What about people that get killed and mutilated? Burned in fires?" I demanded.
"God gives them a new body because they lost theirs through no fault of their own," she replied reasonably.
"Then he can give Sam a new body if he needs one," I declared, just as reasonably.
She refused to attend the memorial.
The arrangements are hard. The man at the funeral parlor is so polite, so quiet, so sincere and compassionate. His sincerity comes across as cloying, almost a cariacature. When discussing the details, he asks if we want to have a viewing. I can't imagine anything more distasteful, than to have to see my son on display in a little box. I know how Darin feels, but the man looks vaguely startled when I speak up, firmly. "No. There will be no viewing." He looks to Darin for confirmation, not sure if he should. Darin nods, explains we've already discussed it.
When he comes to the part they say they have to read to you to be sure you really understand (these days of lawsuits for mental trauma), the part about how the cremation happens and the pulverization procress, I have to leave the room. I stand up, abruptly, and tell him "give me that pen." He's slightly startled. I take the pen and flip the document to the final page. I sign. He says "you'll need to initial here, too," pointing to a spot right by the word "pulverize." I initial. Drop the pen, pick up my cigarettes and walk out. I won't listen. Darin and the man come find me when the papers are done being signed. When he tells us to be sure to bring a hat for Sam's final outfit, I am briefly confused. Later, I understand.
Darin's Mom comes for her visit (planned for that fall) early. Instead of coming to meet her new grandson, she is coming to tell him goodbye. By the time she arrives, he is already cremated. I know she is suffering, I feel oddly guilty for her pain. Before she leaves to return home, she will thank us for letting her share in it with us. I am shocked, amazed that she would ever doubt her welcome (what a strangely appropriate word).
I remember only a few things about the service. The minister who presides (unknown to us until that morning) is uncomfortable. He tries to say things for a baby who hadn't yet done anything "noteworthy" to anyone but his family. My friend Sam shows up for the funeral, even though it's a four hour drive. He explains that this was too close to home, he had to come. He is young, this Sam, almost young enough to be my child. Too young to want to worry about facing death. He faces it bravely, but by the end of the service he's almost more shaken than I am. The other thing that struck me was how many people came. People who work with Darin, friends of ours, friends of the kids', our family.
Later, an odd coincidence will be revealed: signed in the guest book are a total of 76 names. Sam lived for 76 days.
~~~~~
The night he brought Anna over, the very night Anna's brother, my son, had died, my ex-husband called Children's Services to report that he was reasonably certain we'd killed Sam, either by design, accident or neglect. Maybe even a combination of all three. We were terrible people and he should be given custody of the two remaining minors at home (Amanda and Maggie -- Anna was already over 18 and married, and Missy is not Bob's child, she's Darin's, as was Sam).
Children's Services, who had been entertaining this man's reports for more than five years at that point, did a cursory examination, put us under 6 months supervision because it involved a death and then cut us loose a month early. A second representative of Children's Services informed my ex and his wife that if they filed one more false report, they would seek legal remedy. They'd been informed of that two years previously, but they'd taken their chances when they learned I was pregnant with Sam. They reported me for no prenatal care despite the fact that they knew I hadn't learned I was pregnant until I was more than six months along.
~~~~~
We gathered up all the pictures we'd taken for a couple of photo montages of Sam for the memorial. An entire life reduced to two posterboards of photos. He didn't even have a favorite toy yet.
We played music at his memorial. Sam loved music. Loved to listen, especially to country music. We put together a CD of tunes that meant something to us. Jessie asked us to include "Carrying your love with me" on her behalf.
The first song was one that we'd heard only once before -- on television one day when flipping channels, we passed some show with a boy band on. They were singing a song that got Sam's attention. We'd listened that day, watched Sam as he listened. The day after he died, I heard that song again, flipping channels trying to find something to amuse Missy, on the Rosie O'Donnell show. I missed who it was by. I wound up searching the internet and making posts all over creation, till I learned it was BoyZone, singing "No matter what."
That was the first song on the cd. The second was "The Wiggle Song." There were ten others, including "Carrying your love with me."
About a week after the memorial, I found that picture that Maggie had taken the morning before, just about 24 hours before he'd died. There he was, arm reaching, Missy and I leaning over him, laughing and smiling. I remembered how angry I'd been at Maggie for taking the picture when I looked like that. Now, I didn't care. I hung the picture up with the others. I still don't care. It still hangs in my living room to this day.
For weeks after his death, I'd come across something of his shoved in some out of the way place. Laundry from the pile. A sock between the sofa cushions. A bottle in the cupboard. The extra pacifier beside my bed. Coupons were hard. We kept getting samples and coupons and free gifts and offers in the mail. And development information, even in email. "Your baby is starting to roll this month!" Later, I realized that Darin suddenly became very vigilant about the mail. He'd become vigilant so he could remove anything I wouldn't want to see.
Sometimes he comes to me, Sammy does. Usually with my Grandma up until my Mom died, since then every time he's come he's been with Mom (sometimes with Grandma and Luna (my Great Grandma) too). Like Mom, like Grandma, like the others, I don't actually see them -- sometimes if they come in dreams, I am able to see them as they are in my memory, but when I am not asleep, I don't see their bodies. I see colors, like auras with nothing at the core but more brilliant color. I recognize them, each of them is unique.
I don't talk about that part of it much. Most people don't understand. A few friends even think I'm half nuts. I'm not. Someday, they'll know that. Until then, I just keep quiet about it.
And I write.
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