My Special Love

PREFACE

Tragedy is a jagged chunk of life that we dare not imagine being a piece of the puzzle of our lives—we’d be afraid to leave the house if we let ourselves dwell on the array of devastating possibilities.  Tragedy catches us off guard when it strikes.  We are changed, unable to return to life as it was while struggling to embrace the altered reality.

As a teenager, I babysat for a little boy who was physically and mentally disabled.  During college, I spent my summers working in a state facility with children and adults with disabilities.  These experiences introduced me to a slice of life that was unsettling; challenging; at times distasteful and yet often endearing.  I am grateful for these experiences and the valuable lessons they taught me. 

My early twenties brought graduation, marriage and graduate school.  After settling into our careers, my husband and I decided that we wanted to start a family.  When I became pregnant with our first child, my greatest fear was having a child with mental and physical disabilities.  I prayed that our child would be healthy and normal. 

I had a perfect pregnancy, but following delivery by emergency C-section, I was shocked to learn that our baby boy was not yet breathing on his own.  My husband immediately noticed that our 6 lb. 9 oz., red-headed son also had a large congenital corneal scar.  As an optometrist, Rex new that our son would be blind in that eye.  How ironic that the life of an eye doctor’s child would be scarred by the disability of blindness.  Was I prepared for the daunting job of caring for such a child?  I’ll never know.  What I was not prepared for was the unthinkable. 

On January 26, 1977, just six hours after he was born, our precious baby died.  My life was severed into two pieces—that part of my life that occurred before Jason (B.J.) and the part that occurred after Jason died (A.J.). 

It has been thirty-four years since the death of my baby and I still think of Jason daily.  Every once in a while, a movie or passage in a book about a child in danger or dying will trigger a memory and I am amazed when I suddenly begin to sob.  I’m like a fire hydrant that’s been struck by a car, gushing like a geyser.  I’m equally astonished when, moments later, I’m back to normal. 

I’ve attempted numerous times to write about my experience of loving and losing my son, but when I realize I am shaking, with tears running down my cheeks, I stop writing.  It’s too painful to go there.  Then one day, determined to tackle the project, I gathered up the fragments of my grief and spread them out on our dining room table.

This visual depiction of my fragile heart confirmed just how painful my memories are when loosed from the Pandora’s box in my brain.  I was stunned to see how sporadic and infrequent my attempts at writing were —a page or two, and then I would abandon the project for several years at a time.  As I’ve healed, my respect and compassion have grown for the twenty-six year old grieving mother, and the vulnerable writer who bravely trudges over and over into the minefield of memories.

Early in my grief process, I remembered a book on grief that I had purchased and never read.  I am a marriage and family therapist and I thought it might come in handy someday if I were to work with grieving people.  This book remained shelved and unopened—until several days after I got home from the hospital.  God brought it to mind and I began reading Mourning Song, by Christian author, Joyce Landorf, which recounts her personal journey of losing three loved ones, including a newborn son.  Just a few pages into the book I realized that God had me in mind when I purchased this book, filed it on the top shelf, and promptly forgot about it.

Until I read Joyce’s story I believed that my thoughts, feelings and behavior screamed “psycho.”  I “should” have been stronger and I was ashamed in the midst of my mourning.  Joyce’s heart-wrenching story assured me that I was normal and gave me the hope I needed to help me hold on through the torrent of grief.

After Jason died, just being around me made people uncomfortable.  I felt like the poster child for a parent’s greatest fear—my very presence blared in bold letters, “Babies die!  If it happened to me, it could happen to you.”  I admire and appreciate my friends who had the courage to reach out to me, in spite of the fact that some were new parents and some were bulging with eminent life within. 

When people ask me to tell them about Jason, they are often brought to tears.  I don’t like causing people to cry, however, I must be willing to risk provoking pain in order to help others through their own pain. 

I pray that all who read My Special Love: Loving and Losing a Newborn will realize that grieving in your own unique way is normal, you are not alone; and you will heal.

There are two lessons of utmost importance in my experience with tragedy that are woven into my story: people are amazingly resilient—including me—and, God walks beside us through our healing process.  My story, though painful, is one of growth.  Jason’s brief life and untimely death have led me into a deeper relationship with God.  This stretching process has strengthened me and taught me how to be a compassionate sojourner for others in grief.  This can be your story as well.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. 
Psalm 30:5 KJV