One of my midwives wrote this just a few hours after she delivered Owen. She brought it to us, along with flowers and postpartum supplies for me, the day after we got home from the hospital. When I saw the date, I realized she had gone home from a very long, emotionally difficult shift with me (I think 24 hours?) and devoted even more time to our grieving family by writing a poem to my son. It is one of the most beautiful things anyone has ever done for me. I’m not sure she realizes it, but by putting this on paper, she also helped me to have a reminder of Owen’s most special moments–I had no idea Owen reached for me as I reached for him, for instance.
There aren’t many people in my life who had a tangible relationship with Owen. Many people know him through Zach and I, of course, and experienced his life before birth, but relatively few people ever met him. It’s pretty much just me, Zach, Anika, our parents, and some very close friends. We had a few nurses who I know were impacted by us, and I know they remember Owen, which means so much to me. There’s something special to me about knowing that Anika loved Owen and saw how special he was. I am so glad that the first hands that held him belonged to someone who could appreciate his beautiful, short life.
I’m thankful for the relationships I’ve formed with my midwives through my pregnancy and Owen’s life and death. Babyloss isn’t easy, but it is surely more bearable when there are other women there to support you. I am even more thankful for the relationship my midwives formed with my son. They protected our time with him and helped to honor his life, no matter how brief it was.
October 15 was the Wave of Light. We lit our candle for Owen at 7pm and left it burning for the rest of the night. Another babyloss mom who I know from the internet lights a candle for every other baby she knows in addition to her own son, so Owen had a candle lit on her table as well. My facebook newsfeed was full of light that night, which makes me so very happy.
“Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.” –Khalil Gibran
When I announced Owen’s birth and death to my online community of other mothers carrying very sick babies to term, I told them I was so happy but so sad all at the time. I called myself “the happiest kind of sad”–overjoyed at having met my Owen and proud of how beautiful his life was but also weeping for his loss and how empty we were without him.
Even now, I look at pictures of Owen or watch his videos and feel filled with gladness that I knew him, met him, and loved him. Literally in the exact same moment I also re-experience the fresh grief I felt when I had to give his body away. I know that as soon as I put the pictures away or turn the video off, Owen is gone again. He will never be mine to hold. I am both full and empty, brightened by knowing my son yet forever in darkness because his light was so fleeting.
The spring brings Owen’s birth and death to mind, but I associate fall and winter with him the most. When we went into the hospital, the weather was still cool and showing no signs of spring. When we left the hospital without Owen, it was beautiful, sunny, and warm. I told Zach on the way home that it felt like Owen had brought the spring to us.
I suppose that also means to took the winter with him. Chill reminds me of Owen’s life with us: bundling myself up and not being able to find a coat to cover my belly as fall turned to winter, traipsing all over for appointments with specialists on icy roads, hibernating with him during our January snowstorm.
We took a beach trip when I was 14 weeks pregnant to celebrate the last bit of warmth. Two weeks later, fall had fully hit with changing leaves and cooler temperatures, and we were being told that Owen (who we had just recently named and felt move) was going to die. Winter came, and we got good news. Owen might live. Winter is the only hopeful time I got to experience with Owen. It’s the only season we spent planning for his life rather than his death. I wrote his name in the snow during the snowstorm so that if he lived, I could show him that we had been loving him and planning for him since before he was born, that he was a part of our family even before birth.
“We’ll just do our best to make every decision out of love.”
Zach told me this when I was in constant distress over what to do for Owen when I was pregnant. He continued to remind me that this was our guiding philosophy for Owen’s life when I was feeling unsure of our decision for compassionate care instead of forcing aggressive medical intervention after Owen died. We’ve always discussed this concept–making every decision with love as our first priority–in relation to our children, but Zach also cares for me with deep compassion. There isn’t a time in our life together when I have ever doubted that Zach would support me with all his might (and I him).
When your baby dies, you are both weak, and you have to hold each other up while also knowing that sometimes one of you will break harder. I’m so lucky that Zach knows this. I’m so lucky we can do this for each other.
This is Owen’s little tree.
Because we had Owen cremated, there is not currently a physical space where he is memorialized. As I wrote yesterday, I’m glad that we will have a memorial space in our home, but I also wanted a spot in our community where Owen could be remembered. It is important to me that Owen’s life is acknowledged in a public way. To that end, Zach and I chose to have a tree in our local botanical garden dedicated to Owen. When we decided to have him cremated, I knew I would miss the fact that we didn’t have a plaque that would record his name for the outside world or a location where we could go and say to people “We did this for our son.” I am glad he is home with us, and I feel confident that this special tree space will serve my need of a public memorial space.
When we met with the Director of Giving at the Botanical Gardens, she took us for a walk around the garden to scout trees and locations. At the beginning of the tour, she showed us a spot that, though currently just forest, is being turned into a children’s garden with activities and an amphitheater for children’s shows and events. Owen’s tree is directly across from where the new children’s park will be, which is perfect to me. I would have loved to take him there one day. There’s also a really beautiful fountain and bench that I am sure we will enjoy with our future family. It is on a pathway, so I hope people who pass by will notice that it is dedicated to our baby who is very much loved and gone too soon. If people who see Owen’s memorial stop for just a second and hold his name in their thoughts, then realize how precious their little ones are, I will be happy.
Owen’s little tree doesn’t have a plaque yet, but hopefully it will soon.
I don’t really have a sacred place that I go to be with Owen. I certainly have sacred things, sacred rituals, but there’s not a place I go to remember him or be with him (I remember him all the time). Perhaps this is because we had him cremated. There’s no grave site to visit. His ashes are in our house, just like we wanted. In the beginning, I used to carry his ashes with me from room to room because I couldn’t stand the thought of him being alone. We created a little altar in our den where I put him during the day. We called it our Owen shrine. I used to go there to visit with him, but we’ve been doing some renovating and redecorating of our house, and the Owen shrine has been gradually dismantled–his ashes and photos in our living room, keepsakes and cards put into memory boxes, artwork moved about the house so we have remembrances of him in every room.
I like that he is represented in every room of our house, but I also liked being able to have a special place to sit with his memory. Zach and I have tentatively planned to turn one of our spare rooms into a library, with a space designated especially for Owen’s special things. I’ll be glad when we have that. I’ll like having a special place, I think.
(no photo today)