July 16, 2020
It was dark and quiet in my hospital room. My mother re-entered my room, after her lengthy conversation with the security guard. She saw my silhouette in the sitting position, and hadn’t realized what had happened – that I had just given birth. As she approached, she quickly held her hand over her mouth and gasped, while realizing she was looking at me holding my baby. I didn’t react. Instead, I studied my mother’s reaction. She appeared frightened, almost scared to look at her grandson. It had been clear that she was caught by surprise. She finally leaned in;
“He’s so small, Bamboletta”. She reacted.
Bamboletta – that’s what my grandparents used to call me. It means baby doll in Italian. I smiled.
“He still has a heartbeat,” I said as I held him close.
I loved having him in my arms; I loved looking at him, admiring him. I felt my mother fall in love too. It’s amazing how new life can change everything in an instant.
The doctor and nurses were circling around me, as my vital machine began beeping. I was so infatuated with my baby that I barely noticed what was going on around me. I began feeling very light headed and advised the nurse that I felt I was about to pass out.
“We will need to tilt your bed back, would you want your husband to hold the
baby”? The doctor asked.
I handed him to his daddy and that’s when I noticed what was under the bed beneath me; A puddle of blood that gushed out when the doctor was trying to get my placenta out. I looked to my left to see the blood pressure machine drop to 68/33. I didn’t know exactly what was going on but I knew those numbers weren’t good. Under normal circumstances, this would have worried me but all I could think of was my baby. I couldn’t care about anyone else, not even myself.
Within minutes, the nurses were able to get my blood pressure back up and stabilized me.
“When you are ready we can have our photographer take beautiful pictures of your
baby in the light room”, the nurse informed me.
“For the moment I will leave you with your baby. He truly is beautiful,” she
concluded, as she left the room.
My mother and husband took out their cell phones and began snapping pictures of him. I didn’t mind at all, as I knew this would be a memory I would want to look back at later.
‘My Little Sunshine’
It was getting late and my mother decided she was going to take an Uber home.
“Text me when you get home”, I said to my mother. She nodded.
Just before parting, she leaned over and softly kissed her grandson on his head. Teary-eyed, she said her goodbyes. My husband escorted her outside to her Uber ride.
I looked around the room and realized my baby and I were alone for the first time. I was still in awe with him. I hadn’t cried once since he came into the world, but I wanted to cry in that moment. As I looked down at his sweet face, I began to sing to him:
“You are my sunshine
My little sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are grey
You’ll never know dear
How much I love you
Please don’t take my sunshine away”
My voice cracked as I held back tears. I couldn’t hold them back any longer.
It had never occurred to me until that moment, that that song was about the loss of a child. ‘Little Sunshine’ was the song I would sing to him when I was pregnant, while I felt him kick to the sound of my voice. This was now our song. ‘I love you’, I thought. ‘I love you to the moon my sweet angel’. The tears trickled down my cheek.
My Guilt
It was one or two in the morning and I was exhausted. I kept nodding off and waking suddenly in fear of dropping my baby. The bed was not big enough to hold us both, but I badly wanted to fall asleep with him in my arms.
A nurse walked in to check up on my vitals. I asked her if she could check my baby’s heart beat again. She took out her stethoscope and carefully listened for a heartbeat.
“It’s faint but his heart is still beating”, she responded.
What a fighter, I thought. I kept holding him while fighting to stay awake. Finally, I decided he would be better off in the crib next to me, where he wouldn’t be at risk at falling off the bed if I fell asleep.
I got a few hours of sleep and suddenly woke up. It was 7am. I immediately turned to my left to see my baby sleeping. Not long after, the nurse had entered my room to check on me and I quickly asked her to check his heartbeat again. I wanted to know if he was still alive. It took her a while to verify, and consequently, the nurse confirmed that he was no longer with us. He had no heartbeat. I felt sadness overcome me. Although I was sleeping right next to him, I had instantly felt guilty that he wasn’t in my arms when his heart stopped beating. I knew losing my baby was inevitable and that I had good reason to put him down, but I couldn’t help and feel guilt.
I held him all day long, although I knew he was no longer with us. The nurse came and asked us what name to they could use to identify him. I looked over to my husband and shrugged my shoulders.
“There’s no name, just baby Macri.” I replied.
Looking down at my baby, I felt he needed a name. He was here and he existed, and I felt a name would confirm that.
“Maybe we should give him a name”, I turned to my husband.
We had spent 5 months looking for a potential boy’s name and had never agreed on one. Coming up with a name in a couple of hours seemed unlikely. We decided to wait on the baby’s name.
Help a Mother
Later that morning, a genetic specialist came in to talk to us about taking a sample of the baby’s umbilical cord to help find the cause of his developmental issue. The geneticist introduced herself to us and provided some pamphlets about the work they do.
“With a sample of your baby’s umbilical cord, we will be able to find the cause of
his developmental issues and it will contribute to our research so we may better
understand renal agenesis problems in the future”, the geneticist explained.
Without hesitation, I immediately agreed to provide her with the sample. The least we could get out of this tragedy is the opportunity to save another baby. My husband nodded in agreement.
“Yes, absolutely”, I agreed. “Also, I wanted to know if there is a way we can also
donate to your cause?” I asked.
Even though I was still wrapped up in my own tragedy, I wanted to do everything I could to make a difference for another mother and her baby. We had no control over what happened to our baby, but knowing I could make a difference, even a small one, for someone else, felt like it was something I needed to do. The geneticist advised us she didn’t have a donating option to her research, but that the hospital had a department that dealt with that.
My Baby’s Name
The nurse returned with a form to fill for the baby’s birth and death certificate.
“Since he was born with a heartbeat, we have to create a birth certificate for him”.
The nurse explained, as she handed me the documentation to fill.
I was glad to hear that. I didn’t need a piece of paper to know my baby existed, but it helped to know the world would know he existed too. As I filled out the form, I stumbled upon the first name again. I intentionally turned to my husband for some suggestions.
“It’s time we decide on a name. What name should we give him?” I asked my
husband.
“What about Francis – my middle name?” he replied.
My facial expression suggested my disapproval.
“That way he is named after me without having the same first name”, he
continued.
“If you want him named after you without using the same exact name, why not
Christian?” I suggested.
We suggested a few more names back and forth, just as we had the 5 months prior. I had one more suggestion.
“Why not Milo Christian, since we had once agreed we both liked the name Milo”?
I asked.
We knew right away, that was the one. We had finally decided on a name that we were both happy with. I completed the certification form for Milo Christian Macri. Our son.
Footprint
We were advised the photographer was ready to take the baby photos. I handed Milo to the nurse, and she confirmed that she would have him back in a few short minutes.
In the meantime, another nurse approached us with pamphlets and began describing the options we had for cremation. One option was to have the hospital take care of it completely, at no extra cost to us, and he would be buried with other children. We wouldn’t know exactly which burial would be his, as they would all share one tomb stone.
Although financially that made more sense, I had wanted his memory to be honored more than that. Our second option was to make our own funeral arrangement with the cemetery of our choice, but we would be fully responsible for the costs. I was too emotionally and physically exhausted to make a final decision in that moment. What mother wants to think of cremation options when she just lost her son?
The nurse came back with Milo and put him back in my arms. She handed me his pictures, which captured him so well. Around his neck, I noticed the piece of jewelry we had chosen for him. The day prior, the hospital handed us a jewelry box, and we were asked to pick one that we would like to give our baby. We chose a footprint, because we knew this baby would leave footprints on our hearts forever. They captured him wearing it in the photoshoot, it was just perfect.
First Emotions
Several specialists and doctors had come to see us that morning. Some had checked in with us, some gave us pamphlets offering one service or another, and others poured information on us, that I knew I would evidently forget. A psychologist came in to see us to have a mini session and offer her services.
“How are you guys feeling”? The psychologist asked.
Neither of us responded. ‘Is that a rhetorical question’, I thought. ‘How do you think we feel? Our son just died’. I felt anger slowly settling in with me, probably one of first emotions I was going to encounter down the road. It felt like the right time to become acquainted with those emotions.
She went on explaining that what we felt was valid, what we should expect to feel in the days to come, and how we should lean on one another for support.
‘Really, lady? Is that all? Good thing we aren’t paying for this service’, I thought. My inner voice was getting loud. Staring at my husband’s silent reaction, I took his lead and sat silently with him. After a few more awkward silent moments, the psychologist gave us her card and left the room.
“That was brutal”, my husband finally spoke.
I laughed. I knew he’d hate being put in a position where he had to talk about his emotions. Although I thought it was just as brutal, I knew she was right. We would have to learn to lean on each other, learn to go back home together with heavy hearts and empty arms. I dreaded it.
Saying Goodbye
I don’t think there is anything in this world that will ever be harder than saying goodbye to your first born, to the life and person they could’ve been. I will always wonder about him.
As we began gathering our belongings, we started to prepare for the worst – saying goodbye to Milo. We were waiting for the doctor to give us the okay to check out. I stared at Milo, smelled him, and took in every moment I possibly could to remember him. As much as I wanted to leave that hospital room, I did not want to leave my son behind.
Finally, the doctor walked in to give us our release papers and gave us the okay to go home. Suddenly, my heart sank and my eyes filled with tears. I looked down at my son, held him close to my cheek and caressed him over and over. It took me a while, and all the courage inside me, to put him down in his crib. I wrapped him tightly with the blanket – because oddly enough I didn’t want him to be cold, even though I knew he was already gone. I leaned into the crib and cried over him for a while. My husband was watching over the crib right behind me, and the nurse patiently waited for us at the door. I knew this was something I had to do, I had to let go of Milo. There was no right or wrong way to do it, I just had to finally pull myself away and say goodbye. I gave him one last kiss on his forehead, took a deep breath and walked out of the room leaving him behind, knowing very well, I would never ever forget that moment.
As we got to the elevators, I walked in, pressed the ground floor button and watched the steel mirrored doors close in front of me. Those were the same doors that once reflected my happy tears, the ones I once saw my reflection in when the doctors told me my pregnancy was still vital, the ones that told me I would be having a healthy baby. Those same steel-mirrored doors had now reflected a sad person, a person I didn’t recognize. That’s when I knew my world was pulled out from under me and had changed forever. I shut my eyes tightly and cried the hardest cry I ever cried. My husband held me in his arms and encouraged me to walk to the car, out of the car, and eventually into our empty home. We were not the same people when we left our home the morning prior. There, we began a new life; with an empty space waiting to be filled with love.
There’s an interesting strength that breeds from a tragic loss, but it’s not the type of strength you’d expect. It’s not the ‘I’m a better person for it’, or the ‘I learned from my experience’ type of strength. It’s more of a ‘my world completely changed and I am somehow still here breathing but barely living’ type of strength. In fact, ‘strength’ isn’t the right word to use, it’s more ‘in result of’ our tragedy. I had pushed many people away and became very protective of my grief. I had learned that when you become a mother, whether or not you bring home your baby, you are still a mother. I didn’t have a baby to feed at 3am or dozens of diapers to change, but I was still a lioness protecting her cub, and that transformed into protecting Milo’s memory. Anyone who had dismissed his memory, didn’t want to speak his name, or felt uncomfortable talking about my experience were automatically pushed away. It didn’t matter who they were, because if my baby didn’t matter to them, they didn’t matter to me. I was a lioness protecting her cub, and I always will be.
All of this was for you baby Milo – may your short presence leave footprints on all of our heart forever!
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