Thirty years ago today, my first son,
Forest, was born. He was brain damaged at birth and died two and a
half months later. I'm not saying this to elicit your sympathy. I
don't need or want a new stream of condolences. Been there, done
that...a long time ago.
Not that I no longer grieve, but it is
a timeworn, world-weary grief, smoothed and muted. Filtered, like
sunlight though a thick canopy of trees.
The sorrow at the loss of an
infant was, for me, not so much the grief of loss anyway, more
the
grief of never knowing and forever wondering. What if he had lived
all these years in that severely brain-damaged body? What if I, or
the others involved, had made different choices in my pregnancy or
labor? What if he hadn't been brain-damaged at all? Who would he be
now?
What would my life be like with a 30 year old son? I can only
imagine. I doubt I would have become a midwife. I doubt I would have had
the wonderful six year old son I now have. And I'm happy in my life
now. Would I be as happy if Forest were still here? Happier?
Once the past is past, it becomes the
only possible thing that could have happened. I can tell myself it
was fate; it was meant to be; see the silver lining. I can say it was
a disaster; proof of a nonexistent or uncaring God; lay blame. I've
done all these and more. It's all stories. Here's what I tell myself
30 years later: nothing. I don't need conjecture or meaning. It
doesn't matter why. Thirty years is a long time. Dust to dust.
Some might find
this odd, but I don't wonder where he is now. I don't wonder if he is
in heaven, or he's been reincarnated, or his death was simply the
end. Because about the only thing I do know is that I don't know,
can't know, will probably never know. I don't envy the certainty of those who
“know” what happens after death. There is a certain peace in
reconciling to the unknown and unknowable too.
And isn't this the grief of life as we
grow older as well: never knowing what might have been? The big “What
If?” What if ... I had picked a different path, a different
partner? ...had been or not been there any given night? ...had said
yes one thing, no to another? The road not taken which has made all
the difference.
So was Forest the road I didn't take,
or the one I did? I traveled so briefly with him but it's clear
to me that I ended up on a very different path because of him. I
don't know why he came into my life or why he left so soon or if he
had a purpose in life or if I do. I don't think these are even the
right questions to ask. It's just...well...here I am. A little sad,
but at ease. Rooted and wrapped in my life. Standing in the light of
this day and feeling grateful for everything.
 | ||||
| April 27 - July 9, 1982 |
I drew this from the top photo because I wanted a picture of him without the medical stuff
I wrote this five years later, 4/27/2017
My first son, Forest, was a surprise. Unplanned. Born 35 years ago today. I was 21 years old. His complicated birth and his death 73 days later, that was also a surprise. I didn't plan for this grief, this unlived life, these unanswerable questions that I mostly try not to ask.
No one knew Forest, truth be told, not even me. His brief life was played out in hospital rooms, not dandled on the knees of family and friends. His father is long gone, his sights set on Jesus so hard there's no room left in his vision for mere mortals.
A surprise, a bright golden bubble set aloft and soon burst, leaving only reflections. Even his cemetery stone has disappeared.
My new boy was as planned as can be, but he is a surprise too. He surprises me daily with his continued existence. Every morning I pause and listen until I hear him...little brother, waking to life.
Someone asked me for a favorite memory:
Tough
question. He was brain damaged at birth, and spent his whole life in
the hospital. He always had the feeding tube in, so he never smiled or
cried. He had a rough go of it, poor child.
I do fondly remember the day this picture was taken.
He was at UH, and I lived on E 115th, a five minute walk to the
hospital. We were allowed to take him for walks down to the courtyard.
(At that time they had a lovely outdoor courtyard where the atrium is
now. It was SO much nicer then.) Anyhow, we went down to the courtyard,
and then snuck out of the hospital and went home. We spent about an hour
there. The photo was taken in the backyard. It was really nice to get
him away from the hospital for that brief time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A friend, poet Bob Drake, put together a book of poems for me and Forest's dad, Rocky. Some were his own, some he
gathered for us. I read and appreciated these
quite a bit in the early years, and I still take it out now and again. Here are the ones Bob wrote. He also built Forest's casket for us, which is referenced in the third poem. :
The only photo I have of the coffin.
And here is a poem I wrote several years later...
There Was Death
There was death
in his whiteness
in his quiet breathing
that afternoon when he stopped fighting
There was death
and I watched it
settle into him
and I wished I could go there with him
but instead I rocked him and sang him a
song
and I told him
It's okay to go now
because I could see that death
could not be wiped away
like tears
And later
when he was gone
I cradled an empty body
just to be certain
stroked cold skin
just to be sure
he was safe
Not fighting for another breath
Safe now
from the weary miracle
of life
