HomeMy WebLinkAboutClinton News-Record, 1985-11-27, Page 49Continuedifxotl pave
body as .1 watchedfrOn behind a
window Tubes were slipped
into every orifice, intravenous
feeding mechanisrns were set up
and Brian, naked, was placed in
an isolette -- the intensive -care
unit's version of a bassinet.
The isolette kept Brian warm
with an ultraviolet lamp and
monitored his heartbeat and
`other vital life signs. A clear
plastic bubble, like an inverted
glass bowl, was placed over his
head to supply oxygen. Later he
would be hooked -up to a
respirator.
"He's a very sick baby," one
doctor told us, "and the
prognosis is extremely poor. But
there is never no hope, always a
chance..."
We learned later that Brian
had contracted a bacterial
tion. The bacteria, E. coli,
ommon, present in every
human gastrointestinal system.
By some fluke, the E. coli in ,
Brian had filtered, into his blood.
The doctors. explained that a
newborn's white blood cells are
immature and can't localize or
restrict an infection as an older
child's or adult's white blood
cells can. As a result, the
infection became systemic — it
affected his entire body.
Slowly, beneath the lights and
tools of the most advanced
medical knowledge, beneath the
gentle, loving hands of the
doctors and nurses trying to save
him and beneath my constant,
unwavering eyes, Brian's life
ebbed away.
On the fourth night at the
hospital, an hour before he died,
I sent home everyone who had
come to share our vigil — my
sisters, my parents, my
husband's parents, watching the
EKG go flat and the doctors
shake their heads. i had one
request: "Let me hold my baby
while he's still warm"
Gently, they removed the tubes
and wires.: that ha4 jropt him
alive for d time, And genxly 1
held 'A,t amain triy arm WAetng',
bis face, has head and his neck
as his blood stained my
Shoulder.
-ln the background 1 heard the
nurses crying. In the background
I heard my husband. But for
those few precious moments,
somewhere between the end off
life and the beginning of death, i
held my baby.
Brian was buried wrapped in
the needlepoint wall hanging I
had made for him while he grew
inside me. "it's like wrapping
your arms around him forever,"
my mother said gently. And then
it was over. At least, that's what
we believed. But were really just
beginning.
Grief is a powerful, complex
emotion. It's hard for anyone to
cope with it. But when grief is
complicated by a distortion in
the order of things, when the
young instead of the old pass
away, the pain is intensified to
an almost unbearable degree. I
withdrew.
I shut out my husband, my
family, my friends. There was
no official mourning period. We
wore no black clothes, and we
showed no outward signs of
loss, But inside, I was in
turmoil. My arms ached for my
baby; my still -bloated stomach
felt empty and grotesque. And I
was angry. Furious. Why did
this happen to me? Why did my
baby die?
Contrary to popular belief,
grieving doesn't bring two
people closer: Suddenly Ricky
and I were strangers, mourning
in our individual way, unable to
comfort each other.
Worst of all was my
overwhelming sense of failure.
Convinced it was my fault that
TOLL FREE 1-800-265-4590
B)ianl had died,:1 netictllously
reviewed to pregnantly and
found hundreds of things I had
done •wrong, countless ways to
Marne myself. 1 had faded.,.....
There is no way to rationalkbe
feelings. They simply are. It was
combating these emotions,
learning to overcome the stifling
handicap of grief, that became
my primary battle.
I began with little things.
Going to the supermarket and
walking down the aisle where
baby supplies were kept, without
running from the store in tears.
Keeping the door to Brian's
room open. And finally, letting
myself cry in my mother's arms,
0
like' an angry and hurt
so that when it was over 1 carld
try to be 4 woman agaiihr
Most of all t bad to. seam how
to let others help nie. Being ,
close and listening to nye was
therapy for my loved ones, and 1
needed their support — all of us
shared a common pain.
At first I wanted to wipe away
every memory of my baby. But
slowly I realized that Brian was
— and always would be — a
part of my family.
Eventually I was able to
collect a few photographs of him
and put them in a special album.
Today that album stands in the
bookcase with all the other
B.
family 03'1.sutiis, Arid finjlll;
when 1 was able, av sought?,
counseling with **Mt %srdrki it
to discuss what 1'4 been •
through,
tali few sessions flamed
that my estrangement from my
husband was normal and
predictable, something that
would fade when we were ready
to comfort each other. I learned
that I. was angry — and because
of this explosive, impotent rage
I was blaming and punishing
myself. Whom else could I
blame? Brian? The hospital?
By blaming myself I was
trying to avoid the shattering
confrontation with mortality that
hiati
--.0),;SETS
Pap 233
4#1;face someday. 1
1sT peace with the
Pu, all: are powerless
s of chance, unable to
coprrol gur urgartie fate.
• iow, .four years later, there's
another child in my home. His
name is Russell. He'll be 3
years old soon. Russell is a
happy, spirited toddler, precious
beyond belief.
It's been a long time since I
spent my days brooding over my
lost child. With two healthy,
strong sons, I consider myself a
very fortunate woman. Still,
inside me, in a private,
impermeable place, there will
always be Brian.
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