resolve. He opened his mouth as if to cry out, but instead took a deep breath and covered his silent scream with his hand. Tears tracked down his cheeks, but he quickly wiped them away, and as he looked down at Susan to see if he’d been caught, she was quick to look away.
“I have him here, Susan,” the doctor said. “Would you like to see him?”
The horrific images she’d conjured in her mind loomed huge, and she wanted desperately to say no. Who in the world wants to look at a dead child? Who would even dream of saying yes to such a request?
But that’s exactly what she said.
Again, she watched Bobby for a sense of just how bad it would be, but as his features relaxed, so did she, though it still took her a long moment to turn her gaze toward her son.
He was the image of his father, with those thin lips and his wavy, dark hair. He wasn’t green and purple and bloated as he’d always been in her dreams, but instead looked like any other baby. Just so still. And silent. He even felt warm to her touch.
The atmosphere in the operating room thickened as the Martins said hello, and then good-bye, to their infant son. It was as if no one knew for sure what to do, waiting for some sign from the parents.
“How could this happen?” Bobby whispered. “He’s so beautiful.”
Dr. Samson cleared his throat to draw their attention and immediately looked apologetic. “Listen, Susan, and Bobby. I don’t know if this hurts or helps, but I know what went wrong.”
The couple said nothing, but spoke a thousand words in a shared glance.
The doctor cleared his throat again. “He, uh, well, it seems he tied a knot in his umbilical cord.” Somehow, the explanation seemed intrusive at that moment, and Dr. Samson looked to the nurses in the room for affirmation that he was doing the right thing by sharing this. “I just wanted you to know that you did nothing wrong. Perhaps it will help to remember that he died playing.”
Died playing. Susan loved that phrase, and she loved the image that it conjured. The son she knew so well, despite having never seen him, was a troublemaker, and secretly, that was the type of son she’d always wanted. A little boy who would test his boundaries and her patience every single day. A real boy. All boy.
Whose voice she’d never hear. Who’d never throw a temper tantrum, never score a soccer goal, and never cry in her arms over a lost love. The sadness came with the force of a collapsing wall, crushing her soul, and leaving her gasping for breath. How could Steven be dead when he was here in her arms? How could they tell her that this fine, handsome, beautiful little boy would never kiss her good-night?
The unfairness of it all was unspeakable, and that’s when the sobbing started. She had the sense that the air in the room had turned horribly stale, and as she fought for her breath, she was dimly aware of someone taking Steven away from her, even as she fought to hang on to him. Maybe if she offered to suckle him, he would quit this horrible, naughty game he was playing, and she heard a distant groaning sound from Bobby as she exposed her breast to her son and she tried to get him to eat.
“Oh, please, God, Susan, don’t do that. Not that. Please.”
That’s it, Stevie, that’s it. Just a little before your nap.
But no one would listen. She screamed at them, shrieked at them, yet no one would listen. They took him from her then hurried him off into another room as a nurse moved quickly to inject something into her IV line that made the pain dim and then finally go away.
It came back, though. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, the pain lived on, its edges just as sharp and jagged as they’d been six weeks ago. Susan prayed for the day that it would dim, if only just a little bit, or if only for a few minutes. She knew from her shrink and from her own reading that six weeks was nothing on the grief timetable, little more than an eye-blink, but she didn’t know how much
“I have him here, Susan,” the doctor said. “Would you like to see him?”
The horrific images she’d conjured in her mind loomed huge, and she wanted desperately to say no. Who in the world wants to look at a dead child? Who would even dream of saying yes to such a request?
But that’s exactly what she said.
Again, she watched Bobby for a sense of just how bad it would be, but as his features relaxed, so did she, though it still took her a long moment to turn her gaze toward her son.
He was the image of his father, with those thin lips and his wavy, dark hair. He wasn’t green and purple and bloated as he’d always been in her dreams, but instead looked like any other baby. Just so still. And silent. He even felt warm to her touch.
The atmosphere in the operating room thickened as the Martins said hello, and then good-bye, to their infant son. It was as if no one knew for sure what to do, waiting for some sign from the parents.
“How could this happen?” Bobby whispered. “He’s so beautiful.”
Dr. Samson cleared his throat to draw their attention and immediately looked apologetic. “Listen, Susan, and Bobby. I don’t know if this hurts or helps, but I know what went wrong.”
The couple said nothing, but spoke a thousand words in a shared glance.
The doctor cleared his throat again. “He, uh, well, it seems he tied a knot in his umbilical cord.” Somehow, the explanation seemed intrusive at that moment, and Dr. Samson looked to the nurses in the room for affirmation that he was doing the right thing by sharing this. “I just wanted you to know that you did nothing wrong. Perhaps it will help to remember that he died playing.”
Died playing. Susan loved that phrase, and she loved the image that it conjured. The son she knew so well, despite having never seen him, was a troublemaker, and secretly, that was the type of son she’d always wanted. A little boy who would test his boundaries and her patience every single day. A real boy. All boy.
Whose voice she’d never hear. Who’d never throw a temper tantrum, never score a soccer goal, and never cry in her arms over a lost love. The sadness came with the force of a collapsing wall, crushing her soul, and leaving her gasping for breath. How could Steven be dead when he was here in her arms? How could they tell her that this fine, handsome, beautiful little boy would never kiss her good-night?
The unfairness of it all was unspeakable, and that’s when the sobbing started. She had the sense that the air in the room had turned horribly stale, and as she fought for her breath, she was dimly aware of someone taking Steven away from her, even as she fought to hang on to him. Maybe if she offered to suckle him, he would quit this horrible, naughty game he was playing, and she heard a distant groaning sound from Bobby as she exposed her breast to her son and she tried to get him to eat.
“Oh, please, God, Susan, don’t do that. Not that. Please.”
That’s it, Stevie, that’s it. Just a little before your nap.
But no one would listen. She screamed at them, shrieked at them, yet no one would listen. They took him from her then hurried him off into another room as a nurse moved quickly to inject something into her IV line that made the pain dim and then finally go away.
It came back, though. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, the pain lived on, its edges just as sharp and jagged as they’d been six weeks ago. Susan prayed for the day that it would dim, if only just a little bit, or if only for a few minutes. She knew from her shrink and from her own reading that six weeks was nothing on the grief timetable, little more than an eye-blink, but she didn’t know how much
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