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Reflecting On the Loss of a Child 7 Years Later

As the seven year anniversary of my second son’s birth approaches I look back on it with bittersweet memories. Lukas Kevin was born on June 18, 2002 and he passed away sixteen days later on July 4th.   He was born perfect and healthy. During my five days at the hospital he had contracted viral meningitis but didn’t show symptoms until the day after we were released from the hospital. We rushed him to a children’s hospital. Luke never left that children’s hospital. Over the next 11 days the meningitis virus did irreversible heart and brain damage.

As I look back on Luke’s birth and pregnancy, I have some funny memories.  I fondly recall lying on my pregnant stomach as I clumsily reached for fallen pacifiers under my first son’s bed.  I remember driving myself to the hospital while in labor.  I remember joking with the hospital nurses and laughing a lot the night Luke was born. I remember being happy. I rarely share these memories because all that happened afterwards makes people uncomfortable.

 I think of Luke everyday, many times a day.  However, the thoughts are fleeting, and quick.  They don’t consume me as they did the first few months or even years after he died. However, there is not a day that goes by that I do not remember that I had a child, and that child is not here. Sometimes, unexpectedly, my emotions will overcome me. For instance, I brought my first grade class to an assembly before Christmas last year given by Children’s Mercy Hospital. When I saw the slideshow of pictures from the Ronald McDonald House, I was unable to stay.  However, as the years roll by, instances like this have become the exception, where they used to be the norm.  I am always aware of Luke and my loss of him but I am no longer consumed by it.

The best way I can describe my grief over the years is to use the analogy of an onion.   During those painful days in June and July of 2002 every time my son’s health would take a turn for the worse I felt like a part of my soul was being ripped away.

I tortured myself with unanswerable questions. Why didn’t I take better care of myself? I asked myself if I could have prevented Luke from contracting meningitis. I recalled with horror how I decided that it was time to take him off the life support machine. I questioned how a good, selfless mother could make such a decision. I dwelled on the memory of driving home from the hospital the day he died. We stopped to pump gas and stood outside the car looking at the empty infant carrier in the back.

My husband and I spoke at his funeral. Friends and family have asked how we were able to do that. The answer is simple. We did it because it was the only thing we would ever be able to do for him.

 By the time, the funeral was over my soul was raw and without layers. By layers, I mean pretenses, prejudices, all that made sense in the world.  Nothing pre-Luke mattered, I thought about quitting my job, selling my house, I littered my house with literature on grief. I was consumed by all things concerning life and death. I recall staring at blades of grass and thinking about how they were a living being. I had nagging pains in my legs. I had a hard time taking care of my first son, who was just two years old.

 I was vulnerable and raw and I spoke my mind plainly and forcefully. In fact, I was not always very nice. Upon hearing about the birth of a new niece in the family, I knocked over a statue of the Blessed Mother and kicked her in the head. I sent a scathing e-mail to a friend who sent me one of those pass-it-on prayer chains.  I did not mince words, I said whatever I felt.

 In those early days of grief, I also felt loved by my friends and family in a way that I had never felt before. The kindness, generosity and sympathy of the community in which I lived and worked were incredible. I found that I was less judgmental and more accepting of people’s opinions and differences.

 I liked my new ability to just look at the good in people, not dwell on their faults. I also liked my new found candor. It felt great to blurt out whatever I was thinking or feeling.

Luke made me a better person. However, I refuse to believe that was his purpose though. I don’t like being told that everything happens for a reason. There was no reason for my son to endure that horrible disease. It just happened and if you are foolish enough to use that platitude on me I will make use of my sharp tongue.

Over the last seven years I must admit that my onion layers have grown back. People annoy me, petty chores get on my nerves, I complain about the amount of laundry. However, I see my children as my greatest gifts and love them fiercely. I approach my students with a gentler heart than ever before. Thanks to Luke I have a wisdom that I never wanted or expected, but appreciate anyway.
 

Every year as June approaches I feel a slight nagging depression. It stays until after the 4th of July and then lifts. Every year at this time painful memories come to the surface and I allow myself to wallow in sadness for just a bit. 

Lucky for me, I have my love and my greatest supporter to pull me through these sad days. My husband Keith knows in an instant when I’m thinking about Luke. He can sense it. We talk honestly and openly about our loss and regret. The loss of Luke solidified our relationship. We clung to each other through the experience and cared for one another afterwards. Over the years, we have been able to get through all other challenges.  We know that if we could survive the loss of a child, that we can endure anything.

 Every year we keep busy during these 16 days and we hug and laugh with our children. Our favorite expression is that we “marinate” them in love.  My husband and I feel that is important for our two surviving children to know that they had a brother. We talk about him occasionally and we try to commemorate his birthday each year with something simple such as a picnic. We have the video of his birth and every few years, if our children ask, we will show it to them.

 You never get over losing a child. The pain and loss are a part of you for life. However, you keep living, laughing and loving your family.

Written by Laurie Marenco Kremer in memory of her son Lukas Kevin.
June 18, 2009- Luke’s 7th Birthday

Linda's story: the tragedy of stillbirth

hi my name is linda i am 31 yrs old i fell pregnant for the first time with a person i love dearly. all through the pregnancy everything went fine the baby was healthy good heart beat and all i was due on may 30 2009 which is not too long ago i lost a beautiful little baby boy who went by the name of nathan william smith cassidy i was at 39 weeks of labour i delivered him natural he was still born on may 29 at 2:10 a.m. in the morning i do miss all the time he was living and moving inside me now the toughest part for me and my boyfriend and family is still too come the funeral of our little boy which i didnt choose the date yet but will be soon me and my boyfriend are deeply heart broken and in sorrow we miss our son dearly we got the chance too see him we both kissed him and held him closely in our arms. we will never forget him and will always love him forever so dearly in our hearts he died from an umbilical cord accident a knot had formed so the only thing we tell ourselves now is life goes on but will we ever get over this god only knows the answer too that so thats my story i sure hope this could help any mother out there who has witnessed a nightmare like we did ... linda and john june/3/2009

Laughter heals…Don’t Give Up!

I wanted to draw the attention of readers to Christa's excellent site www.giggleon.com. She has also written a great article about way to remember your lost loved ones:

Have you lost a loved one?

What action have you taken to honor their memory and their life?

How do you keep the love you shared with them alive?

Whether your loved one died of natural causes, disease or even by suicide, survivors, mourners and the grief stricken look for ways to keep the memory of those who passed alive. Honoring them is an important part of the healing process

Carry on reading at http://www.giggleon.com/remembering-lost-loved-ones/

Thoughts on the five stages of grief

Once again a reminder that not everyone goes through these five stages of grief. They are responses that many people have, but there is no typical response to loss, just as there is no typical loss. Our grief is as individual as our lives.

Remember that each death or major loss you experience will be different than the others. The stages of grief may be partially absent or may last longer or be shorter depending on the relationship held with the deceased. There is no "schedule" for grieving your loss. The wonderful thing about being a part of the human experience is that we are all different in the way we perceive the world, each other, and ourselves!

The five stages of grief: Stage 5 - Acceptance

According to Kübler-Ross, the fifth stage of grief is acceptance. This is often confused with the notion of being alright or OK with what has happened, but this is not the case. Most people don't ever feel OK or alright about the loss of a loved one, and that is quite normal. This stage is about accepting the reality that our loved one is physically gone and recognizing that this new reality is the permanent reality.

Acceptance is not about liking a situation. It is about acknowledging all that has been lost and learning to live with that loss. Gradually, in your own time, you begin to find some peace with what has happened. We learn to live with it. It is the new norm with which we must learn to live, and according to Kübler-Ross this is where our final healing and adjustment can take a firm hold, despite the fact that healing often looks and feels like an unattainable state. This stage is where the bereaved begin to feel better and return to a normal life – or at least a new normality. In acceptance there is healing because in acceptance, there is reality. Death is the final reality of life.