I remember the weeks before. I remember calling the social worker repeatedly to get the latest update from birth mom's doctor appointments. Was she dilating at all? What was Corbin's heart rate? Is birth mom staying healthy? how many packs of cigarettes is she smoking a day? (WHAT? 3 packs a day? Can't anyone stop her? Can't anyone get through to her? This is my baby she is hurting, don't I have a say??) I remember being so upset that I wasn't allowed to go to any of the appointments, that I wasn't able to see an ultrasound picture. That I wasn't able to hear his heartbeat for myself. All of these things that would have meant so much now that he is gone....
I will never forget that day. I was in the shower when I heard my phone ring. Knowing the birth mom was so close to her due date a phone call at 6am was sure to be "that call" to tell us to rush down - our son was about to be born. I flew out of the shower, but missed the call. I called back immediately, the lady that answered the phone has a voice that is forever engraved in my memory. I said who I was, and that I just missed her call - "Is she in labor?" I was so excited. I heard the lady take in a deep breath and I said "what's wrong?". She said, "I'm sorry, your son no longer has a heart beat." I remember sitting down quickly just saying "what" a few times. She was crying, I was sobbing. She explained to me the events of the previous days, and night that led to birth mom going to the hospital at 4am. She said she was so sorry. She asked if there was anything she could do. No, what could anyone do at that point. The proverbial rug (or, maybe more aptly the proverbial world flipped over- I don't think a rug quite covers the extent to what this situation caused) was just pulled out - I didn't know how to continue breathing, let alone what the next step was.
I hung up my phone and just sobbed, then I realized I would have to call Trent and tell him, and my mom, and my sister, and work, and friends.......even if you've never lost a child I am sure the enormity of that responsibility is palpable. I called Trent first, he didn't even know what to do (not that I did), but he actually said "I need to come home then right?" That was how much shock he was in. He couldn't even find an answer to such a simple question. He just cried and hung up the phone. Then I realized he too had people to tell. For goodness sake - he was sitting at his desk, surrounded by co-workers when I called. I cried for him too. Then calling my mom and sister was heartbreaking. To tell a Grandma and the world's best Auntie that their grandson and nephew was dead. I wasn't even present for those phone calls. I cried and cried. I cannot remember what they said. I just remember their tears, their cracking voices, their pain - pain caused by news I had to share. It was too much. I curled up on my bathroom floor and heaved until there was nothing left. Then i crawled over to my closet and cried laying on the floor on a stack of folded towels. I remember hearing the children start to stir. The thought of facing them seemed insurmountable. The thought of having to tell them seemed too much, so I didn't. I called day care and told her - said I would still bring the kids, but we'd be late. I called a friend at work, asked her to tell my boss and co-workers. I remember saying, I cannot face everyone. I remember thinking, I cannot handle telling more people. I cannot handle being present to see and hear more hearts aching. I cannot handle other people's emotions right now.... I cannot even handle my own. I called a few friends and left messages, strangely thankful at each person that didn't answer, 1 less reaction I had to hear.
The next few hours were spent getting the kids to their various places so that they could go on with their day. They knew something was up with mom and dad - but we weren't ready to break their little hearts yet. We sat at home for a few hours before we had the go-ahead from social services to go down and at least meet him when he was finally born. We drove down. I remember picking out clothes for him to wear, a blanket for him. I felt the need to do 'mother things' with him. The drive down was beyond horrible. Trent and I cried and cried. It was raining very hard and I remember not being able to see the road well. I remember wondering if I couldn't see the road because of the rain or my tears. I remember being thankful that Trent was driving. My stomach being in knots doesn't even begin to describe what i felt like. I felt like at any moment I might start vomiting again. I remember telling Trent several times to pull over - he just calming told me to breathe, I would be okay.
I remember sitting in an empty birthing room waiting for Corbin to be born. I just kept thinking how things should have been so different. How we should have been giddy with excitement. How we would have had smiles from ear to ear waiting for him...... Then the door opened. A nurse wheeled in one of those little baby beds, the ones from the nursery - the ones that hold those sweet little plump pink faces. This one held a very dark colored, very still and cold baby. I rushed over to him and picked him up just holding him to my chest, my tears streaking his face and arms. I remember going straight to the rocking chair and singing him twinkle twinkle. Telling him all about his siblings. I closed my eyes over and over drinking in the smell of him, feeling the weight of him in my arms - knowing that I would ache to feel that weight in the coming years. I remember seeing the look on Trent's face, seeing that he too wanted to hold his son. I selfishly wanted every second with Corbin, I didn't want to share him, I didn't want to let go. I handed him over to Trent who just rocked him and sobbed.
I remember wanting to check out all of his little fingers and toes. They were all perfect, everything was perfect. The doctor came in to tell us he was sorry and that he hadn't yet found any cause of death, his cord and placenta were fine. Then I remember the nurse saying it was time. Time to say goodbye. How does a mother do that? I struggled to not just start screaming as I had to hand him over, to place him gently in his little bed, to watch him be wheeled away forever. Never to see that sweet little face again. I still have nightmares about those moments, it was beyond any describing words I can grasp at this point. To have to physically let go was sickening. To have to drive back home without him - but with the smell of him permeating our skin. I didn't wash those clothes for months. I just had them folded in the corner of my closet, I would just go sit with them and smell him. To this day, I have never worn that outfit again. I have worn each item separately and that is hard enough. This may sound silly - but it puts me right back in that birthing room, writhing in pain, my eyes burning with tears of anger and sadness. My heart breaking for Corbin, Trent, our children and myself. It is more than I can handle at times...I have thought back on that day each and every day since. I think I always will. It is my physical connection to him, it was our only time in each others presence - even though he wasn't there.
We celebrated Corbin's birthday by having dognuts and cupcakes for breakfast. We talked about him a lot, we always do - but this time of year we talk about him more. We sang happy birthday to him. The kids had some great questions.
"Is Corbin 2 in Heaven, or is he still a baby?"
"Who will help Corbin blow out his candles?"
"Do the Angels sing him happy birthday, or does God?"
I told them what I'd like to think was happening for Corbin's birthday in Heaven. They didn't seem satisfied with my answers. They wanted to have him here for his birthday. "Can't he just come down for his birthday and then go back to Heaven?" Man, wouldn't that be great if that could happen....
Happy Birthday Corbin. I think of you all the time. I miss you more than I ever thought possible. I cannot believe you would be 2, so hard to imagine what you'd be like these days. I dream every day of the day I will be able to hold you in my arms again. Save me a spot in Heaven buddy, until then, keep watching over us as I know you do. I love you Corbin.
Love, Mommy
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