Peanut and the Rollercoaster
The death of a dream
Dan and I were blissfully happy, looking forward to the birth of our baby girl. It was my second marriage and first pregnancy. My former husband and I adopted three babies whom we adored. They were now 17, 13, and 11. This was Dan’s first marriage and first child. He rubbed my belly as he talked to the baby he called Peanut.
The pregnancy was uneventful until my water broke prematurely. Kaitlin Grace was born by c-section to minimize trauma to her 1 pound 12-ounce body. I saw her briefly before they whisked her away to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) in her incubator. I was on a gurney. We were at eye level. She was perfectly formed in miniature. Her arms and legs were as long as my fingers. I looked into her eyes and felt a power surge of love. She looked at me. I swear she smiled. Our souls embraced.
Katie was connected to wires and monitors. NICU staff hovered nearby. She was too fragile to be removed from the incubator, but Dan and I could reach inside and touch her. She wrapped her tiny hand around my finger as I alternately talked to her, sang to her, and prayed. There was no doubt that she would be fine. She had to be. She was our precious child.
Two days later, the doctor told us Katie suffered a brain bleed; her organs were failing; she was in pain; there was no remedy or hope. He recommended that we disconnect her from the machines. Dan and I agonized over the decision. We could not justify selfishly prolonging our dear baby’s pain.
Katie was brought into my room wrapped in a blanket. Other family members were there too. We took turns holding and loving her as she gradually let go of this life. When the nurse carried her body away, I felt a curtain of darkness descend.
As we headed for home the next day, I saw an empty peanut shell stuck under one of our windshield wipers. It was not there when we arrived. The irony cut deep. My anger grew as we drove home. People on the streets acted as if nothing had happened. Our whole world was upside down.
Family and friends were totally supportive, but had no idea what we were going through. Some tried to console us by saying God needed a little angel. Others said we could have another baby. The thought that God gave us Katie, then arbitrarily took her away made me sadder. The idea that another child could replace her hurt even more.
The kids were hurting too. It was unusually quiet at home. The boys had stopped fighting. Our daughter was heartbroken. She looked forward to caring for her baby sister and not being the baby anymore. I was a mess. Physical pain from the c-section was a welcome distraction from the emotional pain.
Dan returned to work the day after the funeral. He was comforter-in-chief for the whole family. His arms were my safe place. Laughing and joking with the kids helped hide his pain.
I was off work for two months. Tears rolled down my cheeks the first day back. A coworker said, “Aren’t you over that yet?” I felt ashamed for being out of control.
Dan and I were invited to a support group meeting. We were hesitant to go. Pain overruled reluctance. We sat silently as other parents spoke and cried openly about their dead children. There was no judgment, no expectation, no requirement to speak. Everyone seemed to have a mixture of feelings: angry, frantic, empty, depressed, scared. We were like a battle-weary troop of soldiers in a foreign land, living minute to minute — -not knowing what to expect, fighting a hopeless war against our own emotions.
What a blessing to discover that grieving is normal, not crazy or inappropriate, and there are no rules. It is a rollercoaster ride that may last months, years, a lifetime. Sharing difficult feelings with others who can truly empathize made all the difference. There was an overwhelming sense of relief, like exhaling after holding your breath for a long time.
Our support group had its own library. I read books detailing the grief journeys of other parents. One author recommended writing down every aspect of the tragedy from the first inkling that something was wrong until the end. I hadn’t slept well due to replaying it over and over in my head. Was there something I could have done to save Katie? Writing it down allowed me to review actions taken. The final analysis released guilt.
We attended meetings for a year hoping to find magic words that would eliminate our pain. There were none. The most uplifting words came from our minister: “God is weeping with you.” It took quite a while for that message to sink in.
It is amazing that a tiny being who lived only two days could change life so profoundly. I’ve had 30 years to reflect on that awful maze of grief. Conclusion: Time truly is the best healer. Scars may remain. Grief takes as long as it takes. I am grateful for the family, friends, and strangers whose love guided us through the storm.
I think of Katie and gaze beyond a broken peanut shell to sense the whole, hidden Peanut … until we meet again.
