Brendan: A Story of Infant Loss
Written by Colleen H
Everyone has “that” question. The one that makes them cringe inside and wish it were socially acceptable to abruptly turn and leave a conversation. It can be something as minor as “What’s that smell?” to a kid with stinky breath or something as heavy as “Where’s your mom?” to someone whose mom has died. In my case, I am brought to my emotional knees every time someone looks at our two girls and says, “Think you’ll try for a boy?”
Our second baby was the definition of a surprise. It took years to get pregnant with our first, so we were floored to find out I was pregnant again when she was only 7 months old and I was still exclusively breastfeeding. We were completely overwhelmed at first, but slowly the idea of two under two became exciting. We imagined two little toddler best friends, or occasional worst enemies, and we fell in love with the idea of our family growing yet again.
I am brought to my emotional knees every time someone looks at our two girls and says, “Think you’ll try for a boy?”
I distinctly remember the day of my anatomy scan. I have a video of my husband tickling our daughter before we left for my appointment and I always watch it and think, “This is such a clear example of ‘The Before Times.’” Our babysitter came over to watch our daughter while my husband and I went to the appointment. We had a friendly bet that whomever guessed the baby’s sex could pick where we’d have lunch afterward. I was absolutely positive we were having a boy and I was determined to have Chipotle for lunch. The ultrasound technician confirmed that baby was a boy, but I remember getting nervous about how quiet she was. She wasn’t pointing out various body parts as she took pictures. Then we had to sit for a while in the waiting room before the doctor was ready for us. I turned to my husband and said, “I think something is wrong. They wouldn’t make us wait this long if everything was normal.”
When we finally were brought back to a room, the meeting was fairly abrupt. The doctor said there was something wrong with our son’s brain and heart; I will never forget her saying, “This is so far above my skill set. You need a specialist as soon as possible.” Less than twenty-four hours later, I was in the office of a maternal fetal medicine (MFM) specialist, getting my first of oh-so-many ultrasounds. Those could only tell us so much. It wasn’t until after an MRI, an amniocentesis, and additional detailed ultrasounds, that we learned more.
“This is so far above my skill set. You need a specialist as soon as possible.”
In short, our son, Brendan, had a large amount of birth defects. The doctors were amazed that I hadn’t miscarried him during the first trimester, but our stubborn boy had other ideas. The most troublesome issues were with his heart; his defect was “incompatible with life” and could only be fixed by a heart transplant. Due to his other health issues, he wouldn’t be a candidate for that procedure. Our son was going to die, and there was nothing anyone could do to help him.
Armed with this information, we started to plan as best we could. We were working with a lot of unknowns (when exactly Brendan would arrive, if he would make it through delivery alive, etc.), but we knew our goal was to meet Brendan alive and to spend as much time with him as we could. Weekly ultrasounds with the MFM helped us keep a close eye on him and discuss different birth options.
One of the most difficult parts of my pregnancy with Brendan was that, from the outside, everything looked fine. People see a pregnant lady and assume that, eventually, she gets to bring that baby in her belly home in a few months. The cashier at Target made jokes about how I’d have my hands full and old ladies at the grocery store told me how happy I’d be to have two children close together. I sobbed in the car every day after running errands; every interaction was a reminder of the future we weren’t going to have.
As with just about everything about this pregnancy, our boy had his own plans. At my 32 week ultrasound, we discovered that my fluid levels had dropped dangerously low. Our MFM told me that if we wanted to meet Brendan alive, we needed to induce labor that day. I walked across the medical complex in a daze and went to labor and delivery while on the phone with my husband and our babysitter and also texting family that Brendan was on his way. I remember praying fervently that Brendan would be born alive. All I wanted was the opportunity to tell him how much I loved him and how sorry I was for everything. I wanted to tell him that he deserved so much better than what he was getting and I hated that I couldn’t fix this for him.
The physical aspect of labor was pretty uneventful. They induced me and gave me an epidural. I think the anesthesiologist felt bad for me; he knew he couldn’t help me emotionally so he did his best to spare me any physical pain with labor. Regardless of his reasoning, I couldn’t move my legs for hours, even after Brendan had arrived. The afternoon dragged on while we watched TV and coordinated things with friends watching our daughter and family coming into town. We slept on and off overnight. As with our first baby, it took forever to progress to 5cm dilated and then the last five centimeters happened in forty-five minutes. Three pushes later, our baby boy entered the world.
All I wanted was the opportunity to tell him how much I loved him and how sorry I was for everything.
The emotional side of giving birth to Brendan was the biggest contradiction of my life. I have never experienced more emotions in my life: anxiety, joy, anger, fear, helplessness. Doctors and nurses were constantly coming in and out of the room to check on all three of us. We were asked time and time again to confirm that we knew Brendan wouldn’t make it and that they were only able to provide “comfort care” for him. Repeatedly giving your permission to doctors to let your child die is a special kind of hell that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Even though I knew there was nothing we could do for him, it went against every fiber of my being as a mother to let this happen.
When Brendan was born, he let out the cutest little squawk/gasp. I got my wish; our strong, stubborn boy had made it. The doctors immediately put him on my chest and I said hello to my son. I told him how sorry I was that this happened to him and how he deserved all of the good things in the world. One of the pediatric residents knelt beside me and whispered, “I am so very sorry, but you have nothing to apologize for; you are a wonderful mother and he is so lucky to have you.”
We tried our best to make the most of our time with Brendan, despite already being completely lost in grief. On his way to the hospital, my husband stopped by our church and snagged some holy water from the baptismal font in a water bottle. We wanted Brendan to be baptized with the same water as his big sister. We baptized him right there in the delivery room while a nurse took pictures. We sang him our favorite lullabies and dressed him in the going home outfit that his big sister also wore. We pored over every inch of him to take in all of the details: his impossibly long fingers, his brown curly hair, his tiny ears, and his giant feet.
“I’m sorry, Mom and Dad. His heart isn’t beating anymore. He’s gone.”
The staff were wonderful and gave us space and time to be with him; a nurse would come in every thirty minutes or so to check if Brendan’s heart was still beating. After a few hours, she put her stethoscope around her neck and gently said, “I’m sorry, Mom and Dad. His heart isn’t beating anymore. He’s gone.”
The rest of our time in the hospital is a blur. Brendan stayed with us in our room thanks to a wonderful cooling cot that kept his body from going through the natural changes of death. My in-laws and my brother’s family brought our daughter to meet her little brother and our photographer (who has since become a family friend) came to take the only pictures we will ever have of the four of us. It may sound completely bizarre to take pictures with our dead baby, but those are the most priceless things I own. When your child dies, all you want is evidence that they were here and that they lived; those pictures are my proof. I can see our daughter poke her brother and my husband hold our son. He was here, he was beautiful, and he was so overwhelmingly loved.
Throughout my pregnancy with Brendan and many times afterward, people made comments along the lines of “I can’t imagine going through that” or “I don’t know how you did it.” Well, first off, you can imagine, but it’s such a terrible and gut wrenching event that even imagining it can make a person feel sick or panicked, so you don’t want to. That’s fine, I get it, but let’s not pretend that it’s unimaginable. And as for how I did it, it’s like any part of parenthood: you just do. Your child needs you and you rise to the occasion because you have no other choice. I knew I was going to have very few chances to be there for Brendan, and I was adamant that I wouldn’t let him down.
I don’t love my kids more than any other mom, but it is a different, more desperate kind of love.
Becoming Brendan’s mom changed me. I don’t worry about too many cookies after dinner, but I am anxious about keeping my kids in sight and knowing that they’re safe. I don’t love my kids more than any other mom, but it is a different, more desperate kind of love. The worst has already happened to us and I know it could happen again, so it’s hard to sweat the small stuff.
Two years and another baby later, here we are. We’re now a family of five, although most people don’t realize it. Our oldest dotes on her baby sister and proudly says that she has a brother AND a sister to anyone who asks. She loves to visit her little brother at the cemetery and get her beloved “doh-dohs” from the donut house afterward. We have pictures of Brendan around the house and we talk about him often. We celebrate his birthday every year, his stocking hangs with everyone else’s at Christmas and we paint a pumpkin for him at Halloween. My husband and I have good days and bad days; life keeps us very busy, which helps, but occasionally we have days where grief is like sandbags on our chests making it hard to breathe.
We remind ourselves that every day we experience with our girls is a gift, and every day that we make it through gets us one day closer to seeing our boy again.
