I couldn’t bear to stay in the hospital any longer. After losing my son, Leo, I urgently requested to be discharged, even a day ahead of schedule, and my midwives kindly obliged. My relatives quickly gathered our belongings and met us back in the NICU, sparing us the painful walk back to the room that should have been filled with my newborn’s cries and tender moments.
How could I face that room? The space where I envisioned taking Leo’s first photos, counting his diaper changes, and cherishing those quiet breastfeeding sessions. Instead, I was filled with a sense of disbelief and profound sorrow as I left the hospital, witnessing other mothers wheeled to their cars with balloons and gifts, their babies cradled in their arms. But for us, there was only emptiness.
As we drove home, my husband and I were enveloped in a heavy silence. I had been surrounded by loved ones for hours, but returning to our home felt like stepping into a void that should have been filled with the sounds of a hungry newborn. The moment I crossed the threshold, I instructed my husband to close Leo’s door. I didn’t want to face that reality again. But there, in the living room, was his swing, still unopened. “Get that out of sight!” I cried to my husband, who quickly tucked it away.
More and more family members arrived to offer their support. They cried with us and sat in silence, sharing in our grief. But my other children were still away. How would I explain to my five- and three-year-old about their baby brother’s passing? Would they understand? Would they blame me? The fear of them forgetting about Leo, of never mentioning his name, loomed over me.
After everyone left and the quiet enveloped us, my eldest son, Max, sat at the kitchen table. I was surprised he hadn’t asked about Leo yet. I wrestled with the right moment to tell him, especially since I worried most about how he would process this loss. I considered that perhaps they would simply forget that I was pregnant, that they were supposed to have a baby brother.
But then the fear struck me; they must know that Leo existed. So, I took a deep breath and said, “Hey buddy, do you notice anything different about mommy?” His face lit up, “Your belly isn’t big anymore! That means you had Leo! But where is he, Mama?”
“Remember how you saw mommy praying for Leo at night?” I asked, recalling our nightly routine where he would kiss my belly and say a prayer.
“Yes!” he replied eagerly. I had never told him that Leo was sick. I let him have those moments, and I cherished that.
“Well, Leo was sick, and he needed to go home to God.” Each word felt like shards of glass as I spoke them. It was surreal, standing there, facing my confused five-year-old.
Then came the question I wasn’t prepared for. “But mommy, you were supposed to take him home so I can hug him and kiss him!” The weight of his words crushed me. All I managed to say was, “I’m sorry, buddy.”
“Leo died, mommy? Why? Why did Leo die?” My three-year-old, Sam, joined in, echoing Max’s questions. Overwhelmed, I confirmed their fears and fled upstairs to escape the tears. Leaning against the wall, I slid down until I reached the floor, desperate for grounding.
I sobbed uncontrollably. Moments later, I heard the patter of little feet as they rushed up the stairs. “Don’t cry, mama,” Max said gently. “But it’s okay if you do, mommy, if you cry for Leo.” Sam climbed onto my lap, touching my face softly, “You sad, mama?”
In that moment, I realized that I couldn’t hide my grief from my children. They needed to know about their brother and understand that it was okay to feel sad. Life is unpredictable; some days I would be their comfort, and other days, they would comfort me.
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