On my babies dying.

I left a private note on a diary here of someone I used to read; someone I used to know, but someone who is a literal stranger.  Some say “something must have happened” but I’m not so sure.  Does it really matter?  Does some break with reality mean that the person isn’t responsible for what they say and think?

(No. Not really.)

Once I finished it and screen shot it, I thought about it.

I could have edited it, but I didn’t.

I regretted

not.

one.

word.

It was cruel and it was nasty (well….there’s that) but it was true.  My reputation of a foul mouthed sailor stands strong.  Sometimes there are people who are pure, sick, pieces of shit. I know a few of them, and sometimes I have to tell them that.  Sometimes, I need some time to process and then – bingo.  Yup.  Got it.

I was asked today, “Did you regret what you said?”

No.  No I did not.

I was asked yesterday, “Do you regret what happened to your babies who died?”

No.  No I do not.

I was asked today, “Do you wish they were here?”

It was an odd question.  How does one choose one child over another?  If my baby boys had lived, I wouldn’t have had the family I have now; the four children – some from foreign countries through adoption.  I would have probably had three children.  My two boys, perhaps another child, and that would have been it.

Because my babies died, I was able to carve out a life of substance, with experiences I am often quite proud of.  I was able to spend some time counseling women who had also lost children when I was certified as a bereavement counselor.

Because my babies died, I learned more about the meaning of life.  ‘

Because my babies died, I learned what true acceptance is.

Because my babies died, I learned about deep beauty, indescribable pain, and the real meaning of legacy.

I am sure I could have learned those lessons without my babies dying.  And it is not a zero-sum comparison.  In other words, my babies dying is not “worth” those lessons.  It doesn’t work that way.  Those lessons and gifts exist, I believe, because God can turn all things into good things.  Even horrible things.

I know I am who I am because my sons were born, and loved, and they died.

The idea of guilt; someone asked me that today.  “Do you feel any guilt that your babies died?”

It’s a terribly common question; it’s one I have sat and counseled women and couples with before.

The answer, now, ten years later?  No.  I have no guilt.  None.

My faith teaches me that what happened to them was meant to happen.  That nothing I did or would have done differently would have changed what happened.  And even if I didn’t have faith, I have science and medicine and intelligence that informs my view.  It is view shared almost universally by doctors and neonatologists and other health professionals.  I made a brave choice to meet my children and say goodbye to them.  There was no chance to save them.  Shoving them full of tubes and medicine just to make myself feel better would have been selfish, wrong, and fruitless.  I realize some people struggle with that understanding and I respect that.  It doesn’t make it any less true, though.

I still remember my doctor, two weeks after I delivered, who held my hand and said, “Your boys were surrounded by love from the moment they were born until they died.  How many people can say that?”

I am grateful that I knew my sons, that I held them in my arms, that I loved them, and that my life was forever changed because they were born.

I am equally grateful that I have my father’s brain, my mother’s mouth, and enough sense to call out worthless vile cunts when I see them.

#byefelicia