My first Mother’s Day was in 2004. I anticipated sleepless nights and lots of happiness around the arrival of my first son, Adam, due in early May. Instead, there were potted plants and sympathy cards and a single white rose in a blue vase after my son was stillborn just before midnight on April 24.
I’d gone in for a regular 38 week checkup, and there was no heartbeat. It’s the only vist my husband didn’t attend, since we believed what everyone had said, “Once you’re through the first trimester, everything’s fine.” I went directly from the doctor’s office to the labor and delivery floor, where I had to start the process to deliver my baby who was not alive. The medical team started to induce my labor, but then had to stop once their attention shifted to some emergency C-sections. I was left to try to sleep, while around me women were delivering their living, breathing babies. In the morning, the induction process was started again.
After Adam was born, I was reluctant to hold him. Every day, I am thankful for the nurse who encouraged me to take him in my arms. Now I wish I had taken more time with him. He is the child who made me a mother, and yet celebrating Mother’s Day was the last thing on my mind that May. Read full post »