Small consolations

There's not much comfort for bereaved parents. But I have to say that when I was left alone on the labour and delivery floor after they took our baby George's body to the morgue and my husband left to break the news to our children that George had died, I kept thinking, "He went gently."

He died while I laboured and I didn't know.

But he went gently.

He died and he's not in my arms. He's not coming home.

But he went gently.

This isn't how it was supposed to be. It was a beautiful labour.

But he went gently.

Oh, the lamentation and shock of that first night. Remembering it now makes me shake. The next day, before my husband got the boys from school to come and meet their little brother and hold his body to say hello and good bye, I stared at the TV mindlessly. I wasn't really watching it. Then a story about a little girl named Tori abducted in Ontario came on the news and I watched, sobbing for her parents. This little elementary school girl was taken by a woman from her schoolyard and police felt now that this was a murder investigation. They were right, by the way. It is.

My boy went gently. He went gently.

I worked in a newsroom during the infamous Paul Bernado and Karla Homolka trials. I was far too junior to cover anything related to these horrendous cases, where a young couple abducted, tortured, and murdered young girls. But I sat near editors who talked over every single detail of the case, including parts that weren't allowed to be published but of which reporters were aware. It was dreadful. Awful. Too horrible for words what those girls went through in their final minutes on this earth. I cried for those young girls and their families then and think of them now, of other families of missing and hurt children, but now with the rawness of being a grieving mother myself.

George went gently. So gently that I had no idea his life had slipped away from us. He was surrounded by love. As I laboured in those early hours I smiled at my tummy through contractions and told him how excited everyone was going to be to meet him. I remember saying, as the rushes of contractions became stronger and I was in the shower, feeling him move gently in my womb, "Not too long now, little guy, till we meet face to face."

For nine months we had loved this little boy and he had been told countless times by us as we patted and rubbed and wondered at my growing belly. I treasure the Sunday I spent before he was born, resting with my daughter as we slept and talked to her unborn sibling as he moved and stretched within me.

A friend from high school I haven't spoken to since we were teenagers asked on Facebook if she could call me during the summer. Shontelle and I spoke that day for ages and she was such a comfort and has continued to be in this journey of grief. I didn't know, because I'm a military brat and moved every few years so I didn't grow up knowing Shontelle, that her next oldest brother disappeared when he was five and she was two. She and her other two brothers have grown up, and her parents have continued raising children and living day to day, never knowing what happened to their son Adrien. Nothing has ever been found and they don't know if he was lost and drowned or abducted. She understands grief and loss and I think often of her mother. An aged photograph of her brother was recently released and I hope and pray they do find out what happened to him. I can't imagine the horrible limbo of not knowing. Did he die as a young boy or is he out there in this world somewhere, a grown man of 42?

There is some comfort in knowing that my son died quietly and surrounded by love. I know where he is; his ashes are with us in our house until some day when my husband and I have our final resting place. Then George's earthly remains can join ours at that spot.

Yesterday was a hard day for me. It started off all right and then at kindergarten we parents were asked to help our children write the name of a deceased loved one in a special prayer book for them to remember as we've just had the feasts of All Saints and All Souls. It caught me off guard and I had to gulp back tears as I tremblingly wrote out George's name in the book. I kept it together when we said good bye to my kinder boy but I lost it by the time we got to the van.

I was trying to get my preschool daughter buckled into her seat and the tears were flowing when another mother I don't know well came up to offer me a pair of hand-me-down boy shoes. I couldn't hide that I was crying and she was so kind. I could barely speak I was crying so hard, I just managed to squeak out that since we're new to the city and school I didn't know if she knew that we'd lost a full-term baby boy in May but I was having a hard day.

She had this look of complete understanding. Her eyes filled and she whispered, "I know. It's hard. I lost a baby girl at seven months along in my pregnancy two years ago." She opened her arms and hugged me as we wept together. I cried as I haven't for weeks, sobbing and snorky (why oh why cannot I not cry without my nose pouring????). We talked a bit more, sharing our stories of loss as my wee girl listened, looking very sage for a little one of three, and the mother gave me her number. She also pointed out her sister-in-law across the parking lot who lost a baby boy last year.

I came home, still weepy and sad and sniffing. I told Mairi we would play on Poisson Rouge (Red Fish), which is a brilliant website for preschoolers full of art and pre-reading and pre-math and music and NO ADS. Our homepage is for CBC news and I immediately saw a story about Madeleine McCann, the little British girl abducted from Portugal. Her parents still don't know if she is alive or dead or where she is.

These images of missing and murdered children keep resurfacing, as if to remind me it could be worse. My heart aches for these poor children taken from loving families, and for their siblings and parents left behind wondering and sorrowing.

If I had to choose my circle of hell, I would stay as a babylost mumma because I know my son went gently and I know where he is. It's a small consolation, but it is a comfort knowing what I do know about my child's death. I cannot imagine the nightmare for the McCanns and other parents of missing children and I pray they find their girl soon.