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Butterfly: Stillbirth and Adoption

A story of stillbirth and adoption but not in that order.

By Heather DownPublished 4 years ago 7 min read
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I AM NOT A NATURAL hugger. It just isn’t in my nature. I respect and adore personal space, and I loathe those awkward moments when I don’t know what is the most socially acceptable course of action. Is now a good time to shake someone’s hand; or is a pat on the shoulder better; or is a hug what is called for? It is actually a standing joke among my closest friends. I remember when, after an extremely long run with our local run-club members, one guy decided to give each and every one of our sweaty crew a hug. Apparently, my expression gave my inner disdain away, and my two friends who witnessed the event couldn’t stop laughing.

First Step

It is almost ten o’clock at night when I drop my daughter-in-law off, and my son greets us at the car door in the parking lot outside their four-storey apartment building.

“Hi,” I say. “How are you doing?”

He is stepping side to side, glancing left and right, his agitation palpable.

“Not good. I left work today. I had to walk away or I don’t know what I would have done.”

His speech is punctuated with expletives.

“What happened?” I ask.

“It’s my supervisor. I can’t stand the guy. Honestly, I thought I was going to punch him. I don’t want to lose my job, and I don’t want to go to jail for assault.”

“Walk me through it,” I say, trying to get a better feel for what happened. My son works solely on commission at a furniture shop.

“My numbers are down, and they called me in for a meeting. They asked me what was going on, and I said that I am having a bad time, a bad day...”

I know what he is talking about. On one hand, I am sad, as I know why he is having a difficult time, yet on the other hand, something inside me stirs to life as I realize at least he is talking, which is the first step.

“What did your supervisor say?”

“He said, ‘We all have bad days, I have a bad day, so-and-so has a bad day.’”

“Oh. He should not have said that. I am so sorry.”

“Mom, he has no idea. None. I’m not talking my-wife-is-pissed-off-at-me-because-I-didn’t-take-the-garbage-out bad day...I held my dead child in my arms. That’s not something you can just get over. I am depressed. Potential customers walk in and I literally run away from them. I can’t handle the depression in addition to the stress of work. It’s just too much.”

“I agree. It’s a lot, Jason. Are you talking to anybody?”

Grief

It had been six months since the stillbirth; the ominous butterfly donning the name tag on their hospital birthing-room. Twenty-two weeks; their second such loss. The first was earlier along and deemed a miscarriage, but when a woman gets beyond nineteen weeks, it is different. This was an eight-hour labour and a beautifully formed little boy with perfect features. I watched my son hold his own lifeless son,

Jaymison. It didn’t seem real, and in some ways, still doesn’t. I held him, too. So many arrangements, but not the ones they were planning on. Baby showers, decorating the nursery, and purchasing a crib were replaced with death certificate, body pickup, cremation, and funeral home visits.

Jason had been the perfect husband, holding the baby first until Mirada warmed to the idea. He knew she would regret it if she didn’t. He looked after her as best he could, but he didn’t—or couldn’t—talk. Not to her, not to anyone. Until he was ready to talk. Until the crack in the armour was too big to mask with the metaphorical dingy duct tape he was hoping would work. Until today.

~

“I can’t do it. I can’t work and deal with this. I am not sleeping. At all. For months.”

“Of course, Jason. Of course. Let’s get you to the doctor and figure out how we can help you. You are going to have to talk in order to process this trauma.”

“I know.” He pauses. “I am ready.”

And with that I drive home, my mind wandering back almost twenty-five years.

Adoption

When I was twenty-six years old, I was an elementary school teacher at a small country school. I taught Grades 7 and 8 and wasn’t much of a fan of the younger students. One day, while I was on yard supervision, an eight-year-old boy went rushing past me into a restricted area where they were digging up the old septic system. It wasn’t safe.

“Get back here!” I yelled in my most authoritative voice. Didn’t matter. The wiry blond boy ignored me and dodged and ducked his way around mounds of dirt. He alluded my chase.

I was furious. When the bell went, I marched into the vice-principal’s office and told her to get that kid down to the office NOW!

“Calm down, Heather,” she said as she put her hand on my shoulder.

I thought she was being condescending until she continued, “He and his two sisters have just come back from court. Their parents relinquished their rights and they are Crown wards. They are up for adoption.”

I am floored...and totally, utterly in love. Six months later, I had three beautiful children. Talk about taking your work home with you! Jason, my son, is the oldest.

Being Believed

Jason can’t get in to see his own doctor right away, so I take him to a local clinic the next day. We wait, and wait, and wait some more, making small talk and passing time.

A nurse calls us into the exam room. She is so pleasant and helpful.

“Ah, I see you have my sons’ names. I have one son with your first name and another with your second.”

Serendipitous, indeed.

“What brings you here?”

“I can’t function at work, and it is so stressful. I am depressed. We had a stillbirth, and I held my dead child...”

He continues to leak out his story, one little detail at a time. It is difficult to watch your child, even if he is thirty-four years old, in so much pain. I do my best, but tears periodically escape my left, then right eye in random and unpredictable patterns.

“You certainly have reason to be depressed, Jason. You have experienced a very traumatic event, one that not a lot of people have experienced.”

Then he delivers the crux of his worry. “I can’t deal with the stress of the loss and the stress of work at the same time. I need time to get better, but I don’t want to be fired. I can’t cope with that financial stress and what I am going through at the same time.”

The nurse replies with words I’ll never forget—the words that will change my hug aversion for life: “They can’t fire you for being sick.”

His demeanor changes instantly and so does mine. Being believed, being acknowledged, and knowing that others realize that mental health is just that—health—is affirming. Just like physical health, mental health consists of wellness and sickness.

I don’t remember much else that happens after that. A doctor comes in; a letter for work is written. Somehow time passes while I remain vaguely aware of my surroundings.

Upon leaving, I see the nurse by the front desk. I don’t even remember her name. I do not question social norms or appropriateness or hesitate in any manner. I just find myself involuntarily enveloping her completely in my arms and whispering, “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

~

This story first appeared in the mental health anthology Brainstorm Revolution: true mental health stories of love, personal evolution, and cultural revolution. This book features approximately 40 reciliency-stories, all about lived-experience with mental health and wellness.

In addition, please consider following the not-for profit organization, Brainstorm Revolution, on Facebook.

grief
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About the Creator

Heather Down

I am an observer of life through the lens of middle age. Owner of an independent publishing house and a published author, I spend my time obsessing about all things communication. Follow me at Wintertickle Press.

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