Letting Go.

Janice stared at the small wooden cross in the center of the Altar. In the past, she had found comfort in locking her eyes on the two lines intersecting with one another, making a perfect right angle and then moving on. Like two lives meeting, she had often thought, a perfect connection. But today, there was no comfort in the straight lines; she felt rage at God.

All around her, people spoke in hushed tones. Jack had arranged the entire affair. “To celebrate Brooks’ life,” he had said. "It’s the right thing to do.” Janice didn’t care about right or wrong, or anything else for that matter. All she wanted was to escape the well-meaning condolences from family, the empty hugs from friends, and the tasteless casseroles that filled her freezer. She couldn’t comprehend how the world simply continued to be, the sun rose and set, people went about their lives, eating, shitting, fucking, when every breath she took made her want to die.

“You’ve got to take care of yourself now, you have your family to think about,” her mother had crooned when she brought breakfast to her that morning.

“What do you know, Mother? None of your babies died!”

How was it possible that only five days before, her body had been filled with life? Even now, there were moments when she swore she felt flutters of movement inside. For the hundredth time, Janice touched her belly, as though the baby would somehow miraculously reappear. She closed her eyes and prayed to wake up and when she would, she’d still be pregnant, full of anticipation and giddy excitement. Jack would be running off to Dairy Queen at all hours to get her a hot fudge sundae with peanuts on top. She’d waddle around the house, happily huffing and puffing, Jack’s Denver Broncos jersey barely covering her enormous belly.

Janice was certain she had done all the right things. She ate nutritious food, got plenty of fresh air and exercise, slept eight hours most nights, and avoided stress. At 40, she was the picture of health, positive she could handle a home birth without a problem. The midwife had assured her there was no reason she couldn’t have a successful water birth right in her own bedroom.

So why did God have to punish her this way? Was there something she should have done? Was there something she didn’t do? Was there someone to blame? She closed her eyes and replayed it one more time. She had to know.

*****

“The baby’s heart rate is dropping a bit,” the midwife’s voice echoed in Janice’s mind. “I’m going to try to help pull the baby out with your next contraction.”

Janice wasn’t sure why she couldn’t continue to push the baby out on her own, but after three hours of trying, she was past asking questions. She tightened her grip on Jack’s hands, squatted in the little pool of warm water, gritted her teeth and pushed.

“One, two, three, four. That’s it! keep going! You're doing just fine,” the midwife continued her encouraging mantra. “Five, six, seven.”

Janice exhaled forcefully, only to be flooded with the next contraction.

“Again! PUSH!” Janice felt the baby’s head crowning. The pain felt like knives slicing her up from the inside.

“Get it out of me!” She roared, every muscle in her face contorting with agony.

With a sudden release of pressure, the pain was gone. Janice felt the baby slipping out and being placed on her chest. She looked down and knew immediately something was wrong. The baby lay on top of her. Motionless. Silent. “What’s wrong? Why isn’t he crying?” Janice couldn't keep the panic out of her voice.

The midwife’s hand urgently unwrapped the cord from around the baby’s neck. One, two, three, four, five times around. She rubbed the slumped back forcefully. Too forcefully. Suction tubes were pushed down his nose and throat. A tiny, translucent oxygen mask was placed over his nose and mouth. A look was exchanged between the midwife and her assistant.

“Jack! Call an ambulance!” the midwife ordered. For the first time, Janice realized she had a son.

“My baby. Help him. Please!” she moaned as another contraction overtook her. She bore down and forced the afterbirth into the water. There was blood everywhere. She was swimming in it.

The thud of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Two huge men in her bedroom dressed in blue, carrying a black bag. One of them leaned over her purple baby. His large hands shook while he attempted CPR, pushing with two fingers on the baby’s chest. There was no reaction. How long had it been? Too long.

“Get them in the ambulance. Now!” one of them said. No time wasted, but hadn’t it been standing still?

The ride in the ambulance seemed endless. Janice couldn’t stop her body from shivering, her teeth from chattering. The men in blue worked on her son. Their hands too big, the equipment not meant for a five-pound human. She stared helplessly at her son.

In the hospital, the doctor pulled up a chair and waited silently until she met his tired eyes. “I’m sorry, but we’ve done all we can. He’s stable now, but he was too long without oxygen. There’s a high chance of brain damage if he survives.”

She saw his lips moving, but couldn’t comprehend. She looked past him, at her baby, lying still, his stomach rising, falling, the beeping of the respirator measuring out each breath.

No more tubes, no more beeping. She held him in her arms and whispered his name. “Brooks, my sweet baby Brooks.” His breathing slowed, the gap between each inhalation lengthening. His fingers wrapped around hers. His eyes opened wide for a moment and gazed straight into hers. “Good-bye precious boy,” she whispered. “You will always be loved.”

His breathing stopped; silence remained.

Janice felt a light caress on her cheek and slowly opened her eyes. “Mommy, please don’t cry any more.” It was Sarah, sitting next to her in the pew. Sarah, whose eyes reminded Janice of a deep mountain lake in the spring and whose carefree giggles woke her up in the morning. It was Sarah who needed her touch, her embrace, reassurance that she still had a place in Janice’s heart.

She took a deep breath and in that single moment, realized no one was to blame. The pain would remain, tucked inside her heart like the smallest origami, folded in the shape of love that could never be taken away from her.

She reached out and drew Sarah onto her lap, taking comfort in the solidity of her body. “Yes, love, Mommy’s here.” She smiled at her daughter despite the sorrow in her soul. “It will be okay. We will be okay,” she whispered into Sarah's ear and inhaled the scent of her baby shampoo.