Our Story (4)- Hello and Goodbye

Silence. There was complete silence at the moment of our little man's arrival into this world. No crying baby. No "oo"s and "ah"s from the nurses. No hurry to check the health of our baby. Our nurse for that day, Sherry, quickly and flawlessly took our boy to another room and closed the door. Another nurse offered to take the baby, but I heard nurse Sherry claim responsibility with a hint of pride in her voice. That made me feel good. Someone else actually cared for our baby, even though he was already gone.

Waylon asked the other nurse if they could tell what had been the cause of our son's death. She shook her head and pointed to the doctor with her eyes. He was quiet- stitching me up and not saying anything about the baby. He left in a hurry with a small promise to come back in a few minutes. We didn't know when we would get answers- if ever.

The doctor returned shortly after and explained that the cord was visibly tight around our little man's neck upon arrival. He went on to discuss having an autopsy performed. We declined. We were satisfied with the evidence that the cord had in fact been the culprit. It made me cringe. I felt as though my body had not only betrayed me, but my baby boy as well. Who knew this even happened anymore? Not me.

Before leaving the room the doctor made note that the baby had not been gone long- his color was good and his body was in great condition. No...great condition would be breathing and functioning.


45 Minutes passed. Nurse Sherry was busy bathing and clothing our precious boy (in the outfit that was packed in his diaper bag that already happened to be in the car) behind that closed door. We later found out that the nurses took great care in taking a number of wonderful pictures for us to keep during that time as well.

Waylon was sitting on the hospital bed beside me, as we nervously awaited the first time we would lay eyes on our sweet boy. Nurse Sherry opened the door and peeked her head around to ask if we were ready. Could we ever be ready to see the body of our lifeless son? NO. But we shook our heads and she gracefully entered carrying a swaddled bundle so gently and carefully in her arms. She reached the end of the bed and laid him down.

Perfection. That's what I saw. A perfectly healthy, full- term, baby boy. His lips were bright red and his fragile skin had started to peel. He had a head full of light brown (with a hint of red) hair that had a bit of a wave.

With tender hands, she unwrapped our precious boy and with tears in her eyes began to show us each inch of his body. I can still see her face, looking at my baby boy. It meant a lot to me that she felt real emotion for our son. They had put a diaper on him, and a tiny hospital bracelet.

I was afraid to touch him. He was MY baby. One that I carried for over 9 months, I should have been grabbing him up and snuggling him close to my heart. What was taking me so long? fear. confusion. numbness. Waylon  looked like he felt so much more. He looked like he felt love.

 I reached my hand out to touch him little by little, and soon enough it was like everything was normal; I had him close to me and was kissing him, patting him, rocking him, singing to him, and smiling at just how truly perfect he was.  My heart opened up. I felt peaceful. I felt the overwhelming love that mothers feel for their babies. I was proud. But, was it right to be proud of a baby that was dead? It was a lot to process. It is still an issue that I face; being proud of my stillborn baby. Something most people will never understand. I had a newborn baby. I wanted the world to marvel over the perfection that was my baby. But not everyone sees that.

Waylon and I studied him and coveted him for a while. We tried to store everything about him in our memories. He had long, light brown eyelashes, and long toenails and fingernails. He weighed 7 pounds and 6 ounces (one ounce less than his big sister) and was 21&3/4 inches long! His legs seemed so long and his little cheeks and chin were chubby. His nose was so tiny and resembled his big sister's. His lips were identical to his daddy's. I remember how warm he felt when I first kissed his forehead and rubbed his cheek. I had a glimmer of hope. And shut down once again- he had been placed under the warmer before he was given to us. I remember the sound his lips made when I pulled down on his chin; the same sound that any one's makes when you pull apart two wet lips. His color was good; a little red in places, but not bruised. He simply looked like a sleeping newborn. He was heavy in my arms, and I loved it.

I wanted to show him off. Eventually we sent Nurse Sherry to invite a few members of our family in at a time. Each person that entered had a look of confusion and agony on his face at first. I'm sure the thought of "What am I suppose to do and feel?" passed through every one's minds. Everyone who entered held our sweet boy's body against theirs. He is truly so loved. There was a lot of crying, some smiling, some talking, and lots of silence during the precious four hours that we were able to spend with our boy. A priest was called from a local church to bless us and our Wyatt. He prayed with us, told us how sorry he was, and left, with wet eyes.  Everyone treated our baby just as if he were any other newborn, maybe with even more care.

I found myself smiling with pride as our son was passed from person to person. I know I was numb with shock, but I was proud of that beautiful baby, and I always will be. He was perfect; our perfect son.

I kept praying and hoping that I would see his chest rise with life or feel his tiny fingers grip mine in return. Of course, I knew that was impossible, but I felt as though I had been beat down as far as I could possibly go and the only direction to look was up. One can always hope, right?



Eventually the room cleared out and Waylon and I were left alone with our precious son once again. Waylon placed Wyatt on his chest- it had been his favorite way of holding Lyla.  Waylon's mom snapped a few photos of just the three of us.

Wyatt was placed in my arms once again and I leaned down to kiss his forehead. It was cold. His peeling skin was getting worse, and his color was starting to change- pale. The time was coming to say our farewells. He was starting to change and we wanted to remember him like he was- a perfect baby.

Waylon and I sat on the bed with our baby boy in our arms and talked to him. We told him how much we wanted him and how much we loved him. We told him of his big sister.  We unwrapped him and I swaddled his limp, but perfect body in a blue blanket with stars on it that I had packed in his diaper bag. I placed his little hat back on his tender head. We continued to tell him we loved him. We told him that we would see him later. We slowly handed him to Nurse Sherry. She placed him in the rolly cart and headed for the door. She said in the sweetest and most sincere voice before exiting the room, "See ya later, Mom and Dad, I love you."

And that was it.

A part of my heart and soul was wheeled out of the room that day. I'll never get it back--until we meet in Heaven.

Nurse Sherry had called the funeral home for us that would pick up the body of our baby at the hospital. She cared for baby Wyatt and talked to him like he was any other baby in her care. It made me feel good that a stranger could validate my little boy's life, even if it had ended before his first breath. The other arrangements were in the process of being made. We decided that during the time that we let him go and the funeral home arrived that my grandmother would sit and rock him in a separate room so that he was never left alone. I am told that other family members also stayed with him during that waiting period.

I have never felt so helpless or alone in my entire life. Waylon and I cried and held tightly onto each other.

We had lost our son-lost him before we even had him.