“William, is that what you are naming him? Is that what you’ll call him?”
“Will” I reply absently.
It’s good and strong, I think.
Even though we had thought we would call him Billy while he was small.
Now, it seems wrong.
Too young for someone who has been through so much.
The doctor looks downwards as he tells us that our son will die.
My beautiful boy.
We cry after he has gone, this doctor, who looks as though he has given alot of bad news in his lifetime.
After, we move from the tiny airless room, we face the awful, unimaginable truth
that we have brought our baby boy into the world, only to lose him five days later.
We hold his hand.
We stroke his head, his soft downy hair, commit his face to memory.
His ears, his hands and feet, all perfectly formed.
We do not know how to let him go.
We do not know if we can.
“Don’t give up on him” I whisper, to no one in particular but I can see that everyone accepts his death as surely as I breathe in and out.
I don’t want to live, if he doesn’t.
We go home.
We tell his sisters.
“Will isn’t going to live”.
They cry and then run away, the sorrow too heavy, the grief too thick .
A call comes in the middle of the night;
“Baby is worseninng”
“His name is Will” I tell the night doctor
and by early morning I know, the pit of my stomach a heavy mass;
today is the day.
We hold him and talk to him
together
on our own
as a family
as grandparents, godparents, sisters, friends
mothers
fathers.
We watch as they pull the tubes away from his body.
“It’s over,” my father declares, almost panic stricken and pulls the baby into his arms.
“It’s all over.”
It’s not.
He stays with us for an hour before his heart just stops.
I don’t remember much afterwards
but I don’t forget much either.
His name was Will.
He is my son.
October 15th is pregnancy and infant loss remembrance day.
I’ll light a candle for you, sweet boy.
