REMEMBERING HART

Today is the day, the day I dread all year.  It comes now as it did then, expectedly unexpected.

I remember every detail about that day, or every detail of the reassembled shards that I've pieced together from memories that were shattered by grief. I'm sure there are things I’ve forgotten and things I misremember, but the feelings of my memories come every December 8 as acutely as they did on that day.

I remember it was late at night. Our other children were in bed and Steadfast Husband and I were in the family room "watching tv" which during Hart’s life meant the tv was on and we were actually watching our sweet baby. 

I remember SH was holding Hart and I was watching as my baby began to turn blue. Instinctively, I grabbed him, yelled at SH (because fear = irrational behavior) and started vigorously rubbing Hart’s back. I can’t remember who we called, but I remember deciding to take him to the hospice room at the children’s hospital to die rather than foisting an unshakable memory onto our other children by holding vigil at home.

I remember rushing to the car but stopping short as we contemplated putting Hart in his car seat. The thought of him dying alone strapped in his car seat was unbearable, but I am a rule follower by nature, so it took me a minute (and my husband pointing out the reason for car seats is to save lives and that didn’t actually apply here) to make the obvious choice. 

I have no memory of making our way to the hospital, but I remember the amazing Hospice doctor who greeted us. He talked us through what would unfold with such gentle kindness. I still tear up thinking about how he delivered such harsh news in the most comforting way. 

I remember our hospice team coming to the hospital one by one. I had been told to take tons of pictures, the worth of which I couldn’t possibly understand at the time. I asked our child life specialist to take as many pictures as she could of whatever she saw-nothing was off limits. 

I remember watching family members, who were taking turns bringing my other children to spend time with Hart, say goodbye. I remember that watching my children say goodbye to their brother was both the most beautiful and the most heart-wrenching thing I’d ever seen.

I remember our minister coming and blanketing us in love and prayer. I remember many friends coming to pray with us and say goodbye to Hart. 

I remember calling my dearest friend, who was out of town and not being able to get the words out. I finally whispered, "Hart.....it’s time. Hart is dying now."

I remember thinking, I’m prepared, this is really hard, but I did all the work, and it’s really going to pay off.

I remember someone listening for his heartbeat and hearing it very faintly, then listening again a few minutes later and not hearing anything. They said, "He’s gone."

I remember hearing a strange sound that came out of nowhere. I couldn’t figure out what it was or where it was coming from. I remember realizing it was me. 

I remember realizing that no amount of work could have prepared me for his death.

I remember cleaning him up after he died and putting a fresh diaper and clean outfit on him.

I remember the doctor telling us we couldn’t donate Hart’s brain tissue without an autopsy, which he highly discouraged. Disappointment washed over me with such force that I had to grab onto the back of a chair to keep from falling to the ground. He then asked us to give him a little time to see what he could do. He later told us that he had convinced the board to waive the autopsy requirement if he would be willing to swear to the cause of death (which he was more than willing to do). 

After they extracted some tissue, they brought him back to us to say our final goodbyes. I remember the funeral home woman emphatically telling us not to take off his hat. 

I remember after what seemed like hours, but also nanoseconds, I asked my brave, steadfast husband to carry him back to the funeral home liaison, I couldn’t do it.

I remember not wanting to let Hart go... never wanting to let him go.

I remember them handing me a stuffed dog so I didn’t have to leave the hospital empty handed.

I remember feeling the ache of empty arms that I still feel today.

I remember every step of walking out of the hospital. Every. Excruciating. Step. 

I remember being awed by the number of people who were affected by Hart's brief life. I am beyond grateful that Hart resides in the little pieces of him that remain in those whose lives he touched.

My relationship with Hart changed, but it lives on in the memories and stories that I share and the little pieces of him I see everywhere I look.

It Occurred to Me, His Mother Wept

Each Easter, since becoming a mom, I cry. Easter reminds me of the enormity of God’s love. I think about how much I love my children and am completely overwhelmed by the realization that God loves all of his children so much more. It is both humbling and empowering. 

The second spring following Hart’s death, as I finally emerged from the numbing chrysalis of fresh grief, I experienced Easter anew. I was still grateful and awed by the vastness of God’s love, but I was also experiencing Easter as a mother who had buried her son.

As I sat in church that Easter, listening to the familiar story of Jesus’ resurrection, my heart was drawn to Mary. I thought about her agony as she watched Jesus’ torment, her relief as his suffering came to an end, and the relentless sorrow as the reality of what that end meant washed over her. I thought about how the singularity of her experience must have felt so incredibly lonely. I hurt for her knowing that she no longer had Joseph by her side to share the burden of grief. I understood that, although she knew the importance of her role in fulfilling God’s promise, she would still ache with the emptiness of not being able to touch her beloved son or breathe in his sweet scent. In the midst of all the glorious Easter celebration, it occurred to me, His mother wept.

My heart ached as these thoughts flooded in. My traditional Easter crying turned into uncontrollable sobbing and I had to leave the sanctuary. I remember sitting in a tiny bathroom stall trying to pull myself together so I could rejoin my family. I tried to find comfort by focusing on God’s extraordinary spiritual gift instead of Mary’s human grief, but then I realized-the humanness, the incarnation, was the whole point.

Although I know God comforted Mary and that she was steadfast in her faith, I also know that losing a child is devastating, knowing ahead of time that you will lose your child doesn’t make it hurt less, and knowing you will see your child again doesn’t mitigate your sorrow.

Every Easter I am still overwhelmed with awe and gratitude for God’s love, I rejoice that His grace prevents us from being separated from Him, I celebrate love because God is love, but I also find comfort in understanding the human spear of grief. My heart still leads me to remember and honor Mary, to mourn with her, a mother who, so long ago, experienced the unimaginable loss of her child.