Why I remember

 “No one ever remembers.” 

Those four words, posted on my wall on a now defunct social media site, broke my heart. 

The woman who posted them was replying to my acknowledgement of the anniversary of the stillbirth of one of her children. He was a twin; the other twin was miscarried earlier in the pregnancy. 

Today, October 15, is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. The entire month of October is dedicated to remembering these babies; these babies lost through miscarriage, lost through stillbirth, or lost through early death. 

I have never lost a baby. I don’t know that heartbreak. I know the heartbreak of trying to conceive and failing, of many doctor’s visits, and of finally conceiving and having a son. But not everyone has that happy ending. 

I do, however, know many who know the heartbreak of miscarriage, the heartbreak of stillbirth, the heartbreak of losing an infant to death. A friend just lost a longed-for child through miscarriage and had to have a D&E in order to remove the fetus. 

Two other friends lost their babies to cord accidents, where the umbilical cord strangled the baby in the womb.

Other friends have lost children to stillbirths or early death.  

By coincidence, National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day falls on the the day before my birthday. I was not meant to be born in October. Instead, I came early. Perhaps I could have been one of those statistics, a lost baby that my mother remembered. I was lucky. Not everyone is. 

My grandmother lost an infant daughter, Bobbie Lee, when the baby was three months old. She was “Bobbie Lee” because she was named after my grandmother’s father, Robert Lee Thompson. I have a copy of her death certificate, which lists her birthday as August 1st, 1935; and her death date as November 13, 1935.  Her cause of death was “gastroenteritis”. My grandparents lived in Harlan, Kentucky, a small, coal-mining town, and it was 1935. Had she been born today, I think the odds of her survival would have been much better. 

She never talked about Bobbie Lee much, except for at least one conversation with me and perhaps with a few others. In 1935 especially, I think the death of an infant was met with, “At least you have other children,” or, “You can have another one,” (as if one child could replace another.) And then you didn’t talk about it. 

There is a saying, “There is no footprint too small to leave an imprint on this world.” 

Today, so many remember those little footprints; those ones that were never born, those born sleeping, those who lived only a little while. 

I have a list of babies I remember this time of year. 

So:

For Ana C.

For Anna V.

For Bobbie Lee C.

For Caley A.

For Desmond M-S.

For Hope C.

For Hope K.

For Ian A.

For Sarah Grace W.

For William W. 

And for the many others I’m sure I’ve forgotten and the many others I do not know.

You lived in someone’s womb and you lived in many hearts.

And your little footprints left a mark on this world. 

“No one ever remembers.”

Someone should.

This is why I remember.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Patrick Kennedy and me

Today is my 54th birthday.  And I just don't feel that old.  I definitely feel older, but not old. 

October 16th, 1963 is my birthdate.  It was also the 1,000th day of John F. Kennedy's presidency. 

Just 71 days earlier, JFK and his wife had a baby boy, Patrick Bouvier Kennedy.  He was a preemie, like their son John, Jr.  Patrick came five and a half weeks early.

He was born August 7, 1963. 

39 hours and 12 minutes later, on August 9, 1963, he died. 

Sandwiched in between those days was my sister's third birthday.  My mother would have been about four or five months pregnant with me.  I'm sure my parents followed the story, read the newspaper, watched the news, wondered if the Kennedys' baby would live, and were saddened when he did not.

Sixty-nine days later, as I understand the story, my mother went in for a regular doctor's appointment.  Her doctor told her, "You're dilating.  You need to get upstairs, immediately."  My mother's OB's office was right next to the hospital.

I was born at 3:29 p.m., October 16th, 1963, after natural childbirth.  The doctor feared killing the baby if he gave my mother anesthesia.  (This proves that I have been a pain to my mother since before I was born. :-) )

Would the Kennedy baby have crossed my mother's mind?  After all, his brief life and death was still fresh in the public's mind.  He was a preemie.  I was a preemie.  He was born five and a half weeks early.  I think I was born about that early.  I've never known what my real due date was.  Patrick was in an incubator.  So was I.  Did it cross my parents' minds that I, too, would meet the same fate as the Kennedy baby?

Despite a race to Boston Children's Hospital--an ambulance took Patrick from his birthplace at Otis Air Force Base, 70 miles away, in 90 minutes--and despite the best medical care available at the time, Patrick died of hyaline membrane disease, known now as infant respiratory distress syndrome.  All they could do for him at the time was put him in a hyperbaric chamber and treat him with hyperbaric oxygen therapy. 

Did my parents think, the Kennedy baby had the best medical care in the world, and he died.  Will the same thing happen to our baby? 

Thankfully, no.  I stayed in the hospital about six weeks and came home right around Thanksgiving.

Maybe, because Patrick was so fresh in people's minds, maybe the doctors and nurses at the hospital paid special attention to a preemie?  I'd like to think so.

Patrick's death did lead medical researchers to aggressively search for a way to effectively manage hyaline membrane disease.  Today, we know of a branch of medicine, neonatology, that saves the lives of thousands of babies yearly.  At least one of those babies, born at 2 lbs. 2 oz. (half my birth weight) attends my church as a healthy preteen.  A set of triplets born four years ago yesterday also thrive; they are the children of our children's minister.  A friend of mine works as a neonatal nurse.

During JFK's last trip, which ended on a dreadful day in Dallas, he made a brief stop in San Antonio, where the base commander at Brooks Air Force Base invited him to briefly speak to a group of men in a space simulator. 

One of JFK's questions:  "Is it possible your work might help improve oxygen chambers for premature babies?"  He was thinking of Patrick. 

The next day, he joined Patrick in death.

I don't understand the mysteries of life and death.  Why did one preemie, born to the most famous family in America at the time, whose parents could get him the best of medical care, die in a big city hospital, despite the availability of multiple doctors and state-of-the-art medicine? 

And why did another preemie, born in a small mountain town, to a teacher and his wife, who were far from wealthy, and in a hospital that was far from state-of-the-art, live? 

I don't know. 

Yesterday was National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day.  It is a day set aside to honor and remember children loss to miscarriage, stillbirth, and early death.  (My grandmother lost a baby when she was three months old.)  One slogan used to remember these children is, "There is no footprint too small that it cannot leave an imprint on this world."

Patrick Kennedy, born August 7, 1963; died August 9, 1963, had a small footprint that left a lasting impact on the care, treatment, and survival of other preemies.

I'd like to think that I was one of the people on which his footprint left a lasting impression.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.